by Jaimey Grant
The silence finally penetrated the scullery maid’s dull mind. She nudged Doll with her free hand.
Doll’s head lifted, a sort of dazed look on her face. Then, her violet eyes widened, meeting his, every muscle in her slim body tensing in shock. “Milord! Have you lost your way?”
Just a trifle embarrassed, Connor smiled. “Indeed I have. Perhaps you can help me.”
Bobbing a curtsy, Doll followed him out, barely giving the other servants a glance. Her head bowed in the proper subservient manner, she failed to see Connor stop just as the kitchen door closed them off from the others’ views. Connor took great delight in the sudden press of her slim young body against his but even he was taken unaware at the force with which that delectable body connected with his own.
They fell on the stair in an inelegant heap, Doll sprawling full length atop him.
Normally, finding himself in such an undignified position would have made Lord Connor Northwicke laugh. However, finding himself in such a position with a woman he viewed as easily the most desirable woman he’d ever seen, laughter was the furthest thing from his mind. No, indeed, his thoughts turned to a far coarser line of thinking, a line of thinking that grew baser with every breath she took.
Doll did not struggle up. Her face registered a shock as great as his own, greater than what she’d experienced upon seeing him enter the servants’ domain mere moments before. Then, her eyes dropping from his to focus somewhere near his mouth, Connor succumbed to a temptation too great for him to resist.
Closing the small distance between their lips, he kissed her, a very brief, butterfly caress that was over almost before it started. He had no sense of time or place, or how very inappropriate it was for him to be kissing a maid while sprawled on the stair.
And he wouldn’t have cared had the thought crossed his mind in that moment. He kissed her again, his lips lingering a moment longer than before. She didn’t pull away; she pressed closer, the fingers on his chest curling into the fabric of his coat. Her lips burned against his for a brief moment and then she did pull away, her face flushing bright crimson. The wariness he often saw in her eyes returned, greater than before. He cursed himself for the fool he undoubtedly was.
She pushed against him and he shoved himself back, rising to his feet and offering her a hand up. Flinching from his touch, she rose on her own, her eyes straying to the doorway through which they’d so recently passed.
Not surprisingly, several curious faces crowded together, mouths hanging open on the younger servants, stern disapproval twisting the features of the elders. Connor couldn’t really blame them but he did object to a few of the disapproving glances being trained on the maid.
“Go about your business,” he commanded in his best Lord of the Manor voice. The younger servants jumped, with the exception of the pert, red-haired one, disappearing into the darker recesses of the kitchen.
The butler, his disapproval almost palpable, addressed the frowning housekeeper. “Mrs. Watts, please take Doll into the scullery and set her to scrubbing pots.”
Mrs. Watts stepped forward as Doll did the same. Connor stepped between them. “I have need of this maid’s services.”
Why did some words sound less heinous in one’s head than when one spoke them? He resisted the urge to cringe and waited in expectation of the horror he knew his statement would incite. He should walk away now, before he made Doll’s life more difficult by branding her a harlot amongst her peers.
The redheaded maid stepped forward, her features contorted with a hatred that Connor found unwarranted. Mrs. Watts grasped the girl’s arm, whispered something in her ear, and the girl reluctantly returned to the kitchens, casting one last venomous glance in Connor’s direction. It was then he remembered she spent much time with Doll, their duties often placing them in the same chambers. The other maid was as disapproving of Doll’s association with him as Adam was about Connor’s association with Doll. Peas in a pod, Connor thought with an inward chuckle.
“My lord, perhaps you have taken a wrong turn. This is the servants’ stair, here to aid in the serving of the household. You can go that direction to return to the guests’ section of the house,” the butler informed him, pointing up the staircase.
And how could one argue with such a formidable personage, one who was inarguably correct? Except, Connor hadn’t lost his way at all, merely his mind and his wits.
Dropping his hand from Doll’s arm, he grimaced. “Indeed, I must have lost my way. My apologies for having disturbed the proper running of the household.”
He walked away then, realizing only in that moment that he’d failed to apologize for his earlier treatment. Had he just finished destroying the friendship he’d come to enjoy?
Friendship? He was afraid that, for him, it was much more than that now.
Scrubbing pots was the perfect penance for what she’d done. She hadn’t initiated the kiss, true, but she hadn’t stopped it either. At least, not right away. It had been too nice, too pleasurable, and such a welcome change from her past experiences with men.
Heavens! What was she thinking? Experiences? One could hardly use such a tame word for what she’d endured, always at the hands of some man.
Hours later, as the day grew later and the sun’s slow descent turned the sky shades of pink and red, Verena was released from her punishment with the warning to steer clear of gentlemen who would amuse themselves “befriending” fetching young maids.
“No good can come of it,” Mrs Watts said kindly but with a thread of steel underlying her words. “Gentlemen do not marry servants and can only have one goal in mind. You know what that is.”
Verena nodded, taking the housekeeper’s warning to heart. Indeed, what other objective could Lord Connor have? He had no idea that her father was an earl and even if he did, her foray into the ranks of the servant class made her unacceptable as a nobleman’s bride. Should it get out that she’d served her own kind, she’d be irrevocably ruined.
But what did that matter? She would gain that which she most desired: Freedom from marriage. Marriage was the worst thing that could happen to a woman. A woman lost all rights over herself, her body, and her life when a man took her as wife. She would much rather stay a drudge, slowly withering away into a ripe old age, a spinster to her dying day.
She’d much rather endure the degradation of spinsterhood than what a man would do to her.
A slight shiver crawled over her shoulders. Marriage was not for her.
Connor entered the drawing room that evening with Adam Prestwich at his side. The loose-tongued Lady Aldrich captured them, her gleeful expression positively radiant at whatever choice morsel she had managed to glean. It was mere moments before she informed them of a new arrival in the form of the Earl of Carstairs. Apparently his daughter, the Lady Verena, went missing nearly three months ago and he had tracked her to the area, stopping in at Lord Feldspar’s to inform him, privately, of the matter, as Feldspar was the local dignitary. The old woman tittered in delight at her dramatic on dit. Listening at doors for delicious gossip was Lady Aldrich’s bread and butter.
Lord Connor had to remind himself to breathe. Everything suddenly made sense. The highborn accent, the air of quiet breeding and innocence, the knowledge and intelligence of an educated lady.
The maid called Doll Rendel was Lady Verena Westbridge.
*
Three
Verena stared at the painting, her work forgotten. The candid brown eyes of the woman in the painting stared back, inviting one to share in her contentment. Had Rembrandt intended his model to gaze out at her audience with such peace? Or was the expression a mask meant to trick and confuse? Could a woman find the contentment portrayed in the painting?
A sound to her left drew her attention away from the woman on the wall. Lord Connor moved toward her with a purposeful stride, his handsome features set and grim. Verena pushed down the instinctual panic at his expression. In Verena’s experience, a countenance like that heralded punishm
ent.
“What an odd place to hang a Rembrandt,” she said suddenly, feeling the need to distract him. Her hand swept up to rub at a faint scar on her cheek, an action she never noticed until she’d already done it.
Trying to mask the odd motion, she pushed some inky black curls back under her mobcap. Her hair was forever escaping to fall against her cheek. It only seemed to remind her of a portrait of her mother. Her mother’s hair had done the same.
“Doll, come with me.”
Her hesitation was so slight, she knew he didn’t notice. He led her into an empty chamber—an odd circumstance in a house positively bursting with guests. Lord Connor urged her to sit, paused, then sat beside her, her hand still firmly clasped in his.
Verena’s stomach sank to her shoes. He was choosing his words carefully, his face revealing his unease as his pale eyes searched her face. His news could only be bad.
“The Earl of Carstairs is here,” he then said without preamble. “His description of his daughter bears a remarkable resemblance to you, my dear. I have suspected for some time that you are not the servant you seem.”
She felt her face go as white as her apron. Her lips moved soundlessly and a single tear slipped down her cheek. Hands tightening convulsively around his and lower lip trembling, she struggled to control the panic tearing through her chest.
“No. I won’t go back with him,” Verena finally said brokenly. “I can’t.” She looked up into compassionate blue eyes, unaware what expression rested on her own features. A flash of something, disbelief perhaps, appeared in his eyes. On a melodramatic breath, she said, “I’ll die!”
Connor frowned but there was nothing threatening about it. His concern seemed genuine. “Would you care to explain? Maybe I can help.”
Verena’s desperation overwhelmed her. As much as she hated and generally distrusted men, indeed, even feared them, she knew that at this point, she could only be helped by one of the wretched creatures. Such was the plight of women, forever forced to bow to the whims of some man, be it father, brother, or husband.
Lord Connor Northwicke was a better example than many, she supposed. Or was he simply more devious? She still didn’t know why he’d chosen to befriend a mere maid. Had he known all along?
Unable to tell him her troubles without some sort of reassurance, she asked, “Did you always know? Who I am, I mean? Is that why you chose to follow me about?”
“You make me sound like a lovesick puppy,” he chuckled. “And no,” he added, sobering, “I didn’t know until a few moments ago. I didn’t even wait to be introduced to Carstairs before coming to warn you.”
“Does everyone know?”
“I do not believe so and I shan’t say a thing. I imagine your father would not want it bandied about that his daughter took up menial service.”
Bitterness crawled over her, making her face feel pinched and ugly. “Indeed not. He would do all in his power to keep such information from the gossip mill.” Bows knitting in confusion, she added, “Which does not explain why he would—” She broke off, suddenly aware that she’d nearly revealed one of her closest guarded secrets.
As if sensing her unwillingness to continue her thought, Lord Connor asked, “Is there something I can do?”
Tears gathered in her eyes. Her father would beat her for her defiance. Sniffling, she accepted the handkerchief held out to her and spoke, the words tumbling out in a rush of suppressed panic. “A few months ago, my father informed me that he arranged a m-marriage for me. That is why I ran away. I just can’t do it!” The dam ruptured and she burst into tears.
Connor put his arms around her and held her against him. She stiffened at first but her muscles slowly eased and she buried her face in his chest. Sobs wracked her small frame and tears soaked his gold waistcoat. He removed her mobcap and released the severe knot of hair at her nape. He smoothed his hand over the shining tresses in a soothing manner until she quieted, her heartbreaking sobs becoming mere whimpers.
“Are you sure you can’t marry your father’s choice?”
Verena stiffened and drew away from him, disappointed that he would even suggest such a thing.
“Do you happen to know my father, my lord? Any man who enjoys my father’s good opinion is already beyond redemption.”
“Surely he can’t be that bad,” Connor insisted.
“There is none worse than Mr. Winters, I assure you,” she said in a frightened little voice that trembled slightly.
“Percival Winters?”
Verena bobbed her head in acknowledgment.
Lord Connor’s face and tone contained all the horror Verena could have wished, but she could take little comfort in that fact. Percival Winters may have enjoyed the title of gentleman in Society but nothing could be further from the truth. He was a cad, a cheat, and a scoundrel. His money was all that kept him accepted throughout the ton.
“Marry me instead.”
Lord Connor’s mouth pinched in at the corners, his eyes closing ever so briefly.
“What?” she breathed, curious at his offer and the obvious regret he already felt in making it.
“Marry me. It will solve your problems. I can protect you from your father and Winters.”
She studied his handsome face, saw determination mingling with doubt, and shook her head.
“Marrying you would hardly solve my problems when one of my problems is being forced to marry!” The panic threatened again but she held it at bay, more interested in his offer than she cared to admit.
Connor possessed himself of her hand again. “Doll, listen to me,” he said urgently. “I want to marry you. I know it would be a marriage of convenience but I also know it would be of benefit to us both. I have wanted to settle down for some time and I do not know of another woman whom I hold in higher esteem.”
“That is another problem,” Verena retorted with unaccustomed heat. “Your father is the Duke of Denbigh. Why do you think he would consider me a suitable bride for his son?”
Connor laughed. “It does not matter, Doll. I am seven and twenty. I am nearly as wealthy as my father in my own right. He hardly has a say in my doings anymore.”
Verena stared at him. A little kernel of hope started as she took in the sincerity of his expression. He was in deadly earnest!
“I am underage, Connor. I cannot marry you without my father’s permission. The law will not allow it. Even were we to flee to Gretna, my father could simply absolve the marriage upon our return.”
“He would risk the scandal?”
“Perhaps not,” she murmured. “Father does care so much for appearances. Were he to object to my marrying a duke’s son, he’d look a fool in Society.”
“Yet he would throw you away on a mere mister.”
“A mere mister who is willing to pay whatever exorbitant amount Carstairs demanded. Money will always trump appearances.”
Shaking his head, her companion told her, “He will give his permission, my dear. Trust me. All will be aboveboard and legal.”
“He will not provide a dowry.”
“Do you think that matters one whit to me?”
She searched his features, wondering why he was so set on their alliance. He seemed sincere now. Elated, even, despite his earlier appearance of regret.
“Very well, my lord,” she replied formally. “I accept your proposal of marriage.” She paused. “On one condition.”
How would he react to her request that he refrain from the physical side of marriage? Refusing to give herself time to worry, she opened her mouth—
“It will, of course, be a marriage in name only,” Lord Connor inserted smoothly, making her wonder if he could read her mind. “In fact, I will leave it wholly in your power to decide whether or not to change that fact.”
“I suppose we should do this properly,” Connor mused as he escorted Verena toward Feldspar’s study, her appearance once more restored to some semblance of order. “I would rather have your father’s permission of his own volition th
an threaten him.”
“He will never agree,” Verena informed him adamantly. “Unless you agree to pay him more than Mr. Winters.”
Her companion snorted in contempt. “Your father will not receive a farthing from me, Doll, I can assure you of that. But he will agree nonetheless. Trust me.”
Verena just nodded. Lord Connor could have no idea what he asked of her and her mind scoffed at his continued pleas for trust. Her heart, and an instinct she’d thought long gone, urged her to do just as he requested. Ironically, she didn’t trust her own instincts.
All too soon they were standing outside Lord Feldspar’s study. Connor smiled down at her and she felt her heart do a little leap. Then she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and nodded that she was ready.
“Be brave, love.”
His voice next to her ear coupled with the casual endearment made little spiders skitter up and down her spine. A curious warmth invaded her and her lungs stopped. Her mind shot back to that kiss he’d given her on the servants’ stair, that brief touching of lips that caused all sorts of strange, not unpleasant sensations in her body. Part of her desperately wished he’d kiss her again, right there in full view of the footman who waited to open the door for them. Verena’s eyes snapped to his, shocked and fearful that he might have read her mind.
Connor just smiled at her, a warm, loving expression in his eyes that eased just a touch of the tension holding her immobile. She smiled back, freely, and for the first time she trusted a man to help her.
Feldspar called for them to enter. The moment of truth had arrived and all her tension returned. Connor pulled her forward. She hoped she didn’t look as though she balked even though she did, in truth.
“Feldspar,” Lord Connor greeted his host, promptly ignoring him to turn to the other person in the room. “Lord Carstairs, I believe I have found something, or someone, rather, that you may have lost.”
