The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  She crushed his soft, hot lips beneath hers and gave him a violent, clumsy kiss that left them both breathless. “You’re a dunce because you don’t have to try to please me, Stephen—I’m already the happiest woman in the world.”

  “Are you? Are you really?” His eyelids lowered a fraction and his expression turned shrewd. “Perhaps you might give me some proof? Some . . . consideration.”

  “Consideration?”

  “It’s a term of law, darling.”

  “Are you saying you’re going to play solicitor with me, Stephen?”

  He kissed her ear, jaw, and nose, the touches as light as the wings of a butterfly. “Truth be told, I’d much rather play doctor with you, sweetheart.”

  “Stephen, you’re incorrigible,” Elinor gasped, barely able to catch her breath between kisses.

  “Am I?” he whispered against her neck.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “What are you going to do about it, my delectable countess?”

  Elinor wasted no time showing him.

  Epilogue

  Redruth, Cornwall

  Several Months Later

  Stephen took his infant son from his wife and patted his back until he’d elicited the necessary burp.

  Elinor adjusted her dressing gown. They were in the nursery, a room Stephen had made more comfortable with the addition of adult-sized furniture, since they enjoyed spending so much time with their son. They’d developed an informal sort of ceremony, where they’d meet in the evenings and discuss the day’s events while preparing young Jeremiah for bed. Stephen employed a houseful of servants, but this particular job was one he didn’t wish to delegate.

  “Do you want me to take him?” Elinor asked after they’d spent a few pleasurable moments gazing at the perfection of their child.

  “No, I want to hold him,” Stephen murmured, shifting Jeremiah until he was resting comfortably in the crook of his arm. His eyes, a bright blue that Elinor said would likely change color in time, were heavy lidded and his breathing was already deep and regular as he slid into sleep.

  “He needs a haircut,” Stephen said, bringing up a bone of contention.

  “Absolutely not,” Elinor said, reaching over to smooth back the unruly thatch of copper colored hair that stuck out in all directions.

  Jerimiah slept like the proverbial log and they’d had many conversations over their dozing son.

  “The other children will tease him for having such vulgar hair,” Stephen warned. “Trust me, I know that from personal experience.”

  She made a dismissive clucking sound. “It’s the reason I agreed to marry you, Stephen: I wanted my own little brood of red-haired hellions.”

  Stephen cleared his throat. “Actually, darling, I agreed to marry you.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “You’ll never get tired of reminding me about that, will you?”

  “No,” he agreed. “How did you and Jago find things in Camborne?” The two had gone to visit the hospital and look over the weekly progress. Stephen had done the visits with the reserved earl for the last month of her pregnancy, when Elinor had been too uncomfortable to go out, but only two weeks after Jeremiah’s birth she’d been ready to resume her duties.

  “Things are moving along quite nicely—the nursery will be done in only a few weeks.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind giving up your work?” he asked, not for the first or even twenty-first time.

  “I can already see there will be plenty for me to do both here and in Trentham,” she said, her eyes distant, as if she were imagining all the work ahead—and loving it. “Besides, if Jago can give up his practice to take up his responsibilities, then so can I.”

  Stephen let the matter be. For the moment, at least. They could always revisit the subject in the years to come.

  “I worry about Jago, Stephen.”

  “I do, too, love. But he won’t take help from me.” Lord knows Stephen had tried to find ways to ease money into the other man’s pockets, but the new earl was a proud, stubborn man. A lot like Stephen’s wife, as a matter of fact. He glanced at Elinor. “I wish I’d been able to see the two of you working together. The way you argue now, it must have been something when you were actually treating a patient.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid I’m less respectful than I should be.”

  “And stubborn.”

  “Yes, and stubborn,” she admitted. “But I believe Jago enjoys our arguments.”

  So did Stephen. The two could bicker endlessly over some medical point they’d read in the journals Jago continued to have delivered.

  Stephen kissed Jeremiah’s forehead and then whispered loudly enough for Elinor to hear, “Your mother is stubborn, Jeremiah. Let’s hope you’ve inherited your father’s easier temperament.”

  Elinor laughed, but then her expression became serious. “I saw you received a letter from Mr. Fielding.”

  Although it might have been disloyal to his friend, Stephen had told Elinor about John Fielding’s plans. They’d discussed the situation often, trying to come up with some way to dissuade the other man from his chosen path of revenge.

  “He didn’t say much,” Stephen told Elinor. “But then he never does—not even when he’s sitting across from a person.” He cut her a worried look. “I’m afraid he’s going full steam ahead with it all. I was thinking that perhaps—”

  “You want to visit London?” she guessed.

  Stephen nodded. “I know I can’t change his mind, but I feel like I should at least try.”

  “I’m fit to travel.”

  “What about the young master?” he asked, smiling down at the boy in question. “Can we bring him, too?” He glanced up, no longer teasing. “I don’t want to leave either of you—not even for a week.”

  As ever, the loving smile she gave him did odd things to his chest. “I wouldn’t let you leave us behind.”

  “Oh?” he said, his heart speeding at her arch expression. “And why is that?”

  “Jeremiah and I have no intention of allowing you to shirk your duties.”

  “Which duties would those be?” he asked, even though his body was already responding to the raw desire in her hot silver eyes.

  She reached for the baby and Stephen handed the precious bundle over with the same reluctance he always felt upon relinquishing their son.

  She cocked one eyebrow. “I suppose I should take you to our bedchamber and remind you.”

  “Oh?” he asked, surprised he could squeeze out the word. “And what will we do there?”

  She heaved a sigh. “I can see I’ll have to give you a lesson, just to remind you, of course.”

  Blood rushed south, leaving him rock hard and slightly dizzy.

  Stephen knew by her wicked grin that she’d seen what her gentle teasing had done to him—and that she was relishing her power. He went to stand behind her as she put Jeremiah in his cradle. When the baby was settled he pressed evidence of his desire against her and slipped his arms around her slender body. They stared down at the sleeping infant in silence for a moment.

  “He’s perfect,” Stephen said softly before turning her to face him and tilting her chin until their eyes met. “And so are you, Elinor—my love, my gift, my life.” He kissed her parted lips and the heat quickly built between them. When he pulled away, he wasn’t the only one short of breath. “Now, about that lesson . . .?”

  She smiled up at him, took his hand, and led him toward their chambers and what Stephen hoped would be the first lesson of many.

  Thanks so much for reading THE FOOTMAN!

  If you enjoyed reading about Elinor and Stephen’s world, keep reading for an exclusive preview of

  Book 2 in THE MASQUERADERS: The Postilion

  Chapter One

  Redruth, Cornwall

  Benedicta Elizabeth Winslow de Montfort, 10th Duchess of Wake , pitched-forked the last of the reeking straw from the stall into the rickety old wheelbarrow and then paused to catch her breath.

/>   The Earl of Trebolton’s stables had not been properly cleaned in a very long time—years, it seemed. Thanks to Benna’s big mouth, she was now in charge of the daunting task. In sole charge.

  Benna didn’t mind the smell of fresh horse droppings, but the earl’s stables reeked of rot, neglect, and decay. She could only assume the new earl was either terribly short of money or experience. Hence his agreement to hire somebody like Benna—or Ben Piddock, as she was known—in the capacity of head groom-cum-stable hand. Thanks to the earl, Ben was king—or queen—of all she surveyed: dozens of dirty stalls, a tack room filled with cobwebs and crumbling gear, a defunct smithy and forge, two enormous, empty stable blocks, and five horses, four of which were ancient carriage horses who could barely haul themselves, not to mention an actual vehicle.

  Still, it was better than being married to Michael.

  Benna grimaced at the thought and snatched off her hat. She brushed damp hair from her eyes and wished she could just as easily brush away thoughts of Michael Teufel, Viscount Leonard—her cousin and legal guardian. At least for eleven more months.

  She might have left him behind in reality but leaving him behind in her mind was proving to be another matter entirely.

  She picked up her pitchfork and moved on to the next stall. The task of making Lord Trebolton’s stables into a usable structure was daunting, but not impossible.

  In the five weeks since she’d started working for the earl she’d repaired broken stall doors, replaced rotting posts and cross-pieces on the outdoor enclosures, fixed the lock on the mostly empty tack room, and managed dozens of other small projects that cropped up on a daily basis. There was no denying it was hard work, but Benna loved her job.

  Not to mention your employer. . .

  She rammed her fork into a pile of heavy, mildewed straw as if she were pitchforking the contents of her mind while she was at it.

  Working alone had its benefits, such as . . . well, being alone. But it also had its drawbacks, one of the biggest being a person tended to talk to one’s self. Oh, not actual speak of course. At least not usually. But internal conversations had become her main social interaction, except for her recent interactions with the earl’s two nieces, both of whom welcomed Benna’s presence with far too much enthusiasm.

  As if thinking about said nieces had the power to summoned them, a voice called out, “Ben? Are you in there? Ben?” It was the earl’s eldest niece, Lady Catherine.

  Oh blast, not again.

  “My uncle has need of you, Ben,” her voice floated down the dank, dim corridor to where Benna stood frozen. She opened her mouth to answer and then hesitated. Could she believe the girl? Did Lord Trebolton want to see her or was Catherine employing her uncle’s name the way hunters used beaters to flush out game?

  “He says it is important, Ben.”

  Benna cursed under her breath and leaned the pitchfork against the wall before wiping her filthy hands on her woolen breeches. She snatched up her coat and shrugged it on over her filthy linen shirt. Lastly, she tied on her red-checked neckcloth and shoved her hair off her brow before clamping down her battered, dusty hat. She needed a haircut. And a wash. Badly.

  “I’ll be right there, my lady,” Benna called back using the low, roughened voice that was now second nature to her. She forced her leaden legs into motion. The voice was only half-acting as her natural tone was deep, in keeping with her mannish stature. She had developed a bit of a Northern brogue when she’d applied for her first postilion job a little over six months ago. Not that she had needed to speak much since most people had little interest in conversing with a postilion. Well, except other postilions and the inn wenches who were mad to warm their beds.

  Lady Catherine waited for Benna at the front entrance to the stables, unwilling to step into the spider and rat infested structure to find the object of her desire. Benna knew of the other girl’s aversion to the dank, filthy stables, which was why she’d decided now was as good a time as any to start mucking out stalls.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Catherine.” She snatched off her hat and inclined her head to the very pretty young woman. a girl who was almost the same age as her—although that was where the resemblance ended.

  Lady Catherine smiled and the expression illuminated her beautiful face. She had the same dark hair and fair skin as her uncle but she’d inherited her mother’s—Countess Trebolton—startling blue eyes and tip-tilted nose. Both the countess’ daughters were lovely but Catherine was unusually so. She was at the age when she should have been attending her first or maybe even second Season in London. However, due to reasons beyond Benna’s ken, the girl was trapped in the country, mooning over her uncle’s tall, gawky blond stable master: Benna.

  Lady Catherine’s eyes roamed Benna’s body with an intensity that made both their faces grow hot. It was sad but true that Benna had received far more attention from the opposite sex since becoming a man than she’d ever received as a woman. And every single bit of it was unwanted. Benna cleared her throat and Lady Catherine’s eyes flew up to hers.

  Her lush pink lips pulled into straight lines at whatever she saw on Benna’s face. “I will take you to him.”

  Benna glanced down at her heavy hobnail work boots. “I’m covered in muck, my lady. Mayn’t I clean myself first?”

  “No. You will come with me now.” She spun on her heel and began to stride in an unladylike fashion across the weed-strewn drive that led from the stables to the house.

  Benna studied the imposing gray stone façade of the house as she all but sprinted to keep up with the other girl. Lord Trebolton’s house was as neglected as his stables. From the look of it, the manor had started out late Tudor but had been added onto so often it was now an architectural hotchpotch.

  The journey from the stables to the house cut through several distinct gardens—all of them overgrown but dormant at this time of year. The stone walkway was made of gray slate that formed a charming windy path that brought to mind the dilapidated trail to a wicked witch’s cottage in a fairytale.

  Lady Catherine stayed several steps ahead, her hips swaying in a deliberate, exaggerated way that made Benna sigh. Flirtatious females were not a complication she’d expected when she decided to leave her life behind and live as a man. No, she’d expected all kinds of other problems, but not the amorous pursuit of her employer’s niece. It had become so bad that Benna had begun to live in daily fear—not that she would compromise Lady Catherine, of course—but that the girl’s fatuous behavior would attract the notice of the earl or countess.

  Benna could not afford to lose this position. It was perfect for her in so many ways: Lenshurst Park was remote, the earl was kind and too distracted to pay her much mind, and he did not employ a lot of servants. Servants who would wonder why a lad of her years—twenty, as of three days ago—with no experience managing a stable, no experience even as a groom had landed such a plum position as head groom-cum-stable master.

  And then there was her appearance. She not only looked younger than her years, but she, of course, had no facial hair to speak of and was of an exceptionally slight build. It was lucky her body, which had always been a subject of despair for her when she’d been growing into womanhood, did not require much in the concealment department. At five-foot-eleven-and-a-half she was tall for a man, or woman. It was lucky that she had a spare, rangy build that made her look like a boy—even in a dress. Her hands were large, strong, and calloused from years of working with horses. Even before she’d run away from Wake House she’d had an unfashionably brown face thanks to her love of horses and the outdoors. Her mannish behavior had been a bone of contention between her and her father and later, between her and her brother, David, when he’d inherited the title and responsibility.

  Well, it wasn’t her fault she was more boy than girl. Blame it on nature, or God. She’d just turned twenty and still her breasts had grown no larger than they’d been at fourteen. It was time she quit fooling herself that they ever would. Thankfully
her spare body was now her best ally in deception. Aside from her lack of whiskers—there was very little about her that was feminine.

  As they mounted the gray slatestone steps to the house, Benna hurried past Lady Catherine to open the door for her. There were so few servants on the estate that there was nobody to spare for such activities as door opening, message delivering, or fetching and carrying.

  Lady Catherine tilted her chin up at Benna’s small gesture of respect, a slight smile curving her full lips as she swept past Benna like a grand dame.

  Benna had to bite back a smile. Both Catherine and her younger sister Mariah were almost endearingly naïve—even more than Benna had been before these last seven months on her own. The chronic lack of money had kept the family close to home. As a result, the girls needed to rely on themselves for entertainment, which made them fresh and unspoiled in Benna’s opinion.

  Not that Benna had spent much time in society herself when she’d been a lady. No, when David had been alive, he’d left her to her own devices. He’d been far too interested in his own pursuits to expend effort on forcing her into gowns and parading her about for the highest bidder.

  And after David had died? Well, then the last thing her guardian, Viscount Leonard, had wanted to do was dangle her in front of suitors. The only place he’d wanted to dangle her was off the ramparts of Wake House after he’d married her.

  They halted in front of an ornate wooden door that was dry, splintery, and crying out for a good oiling. Benna glanced from the door to the girl beside her. Something in her expression caused twin spots of color to appear on the younger woman’s cheeks.

  Lady Catherine tossed her head. “He is expecting you.” She shot Benna one last haughty look before sweeping past her down the hall, the epitome of a great lady who’d been greatly put upon to play the part of footman.

  Benna removed her cap and scratched on the door as all the servants in her brother’s houses had been trained to do. The duke had disliked loud or obtrusive sounds and those who worked for him were accustomed to wearing felt slippers over their shoes to keep their movement soundless. Ben glanced down at her second-hand, too-large hob-nailed boots and frowned.