by Olivia Drake
The duke’s daughter, Lady Davina, turned to look at Blythe. Those blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly and her patrician features took on a coolness that radiated arrogant disapproval. The other two girls dipped their curtsies to the duke.
Gliding to her father, Lady Davina placed a proprietary hand on his arm. “Dear Papa, there you are at last. Are you feeling quite well? You appear a trifle flushed.”
A smile touched his lips, warming his stern features. “’Tis the dancing you may hold to blame, my dear girl. I vow I haven’t cavorted so much in two score years.”
“Perhaps you need a rest. You mustn’t overtax yourself.” Lady Davina slid an accusatory look at Blythe as if the state of his health were all her fault. “I would be most happy to sit out the next set with you, Papa. Come, let’s find a quiet spot elsewhere.”
He patted her hand. “I assure you, I am not quite doddering enough to require a nursemaid. However, Miss Crompton would like to have a chat with you, so perhaps you can sit with her.”
His daughter ignored the request as if Blythe didn’t exist. “If you insist upon dancing, you should ask Lady Ellen to be your partner. She hasn’t yet had the honor of your company.”
Lady Davina signaled one of the other girls forward. Short and somewhat stout, Lady Ellen made cow eyes at the duke over her fan.
“I hear the music starting,” Lady Davina went on. “Run along now, you mustn’t delay or you’ll miss the opening steps.”
Her desire to separate the duke from Blythe could not have been any more transparent. But Savoy seemed oblivious to the ploy. He politely took his leave and escorted Lady Ellen off into the crowd.
The ease with which he’d been maneuvered by his daughter interested Blythe. If he was malleable, so much the better. It meant that he was susceptible to being charmed by those he held dear. She had only to win his love, coax him into a proposal, and then her life would be perfect.
Of course the other side of the coin was Lady Davina, who appeared to thrive on directing those around her. Such a trait was usually seen in a matron much older than a lady in her first season. Yet was not her animosity understandable? She must be appalled at the notion of having a stepmother so close to herself in age.
Blythe extended her gloved hand to the other girl. She was a plain-faced brunette with slightly protruding teeth.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Blythe Crompton. And you are—?”
The girl glanced warily at her companion, then touched Blythe’s fingers and stepped back. “Lady Anne Oglethorpe. Davy and I grew up together.”
“Davy?”
“A childish nickname,” Lady Davina said, frowning at her friend. “One that is to be used only at home.”
Anne ducked her chin. “Oh! Forgive me. I-I quite forgot.”
Her distress stirred Blythe’s sympathies. So the duke was not the only one who was subject to Davina’s bullying.
“I wanted to bid you both welcome to Crompton House,” Blythe said by way of a distraction. “I’m most pleased that you could attend tonight.”
Davina’s gaze roved over the vast ballroom with its vaulted ceiling and the chandeliers aglow with hundreds of tapers. “This will always be Herrington House to me,” she said with a sniff. “It was named for the Earls of Herrington, although when the last earl died without issue some two score years ago, the title went extinct.”
The comment somehow made Blythe feel like an outsider in her own home. No doubt that was the intent. “It seems you know more about this house than I do,” she said lightly. “Perhaps you would come to call one day and tell me more of its history.”
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” Davina said with an air of cool boredom that indicated she would do no such thing. “Now, come along, Anne, we’ll take a turn about the room. It is a tolerable assembly, I suppose. Although I must admit to being a trifle … disappointed.”
With effort, Blythe held on to her resolve. She would not let the girl’s sour nature deter her from being pleasant. “If there’s some delicacy or drink you prefer, I should be happy to send someone to fetch it. Perhaps you’d care for champagne?”
As Blythe turned to look for a servant, a footman in blue livery appeared right beside her, as if he’d been standing within earshot awaiting her summons. Startled, she took half a step backward.
He was tall—so tall that her gaze was on par with his broad shoulders and she had to tilt her head back to view his face. Beneath the customary white powdered wig, he had arrestingly handsome features and swarthy skin as if he’d spent a good deal of time out in the sun.
He wasn’t one of the regular staff. Perhaps Mama had hired additional footmen to help out at the party.
He held forth a tray of crystal glasses filled with golden champagne. “My ladies,” he murmured, extending the salver to them.
As he did so, he turned his head to look straight at Blythe. His dark, penetrating eyes caused an involuntary clutch in the depths of her body. The reaction disconcerted her as did the novelty of a manservant staring at her as boldly as a gentleman of the highest rank. The fellow deserved a reprimand for overstepping his bounds. Yet she felt mysteriously bewitched by that keen gaze.
Lady Davina’s voice broke the spell. “We’ve had quite enough champagne,” she said, waving the footman away.
Lady Anne had been reaching for a glass, but she furtively drew back her hand. “Yes, of course we have.”
“You’ve mistaken my meaning, Miss Crompton.” Davina lifted a haughty eyebrow at Blythe. “It isn’t drink that I want. My disappointment tonight lies with the entertainment.”
Blythe struggled to focus her thoughts. The footman had moved back out of her view. Freed from his magnetic stare, she wondered if she’d imagined that odd little interlude. “The entertainment?”
“Quite. I would have expected you to make a much grander entrance tonight … perhaps by riding into the ballroom on the back of an elephant.”
She cast a droll glance at her friend, and Lady Anne giggled behind her fan.
Heat flamed in Blythe’s cheeks. She had been subject to whispers about her upbringing in India, but never before had she been mocked so openly. Her fingers tensed at her sides. How dearly she would like to slap the superiority off Lady Davina’s face. Or at the very least, respond with a cutting jab about ill-mannered shrews.
Blythe knew the folly in making a scene. A brawl would hardly serve her hope of becoming the next Duchess of Savoy.
Mustering every bit of restraint, she kept an agreeable smile on her face. “What a remarkable notion. The next time we have a party here, I really must consult you in the planning of it.”
But Davina wasn’t pacified. If anything, the cool contempt on her face grew more pronounced.
Stepping closer, she murmured, “Pray be forewarned, Miss Crompton. I will not be used as a contrivance for you to loiter near the duke in the hopes of tempting him into wedlock. I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.”
With a chilly nod, Lady Davina took her friend’s arm and they strolled off into the crowd.
Chapter 3
Blythe stood frozen in the doorway. All the magic of the evening abruptly evaporated. Her smile felt stiff, her chest filled to bursting with mortified humiliation. Never in her life had she been insulted with such undisguised malice. To be denied the satisfaction of a sharp rejoinder only rubbed raw her affronted emotions. To make matters worse, some of the guests were looking at her curiously and whispering.
A desperate need to escape besieged her. Turning, she walked out of the ballroom and headed rapidly toward the back of the house. Ladies and gentlemen strolled along the grand corridor with its tall columns and Greek statuary. She kept her chin down to avoid conversation.
I would never permit my father to marry so vastly far beneath him.
Fury nipped at her heels. How dared that nasty girl debase Blythe in her own home! What a hoity-toity snob! A score of scenarios played through her mind, a
ll of which ended with Lady Davina falling to her knees and begging Blythe’s forgiveness.
Not that that would ever happen.
At the end of the passageway, she veered sharply to the left. Here, the buzz of noise from the party was diminished and there were no guests to witness her extreme agitation. Picking a door at random, Blythe entered a shadowy sitting room that was lit only by a coal fire on the hearth.
She stormed straight to a chaise, snatched up a pillow to her mouth, and screamed. The crewel-work muffled the sound, but at least the release of tension made Blythe feel marginally better.
“Termagant!” Clutching the pillow to her bosom, she stalked back and forth while giving voice to all the names she’d wanted to call Lady Davina. “Selfish, vile, wicked snob. Conceited, overbearing blueblood!”
In the midst of her tirade, someone cleared his throat.
Aghast, she whirled around to see a towering male figure outlined in the doorway. His identity struck her at once. It was a footman carrying a tray … the same footman who had stared at her in the ballroom.
The realization that he’d witnessed her outburst appalled Blythe. What trick of fate had brought him to intrude on her privacy?
Unless it was no coincidence.
She gripped the pillow to her bosom. “You followed me,” she accused.
“Please forgive my presumption, Miss Crompton. I thought you might need this.” He set down the tray on a table, selected a glass, and stepped forward to press it into her hand. “Go on,” he murmured, “drink it down.”
In her present state, being issued an order by anyone, let alone a servant, should have sparked rebellion in her. Yet she found herself obeying his directive. The bubbles burst on her tongue and the refreshing liquid slid easily down her throat.
Tilting her head back, she drained the glass. Almost immediately a warm glow soothed the raw edges of her emotions.
“I’ll have another,” she snapped, then was ashamed of her sharpness. “Please.”
He chuckled under his breath, a sound she’d never heard from any member of the staff—at least not here in England. In India, however, the servants had been more open and relaxed in their manners. As a child, she’d often eavesdropped on the cook and the maids as they went about their duties, chattering in Hindi and laughing at the slightest provocation. Blythe hadn’t realized until this moment how much she’d missed that warm, happy banter.
The servants in London were all so stiff and proper. They kept their heads down and allowed themselves to fade into the background.
Except for this one impudent footman.
Warily, she watched as he took her empty glass and walked back to the tray. His command of the situation exuded an authority that was highly unusual in a servant. Even his long strides revealed him to be a man who was confident of himself.
He returned with the drink. A slight smile quirked his lips as he handed her the second glass. In the process, his gloved fingers brushed hers.
The keen awareness of him as a man coursed through her body. The sensation settled in the pit of her stomach and made her realize how alone they were here. The distant hum of the party only served to underscore a sense of intimacy.
What was wrong with her? He was only a servant like so many others. It was just that her emotions had been rattled by that incident with Lady Davina.
“It isn’t my place to advise you,” he said. “However, you may wish to sip this one more slowly.”
“I’ll do as I please.”
Despite her tart tone, Blythe took only a small swallow. He was right; it would be a disaster if she were to stagger drunkenly for the remainder of the evening. Not, of course, that she had any desire to return to the ballroom just yet. The heat of humiliation might have subsided, but her resentment toward Lady Davina still smoldered.
The footman stepped back and stood in the shadows a respectful distance away. She found his air of self-assurance unnerving. Why didn’t he depart and leave her alone? Any other servant would have vanished out the door by now.
His gaze flitted to the pillow that she still clutched in one arm, reminding her that he had witnessed that hysterical outburst. Perhaps he thought her a madwoman in need of supervision.
Fighting a blush, Blythe walked to the chaise and returned the pillow to its resting place. She wanted him to go … and yet she didn’t.
“What is your name?” she asked to fill the awkward silence.
“James.”
“My mother refers to all of the footmen as James. She finds it easier than trying to discern who is who.”
“Then she will make no mistake with me, for I assure you that truly is my given name.”
Blythe found herself rather liking the way he spoke to her so easily. It could be so tedious when a servant wouldn’t even look her in the eye. “I don’t recall ever seeing you on the staff. Are you here just for the party tonight?”
“No, I accepted a post in your house only yesterday … when James left.”
She surprised herself by giggling. “Which one? The one with the big nose? The shy one who stuttered? Or the one who always squinted a bit? Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters.”
“We do all look alike in livery and wig,” James agreed.
He was wrong. Although footmen were chosen for their height and muscular build, Blythe found this man utterly unlike any of the others in the house. He was taller, more broad of shoulder, more imposing. His bold manner gave her the distinct impression that he regarded himself as her equal.
Savoring another taste of champagne, she speculated on the color of his hair underneath that formal wig. Was it as dark as his eyebrows? Would it be thick or thin, curly or straight? Would it feel soft to the touch of her fingers?
The force of her curiosity jolted Blythe. Good heavens. A surfeit of wine must have addled her brain. How absurd was it to be lingering in the company of a footman when so many fine gentlemen awaited her in the ballroom?
Absurd, indeed!
It was time to go back, yet she felt uneasy knowing that James had witnessed her unguarded flare of emotion. “You are not to gossip to the other servants about … anything that happened here.”
“I had no intention of doing so.”
Could he be trusted to keep his word? She hoped so. “Thank you for the champagne. You may go now.”
“As you wish.” James bowed to her, picked up his tray, and headed toward the door. Then he turned back to regard her one last time. “If I may be permitted to say so, Miss Crompton, you would have looked magnificent riding into the ballroom on the back of an elephant.”
He disappeared into the passageway. Left speechless, Blythe listened as the tapping of his footsteps faded away. The distant lilt of a waltz drifted to her ears. Again, she was struck by how out of the ordinary the footman behaved.
Even more curious, she felt invigorated by his compliment. By the heavens, he was right. She would have been magnificent.
Chapter 4
The next morning, James cursed the success of his plan to infiltrate the Crompton household. He had been cleaning lamps in this tiny workroom since breakfast. The messy task left his hands black with ash and oil, and he’d been forced to don an apron to protect his footman’s uniform. Yet still he wasn’t finished.
He had served endless rounds of drinks in the ballroom until the wee hours. The head footman, a slave master by the name of Godwin, had allowed the staff no extra sleep. At dawn, James had been up gathering all the soiled glassware from the formal chambers on the first floor. Then he had been assigned the task of tending the oil lamps. Another footman had fetched dozens from all over the house. They had been brought to this dank cellar room so that the mess of refilling the kerosene and trimming the wicks wouldn’t disturb the family.
Scowling, he polished a brass lamp with a mixture of oil and emery powder. It had taken a handsome bribe to convince the previous footman to give up his position so that James could apply for the post. Now he wondered if it had been wo
rthwhile. He had envisioned having endless opportunities to search the house during the performance of his duties.
But things hadn’t worked out according to plan. If he wasn’t cleaning the lamps or the silver, he was running errands or standing duty at the front door. He had not yet had the freedom to go around the house, including the office used by George Crompton.
James hadn’t even had a close look at his quarry yet. At the ball, George and Edith had been surrounded by guests. The only family member James had met face to face had been Miss Blythe Crompton.
He rubbed at a stubborn bit of tarnish on the base of the lamp. What the devil had possessed him to follow her to that deserted sitting room? He had risked ruining his masquerade by acting more like a gentleman than a servant. He was supposed to be inconspicuous, an anonymous footman unnoticed by the family.
But the hurt in those expressive hazel eyes had caught him off guard. He had expected a wealthy heiress like Blythe Crompton to be a frivolous feather-brain. He’d amended that image to cunning social climber after watching her dance and flirt with a succession of titled men, including the Duke of Savoy, a man who was old enough to be her father. It disgusted James to see that she was using her rich dowry to purchase a titled husband.
Yet she hadn’t been impervious to Lady Davina’s insult. Miss Blythe Crompton had continued to smile although her eyes had revealed a depth of feeling that defied any shallow label he’d assigned her. She had been distraught enough to leave the ballroom and seek a secluded spot in which to give vent to her emotions.
He grinned in spite of himself. How embarrassed she’d been to realize he’d observed her little tirade. It was a miracle she hadn’t sacked him on the spot. Instead, she’d actually seemed amenable to conversing with him. There had been surprisingly little haughtiness to her demeanor, and he didn’t know quite what to make of that.
Carefully pouring oil into the well of the lamp, James mulled over the prospect of altering his investigation. It might prove useful to ingratiate himself with Miss Crompton. She could be privy to information that would prove her parents to be imposters.
