A Lady Never Tells (Women of Daring)

by Lynn Winchester

  Thank God for small favors.

  But she couldn’t let her guard down now—one wrong move, one nosy maid or guest, and she’d be out the door without ever having set foot in the study.

  Taking a page from her “visual deception” training manual, she infused her countenance with the haughty carriage of a peer. Pulling back her shoulders and tipping up her chin, Vic did as her mother always did and floated down the hallway on a cloud, her feet barely making a sound as she made her way away from the party…

  And away from that man with the staggering smile.

  Chapter Three

  Where has she gone? Richard Downing, Viscount Ganwyd was certain he’d seen her slink along this hallway, in the opposite direction of the kitchen…and the party where he’d first run into her. Literally.

  Well, in truth, she’d collided with him, but he couldn’t care about that. At first, he’d been slightly chagrined, but then he’d looked down into her eyes: a sharp, mesmerizing blue. A blue he’d never thought possible.

  And it wasn’t just the color that had caught his breath; it was the direct and unrepentant flash of defiance he’d seen in them, a defiance that was immediately belied by her sudden transformation to meek mouse, hiding her face from his gaze.

  And, unless his mind was playing tricks on him, there had been an alarmed flicker of recognition in her eyes. How was that possible? He wasn’t such a cad that he would flirt with a housemaid and then forget having done so—he never flirted with housemaids in the first place. It wasn’t something he took pleasure in doing. But this woman…she was a servant for Banebridge, and he was a viscount, so where would they have collided before?

  He wanted to tell himself that he was only curious about her, but there had also been a smidgeon of concern for her. His late mother, God rest her soul, had always said he was softhearted, seeking those in need of aid.

  Apparently, this one had stumbled upon him.

  She’d intrigued him, which was telling in and of itself. He hadn’t been intrigued by anything in more than ten years. He was bored—with the ton, the Season, politics, gossip, gentlemen’s clubs, and most anything London, or society, had to offer. As a lad, he had dreamt of earning his stripes as a gadabout, playing cards, joining shooting parties, and generally being good for nothing but spending his father’s money. It was a rite of passage for second sons, and he’d been exceptional at it.

  And then his father had died, leaving the dukedom to his brother and a hole in Richard’s heart. He and his father hadn’t been the closest of family, but he loved his father, had idolized him, had acted out when his father turned his attentions to grooming Justin as his heir. But, once his father was gone, he had experienced what his mother had called “grief-guilt”, a nagging, persistent sorrow that sharpened his thoughts, stole his joy for carelessness, and reminded him that life was short. It wasn’t until he’d returned to Town after a mourning sojourn in the country that he’d begun to look at Town amusements with a prickle of unease.

  And then his mother had died, and he’d nearly crumbled to pieces. She had been the heart of their home, the shining light he returned to when his life had fallen into darkness—darkness into which he’d happily wallowed with his so-called friends.

  When his mother had died, when his light had gone out, he’d realized he had two choices: fall into the darkness forever or…become the light for someone else.

  And so, that was what he had chosen to do: become the light for someone else. Be the man his mother would be proud of, and that meant putting aside those things that had given him pointless pleasures. He’d never looked back.

  He’d only attended this ball because his brother couldn’t; his wife was in confinement, awaiting the birth of their first child, and he wanted to be there with her. So, Richard had come to act as the representative of the Duke of Gwynys. He was meant to dance, meet a few of his friends from Town, and perhaps find a woman who, as his brother put it, “could pull you from your doldrums and make you smile again.”

  And damn if that woman wasn’t a housemaid, one who seemed familiar with him…

  You’re a fool for pursuing her. He’d never pursued anyone before; it wasn’t something that ever crossed his mind. Most of the time, the women pursued him; actresses, opera singers, widows—and he’d enjoyed their company when the desire struck him. But he wasn’t pursuing the maid, not like a man pursued an eligible woman or a paramour; he was simply looking for her to ask after her health.

  In the ballroom, beneath the flickering candlelight, she’d appeared piqued; her cheeks were flushed, her lush lips drawn back into a grimace, and her eyes entirely too bright. And she was sweaty; the red hair brushing against her forehead stuck in place.

  She looked uncomfortable. She looked beautiful.

  Despite the sweat, the grimace, and her clumsiness, there was a loveliness about her that caught him. But that wasn’t why he’d gone after her.

  She could be ill—at least that’s what he told himself to keep from stopping his foolish course of action.

  What can you do for her, really? Let the housekeeper worry over her. But what if he’d somehow compounded her discomfort? He’d been so focused on helping her that he might have made things worse for her. He’d tried to take her tray from her, for heaven’s sake! She was the help, and he was a guest, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be of service to her, did it? Wasn’t it simply human to want to help another person who seemed in need of it? He could have let things go, let her walk away to deal with whatever it was that had made her appear so piqued. But…the need to do something—anything—to erase the furrows from her brows had taken hold of him, shaking him like a dog with a steak.

  Hell, it wasn’t only her health that made him wonder about her; he had no idea why her obvious recognition of him made him so curious.

  Curiosity killed the cat…

  Shaking off the warning, he continued on his way.

  He’d find her, see if she needed any aid, ask her if they had somehow met before, then he’d return to the ball and forget all about her. If she were unwell because of something he’d done, he’d make sure she was looked after. It was the least he could do—he was a gentleman, and it didn’t matter if she was the help.

  But her eyes…

  Sighing, he mussed his immaculately styled hair, both irritated and flustered. He should just go back to the ball and forget about the woman. But he couldn’t.

  A flash of black skirt and bright red hair drew his attention to the three-story-tall entrance hall off the main doors. He picked up the pace, maneuvering around a corner in time to see the woman pick up her skirts and run— Run? Where was she running to?

  His intrigue deepening, he sped up, determined to see where she was going in such a hurry. Perhaps she was hurrying off to meet with a lover?

  So why are you still following her?

  Coming around another corner, he stopped—she was standing outside a closed and locked door. She had a small metal pin in one hand and what looked like a long, thin hook in the other. She was bent down, her gaze focused on the lock. Holding his breath, he continued to watch as she fiddled with the lock—click—until it popped and she stood, a satisfied grin spreading across her face.

  Christ, she was stunning.

  Sensing something was afoot, he drew back, just as she lifted her head to look down the corridor in his direction. He waited several heartbeats before he dared to peek again. Peering around the corner, he found an empty space where she’d been standing.

  What was behind that door, and how did a maid know how to pick a lock?

  Determined to have the woman answer his questions herself, he made his way to the door, placing an ear against the cold, hard oak. Silence greeted him.

  What was she doing in there?

  Letting out the breath he’d been holding, he reached for the knob and turned it slowly. Soundlessly.

  For a moment, he wondered what Justin would think about his brother following a strange woman thr
ough the Earl of Banebridge’s house. More than likely, Justin would stare at him agog, shocked that his once-rakish, rapscallion younger brother had done anything besides sigh heavily and dismiss the attentions of marriageable women. Then…he’d call him to task for shirking his duties, the duties he’d been given as the duke’s brother. He was there to be the face of the family, not skulk about after housemaids who intrigued him to the point he was following after them like a curious kitten.

  But he couldn’t stop what he’d begun—she was just on the other side of that door. And what if she were committing criminal acts? Wasn’t it his duty as a guest of Banebridge to report her?

  Drawing up his daring, he pushed the door open and looked inside.

  She was there, just in front of a large, dark wood desk. A single lamp cast minimal illumination, just enough for him to see her. At the sound of his first step landing on the lushly carpeted floor—barely a whisper of sound in the large room—she stiffened and spun on her heel. She gasped, her eyes wide behind her spectacles, but in an instant, they narrowed into sapphire slits. Her mobcap was gone, her apron was gone, and she looked remarkably…healthy.

  And alone. No lover standing in the shadows.

  His initial excuses fell away, leaving only the fact that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, taking another step into the room. High ceilings, tall windows looking out over the direction of the acres of lavish gardens, and bookcases crammed with books told him that they were in the earl’s private study. “What is a maid doing in her lord’s study during the course of a ball?”

  She didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t give any indication that he’d spoken at all.

  “Well?” he prodded, taking another step closer. She did flinch then, her hand sliding down to touch her right thigh. It was probably a shapely thigh, pale, warm, the perfect length with the right amount of softness to clamp along his waist as he lay between them. Over her. Sliding his hand along her sensitive skin.

  As if she’d been hit by lightning, the demeanor of the woman before him changed. She ducked her head, hiding her face.

  “Imma servant of his Lord Banebridge; I do as the lordship asks,” she offered, which wasn’t much in the way of an explanation of her actions.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her obvious obtuseness. “And your name?”

  She peeked up at him, her face flushed. “Berta, milord.”

  “Berta?”

  She nodded, then lifted her head to meet his gaze, her eyes shifting from hard to demure. Stunned by the sight, he took a moment to examine her face.

  Upturned tip of her nose, high cheekbones, delicate cheeks, lush lips, strong chin with a black mole just below her mouth on the right side. Her skin, though covered in a sheen of sweat, looked smooth, silky. It begged to be touched, to have his fingers brush over it to caress its softness.

  Not for the first time, he had to remind himself that he was thinking such thoughts about a servant.

  “If ye don’t mind, yer lordship, I need to return to me duties,” Berta said, her tone clipped as if he were inconveniencing her evening of lock-picking and snooping.

  But snooping for what, exactly?

  Leave the girl alone and get back to the ball, where your aunt has, no doubt, discovered you missing.

  But he couldn’t go back. Not yet.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked again, his need to know the answer gnawing at him like a wolfhound with a bone.

  “I could ask ye the same question, guv,” she said, voice chillingly calm despite the situation she’d found herself in. “Why were ye followin’ me?” Her accent was one he’d heard before in the rookeries and dark back alleys where his friends would drag him for risky gambling.

  Lifting his foot to take another step, he watched as the hand on her thigh stilled, and he stilled, too. Suddenly, the air in the room thickened, filling with a tension he hadn’t expected.

  “I saw you were in a hurry…and I wondered if you were ill,” he answered truthfully.

  The woman cocked an ink-black eyebrow, and that caught him by surprise—not the expression of wariness, but rather the color of her eyebrows. Other than his mother, whose hair had been a soft fawn color but whose eyebrows remained a dark brown, he’d never known a woman to have such disparate features.

  Bright red hair but obsidian eyebrows. Curious.

  What does that matter? You and she are alone in the earl’s study. If they were caught, he would hear no end of it from his brother and the earl.

  “Why would ye think I was ill?” she asked, her eyebrow still arched.

  “You looked flushed—”

  “Everyone in that ballroom looked flushed. ’Tis hot enough to boil water on me arse.”

  The image that conjured startled him, and he let out a short chuckle.

  “And why would it matter to a right toff anyway?”

  Because it mattered to him.

  “Is it so difficult to believe that someone might be concerned for you?” he asked, his voice soft.

  “Someone? Nay. A lord? Aye. ’Tis as difficult as believin’ ye can get blood from a rock.”

  Lord, but she was sharp.

  “Can’t a lord worry after another, no matter their station?” he tried again.

  She arched a brow, answering without answering.

  He chuckled again. “No, I don’t suppose you can.”

  “Nay,” she answered, her voice flat.

  He expected that; so many of his ilk wouldn’t think twice about the people caring for nearly every moment of their lives, but he wasn’t like that. That wasn’t him. And even if Berta wasn’t part of his household staff, he had wanted to be that someone who looked after her.

  Though, she obviously didn’t need it.

  When she didn’t move or blink or even look to breathe, he schooled his features. “What are you doing in the earl’s private study, and do not say you were lost or fetching something for your master or finding yourself in desperate need of a book to read.”

  Her other eyebrow arched up, and her lips puckered becomingly.

  “Are ye sayin’ I can’t read?” she snapped, her play at being the demure servant nearly completely gone.

  “Are you saying you did come in here to choose a book to read?” he asked, arching his own eyebrow in disbelief. This woman was sharp, witty…completely out of place in maid’s clothes.

  In any clothes… Forcing that thought to the back of his mind where the wastebasket was stored, he waited for her to reply.

  “Though ’tis none of yer bizness what I’m doin’, I’ll tell ye. The earl did send me in here for somethin’—”

  “What, then?” he asked, strangely eager to hear what she’d say…what lie she’d speak. Whoever this woman was, she was more than she let on.

  “His snuffbox,” she said without hesitation, and he nearly smiled at her quickness.

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye, ’tis so.”

  “So you could show me the snuffbox you were sent to retrieve?” he asked, a smile tugging on his lips. Her blue gaze snapped with fire, and an answering heat began building in his belly.

  Who is this woman?

  After a brief pause, she nodded. “Aye, I can.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, which pulled at the fabric of his sleeves and chest uncomfortably. And he waited.

  Turning away from him, the woman—he had great doubts her name was something as common as Berta—made a good show of peering around the earl’s desk, supposedly searching for his snuffbox.

  After a minute, his patience began to slip.

  “Having difficulties, Bertha?” he asked, pointedly giving the incorrect name.

  “’Tis Berta, and ye don’t need to stay. I can do me duty without yer help…milord,” she drawled, adding that last bit after a noticeable pause.

  He couldn’t help the chuckle that erupted from his chest.

  “’Tis more curiosity t
han my lack of faith in your abilities that keeps me rooted,” he replied, taking a step closer. Her back straightened, her shoulders drawing back. Tension rolled from her smaller frame, and it hit him like a wave.

  As close as he was to her now, he could look over her shoulder at the desk. There wasn’t a snuffbox in sight.

  “Curiosity, milord?” she asked, her voice pinched.

  “Certainly,” he answered, leaning down to speak directly into her ear. “When we collided earlier, I noticed there was a look of recognition in your eyes.”

  A rush of air left her mouth before she could close it.

  “Where have we met before?”

  He was close to her, so close he could feel the heat of her, could smell the scent of lilacs wafting from that spot just beneath her ear. The desire to lean in and run his nose along her neck took him by surprise.

  Good God. He knew his desire to learn more about this woman was strange, but he hadn’t felt this…alive in far too long.

  “’Tis possible,” she finally answered. “I work for a service in London. Might be that I’ve worked another party where yer lordship attended.”

  It was a simple and obvious answer, but somehow, it didn’t ring right in his thoughts.

  “Oh! The snuffbox,” she exclaimed.

  Startled by her outburst, he blurted, “You found it?”

  “’Tis right here—”

  In a flash, the woman yanked up her skirts and rushed at him, throwing her arm around his shoulders and spinning him so his back was against her chest. Before he could grunt in surprise, her arm was around his neck and the point of a dagger was pressed into his throat.

  He was a sporting man, spent many hours a week fencing and boxing. He was light on his feet, quick, and could be deadly if the need arose. But never, for the life of him, had he seen anyone move as fast as she had.

  Her hot breath against his ear, the scent of cloves and cinnamon teased his nose—it was subtle, like the ghost of a scent, but it was there—as she spoke low and slowly.

  “Ye say anythin’ ’bout findin’ me here, I’ll find you…and I’ll make ye wish ye never saw me.”