His Naughty Maid: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 3

by DeLand, Cerise

  She had to nod. “He was—is—a very fine man.” And I was in agony to leave him.

  “So then, your tale to come to London is nothing but a huge Banbury tale.”

  She pulled back. How could he insult her so…and call her a liar? Which she was…but hated the necessity. “Rock, I—”

  At her use of the pet name she’d invented for him, he considered her with adoration. But in a thrice, his regard turned to sorrow.

  Oh, she hated to upset him. Always had. “Please don’t argue with me.”

  “Not my intention. However….” His blue eyes narrowed on her in a most disconcerting way. Where was the amorous man who made her body ache and want and heat to an inferno? “You never wanted to see Londontown, Jess. You loved the country.”

  She inhaled, fearing he’d call her bluff entirely. Then she’d have no option. And she needed to be safe somewhere! “I’m older. I seek a change.”

  Lydia put a hand to her forehead. “Can you two please not fight?”

  “I apologize, Liddie,” Jess offered.

  “As do I, sweetheart,” Charlie said to his sister, but still, he never wavered from his attention on Jess. “Now once more, please, why leave Brighton?”

  “I had to!” That was the truth. “I’ve outgrown what I can provide to the local gentry. They’re used to me and my talents.”

  “So let me get this straight,” he said, finally taking a chair opposite, leaning forward to put his elbows on his thighs and stare at her. “You’ve helped Monsieur DuVal build his boulangerie in Brighton for…what? Three years?”

  “Two.” He missed a few facts of her past. Still he knew enough to foil her here.

  “Two years then. Fine. And you would give that up to come to London and ask an old friend to take you on?”

  “Yes.”

  “As her maid in her townhouse?”

  She nodded. “That’s so.”

  “And not cook at all?”

  If I must. “Yes.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Charles Reed Sandys-Hough!” cried his sister. “Do not insult our friend!”

  And because Liddie cupped her swollen middle and because Charlie would not take his eyes off his sister, Jess took that opportunity to stick out her tongue at him.

  He shook his head. But a smile played at his perfectly sculpted lips. “I apologize!”

  “Take her, Rock,” demanded his sister. “Take her on, this minute, you beast! Ohhhh.” She bent over her stomach, which to be truthful was not that far. “I cannot do any more of this today. I must go home. And you will employ her. Now. And I will go home to rest.”

  Charlie was on his feet to take his sister’s arm. “Let me help you to your carriage, my dear.”

  “You’d better, you terrible man.” She swatted his hand. “Goodbye, Jess. Do not let him bully you. Ask for absurdly good wages. It’s the least he can do for you. Can’t you, Lord Rockingham?”

  Her sarcasm tickled him and he chuckled. “Yes, my dear. I am an arch rogue and I shall treat our Jess well. You know I will. Else you would not have brought her here.”

  Jess watched them go and prayed that when his lordship returned, he’d ask fewer questions and let her dissolve into his household. I need only a paying position. And a safe place to live where no one can find me.

  Chapter 2

  “Why are you still standing?” he asked as he entered. He pointed to a chair. “Do sit. You make me think you are a servant.”

  “But I am. Want to be.”

  He stared at her. “Far from it. You are a pastry chef, a pâtissière. A good one. Known.”

  Exactly. “And here I am not.”

  He went to his sideboard and poured two glasses of spirits. Then strode toward her to hand her one.

  She fingered the glass, wanting the rush of the alcohol, fearing it would muddle her thinking. She needed to be rational with this man. Very.

  “Drink it,” he urged her with a waggle of his fingers toward her hair. “You need it, from the looks of you.”

  She put a hand to her temple and rearranged her errant curls. Fie on her haste to run to London. She must look a fright.

  “You’re frazzled. Did Liddie argue with you much?”

  “No.” Jess took a sip of the brandy. And another. God, it was good. Nothing like alcohol from the French. “She didn’t. I told her I needed a position and she readily offered me a spot.”

  “She did not ask you why?”

  “She did.” Jess met his gaze. His pointed pursuit of this issue would continue until he was satisfied. Damn his stubbornness.

  He looked her over, his assessment intricate and critical. “And you gave her this story about wishing to start a new adventure in this city?”

  “She did not question me. Why would she?”

  He stood before her, swirling the brandy in his glass, his gaze locked on hers. “Because your gown is old, one I assume you work in. Your shoes are flat, unfashionable, and marked with flour. So you work in those, too. Today you’ve not paid as much attention as you always did to that glorious mane of hair you possess. Worst of all, you look as if you have not slept in days. Liddie—who is far gone with child and often walks the floor with a teething two-year-old—appears to be more rested than you. I have not seen you in seven years, Jess, but the woman before me, negligent of her appearance, is not the fastidious creature I knew. Not the young woman who recalled details of recipes from banquets my mother gave. Not the baker who can multiply in her head the pounds of butter needed to make ten cakes. Nor the famous chef pâtissière whose Crème caramel pleased the Prince Regent so often and so well that the Sussex Advertiser sings your praises.”

  This litany pleased her because he had learned about her recent success in such detail from the Brighton newspapers. She had always wondered if he ever had a thought of her…as she had too often of him. Memories or not, he antagonized her because he would use his knowledge to pin her to the post. She threw back the remains of her brandy and plunked her glass on the deal table. “Thank you for the conversation, my lord. I take my leave of you.”

  He caught her with an arm around her waist and drew her back against him. No other man’s embrace had ever meant so much. As a youth, he’d been intoxicating, a mix of drollery and learning, a handsome devil everyone enjoyed. Rock, she had named him then in spirit. In the fullness of his manhood, he was more solid in body, more obstinate in character, plastering himself to her, warming her, consoling her. Rock, he was now, in truth. The thrill of his possession, the heat of his magnificent physique, made her writhe…and want to remain. “Don’t go, Jess.”

  She squeezed shut her eyes, yearning to stay. “Insult is not what I need.”

  His lips, his hot breath fanned the line of her throat. “You know how I meant it. Forgive me, Jess. I would not hurt you for the world.”

  She rolled her head against his chest. No, she never thought he would hurt her. But he had. Once before. When he’d taken her heart and crushed it. Now he could deny her what she needed—and it could cost her her life. She made to step away.

  He spun her around, his hands to her shoulders. She was tired, frightened, weak as porridge in his powerful grip. This close, his summer blue gaze fell over her features. “I want to help you.”

  She bristled. “If that’s so, then don’t harass me for things I will not tell you.”

  He thought that over, blinking away his confusion. “Very well. No questions.”

  She sought to soothe her pounding heart. “Thank you.”

  “A demand.”

  Alarm stiffened her spine. “What?”

  “Let me put you upstairs.”

  “Fine.”

  “As my guest.”

  “Never.”

  “Why not? You came seeking a friend. I am a very old one.”

  “I do not wish charity. And definitely not yours.”

  “Always proud,” he said with his own pride in her ringing deeply in his bass voice. “Stubborn.”

&n
bsp; “Necessary.” She’d stand her ground. “A woman alone needs a bit of iron. And on that, I will take my leave.”

  “No. Don’t go.” His hands clutched her shoulders more tightly. “Will you stay if I ask you nicely? If I say ‘please’?”

  He was the one man who could melt her like ice in a hot pan. She gave up her fight…because she was tired of running…because she wanted to be with him…because she needed all the safety and consolation he offered. “That will do, yes.”

  “Good. I will employ you. But in return, I want a promise.”

  He could always be such a stickler for the fine points. “I do not know if I can agree.”

  “You can. It’s nothing more than what I should have offered you seven years ago.”

  Her heart fluttered at the memory of his last offering to her—their last kisses in the kitchen garden. Soft, ravishing, torrid kisses. “What is it you want?”

  “If you need money, help, a friend—anything—you will come to me. Rely on me.”

  She considered his bargain. This sweet man had always wanted to give her whatever she required, but he’d never been able. “If you will give me a position in your household, that will be all I need of you.”

  “Promise me anyway.”

  She nodded.

  He dropped his hands. “Am I to take that as agreement?”

  “You may.”

  He inhaled. “Good. Let’s get my housekeeper in here.”

  * * *

  “We have a new addition to the household, Mrs. Moseley,” Charlie announced and described the position he wished Jess to fulfill.

  One searing assessment of Jess and Mrs. Moseley took offense. “I’ve no need for a first kitchen maid, my lord. We have one. A fine one.”

  “Cook,” said Charlie cooly from his chair, “could use more help. Especially for next week.”

  The lady—with narrowed gaze and pinched nostrils—was not buying a pig in a poke. For the second time, she did a once-over of Jess’s attire and sniffed. “Has she references, milord?”

  “She does.” He stared at the woman, his demeanor declaring his power and her impertinence. “I am her reference, Mrs. Moseley. Me. So you will take her.”

  The woman pulled her chin back into the folds of her neck. “A house maid, then. We’ve got to train our Daisy to the downstairs tasks. So this one could be her relief.”

  “Good. Do it,” Charlie shot back. “You may leave us.”

  The housekeeper knit two hairy brows. “Should she not come with me?”

  He glared at the woman. “I’ll have another word with her first, Mrs. Moseley, then send her to you when I’m finished.”

  “I see. Well then.” At that, she narrowed her little black eyes once more on Jess. She hesitated as if…as if she pondered precisely why his lordship needed to talk with her further. Obviously, from her needle-like gaze, she thought his interests prurient.

  Jess stiffened. The housekeeper would need to be coddled. Like a raw egg. Tasty only after a bit of warmth.

  “Very well, sir.” The lady inclined her head in homage and swept from the room in a swish of dove gray indignity.

  “She’ll come round,” he said, his somber gaze on the woman’s departing figure.

  “That I will take bets on.”

  He snorted. “Two days.”

  “Ten,” she upped his wager and spun away.

  “Two pounds I’m right.”

  “Three, I am,” she called gaily from the door. “And thank you for this.”

  “Ha! You’ll thank me only after she puts you to work. And perhaps not then at all.”

  She whirled to face him. Never would she get enough of gazing upon what he had become. So huge. So handsome. So utterly devastating to her poor virginal intentions. More man than most women could imagine. More than most could handle. Certainly more than she should ever want. Wise to her. To other women. How had he gotten that way? “You expected Moseley to be horrid toward me, didn’t you?”

  “She already resents you for the association that is evidently between us. She’ll vent her fire and then give over. In the meantime, let me know if she does not put you in a decent bed. God knows, you need one.”

  Jess had to smile at his kindness. “I would not ask her for favors. Nor ask you to obtain them for me. She first needs to learn how capable I am. Besides, I’ve slept in kitchen nooks before.”

  “When you were a child. And your mother was our cook and there to protect you.”

  She lifted her chin. “My bones are not that old, dear sir.”

  At her endearment, his gaze danced down her body and back up. “But as precious now as then.”

  That stirred her. Too much. It was one thing for him to hold her in his arms today and prove his compassion for her plight. It was another to let his gaze declare how he desired her. How many times before he left to fight against Bonaparte had his embrace been her refuge and her delight? She’d promised herself when Liddie insisted they come here today, that she would not permit such intimacies again with him. She’d allowed them when she was naive and he was her moon and stars. But now, she was much wiser than to risk such folly. Especially now that she had few choices for her future. She would be wise and stay well away from the master of the house.

  So she dipped a little curtsey. “Thank you. Good day.”

  As she opened the door and hurried away to her new duties, she heard him murmur words that sounded like, “It is now.”

  Chapter 3

  Jess took her small valise to the nook near the large kitchen, counting herself fortunate to have a position. To be well away from Brighton and here in London was a relief. So much so she let out a giggle. Silly of her, but she’d take joy where and when she could get it. If she was wary of the fact that she’d had to agree to employment by her impressive Rock, what else could she have done?

  She was here. And she’d make the best of it. She unpacked the few clothes she’d brought with her from Brighton and tucked them away on the two shelves that Moseley said were hers. Then the housekeeper ordered her to her room where she made a list of Jess’s duties. A long list, but usual chores for a maid of all work.

  She’d do well here. That she promised herself. In Rock’s employ. Rock’s house. But she would not see him. Talk with him. Recall how, when all staff had gone on a picnic one fine spring day, he and she had once made pasties together alone in the kitchen of the Rockingham country house. How he’d dabbed flour on her cheeks and kissed it all away. How they made taffy one Christmas. He’d put a bit on the tip of his tongue and offered it to her. “Pull that,” he’d demanded with wicked blue eyes.

  Terrible tease. She’d wanted to pull his taffy, all right. His shirt, too. His breeches, absolutely, bursting for her as they were. The large long bulge in the buff pants the most tempting treat she’d never been offered.

  “I’ll fix you,” she’d shot back.

  “I wish you would, my delectable cook.” He’d always called her that.

  But she’d snatched the sweet tidbit away from him with her lips and let her tongue dangle the morsel before him. He’d groaned, caught her and somehow—how had that happened?—the sticky stuff had gotten on her skin. Her shoulder. The tip of one begging nipple.

  Ahem! She glanced about.

  No one heard her.

  Best hurry to do Moseley’s bidding. What was it? Ah. Yes. Hang the carpet and beat it.

  She gathered it up from the still room and flung it over her shoulder to the wooden rack beyond the kitchen garden.

  And she picked up her wooden beater and hit it.

  Damn. Even that recalled the time when she’d been sixteen she’d done the same task and Rock had caught her between two large ones which hung from rug frames in the back garden. He’d caught a rabbit and had taken it to her mother to add to the dinner menu. But when he saw Jess, secluded between two rugs, he’d taken the opportunity to appear before her.

  “Shall I roll you in one, like my Cleopatra, and take you away to my bedro
om?”

  “Dangerous to be my Caesar,” she accused him with a wagging finger. She’d always wanted more from Rock than to be his mistress.

  “When we’re older,” he promised as he took her beater from her fingers, then lavished her with kisses to each finger, “I’ll be your everything.”

  “You are now,” she’d admitted and let him lick his way up her arm and down, down, down to the points of her small, hard, throbbing breasts.

  Dear god. That was years ago and would not happen again!

  She whacked the rug and a cloud of dust fell over her. She coughed. When had this rug been done last?

  No matter. Hauling back, she welded her weapon and gave it another good go. And another. Hunh. She grinned. A strong facer worthy of a bareknuckle boxer.

  But she was not that strong, even if she wished she were. She planted another one on the rug. She was here to hide away. Until she knew whom to trust with what she’d seen. And how to return home to Brighton…if she ever could because she had no proof of identity of Mister Heathmore’s attacker.

  She stood, drained. Then began again until she finished punishing the rug and returned it to its spot in the still room. Then she took up the questionable task of scrubbing the kitchen door stoop.

  Moseley clearly had a grudge against her…and an hour later, the gleam of the kitchen stoop showed how Jess had polished off her own distaste for the housekeeper’s revenge.

  Jess, bone weary, went to her bed that night focused on what she had to do to survive at Number 6, Dudley Crescent. Daily.

  She readily took to the tempo of the house by recalling the rhythms of staff during her childhood in Rockingham Rise. The country seat of the Hough family was a vast estate near Crawley. The original house block, in the shape of an E, was built to honor Queen Elizabeth. Subsequent earls had expanded the red brick structure with a black brick Rococo wing to one end for the stables, and another white stucco Palladian wing for the servants. A hodge-podge of a house, the family boasted it was the largest for hundreds of miles with more than thirty rooms.