She’d managed to make Phillip laugh at times, years ago when they were children. But then he’d started giving himself airs and acting like she was beneath him, and she’d never managed to make him laugh after that.
Maria told herself she had work to do. She told herself she shouldn’t be dithering here, wasting time. Yet she could not seem to move from where she stood. She turned her gaze to the brunette facing him and felt a lurch of dismay. The woman was beautiful. Maria studied her profile—the graceful tilt of her neck, the diamonds in her hair, the dress that must have cost the earth. Then she glanced down at her own drab, serviceable gray skirt and white shirtwaist, noting the stained white apron over them, and she grimaced. Never in her life had she felt more unattractive than she did at this moment.
She looked up again, just in time to see Phillip offer the woman his arm. They turned away and started toward the ballroom. Maria swallowed hard as she watched them go. The gap between his station and hers had never seemed wider.
The pair vanished into the ballroom, and Maria started to retrace her steps. Now that a waltz was playing, the corridor was less crowded, and she was able to go back down the corridor much more quickly than she’d come, but at the doorway to the servants’ staircase, she once again saw someone who made her pause.
Prudence was standing about ten yards farther down the corridor, her husband, the Duke of St. Cyres, beside her. She looked lovely in claret-red velvet and white gloves, with rubies at her throat. Another couple, dressed in equal finery, were conversing with them. Watching Pru, Maria remembered the days when they had shared a flat, barely able to scrape two crowns together. They’d been inseparable then. But now, though Prudence made every effort to bridge the social distance between them, nothing changed the fact that her friend was a duchess. Her inheritance and her marriage into the aristocracy had changed their friendship, put a social chasm between them impossible to bridge. They were no longer in the same class. Prudence was invited to the ball, while Maria served it. She felt another, deeper pang, the pang of isolation and loneliness.
As she watched Prudence, Phillip’s words from that day in his office echoed through her mind.
If you’d had a dowry, money to bring to the marriage, people could perhaps have overlooked your lack of breeding and your lack of connections…
Maria turned away. She descended the servants’ stairs to the kitchens. It seemed like a long walk down.
The rest of the ball was a blur. Because they were so busy, Maria managed to shake off her strange despondency for the rest of the evening, but when the last dance was over, when the musicians had packed up their instruments, the guests were piling into their carriages, and the dishes were stacked in the scullery for the kitchen maids, the glum mood that had come over her earlier in the supper room began echoing back.
Nonetheless, she accepted a glass of the remaining champagne from Monsieur Bouchard to celebrate the evening’s success along with the other members of the kitchen staff.
“Monsieurs and mesdemoiselles,” Bouchard called out to gain the attention of the servants gathered in the front kitchen. “I have a few words to say to you.”
The crowd quieted at once, somewhat apprehensively. But the little chef was all smiles when he raised his glass. “Épatant!” he pronounced. “You have done well, and I, Bouchard, salute you.”
A round of cheers went up around the room, and Maria drank her champagne along with the others. She had to be dragged, however, to the front of the room a few moments later when Bouchard demanded she say a few words as well. “No modesty now, ma petite,” he told her, refilling her glass from the bottle in his hand. “Your pastries were exquisite, and you deserve the accolades.”
The crowd of servants roared approval, and that made her smile. She waited a moment for them to quiet down, then she spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, lifting her glass, “my compliments to each and every one of you for your hard work. From start to finish, you were superb.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
The sound of that male voice at the back of the room not only forestalled any applause, it also caused a hush to fall over the room. Every head turned as the Marquess of Kayne entered the kitchens. The crowd split apart, bowing and making way for him as he advanced to the front. By the time he reached the head chef, the room was silent.
“Monsieur Bouchard,” he said, halting in front of the much shorter, much stouter man, “excellent work, as always. The cold pheasant, especially, was very fine.”
“My lord is most kind.” Beaming with pride, his hands clasped together, Bouchard bowed. “Merci.”
Phillip turned to her. “Miss Martingale, my compliments to you and your staff.” A hint of amusement touched one corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t really a smile. Maria thought of the pretty brunette she’d seen him with earlier who had managed to make him smile and laugh, and she felt another pang of jealousy. She shoved it down, reminding herself that she had no right to be jealous.
“I was quite impressed with those little chocolate cakes you made,” he went on. “The ones with the mint ice cream inside.”
She looked into his face and she knew he was thinking of that night in her kitchen when he’d kissed her. There was something in his expression, something almost like tenderness, and pleasure washed over her, a sweet, soothing balm for the sting of a moment before. Everyone was watching them, and she forced herself to say something. “Thank you, my lord.”
He bowed to her, then turned again to his chef. “Bouchard, divide the remaining food and send a portion home with each person here. They deserve it.”
A cheer went up, following Phillip as he retraced his steps toward the door. The pleasure of his words still lingering within her, Maria watched him go, hoping he would turn and look at her one last time, but he didn’t, and after his departure, she was forced to return her attention to her duties. Even though the ball was over, there was still work to do.
While Bouchard and his sous-chef counted heads and divided the food, Maria gathered her own staff and pulled her money purse out of her skirt pocket. She gave each of the maids and cooks she’d hired from Lucy’s agency half a crown for tip and a shilling for cab fare. Then, as those servants joined the queue waiting for a share of the leftovers, she settled with her own employees, giving each a full crown and shilling. “I’ve arranged for the marquess’s footmen to collect our trays and cutlery,” she told them. “Once you’ve received your share of the remaining food, you may go. And no pocketing that cab fare, thinking to walk home,” she added sternly. “It’s after three o’clock in the morning, not a time for respectable young women to be walking about London. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” all six of them said in unison.
“Good. I won’t be opening the shop until noon, so I want all of you to have a good rest, and I shall see you in about nine hours.”
She dispersed her group, then assisted Bouchard with the division of the food. She was among the very last to leave, and by the time she had reached the cloakroom, even the maids responsible for checking coats had departed. Unfortunately, Maria’s coat also had disappeared.
She frowned at the rows of empty pegs on the walls of the room, which now contained only two men’s overcoats, one dark wool cape, and one fringed shawl of ivory satin embroidered with yellow rosebuds.
“Oh, bother!” She peeked under the cape and the overcoats, but her long, hooded mackintosh of navy-blue rubber lined with green-and-blue plaid was not hanging beneath them. Someone, whether by accident or design, had walked off with it.
Cursing under her breath, she searched the entire floor, including the water closets, but without success. Her mackintosh was nowhere to be found. As she walked down the back stairs to the servants’ entrance, she tried to make the best of things. London’s cabs weren’t the warmest of vehicles, but at least it wasn’t the midst of winter. She could make do without a coat. At least, that was what she thought until she opened the door to the
alley.
It was pouring rain.
Maria halted in the doorway and scowled at the water coming down in sheets. She’d bet her last quid this weather was the reason her very warm, very waterproof mackintosh had been taken.
“Hell’s bells!” she cried, now thoroughly vexed. Avermore House fronted on Wimpole Street, and there was a cab stand right on the corner, but as a member of the waitstaff, she was not allowed to come and go through the front doors of the house. To reach the cab stand, she’d have to circle all the way around the house and grounds. She might find another cab stand along the way, but it hardly mattered. She’d still be soaked to the skin.
“Move along, miss, move along.”
The voice behind her had her glancing over one shoulder, and she recognized Phillip’s butler. In his hand was a ring of keys, and he was using the other to button up his mackintosh. Maria eyed the garment with envy, and it took her a moment to realize he’d spoken to her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Out the door you go,” he said, keys jangling as he waved a hand toward the open doorway. “His lordship has bid me lock all the doors, and I’d like to be getting on with it. We can’t have you standing there dithering all night.”
Maria glanced outside again, noting that the downpour had not slackened, and she drew a deep breath. There was nothing for it. She stepped out into the downpour, grimacing at the cold rain that hit her face.
Just as she’d feared, by the time she’d exited the servants’ gate and circled around to the front of Avermore House, she was drenched. As she rounded the corner and saw the cab stand, she groaned, watching as the cabriolet parked there jerked into motion and started down the street. Even if she could share with the passengers inside, it would do her no good to run after the vehicle, for cabs only operated from stands; once in motion, they would not be hailed from the sidewalk.
Her steps slowed and she glanced up and down Wimpole Street, but there wasn’t another cab in sight. In fact, there were no vehicles at all, except a luxurious brougham and an even more luxurious town coach that were just pulling around from the mews, vehicles that clearly belonged to some lingering guests, but which did her no good at all.
“This is what I get for staying behind and sending everyone else home ahead of me with cab fare,” she mumbled, rubbing a hand over her face as she started down Wimpole Street, making for a busier intersection where she might have better luck. “Now there’s not a cab to be had.”
She strode down the street as fast as she could manage, but she was tired, her feet hurt, and she just couldn’t summon the energy to run. Preoccupied with her own troubles, she barely noticed the brougham she’d seen earlier, but when the town coach following it came to a stop a few yards ahead, she couldn’t help but notice. It was a massive, magnificent vehicle, she thought idly as she hastened past it, black with gold trim, a quartet of fine black mares, and a footman with an open umbrella in his hand, who jumped down from the dummy board at the back.
She banged her elbow on a streetlight, and the collision forced her attention back to the sidewalk ahead of her, but she couldn’t help wondering if she could hop up beside the footman when the coach started moving again. A toff with a carriage like that might live nearby, of course, but he was going in her direction for now, and he could be headed for Mayfair or Knightsbridge. There wouldn’t be any harm, would there, in—
All of a sudden, she was grabbed from behind, a strong arm wrapping around her waist.
“What the devil—?” she cried as she was lifted off the ground and dragged backward toward the luxurious town coach she had just passed. “What are you doing? Let go of me!”
She kicked and writhed, struggling against the hold of her assailant, but she was hampered by her sodden skirts, and as she heard the carriage door opening behind her, she was overcome by a wave of panic. “Let go of me, damn you!” she cried, struggling harder to free herself. “Let go!”
She was turned toward the doorway, and the danger of the situation hit her as she was shoved forward through the opening. She tried to grip the edges of the doorway, but her cold, numb fingers slipped on the wet surface, and she could not hang on. She was pushed inside the carriage, her knees hit the foot pillow, and she pitched forward, almost ramming her head into the opposite door. She could hear her kidnapper following her into the coach, and she scrambled up, reaching for the door handle before her, thinking to escape that way, but it was locked. Sobbing with panic, she turned, ready to gouge her assailant’s eyes out, but her heel caught on the foot pillow, tripping her, and she stumbled, falling onto the luxuriously padded roll-and-tuck leather seat.
She started forward to hurl herself at the stranger who had abducted her, but when she saw his face in the light from the coach lamps behind her, she froze. The man settling himself onto the seat opposite was the last person on earth she would have expected.
“Phillip?” She blinked and sank back down. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I might ask you the same question,” he countered. “Why in blazes are you walking home in weather like this? Are you mad?”
“Crikey,” she gasped with relief, falling back against the seat. “You frightened me nearly to death! I thought I was being abducted by white slavers or something equally terrifying!”
He folded his arms, glaring at her. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“Why didn’t you tell me it was you, for heaven’s sake?” she demanded, her voice rising as panic ebbed away. Now that the danger was past, she was angry as hell. She sat up. “I’ve never been so scared in my life! Why didn’t you say something?”
“I’m too damned angry to say much of anything at the moment!” That seemed to be true, for although his voice was low and controlled, his blue eyes seemed to spark in the dim light with a fury she’d never seen before. “And I didn’t deem it necessary to identify myself. My monogram is emblazoned on the door of my carriage, and you looked straight at it as you walked by, which was how I knew for certain it was you. You worked in my household for years. How could you fail to recognize my coat of arms?”
She shoved her wet hair out of her face. “I don’t know! Maybe because no sleep for two days makes me a bit bleary-eyed. Maybe getting cold and wet makes me less observant. Or maybe because of the rain pouring over my face and soaking me to the skin!”
“That I can see for myself, since you’re puddling water all over the floor of my carriage.” He looked her over and his frown deepened. “Good God, you don’t even have a coat.” With a sound of aggravation, he began unfastening the ties of his cloak. “Of all the idiotic, hen-witted—”
“I don’t have a coat because someone has made off with it! I had a nice, lovely mackintosh in the cloakroom, I’ll have you know, but when I went to get it, it was gone. Someone took it, probably some rich, pampered society girl whose fancy little silk shawl was pretty enough to arrive in but not warm enough to go home in!”
“Why didn’t you take a cab, or even better, why didn’t you ask me to send you home in my carriage? I was standing in the foyer, talking with an old school friend of mine. I didn’t see you, but then, I was occupied. You must have passed right by me in the foyer, and I can’t believe you didn’t see me. Was the rain in your face then as well?”
She scowled. “Maybe I w–would have seen you if I’d come out through the front, but I c–came out the back, on the alley side.”
“The alley behind the grounds?” He stared at her as if she was completely off her onion. “There’s no taxi stand off the alley. Why didn’t you come out the front?”
“Because servants aren’t allowed t–to use the front d–doors, that’s why!” she shouted back, forcing the words out despite the fact that her teeth were starting to chatter. “We have t–to use the alley be-because we’re not g–good enough for the fr–front! Does that satisfy your c–curiosity, my lord?”
There was a moment of silence, and then he gave a sigh. Moving to her side of the carriage, he draped his
heavy cloak around her shoulders. It was incredibly warm from the heat of his body, and she nearly groaned aloud at how good it felt. But that didn’t mean she was done giving him a piece of her mind.
“And, I d–don’t need this sort of abuse fr–from you!” she went on as he knelt in front of her and pulled off her shoes. “I’m tired, I’m wet, and I’m c–c–cold, so stop b–bullying me!”
He set her feet on the sable foot pillow, and this time she did groan, savoring the heat that radiated from the hot-water bottle beneath the fur. “God, Maria, your feet are like ice.” He rose up on his knees. “I didn’t realize I was bullying you,” he said in a quieter voice as he pulled the edges of the cloak together.
“W–well, you w—were. It’s m–most unchiv–iv–ivalrous of you.”
“My apologies.” He started to fasten the first set of ties, but then, for no reason she could identify, he stopped. His hand slid inside the cloak, but he had barely curled his palm over her clenched fists in her lap before he was yanking his hand back. He tore the cloak away from her shivering body, and ignoring her protests, he tossed it aside. He pushed her feet off the foot pillow and scooped her up in his arms, then sat down and leaned back with her on his lap.
“What are you doing?” she asked, moving to rise, but his arm slid around her waist to hold her in place.
“For once, just once, don’t argue with me. Put your feet back on the pillow.” He waited until she had done so, then he wrapped his cloak around them both and leaned back against the seat, supporting her in the crook of his arm and shoulder.
Secret Desires of a Gentleman Page 16