The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  She met the outpouring of his soul with a look that could have withered crops. And then she removed her hand from his and folded it in her lap.

  “I’ve already said I forgive you. As for your offer, I must decline. I told you before I would not marry you.”

  He stared at her with open amazement. “Surely you don’t wish to raise our child as a bastard? Do you know how difficult his or her future will be?”

  Telltale slashes of color drew attention to her too-thin face and sharp cheekbones. “Never use that word in my presence. And, no, of course that is not what I wish. However, I wish even less to be under the control of a man—any man—but most especially a man who has demonstrated a boundless capacity for revenge, cruelty, and spite.”

  Stephen’s face became so hot his vision was blurry, as if his eyeballs were stewing. He dropped his gaze, no longer able to withstand her penetrating stare.

  For the first time in years his clever mind abandoned him and he forgot how to negotiate and bargain. His thoughts careened into one another like billiard balls. He wanted her, but she did not want him. She was all he wanted, but he could not have her.

  He swallowed several times to get rid of the obstruction that blocked his throat. What could he do to prove he would never hurt her again? What reassurances could he give her? He always found a way to get what he wanted. Surely there had to be a way?

  The thought had not even completed itself before an answer sprang into his mind.

  He looked up. “I will put every last penny I own into your name. You will control my personal fortune, my property, even my share in the bank.”

  A look of surprise ghosted across her face but disappeared just as quickly.

  She pursed her lips. “I don’t want your money or possessions, Mr. Worth. No matter what you give to me, under the law you would still be my lord and master. I will never place my physical well-being—or that of my child—into any man’s keeping. Ever. Again.”

  Stephen opened his mouth but no words came. He could only gape like a village idiot. It was like facing a vast, unscalable fortress wall and she was at the top, looking down the dizzying distance between them. She was like a mythical princess trapped in a castle and waiting for her hero to rescue her.

  Stephen had no idea what to do. After all, hadn’t he already played the villain in this particular fairytale?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Redruth, Cornwall

  1817

  Elinor looked at the kitten lying in the straw-lined basket and frowned. Beth would have a conniption fit when she saw the newest member of their small family. Still, she’d been complaining of the mice in the pantry.

  The little beast yawned and curled into a tighter ball. It was a white-and-ginger striped female.

  “They’m the best hunters, missus,” Petroc Tregaron had insisted when he’d handed over the basket along with a half dozen eggs.

  Mr. Tregaron, who worked at the Bal Dorkoth mine over in Camborne, had come all this way to have his ten-year-old son’s arm set.

  More and more Elinor had patients from farther afield as word of her skills or, more likely, her generous payment terms, spread. She often woke in the morning to find people sleeping outside her cottage to be first in line for treatment.

  Mr. Tregaron and his son, Alan, had been asleep up against Daisy’s fence. The big sow had been lying on the other side of the sturdy wooden fence right beside them, her intelligent eyes open and observant. The pig was interested in everything and anyone around her and seemed to enjoy visitors.

  Elinor handed Mr. Tregaron a small vial of laudanum. “There is enough in here for tonight, to help him sleep.” She turned to Alan. “No work with that for at least two weeks,” she warned the boy as she opened the door and the pair prepared for the long walk back to Camborne.

  “Aye, missus,” Tregaron said, both he and the boy nodding vigorously. But Elinor knew the Tregarons could not do without the income their eldest son earned. Alan might only be ten but he’d already been working for a year in the copper mine, his duties menial ones like cleaning, sweeping, and fetching and carrying.

  Mr. Tregaron couldn’t have been more than thirty but his skin already bore the red splotches that heralded an early death. Life spans were short for Cornish miners and he was already quite old by local standards.

  Elinor carried the kitten and walked to the cottage alongside them.

  “Come back immediately if there is any swelling,” she reminded them as they made their way toward the dirt path that led back to the main road.

  She watched them as she stroked the little cat, its small body vibrating with pleasure at her petting.

  A lone figure approached the Tregarons from the direction of the main road. Whoever it was, they were still some distance off. Few people came down this road so it was likely another patient. Elinor would not have much time to enjoy her meal before she would be needed.

  She sighed and looked at the cat’s sleeping face. “Are you ready to get this over with? We might as well go and face Beth now.”

  ∞∞∞

  Elinor had just finished defending the newest addition to the family and sat down to a bowl of porridge when there was a knock on the door.

  Beth dried her hands on her worn blue apron. “You just eat, my lady. I’ll tell whoever it is you’ll be with them in half an hour.”

  “A quarter of an hour,” Elinor called after her. She forced herself to spoon the porridge into her mouth slowly. She’d noticed lately that she’d gotten into the bad habit of eating too quickly. Often that made her sensitive stomach rebel and left her weak and ill, a state of being that was not good for her unborn child.

  The door to the kitchen flew open. Beth’s face was flushed, her eyes sparkling.

  Only one thing made her dour maid so happy. Elinor scowled and pushed away her bowl, no longer hungry. “Tell him I’m busy.”

  “My lady!”

  Elinor wanted to yell at her servant. She also wanted to get into her bed and pull the covers over her head. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? Instead, she pushed back from the table.

  She pointed her index finger at her maid. “No tea,” she said in the most dangerous, menacing tone she could muster.

  Beth made small, unhappy noises which Elinor ignored.

  He was waiting in her sanctum sanctorum.

  She crossed her arms and glared at him, forcing herself to ignore her heart’s drunken lurching at the sight of his face. Naturally, he looked delicious in buckskins, dusty black boots, and a dark green coat that looked to have been poured over his broad shoulders.

  “Mrs. Atwood.” He came toward her with outstretched hands, which he dropped when he met her frosty glare.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Why, paying a neighborly call.”

  “You are hardly my neighbor. Blackfriars is days away.”

  He pulled his dimples on her like a cutpurse brandishing a knife. “I have a confession to make. I’ve purchased a property not far from here. We are most certainly neighbors.”

  Elinor’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

  “I came to tell you I purchased a small manor not far from here—Oakland. The sale took place not long after the last time we saw one another but it wasn’t completed until today. You are the first person I am telling.”

  “Oakland?” Elinor squinted hard, as if the action might stimulate some rational thought. Why did she feel as though she’d just walked in at the tail end of a complex lecture on steam power or celestial navigation? “But doesn’t that belong to—”

  “Peter Cantwell.”

  “But isn’t he the one who—”

  “Owned two of the mine largest mines in Redruth,” he offered, his smile somehow managing to be innocent and improper at the same time.

  “Owned?”

  “I purchased those, too.” He rocked back on his heels.

  Elinor sat back in her chair as though a large hand had shoved her.

>   Without being invited, he lowered himself into the chair beside her.

  “Is anything wrong, Elinor?” He leaned close, a notch of concern between his emerald eyes.

  “Mrs. Atwood,” she corrected absently, her heart not really in it. He was her neighbor? He would be here all the time, only a few miles away? She closed her eyes.

  “Mrs. Atwood? Are you ill? Should I fetch Beth?”

  She opened her eyes to find him on one knee beside her chair, his face only inches from hers. The urge to lean forward and touch her lips to his was strong—like a child reaching toward a flame.

  Their eyes locked and her face flared. He knew what she was thinking.

  But then a vision of his face as it looked that hateful morning flashed through her mind and she jerked away from him before she could get singed.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something, Elinor?”

  Just you.

  She scowled down at him. “It’s Mrs. Atwood. And please return to your chair.”

  “Of course.” He pulled away but before he bowed his head she caught a small, triumphant smile on his shapely lips. She’d given herself away. He could see the lust in her eyes or read it on her face or smell it emanating from her pores.

  Elinor fled from the disturbing thoughts. “Why have you done this, why? I thought you wanted Blackfriars—why aren’t you there?”

  “I’d hoped you’d take the Dower House in the spirit it was given,” he said, his guilty expression telling her he wasn’t being entirely honest.

  “You think I’d take a house from you after what you’d done?”

  He dropped his eyes, his magnificent head bowed.

  “You drove me from my home, and for what? A whim?” Elinor struggled to hold back a degree of fury she hadn’t even known existed. “Wasn’t crushing and humiliating me enough?”

  His head whipped up. “I was horribly wrong to do that to you and I regret my behavior profoundly. If I could go back in time—” He made a frustrated noise. “I can’t go back. All I can do now is try and make things right. I told you the last time we spoke: I love you. I want to be with you. If I can’t be with you, at least I can be near you. At least I can be nearby if you should have need of me.”

  I love you. The words generated an excruciating mix of joy and agony in her chest that threatened to choke her. It didn’t matter that she tried to numb her feelings, to dull the sensations he evoked in her. Her resistance to him wavered and would soon break if she were forced to endure much more of him. The only way to protect herself was to drive him away.

  She looked into his serious green eyes and forced a sour, twisted expression onto her face. “I’m not a lady here. And I do not need afternoon callers. I work, Mr. Worth. I might not make very much money at what I do, but I like to think I make a difference. No matter how much you wish otherwise, I will not be available to sip tea and eat sugar buns with you whenever you are bored.”

  His expression remained impassive even though her cool tone slid well over the line of politeness and into the territory of rebuke.

  “I, too, will have things to keep me busy. I expect the mine to take up a great deal of my attention. I did not come to waste your time, my, er, Mrs. Atwood, I wanted you to be the first to know of my purchases and also to deliver an invitation.”

  “Invitation?” Elinor bit her lip at the interest she heard in the single word. Why could she not control her reactions around this man?

  “Yes. I’m organizing a small celebration for my workers. It has come to my attention—in the short time that I’ve lived in town at the Arundell Arms—that the locals used to celebrate the end of the harvest.” He gave her a wry smile. “Back when there was something to harvest other than copper and tin. They call it Allantide after the—”

  “Allan apple. Yes, I already know this. What of it?”

  “I was sure you did.” He looked amused, rather than irritated, by her rude interruption. “There hasn’t been an Allantide celebration in years. I thought I’d not only do something for the children, but also their parents. I will hold an afternoon function for people of all ages and a dance that same evening at Oakland. There’s a rather nice ballroom. Or at least there will be after it’s been buffed up a bit.”

  Elinor’s chest tightened at his words and an image filled her mind: that of dancing with him in his room in London. And of making love afterward.

  Good Lord you are a ninny, the cool, supercilious voice in her head accused. Haven’t you already learned your lesson from this man?

  Elinor must have made an odd face because Stephen—yes, fine! She still thought of him as Stephen! What of it?—stared, his brow wrinkled with curiosity.

  She extended her hand, palm up.

  He glanced at it before looking at her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand?”

  “The invitation. You may give it to me.”

  A dull flush crept up his neck and she drank it in like a gin addict embracing a pint of Mother’s Ruin. Yes, she was a bad person to take such enjoyment from his discomfort, but she didn’t care.

  He cleared his throat. “I, er, well, I don’t have the invitations made up yet.”

  Elinor stood and he shot up beside her, taking her hand before she could back away.

  “I just needed to see you, Ellie.” The desperation in his voice was like an aphrodisiac. Blood and heat and desire pulsed in every part of her body.

  She swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

  It’s just your body’s physical response to stimulus. It was no more significant than sneezing when you tickle your nose with a feather.

  Except it was.

  The memory of the first time he’d called her by that name came back unsolicited. Blinding white anger followed on its heels and she yanked her hand out of his.

  “You have no right to call me that. No right.” Her breathing was ragged and shallow and she stepped away from his intense green eyes and large, looming body. “It’s past time I went back to work. You can show yourself out.”

  He said nothing.

  Elinor closed the door on him and briefly leaned against it, her bones turning to water.

  Good Lord. She would never be able to resist him.

  ∞∞∞

  Stephen watched her back out the door, her gray eyes wide and frightened like a startled doe. The door shut with a decisive snick and he slumped into the chair and exhaled.

  Well, that had gone better than he’d hoped.

  He’d expected her to refuse to see him at all. Or perhaps shoot him, if she had a firearm about. Luckily, Beth was on his side.

  “You just go and sit in the library, Mr. Worth. I’ll bring her to you.” The older woman had assured him with a conspiratorial smile. No doubt she wanted her mistress to be back in an environment more suited to her gentle background. She was probably also concerned about the unborn child. So was Stephen. He didn’t think Elinor realized the burden of being labeled bastard.

  Stephen had been born in wedlock, of course, but his mother had already been showing when his parents married. Everyone in the small village of Dannen knew who pretty Becky MacArthur had lain with. Not only that, but Stephen’s red hair and tall lanky build would declare his relationship to the laird who’d owned everything and everyone for miles around.

  Local boys had teased and tormented him about his status until he’d grown big enough to hand out thrashings and end the taunting.

  Stephen didn’t want his own experiences for his son or daughter.

  His entire body tightened and hummed just thinking the words son and daughter. A child—their child. Could there be anything more arousing than putting a baby inside the woman you loved?

  God! How he wished he could strip her naked, lay her body out before him like a banquet, and feast on her. Would she be showing? Would the gentle swell of her stomach be more pronounced?

  Stephen was rock hard.

  Idiot.

  He stood and was rearranging his cock when the door opened and B
eth’s face appeared in the crack. She smiled, her cheeks flushed.

  “I just heard about the party, Mr. Worth.”

  Stephen grinned at her unrestrained excitement. He also buttoned his coat closed and hoped like hell it hid his aroused state.

  “Do you enjoy dancing, ma’am?”

  She gave a girlish laugh as she opened the door wider. “I’m too old to dance.”

  “You’re never too old to dance. In fact, I’m going to claim a dance with you right now and get an unfair jump on all the other gentleman.”

  She shook her head, her brown eyes twinkling as she walked into small entry hall beside him. “None of that new-fangled waltzing, mind.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed, retrieving his hat and walking stick from the tiny console table near the front. He smiled down at the older woman, who wasn’t much larger than her diminutive mistress.

  “Thank you for today, Beth.”

  Her flush deepened and she waved a hand. “Oh, ’twas naught. Don’t you worry, sir, I know—”

  “Beth!” The sharp voice shot toward them from the direction of the stairs.

  Beth grimaced. “I’d better—”

  “Yes, you had. Thank you again, Beth.”

  Outside the cottage several people were clustered near the animal enclosure. A large boy was building something that looked like a crooked, miniature barn. When he saw Stephen, he paused his hammering and touched his cap.

  “Are you a builder full-time?” he asked the boy.

  “Ach, no, sir. This be payment for missus. She fixed me tas.”

  “Tas?”

  “Me da.”

  “Ah.” He’d heard Cornish spoken a few times since coming to the area but locals seemed cautious about speaking it around outsiders.

  “Are you interested in any work when you finish this?”