The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  Not once during the day had he mentioned the night before—or the night ahead. Nor had he said anything of his plans. Elinor wondered if he’d forgotten about his proposal of marriage and now believed she would become his mistress. Would she? Wasn’t she already?

  She continued to consider their possible futures through her bath and afterward, as she watched Molly fix her hair in the simple chignon she favored.

  She didn’t see him settling in the village of Trentham, even if he did purchase Blackfriars, a subject neither of them had raised in spite of ample opportunity. He was far too restless to live the life of a quiet country gentleman. Something inside of him seemed to be always questing, pushing, burning. Perhaps it was because of her limited experience with men, but she couldn’t help feeling there was a real Stephen Worth hidden somewhere beneath his driven personality, charming smiles, and acts of kindness.

  Flashes of something else occasionally caught her attention but were gone far too quickly to identify. He was a complex man, utterly unlike Edward in every way. While she was thrilled by the obvious differences between the two men, it had been, at least in one sense, far easier to understand Edward and his brutal, selfish desires.

  What did Stephen want from her?

  Not that it mattered. She was beginning to suspect she would give him anything he asked.

  ∞∞∞

  Stephen was not alone when Elinor arrived for their dinner.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She looked from Stephen’s stern face to the rather amused face of his employee—the hulking, dark-eyed man called Fielding.

  Stephen’s face immediately shifted into a smile. “You’re not interrupting. Let me introduce you to John Fielding, who came with me from Boston. He was just delivering some information about a few business matters. John, this is Lady Trentham.”

  The big man gave her what could only be called an amused smirk. He dropped a slight bow.

  “My lady.”

  Elinor tried not to stare. She’d known he was scarred, but she’d only seen him from a distance. Up close he was . . . well, mesmerizing was as good a word as any. He was an incredibly handsome man, even with the cuts that almost bisected his face. His eyes were the blackest she’d ever seen. Even in the well-lighted room she could see no distinction between the black of his pupil and his iris. He kept his shock of thick, dark hair long enough to pull back in a soldier’s queue, a style one rarely saw anymore. It was somehow barbaric and suited him to perfection. Everything about him was unusual and drew the eye.

  “Are you enjoying your visit to England, Mr. Fielding?”

  He snorted rudely and Stephen stiffened, the look he shot the other man nothing short of murderous.

  Fielding sneered. “I love it here, my lady.” His accent was not American, nor was it English. She’d never heard anything quite like it.

  “Will you be joining us for dinner?” Part of her wanted to hear him speak more while the other part wanted to hide from his eyes, which stripped her all the way down to the bone.

  He turned to his employer, his eyebrows raised, his smile verging on a grin.

  Stephen shook his head. “I’m afraid Mr. Fielding has some rather important business to attend to, my dear.”

  The other man gave him a knowing, mocking look—certainly not the kind of look a well-behaved servant would give his employer—and then bowed to Elinor. “Maybe another time, Lady Trentham.”

  “Will you excuse me a moment, Elinor?”

  She nodded at Stephen and looked out the window over the darkening city as the two men stepped into the hall.

  A moment later, the door clicked shut and she turned around.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Stephen said. “Fielding can be a little—”

  “Overwhelming?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What manner of work does he do for you?”

  Stephen busied himself pouring two glasses of wine. “Whatever I need done. Why?” He glanced up, looking more than a little overwhelming himself just now.

  “No reason. He just seems. . . unusual for such a mild-mannered pursuit as banking.”

  He gave her a crooked smile and handed her a glass. “Do I look mild-mannered?”

  “No, but you don’t look like a savage, either.” She immediately flushed. “I’m sorry, that was—”

  He waved away her stumbling apology. “Fielding would be the first to agree with you. He constantly warns me not to try and turn him into a housecat.”

  “I can’t imagine that happening,” she murmured, sipping her wine. “This is delicious.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I thought I might have to order one of everything on their wine list, but there wouldn’t have been anywhere left for us to sit.”

  “Where did you ever get the idea I had such fastidious tastes?”

  “Nowhere, but I want you to have only the best.” His eyes dropped to her dress. “I didn’t want to say it in front of Fielding, but you took my breath away when you came in.”

  “The gown is lovely. You have excellent taste.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She flushed, unable to say anything that did not lend itself to innuendo. “You would spoil me.”

  “In every way, Elinor.” His eyes burned into hers and she felt naked before him.

  The door opened and broke the erotic spell he’d begun to weave around her. Elinor exhaled with relief. His was an incinerating type of personality and she was far too tempted to fling herself into the fire.

  “Ah, dinner is served.” His ironic smile said he knew her mind.

  He dismissed the servants after they’d laid out the food. Tonight he’d only ordered the things she’d eaten yesterday—exactly. She looked up from the dishes and met his knowing smile.

  “You remembered.”

  “I remember everything.”

  Something about his admission made her shiver.

  “I will be your servant tonight.” True to his word, he fixed her a selection of food before seeing to his own needs.

  Elinor was again ravenous, although she’d eaten more in the past twenty-four hours than she had in the prior week.

  She caught him watching her and laid down her fork. “You are not eating.”

  He shrugged. “I prefer to watch you.”

  “It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “That I like to watch you?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I am simply not that interesting. Not only that but—”

  “But?”

  “I can’t help feeling you’re . . . cataloguing me.” She flushed.

  Stephen sat back in his chair. “Cataloguing you? What an odd choice of words. Whatever do you mean?”

  “Never mind. I spoke foolishly. Tell me about life in America.”

  He stared at her so long she thought he wouldn’t allow the change in subject. But he nodded. “Very well. What would you like to know?” He took a sip of wine but left his food untouched.

  “Anything.” Elinor resumed her meal. If she drank only wine she would not be fit company for long.

  He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling before looking at her.

  “Earning money is not looked down upon in the United States. In fact, it is something of a religion.”

  “A religion?”

  “Yes. Or, if not exactly a religion itself, then certainly a companion to several religions. Take the Puritans, for example.”

  “Mr. Jeremiah Siddons was a Puritan, correct?” She saw his look of surprise. “I’ve read of him, of course. He’s quite well-known here. I don’t understand your relationship to him, however.”

  Something in his eyes flickered. Pain? Loss? “He was no blood relation of mine.”

  “But haven’t you—”

  “Yes, I inherited the empire he built. Mr. Siddons adopted me. He had no children of his own. His wife died many years before and he never took another.”

  “He had no other family?
”

  His smile was slow and dangerous. “Oh yes, he had plenty of family.”

  Elinor swallowed. She didn’t want to pry any deeper into anything that would cause such an expression. “What of your parents, did you never know them?”

  “My father died when I was very young. My mother not long after. The only relative I knew was an uncle, who has long since been lost to me.”

  Elinor felt like every question she asked led her deeper and deeper into a quagmire; even though he gave no sign of it, she did not think he was happy with her questions. She ate, searching her mind for a less volatile topic. A rather large one came to mind.

  “You said Mr. Fielding came with you from America, yet his accent is not similar to yours.”

  His body seemed to relax, and with it, the tense atmosphere that had built in the room.

  “He is not American. I brought him from Hobart Town, five years back.”

  “Hobart Town? Why does that sound familiar?”

  Stephen reached for the bottle and gestured to Elinor’s glass. She shook her head and he refilled his empty glass.

  “It’s a town of sorts on Van Diemen’s Land.” His eyes were as hard as an outcropping of granite.

  Elinor swallowed but refused to look away. Why was he telling her these things and looking at her as if she were to blame?

  “He was sentenced to seven years transportation for stealing food. He was fourteen.” He tipped the glass back and drank fully half of it.

  “That’s dreadful.” It was a horrific punishment for such a small crime. “But now he is free and moved to America?”

  “He served his time, just like many others. If they survive their sentences, they can find their way back—if they have the money.” He shrugged. “Most do not, of course.”

  “How is it that you came to know him?”

  “I was there to broker a timber agreement with the man who ran the prison. Fielding stood out and I paid his way back.”

  “That was kind of you, Stephen.”

  His eyes glinted. “I can be kind, Elinor.” He stood and put down his glass. “Will you waltz with me?”

  “What?” She laughed and then realized he wasn’t jesting. “Here? Without music?”

  He held out a hand. “I shall hum for us.”

  She put her hand in his, mesmerized by his intent stare. He drew her close and laid one hand at her waist. She shuddered under his touch, remembering last night.

  “I’ve never danced with anyone other than my dancing master, Mr. Foster.”

  “I am not Mr. Foster. Put your feet on mine.”

  “What?” She looked up almost a foot to meet his eyes. “I will ruin your shoes.”

  “I’ll buy another pair.”

  “At least let me take off my slippers.”

  “Elinor . . .”

  She heaved a sigh and stood on top of his lovely black shoes.

  “Your valet will be furious with me,” she muttered.

  “It will give him something to occupy his time.”

  Stephen began to move, his steps as smooth and unhampered as if he wasn’t carrying almost six stone on his feet.

  “Relax.” His breath was hot in her hair and she felt his nose against the top of her head.

  “Are you sniffing me, Stephen?”

  “Mmm.” He moved like flowing water, whirling and spinning her until she laughed, dizzy with the sheer joy of it. She hadn’t been lying about Mr. Foster. She’d taken dancing lessons, just like every other girl of her age and class, but she’d never danced in public. Her come out ball had been her only ball until those few she’d hosted for Edward at Blackfriars; Edward had never asked her to dance.

  Stephen swung her toward the bedroom door and stopped with his back against it.

  “Open it,” he whispered into her hair, his pounding heart the only clue that carrying her weight was not as effortless as he made it seem.

  The room beyond was lighted only by a single candle that burned by the door. He lifted her chin and stared at her with eyes that were dilated and darkened.

  “One candle?”

  Elinor nodded. It would matter little to what he could see.

  “No chemise?” She shook her head and his smile dropped from his face almost comically. “Oh Elinor, that makes me very sad.”

  “I shall try to make up for it.”

  “I will hold you to that promise.”

  And he did. Several times, in fact.

  ∞∞∞

  Elinor woke with the first rays of sunshine, but she was still not early enough to catch Stephen. She bathed herself, wrapped up in a plush robe, and combed the tangles from her hair before ringing for her maid.

  Molly appeared so quickly Elinor realized she must have been waiting nearby. In her arms was an afternoon dress that looked like crushed strawberries and cream. There was also a silk chemise and stays in the shade of a young girl’s blushes.

  Elinor’s face heated at the sight of the expensive, very personal gifts, but she said nothing as the maid dressed her in the new finery. What could she say? She was behaving as a mistress; why should she be surprised that Stephen would want to dress her as one? After all, her own clothes were so old and poor he would hardly want to be seen with such a specimen. No, she’d become his lover with hardly a backward glance at her morals. Whatever else happened, she might as well enjoy the fruits of her decision and be grateful she’d not gone through her entire life without learning the true joy of making love with a generous, caring man.

  The image that looked back at her when Molly finished dressing her was almost unrecognizable. The deep pink was a shade she never would have chosen, but it suited her completely, giving her pale skin a pearl-like glow. Her eyes, her finest feature by far, appeared larger and darker and altogether more interesting than she’d noticed before.

  The knowledge that Stephen had selected every single stitch of clothing on her body made her feel even more exposed than she’d felt in his arms last night. Her color deepened as she recalled the things they’d done—the things she’d done.

  “Thank you, Molly.” She turned away from the glass. “There were no messages for me this morning?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “I shan’t need you until later.”

  The girl dropped a curtsey and Elinor nervously smoothed the front of her gown before opening the door that led into the sitting room. The room was empty, but the door leading to the study was open. A quick inspection of the rooms showed her that she was alone. She was just about to leave for her own room down the hall when the door opened and Mr. Fielding entered.

  He didn’t look surprised to see her. “Good morning, Lady Trentham.”

  Elinor nodded, too mortified to speak.

  “Mr. Worth asked me to tell you that he would return as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fielding.” She hesitated. “I was just about to order breakfast. Would you care to join me?”

  One side of his mouth pulled up, as if he could hear the struggle that had gone inside her before she’d issued the invitation.

  “Thank you, I’ve not yet eaten. Oh.” He reached into his breast pocket. “This was waiting for you at the front desk. I took the liberty of bringing it up. Shall I order breakfast while you read it?”

  “Thank you.” Elinor went to the window and opened the familiar paper with shaking hands.

  Elinor,

  I’ve just received word that the man who makes all the decisions will be here tomorrow afternoon. I have an appointment to meet with him and will let you know the outcome immediately afterward.

  Marcus

  That meant today was her last day in London. She closed her eyes, struggling against the tears that prickled beneath her lids. Three days. That was more time with him than she’d ever hoped for.

  You could marry him, the young girl inside her suggested.

  Elinor wasn’t entirely surprised by the thought. More and more she’d thought with her sixteen-year-old brain and h
er pre-Edward heart.

  But the years of experience—the lifetime—between that girl and the woman she was now could not be ignored. She would never, ever marry again. She couldn’t. She’d barely survived the last time. Only a fool would give herself over to another man, no matter what he seemed like on the surface. She knew better than anyone what could lurk beneath a polished, handsome façade.

  “Lady Trentham?”

  She turned to find Mr. Fielding standing beside a large breakfast trolley. “My, that was fast.”

  “Mr. Worth had them on notice to prepare two breakfasts per hour, just in case you might wake and be hungry.” He told her this without any look of surprise, as if his employer’s profligate and eccentric behavior was normal. His disturbing eyes dropped to the letter she still clutched in her hand. “Bad news?”

  “No, nothing like that.” She looked at myriad covered platters and smiled. “Goodness, I hope you will be able to help with this, Mr. Fielding.”

  He merely pulled out her chair.

  Elinor’s appetite, so hearty only last night, had vanished. Even so, she filled her plate and poured them both coffee, amused when her hulking breakfast companion put three spoons of sugar in his coffee.

  He saw her smile and shrugged. “I have a terrible sweet tooth.” He stirred the viscous liquid, the spoon laughably delicate in his huge hand—a hand with six fingers. Elinor looked quickly down at her own cup, hoping he’d not noticed her staring.

  She’d read about polydactylism but had never actually seen it. She risked a glance up. He was eating, his eyes assessing as they rested on her.

  “I understand you are English, Mr. Fielding?” It wasn’t much of a question, but she could see he had no intention of generating any conversation.

  He chewed slowly, the dreadful scars pulling the muscles of his face tight, rendering him even more inscrutable. His injuries hadn’t just vandalized an attractive face; they’d also robbed him of the ability to express basic human emotions. Even a smile looked angry and frightening when distorted.

  He swallowed most of the coffee in one gulp.

  “The Dials,” he grunted, before putting a heaping forkful of egg into his mouth and chewing, his eyes glinting like water at the bottom of a very deep well.