He sat up and scratched his head in bewilderment. “But after last night…”
Her eyes opened wide. “What about last night?”
He grinned despite his injured lip. “I distinctly remember an intimate encounter—initiated by you.”
“Pah! You be losin’ your mind, caitiff.”
“I did find evidence on my person this morning,” he said with a sly smile.
“Oh, that,” she sneered. “Whilst I was dryin’ you, you must have had a wicked dream. Your knocker stood up and you rogered the air. Disgusting. I had to clean you up best I could.”
“A dream?” It had been so real, the parts he could remember—the feel of his hands around her waist, the tight imprisonment of his manhood—that he found it hard to believe. “A dream?” he said again, shaking his head at the humiliating thought of having ejected his seed in her presence.
“Aye.” She put her hands on her hips, all brisk business. “Now, seein’ as how you turned out to be stronger than I guessed, the job is yours, if you want it. Twenty pounds per annum, and room and board. And I don’t haggle over the price.”
He had to keep from snorting at that. He seldom carried coins that small in his purse, leaving minor costs to his servants. “I’m agreeable, mistress.”
“Good. Now go and get dressed. You might think bein’ naked is fine, but I looks at you and sees a bull in heat. You ain’t never to be around me unless you be properly clothed. Do you understand, rogue?”
He was still burning with embarrassment over his behavior of last night; her autocratic tone further irritated him. “You needn’t bark orders like a drill captain,” he muttered.
“Bloody hell! Listen to me, my fine fellow. I be mistress here. I be givin’ you any orders I choose. And I expect you to follow ’em. Humbly! I’m makin’ that clear now. If you can’t swallow your stiff-necked pride, then begone!”
Damn! He ground his teeth together. If he was ever to make it into her bed, he would have to forget that his usual habit was to swat insignificant people who stood in the way of what he wanted. “I understand, Mistress Glory,” he said reluctantly.
“Good. Now get dressed and go in for breakfast. There be cold porridge on the table and a pint of ale.”
“Cold?”
“If you wants it warm, you can kick up the fire. I’ll not be servin’ you. And move your lazy arse. There’s work to be done.”
He stormed back to the house, painfully aware of his nakedness, and wondered if the blows to his pride were worth a tumble with this perverse creature—no matter how seductive she was.
Chapter Five
He came striding out of the cottage with easy confidence and smiled as he neared Gloriana. As if he owned the world and all in it, she thought with disgust. Or perhaps he hadn’t accepted her lie about last night? She prayed it wasn’t so, and twisted her face into a haughty sneer.
“And what be you grinnin’ about, my fine jackanapes?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Much as I hate to admit it, your cold porridge tasted delicious. I didn’t expect you to be such a good cook.”
Was there an edge to his laughter? She wouldn’t stand for it! She stamped her foot. “Be you mockin’ me?”
The smile faded from his face, to be replaced by a bewildered frown. “Why, no. Are you so unfamiliar with approbation that you misread my words?”
“I… I… that is…” She fought against her blush, feeling stupid in his educated presence. “What do you mean by that?”
“Praise,” he said gently. “That’s the meaning of the word.”
“Burn and blister me!” she said, jutting out her chin in defiance. “I knew that.”
“Of course you did, mistress. Forgive me.” He seemed genuinely apologetic.
His unexpected kindness made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t about to let him forget he was her servant. Nor use his charm to take advantage of her. She turned about and stormed back into the stable. “Follow me, rogue,” she ordered. “I needs your two strong arms.”
He ducked through the doorway and scanned the small space. “I’ll be damned. You’ve turned it into a smithy shop.” He gestured toward the large brick fireplace and chimney, then surveyed the various wooden tables piled neatly with tools, the hooks on the walls that held more. “And a right fine place it is.”
She snorted. “Took me weeks and a pretty penny to get the scoundrels from Whitby to put in the forge. We quarreled over the price of every bloody brick!” She crossed to the back of the space, where a small enclosure had been set aside for Black Jack. She nuzzled her face against the animal’s forelock and stroked his mane. “Sorry to crowd you in, pet.”
“A fine horse. I don’t think I could have made it back here without him. And I thank you for that.”
Was he trying to charm her again? “You were a bloody fool to risk your neck in the sea,” she snapped. “A stranger to these parts. And scarcely a seaman. Be you daft? What made you do it?”
He shrugged. “Damned if I know. I’ve always been impulsive, I suppose.” He hesitated. “That is… I do things without thinking sometimes.”
She didn’t know whether to be angry or grateful for his gentle tutoring. “Well, I don’t,” she said sourly. “Now roll up your sleeves and pick up a spade. We needs to get the anvil set up.” She indicated the large tree stump in the center of the room. “We’ll sink it about halfway into the ground to keep it steady.”
He whistled through his teeth. “That’s a heavy load. How the devil did you get it here?”
She snorted. “Two thievin’ caitiffs from the village. Took me half a day of arguin’ to get ’em to do it. If I had me a wagon, Black Jack could have done it—and with no insolence.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do you quarrel with everyone?”
That stopped her for a moment. Was she a shrew, as he seemed to suggest? “Only them what don’t show me no respect,” she said in her own defense. “And them what don’t do as they’re told! Pick up the bloody spade and get to work. I’ll not pay good money for sluggards.”
She saw the flash of anger in his eyes and stared him down. Then his clenched jaw relaxed and he sighed. “As you wish, mistress.”
Working together, they dug a deep hole in the earthen floor, until Gloriana was satisfied with its depth. They lifted and dragged the tree stump into the hole, pounded it in firmly with sledgehammers, and packed the extra dirt around its base. By the time they had set the heavy iron anvil on top of the stump, they were both bathed in sweat.
Gloriana mopped her brow with her sleeve. “I’m that dry, I couldn’t spit a sixpence. I be needin’ a drink.”
He nodded. “A fine idea.”
She jammed her hands on her hips. “Well? There be the ladle and bucket.”
His mouth twisted into a frown. “Am I expected to…?”
“You be my manservant, be you not?”
He rolled his eyes and pulled the ladle from its hook on the wall. “God save me,” he muttered. He dipped the ladle into the bucket of water, held it for her to drink, and then slaked his own thirst. He replaced the ladle and stared at her, his eyes unreadable. “Is it too much for me to hope for a word of thanks?”
His words stung. She remembered that even Allegra was quick to thank the servants. She lashed out with her only weapon—blind rage. “Bloody hell! You mind your insolent tongue, caitiff!”
“I have a name,” he said in a tight voice. “I don’t think you’ve used it once.”
“Pah! John? Too common for a snot-nosed pig like you. I shall call you Thorne.”
He seemed to be teetering on the edge of anger again. Then his expression softened and he chuckled. “I pray I’ll not be a thorn in your side, mistress.”
His easy humor took the edge off her own dark mood and she joined in his laughter. “Wicked devil.” She hesitated, then nodded graciously in his direction. “But I thank you for the drink.”
His beautiful eyes glowed with warmth. “You do me honor, mistress.”
&n
bsp; Flustered by her own reaction to his seductive gaze, she turned quickly, picked up a pair of tongs and placed half a dozen long bolts onto the coals of the forge, directing Thorne to work the bellows that would increase the heat of the fire. When the bolts had turned a glowing red, she put on a leather apron and handed another to Thorne.
“Do I need it?”
She snickered. “Only if you needs your man parts to work as they should. If you stands too close, the sparks could toast your prickle.”
With her tongs, she pulled one of the bolts from the fire, then picked up a small hammer. The bottom of the anvil had been pierced with small holes; she inserted the red-hot bolt into one of the holes and pounded it in, curving the last few inches of the bolt over the foot of the anvil to anchor it securely to the tree trunk.
Thorne watched her closely as she worked, asking an occasional question and ducking the sparks that flew from every blow of her hammer. “May I try the last one?” he said, as she reached for the final bolt.
“Pah! You’re scarce ready.”
“I’ll wager I can do it.”
She eyed him with suspicion. “Wager? Be you a reckless gamblin’ man?”
He grinned. “As a matter of fact, I am. Within reason, of course. And I never lose.”
“Arrogant dog! I’ll take your wager. What are your stakes?”
“As much as I enjoy a good tankard of ale, I like a bottle of wine from time to time.” He smirked. “My ‘high-handed’ past, you understand. If I win, you allow me to go to Whitby tomorrow and purchase a bottle.”
She snorted. “With whose coins?”
“Mine, if I lose. Yours, if I win. Agreed?”
I must be mad, she thought, then nodded. “It be on your head, braggart. Agreed.” She offered him the tongs, clicking her tongue in annoyance as he held out his hand. “Bloody hell! You be left-handed.”
“All my life. Does it matter?”
“Don’t be a thick-skull. Of course it matters. How am I to teach you to hold any tools proper-like?”
Unexpectedly, he stepped behind her and encircled her with his arms. “Like this.”
She wriggled in his embrace, her back rubbing up against his hard chest. “Cursed whoremonger! After this morning, you dare to…?”
“Be still!” he hissed. “This way we can both see our hands, and I can copy what you’re doing with your right hand with my own left.” He laughed softly as she relaxed within his arms. “I don’t fancy another wrestling match today. Do you?”
She felt her face burning. His gesture had been innocent; it was she who had read a darker meaning into it. But his nearness unnerved her. She took a steadying breath and managed to sound indifferent. “Pah! You only won because you cheated and kicked at my ankles.”
He chuckled softly behind her. “True enough. Now show me how to hold these blasted tools.”
He was a surprisingly deft pupil, studying her movements with her right hand and transferring them to his left. And when he had pounded in the bolt and bent it to his satisfaction, he threw down his tools and laughed in delight. He grabbed her around the waist and swung her in a circle. “I’ll be damned! What do you think of that, woman?”
“Put me down, caitiff!” She pounded at his chest until he released her. She didn’t know what angered her more—that he had won his bet or that he had dared to touch her so brazenly again. “I bean’t your ‘woman’,” she snarled. “I be mistress here!” She tore off her leather apron and added it to the tools on the floor. “Now pick all that up, and put ’em where they belongs. ’Tis time to eat. I’ll be cookin’ up some meat pies. I expects you to muck out Black Jack’s stall. There be a wheelbarrow and a shovel by him. Dung pile is out back.”
He looked truly stunned. “What? You expect me to do such a filthy job?”
“Only if you expects to eat. I’ll pay for your blasted wine, but I’ll feed you naught save pig-slop if you forgets your place again!” She saw the clench of his fists, the hard set of his jaw, and prepared herself to dismiss him on the spot. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, muttered something under his breath, and bent to the tools.
She swirled to the door, grinning in triumph. “It ain’t like powderin’ your master’s wig, caitiff, or shinin’ his boots, but it be good enough work for the likes of you. And don’t forget to wash up near the cottage when you’re done. After we eat, we’ll pull out the trundle for you, and then you’ll fetch water from the stream yonder.”
She sailed toward the cottage, hearing the angry clank of iron tools bouncing off the stable walls. “So much for you, thorn-in-my-side,” she said aloud. The hot-headed fool would only have to pick up the tools he was tossing around in his fury. He might have a temper to match her own, but she’d won this morning’s battle, wager or no wager. And she intended to win all the rest, blast his soul!
• • •
“Will you have another mutton chop, Your Grace?”
Thorne put down his fork, wiped his mouth with his napkin and finished the last of his wine. “No. That was delicious, Dobson. Gads! I don’t know how I’ll endure only porridge and meat pies and bread and cheese. Plentiful, to be sure, and she cooks well enough, but I fear I’ll be thoroughly sick of the menu before the week is out.” He tapped the rim of his empty glass with an impatient finger. “And don’t call me Your Grace. Someone might overhear. I’m Thorne to you as long as we’re in Whitby.”
Quick to obey his master’s silent signal, Cleve Dobson picked up the wine decanter and refilled Thorne’s glass, his nose twitching almost imperceptibly as he bent low to the table.
Thorne frowned, at once alert to the sudden change in his valet. “What is it?” he demanded.
Dobson cleared his throat delicately. “Begging your pardon, Your… Thorne, but you smell like a stable. I can ask the serving girl here to wash your shirt, if you wish.”
That stung his pride. He had always been impeccable with his toilette, as befitted his lofty title. Then he sighed. “No. I’ll stay as I am, more’s the pity. We had both better get used to it, if I’m to keep up this pretense. Though I may purchase another second-hand coat one of these days. The one you bought me itches like the devil.” He surveyed the comfortably furnished bedchamber of the inn and grunted. “And I’d trade my lumpy trundle for your bed in a moment, if I could.”
Dobson shook his head. “Bad food, bad clothes, bad lodgings. And a virago for a mistress. I think, if you’ll pardon me, that this was one of your more reckless wagers.”
He was beginning to think the same, but he wasn’t about to let his servant know it. “I didn’t give you leave to offer your opinion,” he said coldly. “But I have until the end of September. Nearly three months. And I don’t think it will take me that long to bed the wench.”
“And a lock of her hair as proof?”
He gave a smug smile. “Once I have her in my bed, I can persuade her to do anything I want.” He glanced up at his valet’s face. “You don’t approve of this, do you, Dobson.” It was a statement more than a question.
Dobson shrugged. “’Tis not my place to approve or disapprove. Except for your wager, she’s no different than any other woman you’ve seduced and jilted.”
“And she’s a strumpet, lest you forget. The very symbol of faithlessness.” He took an angry swallow of his wine. “And speaking of faithlessness, is there any news from Sussex? How is my beloved mother, the Dowager Duchess, faring in the country?”
“Comfortably settled in for the summer. Your secretary, Rogers, will keep me abreast of any news concerning both domestic and business affairs, should you need to be informed.”
Thorne stood up and stretched. “Gads, I ache all over. I can’t wait to conclude this business. That woman is a terror. Always with some new back-breaking chore for me to do. This morning she had me hoeing the damn garden, and scarcely allowing me the time to stop and piss! The perverse creature is high-handed, arrogant, hot-tempered. It’s all I can do to contain my own rage, sometimes. And she’s proud
and haughty, though it’s unseemly for one of her low class, to my way of thinking.”
Dobson turned away, but not quickly enough to hide the smirk on his genial young face.
Thorne scowled. “That amuses you, sirrah?”
Dobson hesitated, smoothing back the crown of his blond hair and fussing with the dishes on the sideboard. “If I may be frank, Thorne,” he said at last, “that description could fit any number of gentlemen I have met in the four years I’ve been in your service. Any number. And try not to call me ‘sirrah’, if you please, whilst we are in Whitby. ’Tis an insulting word, even for an underling. I am a visiting scholar, lest you forget. You, on the other hand, are a lowly manservant who happens to smell of horse dung.”
Thorne allowed himself a moment to quell his annoyance at Dobson’s frank words. Then he smiled ruefully. “A fitting rebuke, my friend. I tolerate such imperious behavior from my own kind. And excuse it in myself. Why should she be any different? Though she might temper it with a little graciousness from time to time.”
“Perhaps she’s afraid.”
“That shrew? Of what? She’s fearless, it seems to me.”
“But think of her position at Baniard Hall. A street whore, suddenly cast into nobility. I’m sure Lord and Lady Ridley were unfailingly kind to her, but what about the servants? They can be cruel, and far more conscious of a person’s station than the gentry.”
Thorne scratched his chin. “I never thought of that. She did say that she quarrels with those who don’t show her any respect.”
“And she might see insolence behind every innocent remark. And feel the need to defend her pride.”
“Hmm. I can see I shall have to tread more carefully if I intend to have her.” He grinned up at Dobson. “But she is worth it. Gads! Wait till you see her. My hands itch to touch that body. And as for my other parts… I fear I shall have to wear my breeches loose to hide my desire!”
Dobson chuckled. “And, in the meantime, you’ll become a blacksmith. The great Duke of Thorneleigh.”
“By the horn of Satan, if you ever breathe a word of any of this, I’ll sack you upon the instant! I’d be the talk of London for months.” He reached for his battered hat. “’Tis time for me to go, before the wench takes my lateness for insolence.”
My Lady Gloriana Page 6