“You’re welcome, my lady. I was asked to teach you about men, but it seems instead you have taught me something about women.”
She smiled then as she looked his way. “Now, we shall return to my questions. The next one is that I wish to know more about you.”
“Me? My lady, we have been over this.” He shook his head. “I am supposed to talk to you about men, not me.”
“You are a man, aren’t you?” She hid all the humor from her face as she gave him a guileless, innocent look.
“I am,” he reluctantly agreed.
“Good. Now, tell me about your mother.”
“My mother?”
“Yes.” Lady Venetia sat there, prim and proper, and all Adrian could think was that she needed some good and proper kissing to distract her. At the risk of losing his position, he took a chance.
“My lady, why don’t we return to the subject of desire?”
An excited heat lit her eyes. “Desire?”
“Yes. Desire, while not necessary for marriage, is important for a happy one.”
She leaned forward, eager to hear more. “Do go on.”
Adrian stood and began to pace the room. “Desire can begin with a look.” He paused and turned toward her, allowing every wicked thought he’d ever had about her to break through his reserved exterior. He thought of the way her satin-smooth skin had felt as he had helped undress her. He thought of what he would do to her if he were of her station, how he would catch her in some private alcove, hike up her skirts, and claim her, overwhelming her with pleasure.
Her face flushed red, and her lips parted. With a single look, he had proved that desire could be seen in a man’s eyes.
“I . . .” She swallowed hard. “I meant to say, what else do you know about desire? Can it develop over time if it does not come instantly?”
“It can. Just like love, desire can grow over time, but it can also fade over time. Do not marry a man simply out of desire. Marry him for love too.” He paused, thinking over his own choices regarding marriage. He’d never felt a deep devotion to any woman before. Desire, yes, but never love. The truth was, he’d never dared give in to thoughts of love and marriage. It wasn’t his destiny as a person in service.
“I know, love is very important. But I worry . . .” She trailed off, her eyes drifting to something beyond him.
He came back and sat again in the chair nearest her. “About what?”
“I worry that I will not be able to find a man who will love me.” He saw the flash of trepidation mixed with hope in her eyes as she spoke. “I am not meek, nor biddable. I do not have the least bit of interest in obeying a man simply because he commands me to. I certainly don’t believe men are superior—if they were, they would be the ones trusted to bear children and raise them. That duty is reserved to us ladies, yet we are treated so abominably.”
She spoke with such forlorn sorrow that Adrian was moved to act. He reached across the space between them and took hold of one of her hands. “Did your father treat you poorly?”
“Oh no, quite the opposite. My mother died when I was thirteen, and he wanted me to be raised as a proud, intelligent, and independent woman. He cautioned me against the male sex so severely that until this business with my cousin trying to force me to marry his friend, I had no desire to marry at all.”
“And now you are resigned to it?” he asked, trying to figure out the puzzle of Lady Venetia.
“Yes, I suppose that word fits as well as any.” She looked into his eyes. “I want to be loved, desired, but also valued as a person, not seen as a bit of chattel that a man owns. I don’t want to marry a man who just wants to obtain my fortune. Does such a man exist in England?”
Adrian still held her hand, and he slowly raised it to his lips. “Yes. There are good men who would desire, love, and cherish you the way you deserve.” He wished more than anything to have been born a gentleman, not a bastard. To be a man worthy of her. He would have gladly given his soul away in a Faustian pact if he could have that one gift.
“Do you have a woman you love?” she asked as he lowered their joined hands back down.
“I am alone in the world. To marry would mean to leave Hartland Abbey, and while I have an excellent service record here, I cannot easily find work elsewhere. My parentage draws too much scandalous speculation, even after all these years.”
“Is Lord Devon . . . ?”
“No, he’s not my sire. He is kind and good. He took me in at my father’s request. My father is the Duke of Stratford.”
Lady Venetia’s lips parted in shock. “Adrian, one of your half sisters is here for the house party.”
Her excited whisper caused a spike of fear and confusion in him. “What? I saw no one from the house of Stratford on the guest list.”
“She’s Lady Mowbray, married to Viscount Mowbray. She can’t be much older than you. How old are you?”
“I am nine and twenty,” he replied, but his mind was now miles away. Had Mr. Reeves known that one of Adrian’s half siblings was here? Surely he would have memorized the pedigree of each guest. Was that why he had allowed Adrian to stay away from the guests and tend to Lady Venetia instead?
“Oh, Adrian, what if you could meet her? She’s very lovely. I’ve met her once or twice before at dinner parties in London. Her husband, Lord Mowbray, is charming and kind.”
For a second he considered it, but then he laughed at his own foolishness. No matter how the little boy he’d once been who’d craved siblings wished for such an outcome, he could never let it happen. “No, I cannot meet her. She must never learn about me. I would lose my position here, and then I wouldn’t be able to find other employment, because I have no other skills than service. I cannot afford to starve again.”
With a little gasp, she covered her mouth with her hand. “Again?”
“I’m sorry, Lady Venetia. I have spoken out of turn. I should leave you to rest.” He started to stand.
“Please don’t. It seems I am constantly upsetting you with my careless conversation. Please do not leave. Please.” She held out a hand to him.
For a long second, he battled within himself to do the right thing. To politely walk away. But damn her beautiful eyes, he could not leave.
He clasped her hand in his again, and the soft, relieved smile that curled her lips undid him. The loose gold waves of her hair tumbled down her shoulders, catching sunlight, which clung to it like a lover. She was exquisite. She was a goddess so far above his reach. Yet when she looked at him the way she was doing now, she felt more real to him than any woman he’d ever been with. Was it because he’d shared so much of himself with her? He’d never let himself be vulnerable like this with anyone.
“We won’t speak of Lady Mowbray, I promise, but do you think you could arrange for us to have dinner in another room? My ankle feels less painful, and I would desperately like to be out of this blasted bedchamber. It doesn’t suit me at all to feel like an invalid. I know I cannot attend dinner with the others, because that would require hobbling about quite foolishly, but surely we could have dinner outside of this room?”
Adrian tapped his chin. “I will speak with Mr. Reeves and see if we can have you dine in the upstairs library.”
“Oh, lovely. I can’t think of a better place.”
Adrian collected the teapot from the tray and a cloth and sat down in a chair. He felt Lady Venetia’s eyes on him, so he pretended to examine the teapot in his lap and began to rub a spot of tarnish, trying to ignore how self-conscious he felt in that moment.
“That must be very tedious. Shall I read to entertain you?”
“I . . . Yes, I’d like that very much.”
Lady Venetia retrieved a book from a nearby table and began to read to him while he polished. For the first time in a long while, he lost himself in a story as he worked. Half an hour later, he was laughing with her as they discussed the Gothic romance she had been reading.
Lady Venetia wiped tears off her cheeks as she laughed
so hard she cried. “You are right, these books . . . Oh, heavens . . .” She dissolved into giggles.
“I think it must be a requirement for the heroine of a Gothic novel to roam willy-nilly about in her thinnest nightgown and always carry a candelabra. It’s a bloody miracle the castles aren’t burned down, given all the flames waving wildly about.”
“Oh, but I do like them,” said Lady Venetia. “One always knows what to expect. The brutal hero who at last reveals his love and rescues the heroine from the true villain. There is some comfort in the predictability.”
“Life is only interesting because it’s unpredictable.” Adrian set the now gleaming teapot on the tray just as Lady Venetia stood up.
“You think so?” she asked more quietly.
“Yes. There should be surprises in one’s life. Predictability has its comforts, but no real excitement.” He collected the tray and headed for the door. “I’ll be back shortly to escort you to dinner in the upstairs library.”
Lady Venetia smiled at him. “Thank you.” Damned if his knees didn’t buckle just a bit at that. It made her entire being simply glow.
Remember you are nothing to her, can never be anything to her.
And with that sobering thought, he descended belowstairs.
* * *
Gwen waited for the handsome footman to retreat with his tea tray before she stepped out of her hiding place. She had been delighted to hear Venetia’s laughter and teasing with the young man as they enjoyed each other’s company. Gwen had wanted to see how her granddaughter was faring and had hidden herself in the alcove next to a very grim marble bust of some Grecian fellow as she listened to Venetia and the servant.
This was what she’d hoped her dear Venetia would be experiencing: joy and delight with a man. The best husbands were the ones who could make their wives’ hearts light with laughter. Marriages all had their challenges, but they should also bring joy to the couple.
Gwen paused at Venetia’s partially open door and heard her granddaughter humming softly. For a moment, Gwen wondered if she had made a dangerous error in putting Venetia in the path of that attractive footman. What if she became attached?
No, it was all going to work out perfectly. Venetia would discover what mattered most in a husband, and she would follow her heart and find a worthy gentleman. And that sod Patrick could bloody well hang if he tried to interfere with Venetia’s happiness again.
Tapping her knuckles on Venetia’s door, Gwen called out, “It’s me, my dear.”
“Oh, Gran, come in,” Venetia called.
Gwen pushed the door open and saw her granddaughter’s glowing face. She looked much better after some rest and entertainment.
“How is your ankle?”
“Still swollen, but I have been rubbing it, which seems to relieve some of the tension. I can move about now. Not too fast, but if I need to, I am able.” She wore a pair of fur-lined slippers and a lilac gown that favored her soft honey-gold hair. She looked enchanting. No wonder the poor footman had been in such good spirits, with this enchanting vision of Venetia here to make him smile.
“You seem in much better spirits,” Gwen said.
“I am. Adrian is wonderful. He had to polish a teapot, so I read to him from The Duke’s Dark Son, that Gothic novel I purchased last week.”
“Did you say he polished a teapot? Please tell me he actually polished a teapot. I cannot deal with euphemisms for scandalous behavior today.”
“Yes, it was an actual teapot. You didn’t think we . . . ? Oh.” She covered her mouth and almost laughed, but thought better of it.
“Good, I wouldn’t want to think he was convincing you to tickle his piffle,” Gwen muttered.
“Tickle his . . . piffle?” Venetia did laugh at this, and Gwen couldn’t help but chuckle with her. “What, pray tell, is a piffle?”
“You know . . .” Gwen waved airily below her waist. “The male organ . . . as it were.”
“Piffle,” Venetia repeated, almost choking on her laughter. “Heavens! Gran, no wonder he chokes around you. Please never let him hear you call his . . . part . . . a piffle.”
“Very well. I shall keep that to myself.” Technically the word piffle meant nonsense, but she’d heard a man at a ball once mention the word in such a context, and it had delighted her ever since. It was a wonderfully apt description.
“Adrian is a good companion, and I like to hear his laugh. Such a lovely sound,” Venetia confessed. “I don’t think he laughs much. Not because he doesn’t enjoy it, but because life in service must be very trying. I hadn’t honestly given it much thought, but he must be very busy and lonely all at the same time. And it isn’t fair because—” Venetia suddenly halted her speech.
Gwen fixed a sharp eye on Venetia. “What isn’t fair?”
“I cannot say—it would be breaking his confidence.”
“I see. Well, I hope he proves worthy of your secret keeping,” Gwen replied. “You will be upstairs tonight for dinner?”
“I think so. It would be embarrassing to hobble about in front of all those prospective suitors.”
“True enough. I heard Mr. Sherman paid his respects today.”
“Oh, yes. He was most obliging.”
“I hope it was a little bit more than that, my dear. He comes from a good family, and he’s a decent sort. I knew his parents. Splendid folks.”
“He is rather attractive,” Venetia mused, but Gwen could see her thoughts were elsewhere.
“You could do worse than him for a husband.”
“I could, but Gran, there is no fire, no heat.”
Venetia blushed, and Gwen walked over and sat down beside her.
“And who is talking about fire and heat?”
“Oh, no one, but isn’t that important?”
“Passion is important, but not everyone feels it right away. Passion can come over time.”
“I know. If we only had time,” Venetia grumbled.
Gwen felt awful for her beloved granddaughter being rushed in this monumental decision. “Yes, if only you did . . .”
7
Adrian was adjusting the time on the clock in the billiard room. It was one of Lord Devon’s favorites, a French Louis XIV mantel clock made sometime in the 1660s. Mr. Reeves lectured all incoming footmen about the prestige and quality of the clocks and that it was their duty to keep them in pristine condition.
This clock was a delicate piece, with a case made of red tortoiseshell and ornamented with delicately cut inlays of copper and pewter. The case was accented with bronze mounts in the shapes of beadings, rosettes, palm leaves, fir cones, antique oil lamps, and claw feet. The clock’s face was covered with black chamois leather.
Adrian carefully adjusted the ornate bronze clock hands to the correct time based on the pocket watch in his waistcoat pocket. Beneath the circular display of roman numerals, a bronze figure of Chronos, the god of time, appeared to be holding up time itself. A heavy burden. Adrian could sympathize.
He had stepped back from the clock and turned toward the door when three of the gentlemen guests entered, one being Mr. Sherman. Adrian faded into the wall next to the marble mantel, doing his best to be unseen, yet not hiding, lest the gentlemen assume he was trying to eavesdrop.
“How did it go?” one of the men asked Sherman.
“Well enough. She, like all ladies, enjoys flowers,” Sherman replied.
“Is it true that she is as rich as Croesus?” the second man asked.
“Not quite, but close,” Sherman said. “Her cousin, Lord Latham, is desperate to marry her to one of his chums, no doubt with a cut of her fortune in mind as a repayment for his matchmaking efforts.”
“Really?” The first man looked disgusted. “That man has the worst taste in friends.”
“Indeed. He was speaking about it at Boodles. I wanted to throttle that man,” Sherman growled. “It isn’t done to speak of a woman in a club, especially not with such a mercenary intent.”
“I would have backed y
ou if you had throttled the man, Sherman,” the first man said, perhaps a bit boastfully.
Adrian watched in silence as the men set up a billiards game, oblivious to his presence for a moment, until Sherman addressed him.
“I say. Could you fetch us a bit of whiskey, if you don’t mind? I know you must be tending to the clocks.” Sherman, it was clear, had seen him setting the timepiece when he’d entered the room. He was an observant man—Adrian would have to remember that.
“Yes, sir.” Adrian bowed and retreated, leaving the gentlemen alone as he fetched a drink cart from one of the salons. He rolled it back into the room and prepared three glasses, arranged them on a silver tray, and served them to the gentlemen as they continued to discuss Lady Venetia.
Sherman took a sip, nodded his thanks to Adrian, and turned back to the billiards game.
“If you truly mean to woo Lady Venetia, you had better act fast. I wouldn’t put it past her cousin to try something fiendish and force a marriage on the poor woman,” the second man said as he leaned on his pool cue.
“I agree. Latham would try something like that, the bounder, but for once, I wish to be decent about wife hunting,” Sherman said. “I’ve been a bachelor for too long. A man cannot simply treat this like a tryst, not when he has marriage in mind. I mean to be faithful to whomever I marry and to make a match with a woman I love and respect. I don’t wish to make a mistake, not in something this important.”
“No, of course not,” his friend agreed. “But you may need to help it along. Lady Venetia has no experience with men. At her age, she should have, but I’ve been told her father kept her very protected—the man only let her attend a handful of balls during her come-out. I suspect the poor girl has no idea of when she’s being wooed. You might have to make your intentions more plain.”
“Yes, I suppose I might. I believe she will miss dinner this evening, but I might pay a call afterward.”
Adrian clenched his fists, hating Mr. Sherman, even though the man wasn’t being ungentlemanly toward Lady Venetia. In fact, he seemed to be the sort of man she was looking for, one who thought of her mind and heart and wished to woo her with the best intentions. But the thought of another man touching her filled Adrian with jealous anger. An anger he knew full well that he had no right to feel.
Tempting the Footman: The House of Devon Book 5 Page 7
