A Scandalous Lady

by Rachelle Morgan

  She caught on this time, and after removing the plate’s cover, plopped a mound of scorched rice pudding onto his plate. A serving of pigeon dumplings followed.

  Troyce picked up his fork. “Merci.”

  “What was that, West? Did I just hear you thank a servant?”

  “In my house, common courtesies are practiced at all times, with all people.”

  He thought he saw Faith’s lips twitch as she filled the spoon and stretched her arm across the table to Devon’s plate. And the sight so took him aback that for a moment, he forgot who and where he was. ’Twas like a glimpse of a sunbeam after months of cloudy skies, and his spirits suddenly lightened.

  Catching her eye, he winked at her. She startled. The serving fell short of its mark and pigeon dumplings slid across the table and into Devon’s lap.

  Devon leaped to her feet and, arms akimbo, stared at the sliding red stain on her gray crepe skirt. “Oh, for God’s sake!”

  Troyce’s brow lifted.

  Faith’s mouth went slack. “Your Grace!” She raced around the head chair to Devon’s seat and reached for the dumpling in her lap.

  Devon batted her hand away. “Don’t touch me, you . . . you . . . just don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

  “Of course,” Devon countered shortly.

  Faith bowed up and looked as if she was ready to hurl herself across the table and scratch his sister’s eyes out. “Faith, don’t concern yourself. It’s about time she wore a bit of color to relieve that damnable mourning gray.”

  His attempt at levity seemed to work, for her shoulders relaxed a bit. She even gave him a half grin that had him grinning in return.

  “I’ve obviously misjudged your newest servant, brother dearest,” Devon retorted when Faith left a moment later. “She’s not only reckless and impertinent, she’s completely incompetent.”

  Troyce sighed and snapped a week-old newspaper open. It would be a long, long summer if Devon kept up her complaints against Faith. She seemed to have a new one each day. “Don’t be so harsh with her. She’s trying, and her heart is in the right place.” Her heart, and everything else, he thought, remembering her body against his. Though weeks had passed since he’d felt her sinuous curves atop his frame he could recall the moment as if it had only been yesterday.

  “For heaven’s sake, this is the reason help is not hired without references.” She dabbed at a spot of sauce on her skirt. “If it were up to me, the chit would have been dismissed the day she darkened your doorstep.”

  “It’s not up to you, is it?”

  “Do you not see it is only a form of manipulation?”

  Rare anger kindled in his blood. He narrowed his eyes at her over the top of the London Times. “If you are so displeased with her, you could always go back to your husband.”

  “And leave you alone with that London alley cat? I know her kind. She has designs on you, Troyce, and as long as she can gain your sympathy she’ll think above herself.”

  “Enough!” His hand slammed down on the table so hard that the goblet jumped and tilted. Bloodred fluid pooled on the hard wood surface and streamed toward the edge. “Faith is my concern, not yours, and I’ll not have you casting aspersions on her every time she turns around.”

  “Well.” She sniffed. “I should have known you would take up for her.” Carefully she folded her napkin and set it beside her untouched plate. “Very well. If you are so insistent on championing the chit, I cannot stop you. But you cannot be so blind not to see that she holds a tendre for you. Unless you intend on breaking the poor mouse’s heart, I suggest you do something—and do it quickly—before she destroys the entire manor.”

  A tendre?

  How absurd. Though the idea that Faith might fancy him, even a bit, created a warmth around his heart, he knew she could hardly stand the sight of him. She only tolerated him because she had no choice.

  Troyce sighed again. “What would you have me do, Devon? Take her back to London and dump her on the closest street corner where she’d no doubt be forced to steal—or worse—to survive?”

  It was a frightening thing to see his sister’s eyes light up. “Actually that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Judas Priest, Devon!”

  “No! Not London—send her to Radcliff!”

  Oh, hell. He’d known this moment would come, and now that it had, he squirmed like a ten-year-old caught peeking under the chamber maid’s skirts. “I can’t do that.”

  “Of course you can! It would be the perfect solution. Westborough might actually be salvaged, and she would still be under your protection—or whatever it is you feel you owe her. I would even be willing to send one of the maids from Brayton Hall to train her.”

  How charitable, he thought dryly.

  Still, the time had come; the confession could not be put off any longer. “I sold the town house.”

  The hall fell so silent that he swore he could hear her heart stop.

  “You what?”

  “I sold the town house. To Miles Heath.”

  She looked as if he’d just plunged a dagger into her heart. “How could you even consider selling our family’s property to that reprobate?”

  “Radcliff was expendable—Westborough is not.”

  “But why him? For God’s sake, Troyce if you had to sell the house, I’m certain you could have found another buyer!”

  “Not on such short notice.” Her silence was condemning, and his mild temperament snapped for the second time in just as many minutes. “Stop looking at me as if I’ve committed a mortal sin. I’ll not let my people starve so you can feed this animosity you bear against Miles.”

  The chair screeched against the stone floor as she shot to her feet. “You dare lay this at my door? What of you, Troyce? The solution has been within your reach all along, and yet you willingly choose to ignore it.” She shook her head at him and tears swam in her eyes. “I shall never forgive you for this.”

  And she stalked out of the dining hall.

  For a moment, Troyce thought about going after her, but decided against it. His anger with her was still too fresh, too raw. They would no doubt wind up quarreling again, and God’s teeth, he didn’t want that.

  He set his glass upon the table and strode out of the dining hall, down the hallway, and out the back terrace. He started for the well-worn path leading to a monstrous shelter built in the cove where the galleon was housed, but stopped just shy of the chalky-limestone cliffs that dipped into the channel. Any other time, he would have gone directly into the boathouse without a second’s hesitation and sweated out his mood with backbreaking labor. But the thought of facing his failure in mammoth proportions had his gut twisting into knots. Instead, he turned to the Channel and stared out to sea.

  What was he to do with his sister? Aye, he knew of the rift between Devon and her husband, so he’d not objected when she asked to spend the summer at Westborough. To be truthful, he’d been feeling so guilty about not being there when she’d needed him most that he’d latched onto a chance to spend time with her.

  But he’d not be able to endure months of her shrewish temperament. It reminded him too closely of his mother’s nature all the way up to her death ten years earlier. If this was the manner in which she behaved toward her husband, it was no wonder Ross spent most of his time hunting.

  He cursed himself for the uncharitable thought. In truth, though she was a termagant of the highest degree and at times frustrated him beyond measure, he’d learned over the last three months how to deal with her. He simply rode out the storm until it blew its course.

  If only the rest of his problems were that easy to solve.

  Faith watched him pace the cliff line, obviously troubled. His shoulders were slightly bowed, one hand rested on his hip, while the other rubbed at his chin. She could hardly help overhearing the argument between the baron and the duchess; the stone walls of the castle acted as a cave, echoing every sound.

  She didn’t
want to be the cause of a rift between brother and sister, and yet, it warmed her heart to hear him defend her.

  She went back to scraping the burned dumpling sauce off the stove.

  “Well?”

  Faith glanced up at Millie. “What are you doing up? You’re supposed to be resting!”

  “I’ve been resting so much my bones are melting into my mattress.” She lowered her ample figure onto the bench at the end of the table, and Faith brought her a glass of water. She still looked alarmingly pale.

  “How did the meal go?” Millie asked.

  Faith had never lied before in her life, and she knew if she tried now, Millie would detect it right off. But neither could she bring herself to admit what a disaster she’d made of a simple meal. “I learned much about stain removal,” she brightly invented.

  Millie’s eyes softened. “That bad, was it?”

  To Faith’s utter shame, the tears she’d locked deep inside sprang to her eyes. She ducked her head and nodded. “Worse.”

  Millie chuckled. “If we are going to remain in this house together, there are a few things you need to know about working for nobility. They must always be served and serviced promptly. A well-trained staff makes the lord and lady of the house look in control of their holdings to others. ’Tis important should anyone get it in their minds to take what does not belong to them.”

  Faith flushed, remembering how many times she’d taken what hadn’t belonged to her, but Millie didn’t seem to notice.

  “After setting out the meal, you move discreetly to the corner of the room. Keep the glasses filled and the plates moving. Of course, our larder is not as well stocked as it should be, so we must make do with two courses, but that cannot be helped. Do not speak unless you are spoken to and always with the proper form of address.”

  The instructions went on, and on, and on, until Faith thought her head might explode: Don’t use the main staircase, always use the servants’ steps. Keep your person and your surroundings neat and tidy at all times. Curtsy. Bow. Scrape. Kiss their bloody rings or hems or whatever else they want you to kiss. . . .

  “What makes them so much better than us?” she finally asked.

  “Not better, just different. ’Tis a great responsibility that weighs on the shoulders of the highborn. They work with the monarchy to set our laws and see to our country’s safety. They also provide for and protect the tenants on their lands, using their considerable wealth and prestige. And ’tis a great amount of pride to the lower born to serve their master or mistress well.”

  Pride? The way it sounded to Faith, it took a great amount of humility, and she wasn’t sure she had enough of that to sustain her for the next year. “Aye, you’ve instructed me well, Millie, and I will try. I cannot promise more than that.”

  “ ’Tis all I ask.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “Has Lucy returned?” Millie asked.

  “I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

  “Then you’ll have to see if Her Grace needs assistance with her toilet.”

  “Her . . . toilet? Crikey, anything but that!”

  Millie looked horrified. Then she burst into laughter.

  “Oh, dear, I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  Millie struggled to contain her impetuous burst of mirth. “Nay, you shouldn’t have.”

  One good thing seemed to have come of Millie’s infirmity, at least—she felt at last that she had a friend in the house. “It’s just that she makes me feel so . . .”

  “Lacking?”

  Faith nodded. Crikey, put her in the rookeries and she could tumble with the best. Put her in a place like Westborough Manor, and she felt like a bull in a china shop.

  “I know she can be difficult at times, but try not to let her distress you.”

  “Why does she dislike me so much?”

  “ ’Tis not you. She treats everyone the same way.” Millie picked up a paring knife and started slicing the greens off a pile of carrots. “Her Ladyship wasn’t always so difficult. She used to dance about this place like a Russian ballerina, sword-fight with His Lordship in the gardens, sail down the banister on her bum—”

  Faith choked. She couldn’t imagine the graceful, elegant, hoity-toity Duchess of Brayton riding down a banister. “What happened to make her such a shrew?”

  “Life, I expect. She married the duke, took on the responsibilities of her station, and just plain didn’t laugh as much—unless she was with Master Edward, God rest his wee soul.”

  “Master Edward?”

  “Aye, her son.”

  “She had a child?”

  “Oh, aye. He was the sun and the moon in her eyes. She rarely even used a governess, which caused no little scandal, I’ll have you know. Losing him was the last straw, I think. She hasn’t been the same since.”

  Faith wanted to ask how she’d lost her child, but the entrance of the lady herself put an end to the conversation. One look at her hard eyes and pinched mouth told Faith that she’d caught enough of the conversation to warrant guilt.

  “Have the two of you nothing better to do than gossip between yourselves?” she asked tightly.

  “Aye, my lady,” Millie replied, shooting to her feet and giving the duchess a slight curtsy. Then she shuffled away from the table.

  A strained silence fell between Faith and the duchess after Millie left the kitchen. Faith debated on whether or not to apologize for discussing such a private subject behind her back, then thought better of it. The way her luck ran with this woman, she’d no doubt find herself with her foot in her mouth.

  “Where is Lord Westborough?” the duchess finally asked.

  Crikey, how was she supposed to know? Was she now his keeper as well as his servant? “I think he’s down by the water.”

  “Working on that ship, no doubt.”

  Faith nearly didn’t catch the remark, it was so softly spoken. “I’ll fetch him for you, Lady Brayton.”

  And before the woman could object, Faith seized the opportunity to escape her presence.

  He wasn’t on the shore, where she’d seen him pacing, nor had she run into him on the way to the cliffs. Recalling the mention of a boathouse, Faith searched the area for a building, but saw nothing save the carpet of green clear to the line of woods in the eastern horizon. Ahead of her, craggy rocks descended to the white sands below. It was an awe-inspiring sight. Waves crashing into a jut of rocks. The soaring of gulls in the sky. The vast enormity of water. In her mind’s eye, she saw wharves filled to brimming with sailors and dockmen, blanched canvass sails rippling in the winds, two little girls squealing in delight at a horde of barking creatures below. . . .

  Faith gave a swift shake of her head to dislodge the image. Scanning the shore, she spotted a curious incongruity in the coloring, where white limestone faded to gray, then back at the waterline. As the wind shifted, she heard a raspy sound that had nothing to do with nature.

  Brows dipping, Faith stepped over the edge of the cliff and noticed a narrow wearing in the scrubby grass. She gathered her skirts close to her thighs and, careful of her footing, made her way down to the base of the cliffs. A briny wind whipped her mobcap off her head, and had it not been for the ribbons loosely tied around her neck, it would have gone sailing into the sea. She let it ride on her back as she strode the distance toward what she now realized was an opening in the rocks.

  And inside the opening, someone had built a door.

  It screeched in protest as she pushed it halfway open. Darkness met her on the other side. “Baron?”

  Her voice echoed.

  She pushed the door open fully. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Faith stepped inside and realized that this place was not so different from parts of the castle. The walls were moist and cool and holders with unlit torches lined a path that led to only God knew where.

  Again, the raspy noise came from somewhere ahead. Faith found a box of matches tucked beside the holder. After lighting the torch, she follow
ed the path toward the sound and found herself standing once again at a closed door at the top of a set of stone steps.

  Her heart thundered in her breast as she slid the bar up. The door opened easily into a cavernous room filled with light from a large mouth at the other end that fed into the channel. It smelled of raw, shaved wood. Burning oil and fresh varnish and the sea.

  And in the midst of it, resting easily on the water, was the most glorious creation she’d ever seen.

  She stared up in openmouthed amazement at the ship. Its sleek lines, swollen girth, ribbed bulwark. Kinship and repugnance swirled inside her and a vision of a young girl in the belly of a vessel, and men—so many—rough, crude, completely without morals, flashed through her mind so quickly she wasn’t sure if was a dream or a memory.

  And then she saw him.

  Faith’s heart stopped beating for several seconds before it started pounding again an erratic beat. Oh, crikey, he was a beautiful man. Naked from the waist up, bowed over a wooden object on the deck. His midnight hair was tousled and stood in spikes atop his head. A sheen of sweat glistened on his smooth, sun-darkened skin, causing her fingertips to tingle, and the corded muscles flexed with each movement as he drew a measuring tape across a boxlike unit.

  As the first time she’d seen him nude in his bedchamber, an excitement filled her veins, much like the one she felt when honing in on a loaded mark. A hum of the senses, a fever in the blood. For a woman who was beginning to yearn for something more than a disreputable lifestyle, those were dangerous things to feel. Indecent. Wicked. Feelings that made her think of the women on dockside street corners.

  He glanced up then and spotted her. Faith went stock-still, frozen as if she’d been caught swiping a bloke’s purse instead of admiring his flawless form. Could the baron see how her nerves jumped just looking at him? Did he have any inkling of his effect on her? Crikey, she hoped not. It would be the crowing humiliation.

  Averting her gaze from his penetrating study, Faith focused her attention on the ship. An intrinsic feeling that she should know all the names gathered in her mind, yet it seemed a feeble grasp at knowledge. “So this is where you spend all of your time.”