by Sue London
His extended silence drained away her smile until she was looking at him curiously. While she had spoken she had set one of her hands on the coverlet to lean closer to him. Now he couldn’t resist running a finger over the skin on the back of her hand. Yes, it was soft. Soft and warm like a rose petal in the sunlight. She didn’t resist or pull away, just looked at where their hands met with a ghost of her smile returning.
“Would you like to hear a secret?” she asked softly.
“Of course,” he replied.
She leaned forward until her lips neared his ear, her cheek warm against his own. A curl of her hair tickled his nose, ripe with an exotic floral scent he didn’t recognize. “What I really want?” Her breath fanned hot against his neck as she whispered. “Is you.”
Her heart beat erratically from a boldness that even Sabre hadn’t realized she possessed. She tried to draw back but the duke had tightened a hand on her upper arm, holding her in place against him. Her cheek and temple were heated from contact with his skin. He smelled, she thought, as a duke should. Like lemongrass soap and sunshine. How anyone could lounge about for three days and smell so compelling was beyond her. Nor had he looked lazy and dissolute, lying here in this bed. She had, in her time, seen any number of men without their shirts on. She had grown up in the country with brothers, after all. But the duke seemed different somehow. He was no taller nor more muscular than her own brothers, but he had a sense of presence that drew her. If she weren’t afraid of the consequences, she would touch all that warm skin he had so casually left revealed even after she entered the room. What would his chest feel like? His arms? His stomach? She began to feel lightheaded from the shallow, gasping breaths she was taking and knew that she had edged toward panic. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves meant that her senses were flooded in the duke’s scent. She felt trapped between panic and surrender, and the better part of her just wanted to sink against him. To bury her nose in his hair, to feel the heat of his skin against every inch of her own. She felt him shudder against her, a moan low in his throat, as though he were considering the same things. She struggled to sit up and he released her. They stared at one another for a moment. His fair skin was flushed as she was sure her own was, and his eyes dark with intensity.
He closed his eyes and said tightly, “You must leave this room.”
She hesitated, “I…”
His eyes snapped open again and the gaze he gave her was both intense and tortured. “You must leave this room. Now.”
With that Sabre did something she had never done before, had not known she was capable of doing. She quit the field. The door to the room closed with a very quiet click behind her.
Chapter Nine
As she had expected, Sabre found servants haunting the hallway waiting to find out how their master would treat this interloper in his home. She took a deep breath to settle herself before trying to address them. Most of them melted away as soon as she gained the hallway but she caught one of the slower ones.
“Girl. Show me the duchess’s quarters.”
“Oh Miss,” the young woman said, holding her apron up to her face. “I’m sure I shouldn’t.”
“Where is the housekeeper?”
“I’m here, Miss,” came a voice from the stairwell. Sabre saw an older woman, tall and severe. She wore a dark gray, unadorned dress. “Mrs. Caldwell, if you please. Havers warned me about you.”
Sabre watched as the housekeeper drew near. Controlled, no-nonsense. A slight limp on the right side, which Sabre found intriguing. With her height, plainness, and dour disposition Mrs. Caldwell could easily dress to pass as a man. Sabre wondered if she ever had. The butler Havers had been more feminine with his snowy white hair and delicate pink skin. What a fascinating household the duke had. She wondered if he noticed or simply spent all of his time locked in his rooms while he was here. Whereas Havers had been easy enough to run roughshod over it was clear that Mrs. Caldwell would resist such an approach.
Dropping into as deep a curtsy as was appropriate to give one’s housekeeper, Sabre dimpled into a smile. “Miss Bittlesworth, if you please. Daughter of the Viscount Bittlesworth. Now that I have ensured that the duke is as well as can be expected, I could use some help settling into a room and would be oh, so grateful for the hospitality of a light repast. And a maid.”
Mrs. Caldwell narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Sabre’s apparent friendliness. “And why do you ask after the duchess’s chambers?”
Sabre followed the unintentional shift of the housekeeper’s gaze to the door across the hall from the duke’s own rooms. People always betrayed themselves if you watched for it. She had found the duke’s room in the first place by testing which door Havers absolutely didn’t want her to go through. Being equipped with significantly less steel than the housekeeper seemed to possess, the butler had fled at that point. Sabre shrugged. “It seemed logical to stay as close to the duke as possible while helping him.” With that she turned and went through the door the housekeeper had accidentally betrayed.
All of the drapes in this room were closed tightly against the sunshine outside, the air stale and heavy. Within two steps Sabre had sneezed from the dust kicked up from the carpets.
Mrs. Caldwell’s voice was heavy with reproach, “This wouldn’t be the best room for you to stay in, my lady.”
Sabre held the end of her shawl over the nose and went to the window to wrest back the draperies. More dust motes danced in the air, falling on her hair and dress. With the light from the window she could see the truth of the room. It had remained untouched for years upon years. A thick coating of dust lay over everything.
Sabre coughed and looked to where the housekeeper and maid hovered at the doorway. “Why on earth has this room not been cleaned?”
The housekeeper raised her chin. “At his grace’s insistence, of course.”
“Some of this dust is older than him. Why would he care?”
“Not the present duke, his father,” Mrs. Caldwell corrected.
Sabre scanned the contents of the room. A dainty four-poster bed was across from a bank of windows that, if Sabre didn’t miss her guess, faced east for a lovely view of the sunrise. The style of the furnishings seemed years out of date. If Jack were here she would know what style this was. Tiny bottles were still on the vanity. What looked to be a robe was cast over the foot of the bed. It was as though someone had walked out of the room expecting to return many years ago and had never come back.
“How long has the duke’s mother been dead?” she asked the housekeeper.
Mrs. Caldwell responded in a neutral tone. “I have never met the duchess, but she is not dead.”
Sabre frowned. “Then whose room was this?”
“The duke’s first wife. She passed without issue.”
“When?”
“Nigh on forty years ago now.”
“Forty years is more than long enough for a room to be a mausoleum.” Sabre wrenched the window casing open and turned back to where the servants still stood in the doorway. “Well? Are you going to help me? Or do I need to clean this room by myself?”
After hesitating in the doorway a moment longer, Mrs. Caldwell turned to the maid. “Fetch Molly and Sarah. And Owen and Hugh as well. We’ll be needing to take all these fabrics outside for a good beating.”
Sabre was wrestling open the third window, most likely marring her gown beyond repair with dirt and grime.
“I thought you were hungry,” Mrs. Caldwell said.
“Yes, but I can’t rest while there is work to be done.”
That appeared to be the right thing to say because the housekeeper helped Sabre open the remaining windows without comment.
While bathing and dressing Quince noted that his household was alive with more noise than usual. Heavy footsteps up and down the steps. Banging and rattling in some room nearby. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to demand that all the uncharacteristic noise stop, or just be happy that, while entertained with whatever she was d
oing, the estimable Miss Bittlesworth wasn’t personally torturing him. When she had leaned down and whispered in his ear… And what she has whispered. Gods, a woman had never affected him like this before! But, he cautioned himself, her actions seemed far too practiced. Far too smooth and clever. He hadn’t been far wrong, he didn’t think, to suppose she was some man’s mistress. Perhaps she was. Or had been. The Viscount Bittlesworth was a man of low morals and his two sons had run wild through London for years. Why wouldn’t the youngest of the Bittlesworths have a similar character? Well, the Bittlesworth bastard Justin Miller, whom Gideon had taken on as a clerk recently, seemed of a solid character. But that was more likely due to his common blood than any association with the Bittlesworths.
Now dressed, Quince went downstairs for his meal, barely dodging a footman with an armload of fabrics that had been coming up. The man, whose vision had been blocked by the stack, dropped them when he realized he had almost plowed through his grace, bowing and apologizing so many times that Quince almost ran in retreat. Gaining the dining room Quince saw his staff scrambling to fill the sideboard for his breakfast. It seemed quite possible that Miss Bittlesworth had disturbed the entire household, not just himself. Once he was settled he waved over a footman. “Tell my guest that I would be pleased for her to join me.”
He had only just buttered his toast when the footman returned. The man bowed and said hesitantly, “She respectfully submits, your grace, that she is busy.”
Quince narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t one to enjoy contests of wills. But he wasn’t going to let one tiny, pushy woman to run over his household. “Please inform Miss Bittlesworth that it was not an invitation. It is an order.”
The footman looked stricken but bowed again before retreating. “Yes, your grace.”
Moments later the girl herself appeared at the doorway, but not as he had been expecting her. He rose to acknowledge her presence, as a gentleman should, his action slowed by his confusion. “Miss Bittlesworth?”
She gave the most cursory of curtsies. “You needed me, your grace?”
Her hair was tied back under a kerchief now, her gown covered in a large apron. Every inch of her, garbed or bare, was coated in some variety of dirt. If he didn’t know better he would assume she had been wrestling someone in the yard. “What on earth have you been doing?”
“Cleaning, your grace.”
“You feared we didn’t have a sufficient number of maids?”
She smiled. “On the contrary. I feared you had far too many without enough to do.”
“What did you find for them to do?”
“We’ve started with cleaning the unused bedrooms.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m sorry that I’m not dressed to join you in your repast. I’m famished.”
He looked down at his plate full of food. “I could wait until you’re available.”
She sauntered closer. “No need. Although a piece of ham would be heavenly.”
She had come close enough to be within reach and opened her mouth. Quince found himself placing a morsel of ham on her tongue, her lips closing over his fingers before he withdrew them. She closed her eyes as she chewed and gave a tiny sigh of appreciation. No, it hadn’t been the dress that first time he had seen her. It was her. Here she stood dirty, tired, and hungry, yet all he wanted was to push the food out of the way and take her on this very table. He was shocked by his own thoughts and gripped the back of his chair to keep himself from reaching for her. Then he noticed the red marks under the grime on her left arm.
“You needed stitches?”
The young woman turned her arm to look at where his sword has scarred her. “Probably not, but Jack can be overly cautious. And she has a fine stitch so it wasn’t a bother.”
Quince cradled her arm and ran a finger over the puckered flesh. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to hurt you.”
“Well, I did goad you into it.”
“That’s no excuse for my behavior.”
“Come now, your grace. I wanted you to fight me and I’ve told you that I always get what I want.”
That only served to remind him of what she had most recently said she wanted. Would she let him pull her down onto this table as he wanted to? Would she raise her skirts for him?
She must have sensed his desire because she blushed and drew back. “If I may be excused, your grace?”
“Of course,” he said thickly.
He sat back at the table and picked at his breakfast while the household continued to buzz with activity around him.
Chapter Ten
Sabre was sure that her plan would work with the duke. Twice now he had looked at her in a way that made her heart race, as though he had found her naked. Any gentleman would offer for a lady after he had Compromised her. That was how mama had always made it sound, as though it should be capitalized. Compromised. It was exactly how Jack and Gideon had ended up married. They had barely kissed in the library before Lord and Lady Wynders had found them. Gideon had covered the awkward discovery by announcing their engagement. And Gideon was hardly a prime example of an English gentleman. His nickname was Lord Lucifer, for the love of goodness. Sabre wondered if the Duke of Beloin had a nickname. If so, she had never heard it. She was tempted to call him Lord Primandproper. But there was another side to him, too. The side that was succumbing to her flirtation.
After spending most of the day at it, she and the maids had set the bedroom to rights. The fabrics were freshened, the wood polished, and all of the glass glistening. Having investigated the layout she found that the suite had its own dressing and bathing rooms, and adjoined the duke’s bedroom through a sitting room that also had its own double-doors into the hall. The staff had apparently stopped questioning her place in the household and seemed content to let her decide where she should be and what she should be doing. She had her luggage brought up to the newly freshened room and ordered a bath so she could be presentable for supper. While waiting for the bathwater to be brought up, she checked to ensure her coachman was being treated properly and went over the evening menu with Mrs. Caldwell, an activity that the housekeeper seemed surprised that anyone would be interested in. It made Sabre wonder if the duke was often in residence at this estate at all.
Finally, after hours of dirty, grueling labor, she was able to sink into hot water scented with her special oils. She started thinking of the things that would need to be done tomorrow, not the least of which was to express her gratitude again to the servants who had helped with this suite. It had ultimately been four maids, three footmen, and Mrs. Caldwell herself. They had all swept, dusted, polished, mopped, and straightened until the room was habitable. She had left the drapes down for now, the tall windows with their view of the gardens that circled the house were too beautiful to cover again just yet. In the morning, when the sunrise brightened and woke her up early she might regret it. But the room needed the light and air.
She heard a bump in the next room, followed by a knock at the door.
“I’m not ready yet,” she called out.
The door pushed open, revealing the duke. “Then that is poor planning on your part,” he said.
With a gasp she crossed her arms over her bosom. “Your grace!” she exclaimed.
He ignored her at first, intent on inspecting the bathing room. “I’ve never been in here before,” he finally commented.
She huddled down into the tub as best she could to avoid the gaze that he periodically passed over her.
At last he seemed to have completed his review of the room and stood over her, hand clasped behind his back. “When I inquired after what rooms were being cleaned, Mrs. Caldwell informed me that you were having the duchess’s suite cleaned for your own use. That seems presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“I assumed you would want me to feel comfortable.”
He laughed and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “Miss Bittlesworth, whatever am I to do with you?”
“Let me finish my bath in peace would be my suggestion.”
“I will be as clear as I possibly can. It is unseemly for you to reside in the duchess’s quarters as they adjoin my own. If you have only the slightest care for your reputation certainly you understand that.”
“You lecture me as though I don’t have a mother.”
“Your actions indicate you have a neglectful one. You arrived here without so much as the protection of a maid, tried to seduce a man in his own bed, and have now taken up residence in a room that adjoins his. Were you my daughter I would lock you away until you started to show some sense.”
“How fortunate for me that you’re not my father.”
“Indeed, I am not. However, I am your host and with such authority shall be moving you to the south wing. Before you think to argue with me, do know that it could be my preference to have you board your carriage and return to London this evening instead.”
“As you wish, your grace.”
The duke paused, looking at her shrewdly. “I do not trust your acquiescence.”
“I’m likely to say anything to get you to leave the room,” she admitted.
At that he nodded and left without further comment.
Sabre sighed. The water had gone cold during her exchange with the duke. No matter, it was time to dress for supper. And prepare her items to be taken to the south wing.
Quince only made it to the shared sitting room before he needed to sit down. Gods, what had possessed him to do that? Yes, he had been angry when he had heard of her presumption. She seemed bent on being intrusive, bossy, and managing. But to intrude on the girl’s bath was beyond the pale. Not only was it untoward, it had been very dangerous. If she had been bold enough to stand up when he had entered, he would even now be making love to her on the floor of that room. It had been distracting enough to see her bared shoulders, the globes of her breasts barely covered by her small hands, the hint of dark hair at the juncture of her thighs beneath the soapy water. That was why they absolutely could not share this suite. Tonight he would be thinking about what he had seen, what she might yet let him see. To know that she was barely a room away would drive him to distraction. If she were any other woman he would consider it. But Bittlesworth’s daughter? Never. No matter her attraction. No matter her willingness. That she was the only woman he had ever felt this attracted to seemed a petty and cruel joke by a vindictive god.
