by Lily Maxton
She raised her hand to cut him off, and he looked a bit startled she would do such a thing. Gentler sex or not, he’d stepped into her domain when he’d stepped into the housekeeper’s room.
Succumb to what? she wanted to ask. Self-pity? Lord Riverton was entitled to a bit of self-indulgence after nearly being burnt alive. She did partially agree with Mr. Faulkner, but she didn’t care how “great” a man he thought Lord Riverton was—she just wanted to keep the marquess from injuring his employees.
“I’ll think on it, Mr. Faulkner. Thank you.”
She did as she promised. When the surgeon took his leave, she tapped her dry quill against parchment and mulled over what could occupy Lord Riverton. He had a swift mind—but aside from reading, she couldn’t think of any other tasks one could manage while injured and bedridden that wouldn’t bore him. But reading didn’t quite address the problem, if Mr. Faulkner was worried about his mental state.
What was needed was something, or someone, to draw him out of himself.
Her gaze strayed to the wall clock that hung above her simple hearth—the object was rectangular and ornate, made from lush, dark wood by a clockmaker in the Black Forest. Her parents couldn’t have afforded such a clock on their own—it had come to them at the bequest of a distant relative.
It was fanciful to hang the thing on her wall and imagine what the Black Forest might look like. She’d never even been outside of her own small corner of England.
But then she remembered the butcher’s family in the village where she’d grown up—they were from Vienna, and she’d heard them occasionally speaking German in the back room. She’d rather liked the sound of that staccato foreign tongue. She’d like it so much she’d started volunteering to pick up her family’s orders there, just hoping to hear the language for a moment or two.
She remembered the collection of books in Lord Riverton’s library—the ones she had been most drawn to, their parchment inked with words she couldn’t understand.
The idea caught hold of her suddenly. Then it took her about one second to disregard the idea as ridiculous.
But the thought, once there, burrowed deep, and she couldn’t quite shake it.
She tried to concentrate on her work and couldn’t, so she rose from her escritoire. Why shouldn’t she ask? Mr. Faulkner thought Lord Riverton needed something to do. Teaching her a foreign language would keep his sharp mind active and would benefit her in the process. And he liked languages. Nearly an entire bookcase in his library was devoted to foreign language volumes.
Lord Riverton might not be the most patient of men, but he was intelligent—quick and sharp. He read every day, his mind like a bowl forever being filled. His intelligence was what she most admired about him—the one thing that caught her interest that she couldn’t explain away, no matter how much she wanted to. Even if his beauty drew her gaze, or his confidence made her pulse quicken, she could dismiss those traits as superficial, or a product of breeding. His mind, however, was an innate part of him. An entirely too intriguing part of him.
But because of it, he might actually turn out to be a better teacher than most.
It wasn’t quite that ridiculous, was it? Would Riverton agree to it? He might just laugh in her face.
There was no reason for a housekeeper to know anything other than English…and yet…she couldn’t let go of the idea once it seized hold.
Her father had a smattering of French and Latin, and he’d always wanted to learn more, but his work at the school had kept him busy enough teaching a basic education—reading, writing, and arithmetic. And his large family had occupied his time while he was home.
He’d never done it. Now, his health wasn’t what it was once, and she doubted he would ever learn as much as he’d once wished to.
She wanted to do it. Not just because of her father, but because the way letters could form different words that someone, somewhere out in the world, could understand, fascinated her and always had.
She drew an anxious breath and slid a few more books from the shelf. She decided to broach the subject with Lord Riverton, and if he wanted to laugh, let him laugh. She was no weak-willed woman to be crushed under the marquess’s boot heel.
Chapter Six
The next day, Cassandra stood outside of Lord Riverton’s door, full of nerves and anticipation, and rapped lightly.
“Go away,” a voice growled from within, as usual.
“It’s Mrs. Davis, my lord. May I speak with you?”
Through the door, she heard a muffled oath and then the sound of glass breaking. She entered the room and found Lord Riverton sitting up in bed, scowling at her. A teacup was in pieces on the floor, liquid seeping out from its center.
She tucked her sympathy deep down, fairly certain he wouldn’t respond well to it, and carefully retrieved the shattered tea cup, then cleaned the spilled tea with a linen towel that hung from the washstand.
“I told you to go away,” he said, none too pleasantly.
He was no doubt trying to intimidate her, but it was difficult to be intimidated by a man confined to bed and wrapped in bandages.
She straightened from her cleaning and stared at him for a long while before realizing something was different. “Where is your splint?”
“My what?” he asked innocently.
“Did you try to use your injured arm?”
“No,” he said, sounding guilty as a child. The wrappings for the splint were on the bed next to him.
A spark of tenderness tightened her chest. The untouchable marquess was revealing himself to be like every other man in this regard—he absolutely loathed being vulnerable. She set the books she’d carried up on a small writing table by the window, and ventured closer to the bed.
“What are you about?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
She lifted the cloth and wooden sticks from his bed, all too aware that her hand was only about three inches away from his hip. Her heart began to beat just a little faster. “Are you trying to damage your arm?”
His lip curled. “It’s already damaged.” He pulled at the cotton bandaging, peeling it back to reveal blistered and swollen skin, splotched in violent red. She imagined the fire—the licking hot flame tearing at his flesh. “Burns aren’t pretty, are they?”
She pressed her lips together and drew a breath through her nose, more disturbed by the sight of his wounds than she would have expected. “Cover it at once. Do you want to get an infection?”
Surprisingly, he did as she asked.
“I’m going to put your arm back in the splint,” she said. “Mr. Faulkner won’t return for another few hours.”
“I didn’t realize you were a surgeon,” he said, sarcasm edging his voice.
She looked down at him, uncowed. “I am the oldest of eight siblings, Lord Riverton. Mostly brothers. I’ve picked up a thing or two through the years.”
“Eight siblings. Good God.” He sounded vaguely disgusted.
She nearly smiled. She hesitated for only a second before she reached down. She grasped his wrist and slowly extended his arm, resting it on the bedside table. He winced, and she gentled her ministrations even more.
He remained silent as she focused on her task—lining up the arm, supporting it with the wooden sticks, wrapping the cloth around to hold it in place. His breathing was slow and steady, quiet in the shadowed room, and she listened to the rhythm, strangely lulled by its constancy. She had just finished wrapping up the splint, absentmindedly letting her hands slide away, when she brushed warm skin. His hand…his hand wasn’t bandaged. She looked down at pale, unmarred flesh and long, elegant fingers—the kind that would hold the reins of a horse with mastery and precision, or fence with the skill of years of practice, or guide an aristocratic lady in an effortless waltz.
She froze for an instant, at the feel of the contours of muscle, bone, and flesh, juxtaposed by the delicate, almost ethereal blue veins under her fingertips. His skin was cold, but she could feel warm blood beneath the fles
h, pulsing and alive. Vital, yet frail.
Vulnerable. As all living things were vulnerable.
Why couldn’t she shake this frustrating physical awareness of him? Under all the trappings he was only a man, and not a very nice one, at that. He was also a marquess—as those manicured hands, so perfect, so far removed from physical labor, glaringly revealed.
She glanced down at her own hands, and with dismay, the first thing she noticed was a long spidery scar from years ago. She’d been chopping vegetables for stew too quickly and gouged herself with the knife.
Her hands were full of little marks like that, like a map of her life, just as his were a reflection of his life, so far removed from everything she knew.
She shouldn’t be touching him like this.
Pulse hammering, heart twisting, she pulled away. “I’m done, my lord,” she said briskly.
“What books did you bring me?” he asked.
Ah, the books. She’d completely forgotten about the books. And if he’d noticed their inadvertent contact at all, it appeared he couldn’t care less. Which was, truly, a good thing, even if an irrational disappointment swept over her.
“Mr. Faulkner is under the impression that you need a task to occupy you during your recovery.” She looked back at her employer in time to see an imperious lift of his eyebrows.
“Does he? The meddlesome bastard,” Riverton muttered. “What is it, then?”
She forced her eyes to remain locked with his, though inside she was trembling. What a foolish, impulsive idea. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t ask him to teach her a foreign language—they were servant and employer, for heaven’s sake. She completed her work; he benefited from her work and paid her. That was the sum total of their relationship, and she was sure that was how Lord Riverton would want to keep it. He was no teacher of the unlearned. Even if he did decide to teach her, which was laughable in itself, he would act too cuttingly to truly help her.
Anyway, she had no need of other languages. He would just think her a sad, desperate woman putting on airs, and maybe that was all she was.
“Mrs. Davis,” he snapped impatiently. “Has something gone wrong with your tongue? Do you think I have all day?”
She blinked at that, startled, then looked around at the shadowed room. “Well…”
His lips thinned as he stared at her, but he inclined his head slightly. “A stupid question, I’ll grant you. But even if I do have all day, watching you stand there like a startled deer is about as exciting as staring at the ceiling.”
Lord, he was sharp-tongued. Another woman might have let him hurt her feelings, but one did not grow up with five brothers without acquiring thick skin. She didn’t know if he’d intended to subdue her with the insult, but it had the opposite effect. Her spine straightened, and she stared down her nose at him, rising to the challenge.
“I would like you to teach me to speak a new language, my lord.”
Several beats of silence followed that statement. His eyes narrowed incredulously. “For what possible purpose?”
A shiver of foreboding coursed through her. Those clever gray eyes watched her—as cool and remote as deep winter, but oddly beautiful. And thoroughly unnerving. His gaze made her skin prickle, made her all too aware of her own body, each limb and finger and toe.
She did her best to ignore the inappropriate feeling. “Mr. Faulkner has charged me with keeping you occupied while you recover. If I’m to be taken away from my regular duties to do this, it seems only fair that I also benefit in some way.”
“That is what I meant. How on earth should that benefit you?” He laughed, low and harsh. “Are you planning on conversing in French with the accomplished ladies? In between what…practicing the pianoforte? You’re a housekeep—”
“Thank you for pointing that out, my lord,” she said as sharply as he, “as I wasn’t already aware.”
His eyes widened. She had a feeling he wasn’t interrupted often. What madness had come over her that she’d done it without a second thought?
“Si prova la mia pazienza,” he said quickly, the words flowing from his tongue like water—effortlessly, achingly beautiful. “No?” he shook his head mockingly when she didn’t respond, his lips curving in a smile that held no warmth. “Do you even recognize what language that is?”
“It’s…Italian…is it not?”
“Oh, brava, Mrs. Davis,” he said, his smile turning jagged. “You’re halfway there already. You think it might be Italian.”
Her cheeks warmed. She gripped the front of her dress, wringing it for all it was worth as she wistfully imagined it was his neck. “I’m only trying to help you. Why are you being deliberately cruel?”
“Cruel?” Again, he laughed. “It is the way of the world. You don’t need to learn other languages. You barely need English. I might as well try to train an ape to speak a foreign tongue.”
She flinched as though he’d struck her. Anger—a righteous hot fury—flooded her body, her heart, and her limbs. Gone was the flash of camaraderie she’d experienced with him before. Gone like a wisp of smoke. Had she actually come here thinking they might attain it again? Had she actually come here with anticipation squeezing her chest?
Something snapped inside her…some control, some equilibrium she’d worked for years to attain. He was so arrogant, so condescending. She had done nothing to deserve his spiteful insults.
She leaned over him, so they were only inches apart. “Do you know, Lord Riverton,” she said in a low, harsh voice, “I’m glad you were in the fire. I’m glad you were damaged. You deserved to be knocked low for once in your life. You deserved everything you got. You. Deserved. It.”
His hand wrapped around her elbow in a hard, bruising grip. He drew her even closer, until their noses were practically touching, and she had to brace herself with her free arm, her hand pressing into the mattress, lest she topple right on top of him.
“I don’t know,” he said tightly, “whether I should thrash you, or sack you. Or both.”
Her heart raced. Everything in her, every ounce of propriety, every ounce of rationality, screamed that she should apologize to him. But she looked into those mocking eyes, and she couldn’t do it. She would not lower herself in front of him, not when that was exactly where he expected her to be.
“Is that what you did to Julia Forsythe?” she asked, her lips curling in disdain.
She didn’t know why she’d brought up his former mistress. She didn’t even know what had happened between them when the woman stayed at Blakewood Hall that summer, only that something the marquess had done had hurt the woman deeply, after Cassandra had begun to think of her as a friend. Despite the fact that the mistress had spirited away the only lover Cassandra had taken since the death of her husband. But that was another story.
“Did you thrash her because she no longer wanted you?” she said icily. “What a fine man you are, Lord Riverton.”
A breath hissed between his teeth. His eyes flickered as he studied her face. “Who are you?”
Was he toying with her? “You know perfectly well who I am,” she said uncertainly, but still with an edge of disdain.
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen you before.” He sounded angry and hard, but not violent. His gaze settled on her mouth, settled there for a fraction too long.
Her breasts tingled as she realized she could feel his breath, the softest touch against her lips.
He tore his gaze back to her eyes and glared. He released her so abruptly that she had to catch herself with her other arm to keep from falling onto him. To her mortification, she was hovering over him, her hands on either side of his torso, a pantomime of a lover leaning down for a kiss.
She snatched herself back, straightening. She tried to pretend their closeness hadn’t sent her senses rioting like fireworks across the sky. Because she wasn’t a stupid woman, and she knew revealing any sort of attraction to the marquess, no matter how base, would be the height of stupidity.
“Provided I still have a job, I shall tell Mr. Faulkner to think of his own tasks to keep you occupied,” she stated.
“Don’t. I believe I might actually be bored enough to teach you,” Lord Riverton said, his voice calm and level, completely emotionless, as though they hadn’t just been inches away from each other, hurtling barbed insults back and forth as if in the midst of a game of battledore and shuttlecock. As though they hadn’t been close enough to kiss. “What language?”
“What?” she asked stupidly. She’d been fully expecting to be sacked, not for him to agree to her suggestion.
He flung out his good hand impatiently. “What language do you want to learn? Unless you are thinking of conquering them all.” He cast an even glance her way. “Which, at your level of experience—or inexperience, I should say—I would not recommend.”
“German,” she answered without a second thought, stunned that he had actually agreed to the lessons.
His brow wrinkled under a fierce frown. “German? What about French, Italian, Spanish? Those are the Romance languages…their words are softer, more sensual. Imagine them in a woman’s voice. In your voice. German is all wrong for you.”
Had he just described her voice as sensual? She struggled to hide a little flash of wonder at the idea Lord Riverton might have noticed something like that, something that had nothing to do with her position. But she was probably misinterpreting what he had said. She was quite sure he shouldn’t be speaking about sensuality to her, even if the topic was relatively innocent.
“I want to learn German,” she said obstinately.
“Why?”
“I suppose because it sounds…”
“Guttural?” he suggested. “Ugly?”
She shook her head. “Powerful. Unbending. Guttural, perhaps, but beautiful in the way that harsh things are sometimes beautiful.”
He tilted his head as he watched her, and his gaze was so intent, so unfathomable, that she looked away, overwhelmed by the attention. “Well,” he drawled, sounding almost bored. “If German is what you want, German is what you shall have.”
