Aspirations of a Lady's Maid

by Eva Shepherd

  But they would have plenty of time to get to know each other better before their marriage. It had been one short week since the Duke had approached him and suggested the arrangement, so it was not surprising they were still ill at ease with each other. The Duke had been insistent that he wanted to announce the engagement immediately, presumably so he could reassure his bankers that money to settle his debts would soon be available through a sizeable cash injection from his future son-in-law.

  Dominic had agreed, as had Lady Cecily. No one could see the point in putting off what was such a suitable match.

  And even if this reserve between himself and Cecily never ceased, it would still be a suitable marriage. After all, a sensible marriage where the couple was well matched in temperament and the position of both families was advanced was certainly better than one where people let their emotions rule their heart, causing them to make unwise choices.

  Dominic suppressed as sigh and he tried to focus on what the Duke was saying and forget about his parents’ marriage and the problems it had caused.

  How his otherwise sensible mother had let her passions get the better of her and marry so far beneath herself he would never understand. She had been the daughter of a baron and had thrown that all away to marry a former stable boy, of all people, and had been snubbed and ridiculed by society as a result, as had their children.

  He looked over at his sister, as usual sitting on the side of the dance floor, ignored by the gentlemen present. His marriage would put a stop to that. His sister would have her choice of beaus once their family became linked to one with such a long and distinguished lineage as the Hardgraves’. She would no longer feel ashamed of her family’s lowly status, but would be able to hold her head high in polite society.

  And shame was something Dominic himself was familiar with. Hadn’t he endured enough taunts at school about being the son of a stable boy, even if that former stable boy had risen to become an extremely wealthy man, a level of wealth that Dominic had further increased when he inherited his father’s estate.

  Yes, this was a perfect engagement. He had every right to feel satisfied and he was sure they would have a successful marriage. After all, they both came from excellent stock, at least he did on his mother’s side. His mother could trace her ancestry back to the Norman conquest, but that counted for nothing when your father started life as a lowly servant.

  But that was all now in the past, where it belonged.

  Lady Cecily excused herself, muttering something about needing to see to the servants. The tension in Dominic’s shoulders released as she departed. Making polite conversation with his future bride did tend to be hard work. She seemed reluctant to even try to establish any sort of rapport between them. If she was having regrets about the coming marriage, she had certainly never said and he had given her ample opportunity to do so.

  ‘Let me introduce you to the Duke of Stonebridge,’ his future father-in-law said, breaking in on his thoughts and drawing his gaze from the departing Lady Cecily. The Duke took him by the arm and led him across the ballroom floor. ‘He’s definitely a man of influence and worth knowing.’

  That was exactly what Dominic was hoping for. His marriage would lead to countless connections that would be so good for his business and the advancement of the Lockhart family. The Season was almost at an end and his sister hadn’t had one expression of interest yet. Next year his younger sister Violet would come out, then in eight years his youngest sister Emmaline would have her debut. If he was to find suitable husbands for them, then the more connections he had with men like the Duke of Stonebridge the better.

  * * *

  He had become so engrossed in talking to the Duke and the other notable guests who had attended the engagement ball that he had failed to notice his fiancée had not returned. When she finally did join him, it was near the end of the evening and there was only one more dance left on the card.

  He escorted her round the floor for the final waltz, unable to ignore how rigid her body was, how impassive her face. Not for the first time Dominic fought to quieten that small voice at the back of his mind that was telling him this engagement was a big mistake.

  He danced past his sister, sitting alone on the edge of the dance floor, and guilt drove out any sense of disquiet over his engagement. Dominic had been remiss. He should have danced with Amanda, instead of talking business all night. But his sister’s days of sitting on the edge of the dance floor during a ball would soon come to an end. His marriage to Lady Cecily would elevate the family’s position to the very peak of society and make Amanda a desirable catch for many an aristocratic man. She would have both money and position. And the marriage prospects would be even better for his younger sisters. Lady Cecily had been presented at court for her own debut, so the Hardgraves would be able to arrange for the Lockhart girls to be presented when they came out. Once that happened, they would be able to attend court balls and the chances of making an eminently suitable match would be greatly increased.

  The final dance over, Lady Cecily immediately excused herself, providing Dominic with the opportunity to speak to Amanda. As he crossed the ballroom, he said goodnight to several well-wishers, most of whom would have not given a man of his lowly status the time of day before his engagement had been announced. They had all been happy to deal with him when it came to business, but never previously would have deemed him worthy of their society. Prior to this engagement he had been dismissed as a member of the plutocracy, someone with money but no breeding, all because of his parents’ unfortunate marriage.

  He smiled at his sister and received what was possibly the first genuine smile of the evening. ‘I’m so sorry, Amanda, I should have asked you to dance instead of leaving you sitting all alone.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind.’ She patted the empty seat at her side and he sat down. ‘I didn’t want to dance anyway, well, not with anyone here.’ She gave a small moue of disapproval. ‘But I’ve enjoyed myself. I got to meet the Duchess of Somerfeld. Her husband is friends with Lady Cecily’s brother.’ Amanda gripped his arm in excitement. ‘Did you know that she’s the famous actress Arabella Huntsbury? She married the Duke of Somerfeld, but she still acts on the stage. She’s in rehearsals at the moment for a Gilbert and Sullivan production. She’s so beautiful. And did you see the way she was wearing her hair? So much more stylish than anyone else here tonight.’

  Dominic had no idea who she was talking about. He didn’t read the society papers so knew nothing of actresses. And all the women’s hair looked the same to him, rather ornate and decidedly fussy, but he smiled indulgently at his younger sister. ‘I’m pleased you’ve enjoyed yourself. And I promise I won’t neglect you when we host our own ball at Lockhart Estate.’

  The moue of disapproval returned to his sister’s lips. ‘I suppose you’ll be inviting the same old bunch of snobs that attended this party. They’re all so dull, Dominic, and I really don’t fit in.’

  Dominic swallowed an annoyed sigh. ‘They’re not dull. These people are among the most powerful and prestigious in the land. And you will fit in soon, Amanda, I promise.’

  Amanda raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

  ‘And if no one else is sensible enough to ask you to dance, then I will dance with you all night.’

  Amanda’s eyebrows raised further up her forehead. ‘Dancing with my brother, what fun.’ Her look of disapproval turned into a mischievous smile, telling him that she was up to something. ‘The Duchess of Somerfeld told me that she has her hair done by her former lady’s maid, Nellie Regan, who now has her own hairdressing parlour in London.’ Her smile became coquettish and he knew he was about to be asked for a favour. ‘If you could arrange for her to attend me and do my hair before our ball, then I’m sure I wouldn’t be left sitting on the edge of the dance floor all by myself. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about me and you could spend all night dancing with your fiancée.’ She smiled at him ex
pectantly.

  Dominic shrugged. It was an odd request, but if it would make his sister happy, he would indulge her. ‘So, who is this lady’s maid and where would I find her?’

  Amanda’s face lit up with pleasure. ‘She’s staying here, at the estate. You might be able to find her in the servants’ hall. Then you can organise for her to attend me at our ball and even show my own lady’s maid how to do hair in the latest styles.’ She leaned towards him, batting her eyelashes. ‘Please, Dominic, please, please, please.’

  Dominic shook his head but knew he could refuse his sister nothing. ‘Oh, very well. I’ll ask my valet to have a word with her.’

  Amanda’s smile faded and she shook her head. ‘No, Dominic. You’re going to have to speak to her yourself. Please, don’t send a servant.’ She grasped Dominic’s arm as if this was a life-or-death situation. ‘I asked the Duchess of Somerfeld about this and she said Miss Regan doesn’t usually style hair for anyone outside her London parlour. She’s also a bit, um, sensitive about being treated like a servant. If the man hosting the ball makes a special appeal to her, and if he’s really polite, then she might just make an exception for me.’ She clasped his arm even tighter. ‘Please, Dominic, please get her to agree before she leaves.’

  So much fuss for a silly hairstyle. Dominic doubted he would ever really understand women. ‘All right, all right. I’ll ask her myself and do everything I can to get her to agree to do your hair for you.’

  Amanda released his arm and smiled. ‘Thank you so much.’

  With that he kissed his smiling sister’s cheek and headed downstairs toward the servants’ hall. It seemed such a trivial matter, but if it would make his sister happy to have her hair styled like a famous actress, then he would end his evening in pursuit of an ex-lady’s maid.

  Chapter Two

  Nellie was in her element. She had the attention of all the laughing servants as she regaled them with entertaining descriptions of the stiff formality she had just witnessed in the ballroom. Their laughter was becoming almost raucous as she put on what she considered to be a convincing impersonation of Lady Cecily and Mr Lockhart.

  After a long, hard-working day that had started at six in the morning, the servants were tired, but still ready to enjoy themselves and have fun, despite the late hour.

  She danced another circuit of the kitchen, adopting an exaggeratedly rigid posture, her nose in the air, a supercilious look on her face, to the accompaniment of cheers of encouragement from her captivated audience.

  The servants’ area was a stark contrast to the lavish ballroom Nellie had just left and not just because the occupants down in the basement knew how to laugh. While the ballroom had been brightly illuminated, a few smoking oil lamps struggled to light the grim downstairs area. Instead of plush furniture covered in red and gold brocade on which the guests could lounge, the servants’ hall contained a few threadbare, faded armchairs, a scrubbed pine table and some straight-backed wooden chairs. Furniture which provided little comfort for the weary servants when they grabbed a few minutes’ rest during their infrequent breaks.

  The aroma of the delicious ten-course banquet the cook had prepared for the guests upstairs still lingered in the air. As did the heat generated by the coal stove, which still burned at a low temperature. It was waiting for the scullery maid to stoke it up again in the early hours of the morning so she and the cook could prepare a lavish breakfast buffet, while those upstairs still lingered in their beds.

  Nellie halted her dance and looked at her appreciative audience. ‘And if they danced together like that at their engagement party, can you imagine what their wedding night is going to be like?’ She lifted her nose higher in the air and puffed out her chest, in imitation of Mr Lockhart’s manly countenance. ‘I suppose we better get to it, Lady Cecily. After all, we do have a future generation of toffs to sire,’ she said in a deep voice.

  The plump cook laughed louder and wiped away her tears with the bottom of her apron, while several footmen smirked their approval at Nellie’s risqué performance. Nellie knew Mr Lockhart’s straight posture was not so rigid and comical, but her exaggerated stance got a good laugh from the servants, so who cared if it was accurate or not? The servants were obviously enjoying seeing them upstairs being ridiculed.

  Adopting a look of disgust, Nellie continued in a high, squeaky voice, ‘Yes, I suppose we must. It’s just unfortunate we have to touch each other while we do it. All that horrible kissing and such like, it’s so common, don’t you think?’ She shuddered and pursed her lips in disgust.

  The laughter increased in volume, spurring Nellie on. The cook had stopped wiping away her tears of laughter and was letting them course down her round, apple-red cheeks. The tiny scullery maid was gripping her sides, bent double with laughter, and the footmen’s smirks had turned to ribald laughter. Only the handsome footman Nellie had earlier spotted in the ballroom wasn’t joining in. His was the one disapproving face among the laughing servants. It looked as if he was a far too serious type of man for Nellie and flirting with him was now off the cards. Oh, well, too bad, but she was determined to enjoy herself anyway.

  She deepened her voice and flared her nostrils as if she could smell something unpleasant. ‘Yes, it is unfortunate that breeding is the one job we can’t leave to the servants, but I’m afraid we have no choice.’ She waved her arms around as if she was removing her clothing, looked down, frowned theatrically, then looked up at her appreciative audience. ‘Oh, I am sorry, my dear. It looks like I will have to leave this task to a servant after all. It seems the only thing that’s stiff tonight is my upper lip.’

  The cook screeched with laughter, then her laughter died. Her eyes bulged. Her face turned red.

  ‘Oh, Nellie, Nellie, no,’ the scullery maid gasped, before covering her mouth, turning around and randomly rearranging the copper pots on the shelves beside the stove. The room had become deathly silent. As one the other servants turned their backs on Nellie and busied themselves with imaginary tasks in the neat and spotlessly clean kitchen.

  Slowly, Nellie looked over her shoulder. An indrawn breath caught in her throat. Mirroring the scullery maid, her hand shot up to cover her mouth. He was standing behind her. The man she had just been ridiculing. He was staring straight at her. And there was no trace of laughter in those coal black eyes.

  Heat flooded to her cheeks. He continued to glare at her, not saying a word.

  Her heart pounded loud and fast. She was finding it impossible to breathe. A nervous fluttering erupted in her stomach. And this impossible situation wasn’t helped by the fact that up close Mr Lockhart was even more handsome than he had been when she had looked down at him from her hiding place above the ballroom. An aura of masculine strength surrounded him that she hadn’t previously noticed. It wasn’t just his height, or the breadth of his shoulders. It was some intangible quality that was pure, raw manhood. She seriously doubted such a powerful, vital man would ever have any performance problems and, looking up at his stunningly handsome face and his strong, vigorous body, she couldn’t imagine any woman objecting to having him in her bed.

  But that only made her own performance more embarrassing.

  She gulped down her discomfort and felt herself grow smaller as his dark eyes continued to bore into her. And small is what she wanted to become. So small she could disappear through a crack in the floor and not have to deal with this mortifying situation or the wrath of this powerful man.

  As she waited for him to admonish her, her gaze was drawn to his mouth. Watching him from up on the balcony, she had been too far away to see those full lips, lips that gave his stern face a sensual look that was a stark contrast to those hard eyes, although right now those lips were clamped tight together in disapproval. Her gaze moved back up to his eyes and she braced herself for the expected tirade of anger.

  Her behaviour was appalling. How could she be so rude, so disrespectful to one
of her superiors?

  One of her superiors?

  What was she thinking? And why was she letting this man make her feel small? He was not superior to her. He had more money than her, yes, but that was all. Money didn’t make you superior, it just made you richer. She was not his, or anyone else’s, inferior. She didn’t care who he was or how much money he had, she would not let him, or anyone else from his class, ever belittle her again. As she straightened up, anger made Nellie feel taller, stronger, more defiant.

  Ignoring her rapidly beating heart and strangled breath, she lowered her hand from her mouth, turned to face him fully, squared her shoulders and tilted up her chin. She would not be cowered by him or anyone else ever again. Why should she care what Mr Dominic Lockhart thought of her? He meant nothing to her. Why should she care how much of her performance he had heard? Why should she care if he was angry with her? He was not her employer. He had no power over her. She was a free woman. She would not let this commanding man frighten her. Let him do his worst. No matter what he said to her she would give him back as good as she got and let him know that neither his wealth nor his position meant a thing to her.

  * * *

  Dominic looked down at the feisty young woman glaring up at him. Her eyes were narrowed, her chin lifted high and her hands placed firmly on her hips. The scullery maid had called this impertinent miss Nellie. With a sinking heart Dominic realised this must be Nellie Regan, the lady’s maid he was expected to charm so she’d agree to style his sister’s hair.

  She was staring him straight in the eye, something servants never did. In fact, no woman of any class had ever looked at him with such defiance and few men had the tenacity to adopt such a confrontational stance as this little vixen. The firebrand was glaring at him as if she was getting ready to launch into a round of fisticuffs.