“Oh, I was excellent at it,” she said firmly. “I loved it, really. Papa allowed me the run of the shop, and I organized it to my heart’s content. I could tell you where any book was at any time. I managed our finances the same way. I knew where every penny of our money went.”
“How—” His voice broke off. He seemed not to know how to phrase his question.
“How did my father lose all our money without my knowing?” she offered.
He nodded and she sighed. “Papa began gambling after my mother’s death. But I had no idea the problem had grown to this extent.” She shook her head. “We had been planning to expand into a circulating library for years. I was saving for it, little by little. He did not tell me he was seeking investors, and whatever loans he received he used to pay his growing gambling debts. Eventually his creditors caught up to him.” The image of Papa being taken away was forever branded into her memory.
She brushed a hand over her damp skirt, smoothing the wrinkles that creased the fabric. “He acted foolishly, I have no false ideas of that. But he is still my father.”
“You have forgiven him?” There was no lack of skepticism in his question.
“Of course,” she said. “I love him.”
Lord Norcliffe was watching her again, brow furrowed. “I cannot say I find forgiveness to be as simple as you do.”
She bit her lip, considering his words. “It depends entirely on the situation, I’m afraid. I can be quite stubborn as well.”
“I’d not noticed,” he said dryly.
Rose grinned. She rather liked Lord Norcliffe—at least when he wasn’t yelling at her. Their conversation flowed easily, and she could not help her growing curiosity. He was determined to keep himself secluded from the world, and yet the way he spoke so freely with her made her think he was lonelier than he would ever admit.
Perhaps isolation was not truly what he wanted. Perhaps what he needed was a friend.
Chapter Eight
Henry was certain something was addled in his head. Two days had passed since his afternoon in the gamekeeper’s cottage with Rose Sinclair, and still he could not go more than five minutes without thinking of her. He was nearing the end of his morning ride and he pushed his mount, urging the stallion up a steep incline, but he could not outrun his mind. His thoughts flashed continually through their conversation, which had bounded between topics like a hound on the hunt. Rose never allowed an uncomfortable silence, continually asking him questions.
They’d been confined to the cottage for nearly three hours as the rain fell steadily around them, yet Henry would have sworn it was not a half hour. When the wind finally calmed and the rain slowed to a drizzle, he accompanied her back to the road and watched her depart again for town with a feeling akin to disappointment. Rose’s openness and sincerity awakened something inside him, a remnant of the man he’d been before his parents’ accident. Once, he had been charming and witty. Once, he would never have thought twice about speaking to a beautiful woman.
That must be it, he decided as he slowed his horse to a walk, approaching Norcliffe House. It had simply been too long since he had conversed with a woman, save for his own tenants and household.
Except she was a part of his household. Why could he not remember that? Why was it that every time he came across Rose, he forgot who she was and what her father had done? He only saw her smile, bright and kind, and her arresting brown eyes that danced with an amused glimmer.
He shook his head, as if the motion might free him from his memories. He focused his gaze ahead as they approached his home. His eyes were drawn immediately to a figure standing at a second-floor window—Rose. She was holding the parlor draperies away from the window, inspecting them with such concentration that she did not notice him watching her from below.
Henry’s stomach gave a strange lurch as she turned and left his view. She was likely alone in the parlor, amidst the mountain of chores given her by Mrs. Morton. He really ought to talk to his housekeeper about Rose’s workload. Her dislike for Rose was obvious, probably stemming from their differences in background. Mrs. Morton had come to Norcliffe House from the Ramsbury household four years ago after having spent her entire life in service there, whereas Rose had lived a more privileged life. But he needed to ensure his housekeeper did not treat Rose unfairly.
He left his horse at the stables and walked up to the house, handing his hat and gloves to a footman at the front entrance. He went to his study, but paused with his hand on the knob. The knowledge that Rose was above him in the parlor set him on edge. He hadn’t so much as seen her since the rainstorm.
Perhaps if he simply checked on her, made certain she hadn’t caught a cold from being wet, then his mind could settle and he could get on with his day.
He climbed the stairs and walked down the hall, where the parlor door stood open. He stopped in the doorway and peered inside. Rose had dragged a tall stool to the window and balanced precariously on the top step. She was fiddling with the tops of the curtains, trying to release them from their holdings. A soft sound reached his ears, low and melodious.
Rose was humming.
He swallowed. Even as she worked to pay a debt she did not incur, to save the man who had, she was humming. He moved forward, entranced by not just the music, but by the way her dark hair escaped her bun, teasing the base of her neck, and how her figure curved beneath her dress as she bent her head to look under the curtains.
She stopped humming as he came up behind the stool. Instead, she placed her hands on her hips with a noise of frustration.
“How have the curtains earned your ire?” he asked without thinking.
She jolted, tipping the stool off balance. She threw out her arms with a yelp, but it was too late. Blood surged in Henry’s head, and he sprang forward as she toppled off the stool, catching her in his arms with a soft thump.
Her eyes met his, wide with shock, and her lips parted as she stared at him, their faces inches apart. He stared back; he could not stop himself. Her smooth skin was flushed with pink, dark hair loose about her face, her slender frame pressed against his chest.
“My lord,” she stammered. She scrambled to find her feet, moving away from him. She brushed her skirts and touched her hair, breathing fast. His own breaths were coming quicker than they ought.
She met his eyes. “My lord,” she said again, but this time in a scolding voice. “What were you thinking, frightening me like that?”
When was the last time he had been scolded? Likely by his sisters for not visiting enough. And certainly not by his own servant. He ought to be irritated, but instead he found himself fighting the twitching in his lips.
“I am sorry,” he said. “But I am not completely to blame. You are surprisingly unobservant, Miss Sinclair.”
“Rose,” she corrected. “And it is not among my duties to be observant. I am only charged with washing these drapes, which is proving more challenging than I thought.”
“Might I offer my help?” What was his tongue doing? He did not have time to help maids with their work; he had enough paperwork piled on his desk to occupy his time for a solid week.
She shook her head and turned back to the stool. “I have things well in hand, my lord.”
“Clearly,” he said, amused. “And call me Henry.”
Her head jolted to look at him again, her surprise nearly matching his own. How had those words escaped his mouth?
“You know I cannot call you that,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “If I can call you Rose, then you may certainly call me Henry.” He moved forward to the stool and she backed away as he climbed.
“It is different,” she protested. “You are the master of the house. If anyone were to hear me—”
“Then do not let anyone hear you.” He was pleased to see pink spread across her cheeks. He turned back to the window, tugging the rod loose from the carved supports and lowering the curtains to the floor.
“Thank you.” He could tell sh
e tried to speak grudgingly, but a smile teased at the corner of her lips.
“You are welcome,” he said as he stepped off the stool. “It is my house, after all. Am I to be excluded entirely from its running?”
“Most would think it strange that you would want to be involved.”
“And what would you think?”
Her dark eyes traveled across his face. “I daresay it is a unique quality in a baron. But certainly admirable.”
Her gaze did not leave his, and Henry suddenly felt vulnerable, as if she might look too deep into his mind and see what he was thinking about her. Because he should certainly not be thinking about how she was of the perfect height for him to kiss her. No, he should not be thinking that at all.
She saved him from his internal struggle. “Did you come to speak to me about something?”
He cleared his throat. “I came to see if you were recovered from our bout in the rain.”
She smiled, that fascinating smile that made him wish to brush his thumb along her cheek. “It would take more than a bit of rain to dampen my spirits, sir.”
“Sir” was better than “my lord” but he found himself wondering what his name would sound like from her lips.
“Good,” he said, and then could think of nothing else to say. They had spoken easily before, trapped by the rain, with no constraints on their time or worries they might be overheard. With the house looming around them, and the knowledge that any number of servants might come upon them, he found his voice quite disappeared.
Rose did not allow for any gaps in their conversation. “It’s a bit odd to talk in the house, isn’t it?” She spoke in a low voice, her eyes crinkled at the corners. “After …”
“Yes,” he said quickly. “I can’t say I’ve ever conversed so freely with anyone in my household. I am not quite sure how to go about it.”
“Well, I do not generally converse with barons, but I seem to be managing nicely.”
He gave a short laugh, surprising himself. He could not remember the last time he had truly laughed. She was just so unexpected; he could never guess what she might say or do. In his life of order and regularity, she was like a sudden breeze, a wind of change that whispered of possibilities. For the briefest of moments, he imagined he saw something in her eyes, a flicker of something much deeper than amusement. But she turned away, brushing her hands on her apron.
“Unfortunately,” she said, “despite my friendship with nobility, I still must wash these curtains and dust the room and polish the silver.”
The spell was broken, the remembrance of their situation crashing down. She was a maid, and he was a peer of the realm. He could not allow his mind to imagine anything beyond that.
But was friendship beyond his capabilities? Could he not see this as a chance to become more like his father, who had known everything about his staff and house? In fact, now that he knew Rose better, he was quite convinced that her skills were being entirely wasted on menial chores. An idea flashed through his mind, one that felt perfect from conception.
“It just so happens,” he said slowly, “that I have a different task for you, if you are willing to abandon your hard-won victory against the curtains.”
She looked up at him in curiosity. “And what would that be?”
“You may have noticed that my library is horribly unorganized,” he said. “It would be a perfect match of your talents if you would take the project on.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly?”
“Truly,” he said. “I should like you to start immediately. I’ll speak to Mrs. Morton, and have another servant come and finish your tasks here.”
Rose bit her lip and looked away. “I am not sure this is the best idea. I would hate to receive any special treatment. I do not think Mrs. Morton will like it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “As this is my house, I hardly care what Mrs. Morton will think.” In fact, it irked him that his servants might be more afraid of Mrs. Morton than of him. Though Rose was certainly not the average servant.
Still she hesitated, staring down at her shoes. “It is not just Mrs. Morton. I am an undermaid. I ought to be scrubbing floors, not organizing books. The other servants dislike me as it is, and I should not like to deepen their loathing of me.”
For the first time, Henry realized how lonely she must be. Her only family, her father, was locked away for years, and she was isolated from the rest of the staff. She likely hadn’t had much more conversation in the past fortnight than he had. He had little doubt that in time she would win over the other servants, but not if he elevated her, treated her differently. They would not forgive that of her.
He frowned. “I understand.”
She nodded and began to turn away. But he could not give up so easily.
“Perhaps,” he started, and she paused, “we might find a compromise.”
She raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “The fact is, I need my library organized, and I should like for you to do it. I will tell Mrs. Morton that you will take charge of the project, but that I understand I cannot take you from all your usual duties. Perhaps the mornings for the library, and the rest of the day relegated to your other tasks.”
Rose pressed her lips together, her eyes impossible to read. They were normally wide, displaying her every emotion. But now they searched his face, intent and discerning.
“Are you certain?” she asked. “I would hate to be a problem.”
Of course she would. Because she was far too kind for her own good.
“I am certain,” he said firmly.
She nodded. “Then I would be glad to.” She smiled, lighting her face and eyes, her lips curved into a tempting arc.
And Henry knew he was in very real trouble.
Chapter Nine
Were all barons so peculiar? Rose was inclined to believe that Henry—Lord Norcliffe—was a most unusual exception.
How many men of wealth and privilege would bother to spend most of their mornings in the company of a maid? But every morning for a fortnight, as she began her work in the library, organizing and cleaning, he found her. He brought along his ledger books and claimed a table in the corner for himself. They worked alongside each other, quiet at times, but often in earnest conversation. They spoke of so many things Rose could hardly keep them straight. They discussed their educations—he at Harrow and Cambridge, she at a girls’ boarding school—and their families and childhoods, which were not so different, considering their difference in status.
“Do you think it odd,” she asked him one morning, as she lifted a stack of books onto the table, “that we have never met before?” She could remember catching glimpses of the late Lord and Lady Norcliffe in town over the years, but never any of their children.
“Not terribly odd, no,” he said from where he sat drafting a letter. “My family was often in London.”
“I suppose,” she said. “But perhaps we met as children and we simply cannot recall.”
He looked up from his letter. “I sincerely doubt I ever met you before. I would have remembered.”
She glanced away, hoping he did not notice the heat claiming her cheeks. She had a difficult time reconciling this man with the surly one she had first met in his study. Now he looked quite at ease, sitting there as if he had not a care in the world, though she knew he had more than a few pressing matters, acting as steward of his own estate. She could not bring herself to feel guilty about his time spent with her, however. He seemed to enjoy their talks as much as she did.
And she enjoyed them very much.
When he spoke in that deep, even tone of his—of his sisters and parents, the escapades of his nephews—she was transported from the feeling of entrapment that settled on her so easily. Her determination to see things through with a smile was challenging to keep up all the time. She’d had no more word from Marshalsea since she’d sent the money she’d earned from selling her necklace, and her worry grew with every passing day
. But her mornings with Henry brought light into her darkening world, reminding her of all she had left and all she must continue to work to save.
In the moments of quiet, she stole glances at him, trying to piece together the puzzle that was the Baron Norcliffe. Even with his sharp jaw and angled cheekbones, his face now looked softer somehow. Likely because he did not wear the perpetual scowl he’d sported the first few times they had met. And his blue-grey eyes were not so shadowed as they were before. In fact, they were lightest when they rested upon her.
Which was quite often. For as many times as she stole looks at him, he seemed to watch her just as much. Each time their eyes collided, she smiled and looked away, though it left her insides tilted, as if she was about to again fall from a stool.
You are being ridiculous, she scolded herself. You are not a schoolgirl. There was no possible way the baron looked at her with anything but friendship in mind. He was simply glad to find someone to talk to, to relieve the painful absence of his parents. If her company helped him find his way from that hole of grief, she would gladly do what she could.
However, their sunlit mornings could not last forever. Henry always had meetings with tenants and crops to oversee, and she had Mrs. Morton’s endless list of chores after her time in the library each day.
Tonight was a particularly trying task: scrubbing the expansive floor of the portrait gallery. When she finally stood at the end of the hall, stretching her back and wincing at the pain in her knees, she felt a pride in her work. Even if she did it to pay a debt, it was good to do a job well.
She collected her rags and bucket, filled with brown, sloshing water, and made her way belowstairs. Laughter and conversation drifted from the servants’ hall, which she tried to ignore. She did not think that being assigned to the library had caused any further issues, but the household staff—save for Frampton—still treated her as if she had a particularly contagious disease. Perhaps in time they would soften toward her, once they realized she was there to stay. It was not as though she had taken up this position on a curious whim. She sincerely needed both the money and the stability.
Beauty and the Baron: A Regency Fairy Tale Retelling (Forever After Retellings Book 1) Page 5