“I try to be. Leads to less heartache.”
Watching as she nibbled delicately on a cake, he told himself that her heartache was none of his concern. He certainly wouldn’t be causing her any, as that would require she care for him, and he wasn’t going to give her cause to follow that route. Still, it nagged at him. “Did you learn that the hard way?”
She took a sip of her tea, seemed to be contemplating her answer. “In my youth I tended to view things as I wanted them to be, rather than as they were. I was apt to misjudge people and their intentions.”
He leaned forward. “What did he do to lose your love, Portia? Your husband? Have an affair?”
She looked down at her cup, circled her finger along the rim. “He did have a penchant for unmarried ladies,” she said so softly that he almost didn’t hear her.
“You need never worry that I shall be unfaithful. I take the vows we made quite seriously.”
She peered up at him through lowered lashes. “And if you fall in love with someone else?”
“I’ve told you. Love is not for me, so that shan’t happen.”
“I have found that love is not quite so easily controlled.”
“In my thirty years upon this earth, I’ve not even felt the spark of it.”
“Not true. You love your father. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be as protective of him as you are.”
“I’m merely exhibiting a son’s duty.”
Biting her lower lip, she shook her head, rolled her eyes. “You’re delusional if you believe that.”
He did love his father. Loved Ashe and Edward . . . and had loved Albert. Missed him still. But a woman? He’d never loved a woman. He’d long ago closed his heart to the possibility of harboring deep feelings for any lady.
“M’lord, m’lady?” a feminine voice asked hesitantly.
Welcoming the interruption to his thoughts, to this discussion, he turned to the young woman clasping her hands in front of her. Her dress was modest, a bit frayed at the cuffs and collar, but she was tidy. Not a single strand of her blond hair was out of place. He shoved back his chair, stood. “Yes?”
“I’m Cullie Smythe. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I heard you were seeking a maid-of-all-work. I’d like to apply for the position, and I was wondering if it would be all right if I come out to the manor this afternoon to see about it.”
“No need to wait,” Locke said, drawing the chair back farther. “Take a seat, Miss Smythe. Lady Locksley can interview you now.”
“Now?” his wife asked, her eyes huge and round.
“Why not? We’re here. She’s here.” And her arrival had effectively ended an unwanted conversation. Besides, he was anxious to see how Portia conducted herself, since it was unlikely he’d be present for the other interviews.
“Yes, please sit, Miss Smythe,” Portia said.
After assisting the woman, Locke turned his attention to the outdoors, trying to give the impression that he wasn’t the least bit interested in what was going on, when in truth he had enough curiosity to kill a dozen cats. He didn’t know why every single aspect of Portia fascinated him. He wanted to watch her interacting with other people. He wanted to observe her from afar but near enough to listen.
“Have you any experience?” he heard her ask Miss Smythe.
“I’ve kept me da’s house for two years now, ever since me mum passed.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Portia reach across the table and place her hand over Miss Smythe’s in a comforting gesture that for some unaccountable reason made his chest tighten. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said softly with genuine sorrow reflected in her voice. “I know it’s very hard to lose your mother. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“If you come to work at Havisham, you will reside there. Do you fear ghosts, Miss Smythe?”
“Not as much as I fear going hungry.”
“Is that a possibility?” True concern in Portia’s voice indicated she would be a fair mistress. Locke didn’t want her abusing the servants, but neither did he want her to care so deeply. Everything he learned about her contradicted what he’d originally assumed, and that unsettled him.
“Aye,” Miss Smythe said. “I’ve been thinking of going to London in hopes of securing a position, but working at Havisham would allow me to stay closer to home, which would be a godsend, as I’ve no desire to leave, not really.”
“Who would care for your father’s house?”
Again, her concern for something that shouldn’t weigh into her decision at all. It was not their place to worry over why people did what they did.
“My sister,” Miss Smythe answered. “She’s old enough now to manage things.”
“Did she style your hair? I like it very much.”
“No, m’lady. I fixed it meself.”
“Would you consider serving as my lady’s maid rather than a maid-of-all-work?”
Locke shifted his attention back to the table. He could see only Portia, but her expression was soft, hopeful, filled with kindness—nowhere near the cold expression she’d exhibited when he’d questioned her that first afternoon. If she had looked at him like she now looked at Miss Smythe—he could have resisted her, seen her as a danger to his heart, and easily sent her on her way with a heavier purse.
“Oh, m’lady. I’d be putting on airs to go for a position such as that.”
Portia smiled. “Exactly why I want you in the position, Miss Smythe. I appreciate modesty.”
Locke almost scoffed. Portia didn’t have a modest bone in her body, but then he was hit with the startling realization that perhaps she once had, that maybe she had been as eager and innocent as Miss Smythe—before her husband had betrayed her love and trust in him. He had an unsettling image of her young and naïve, giving her heart to a scoundrel who didn’t deserve it. For an insane moment, he wished he’d known her then, only long enough for a passing glance. He would have kept his distance, wouldn’t have wanted to be ensnared by her guileless charms. Not that he would have been. Such had never appealed to him, and he almost regretted that.
“I don’t know what to say, m’lady.”
“Say yes.”
“But I don’t know how to be a lady’s maid.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“Caw. Well, I’d be a fool to say no then, I suppose, wouldn’t I?”
“You don’t strike me as a fool, Miss Smythe.”
“Then I’d be pleased to take the position. And I’ll give it my best.”
“I would expect no less. Could you move in tomorrow?”
“I can move in this afternoon.”
Portia smiled sublimely. “I shall look forward to welcoming you to Havisham Hall.”
Her words were like a kick to Locke’s gut. When was the last time that anyone had been welcomed to Havisham Hall? He’d be hard-pressed to say his father’s wards had been welcomed, at least at first. Other than Ashe and Edward, with their families, no one ever visited Havisham. No one was ever welcomed there.
His mind reeling with his awareness of the change to routine that Portia was bringing to Havisham, he barely acknowledged Miss Smythe’s leaving.
“Are you all right?” Portia asked.
Again, her concern—except it was directed at him, and he didn’t want it. He nodded brusquely. “Yes, but we’ve delayed our return to the manor long enough. You should finish your tea.”
“I’m finished.”
She began to scrape back her chair. He darted over to assist her. When she was standing, he said, “It was very kind of you to give her such an elevated position in the household.”
“She was desperate—approaching us here, not willing to wait until an appropriate time, not willing to risk losing her chance to gain a position. She’ll work hard to further herself.”
“Perhaps she was merely ambitious.”
She shook her head. “No. I know the look of desperation and the lengths to which one will go when backed into a corner. Besides, I
like her. I think we’ll get along famously.”
Skirting past him, she headed for the door. Following after her, he hoped she hadn’t come to know the look of desperation while gazing at her reflection in a mirror.
Chapter 13
He thought about Portia while he was at the mines. He thought about her while he galloped his horse over the moors toward the manor. He thought about her as he bathed, while he strode through the hallways in search of her, fairly certain where he’d find her.
In the music room. He wasn’t disappointed.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the doorjamb and simply watched. Standing on a ladder, dusting his mother’s portrait, she was dressed much as she’d been the day before, sans his Hessian, as she now had two strapping lads, one about six inches taller than the other, to deal with the pesky spiders. The new footmen were moving furniture so two young women—one of them Cullie—could roll up the various carpets. He suspected they’d be getting a beating in the morning, along with the draperies that had already been removed. Another young woman was using a long-handled broom to sweep away the dust and cobwebs from the walls. White sheeting had been placed over the piano to protect it from any dust swirling about.
So much activity in this room, yet everyone seemed to know what they were to do. What he didn’t understand was why Portia—a title hunter, a woman seeking prestige and position—was in the thick of things rather than standing off to the side merely ordering her new servants about. If a stranger strode in, he was going to mistake her for a maid. Why wasn’t she lording her position over these people?
Although he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed watching her movements: her hips swaying as she dusted, the way the cloth of her bodice tautened along the side as she reached for the intricately carved corner of the gilded frame.
Hearing a short high-pitched squeal, he was about to turn in the direction of the sound—no doubt the maid at the window—when he saw Portia doing the same, only her perch was precarious. She moved too quickly, too sharply. Suddenly she gasped, her arms flailing—
He’d managed only half a dozen frenzied leaps in her direction before she landed in the arms of the taller footman, who grinned stupidly down on her as though he’d acquired the prize at some county fair game. Locke was completely unprepared for the rage rampaging through him because the man was holding his wife. It didn’t matter that he’d saved her from harm. It only mattered that he grinned like a buffoon.
Portia smiled at him, patted his shoulder. “You can release me now, George.”
He did so, slowly lowering her feet to the floor. Stepping away, she brushed at her skirts before looking up and spying Locke. The only thing that prevented him from permanently removing the grin from the lad’s face was the fact that the smile she gave Locke was brighter and more welcoming than the one she’d given the footman.
“You’ve returned,” she said.
What the devil was the matter with him? What did he care if she was glad to see him? Why should he be angry that a muscled laborer saved his wife from a crack on the head? He should be grateful for it. Instead he was ready to sack the man.
“Why are you working when we have hired servants to see to things?” he demanded to know. He jerked his head toward the ladder. “You could have broken your neck.”
“Unlikely. It wasn’t that far a drop. At the most I’d have bruised my backside. Although I am grateful to George for rescuing me.” She patted George’s arm before glancing toward the windows. “Sylvie, why did you squeak? Is everything all right?”
Sylvie, of the black hair and blue eyes that were far too round, curtsied. “I saw his Lordship standing there in the doorway. His presence took me by surprise.”
“I’ve told you that you don’t have to curtsy every time you’re addressed.”
The girl curtsied. “Yes, m’lady.”
With a patient shake of her head, Portia turned back to Locke. “How long were you standing there?”
“Not long, but again, Portia, why are you climbing ladders and dusting?”
“There’s so much to be done. I didn’t see the harm in helping.”
“I don’t want you scaling ladders”—and falling into the arms of well-built young men—“and putting my heir at risk should you already be with child.”
She paled to such an extent that he was surprised she didn’t swoon. “Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking.” She shook her head. “You’re quite right. I shan’t ascend ladders anymore. I’ll find another way to help.”
He didn’t know why he didn’t feel victorious with her acquiescence. Why did the woman have to constantly confound him? He’d determined her character before he married her. She had no right not to be as he knew her to be. “I’ll have your bath prepared,” he said, far more curtly than he’d intended.
“No need. George and Thomas can see to hauling the tub and water up. Since you want them doing their job.”
As long as they weren’t imagining her in that water. What the devil was the matter with him? He’d had women in his life and never experienced jealousy—even when he was fully aware that he wasn’t their only lover. But this was different. She was his wife. They’d exchanged vows. So it wasn’t jealousy he was experiencing, merely conscientiousness of a certain expectation from her and those around her. The male servants shouldn’t be lusting after her, grinning at her, or cradling her in their arms. Training was definitely in order. He’d speak to Gilbert about it.
“You’re quite right,” he said now. “We’ll have the footmen see to it.”
“Very good. Allow me to introduce you.” She turned to the others in the room and clapped her hands. “Please come forward.” They did as she bid, albeit a bit hesitantly. “Queue up,” she ordered. “Straight line, stand tall.”
Once they were positioned to her satisfaction, she moved to one end. “Cullie you’ve met, of course.”
He nodded toward the girl. “Cullie.”
“M’lord.” A quick bob of a curtsy.
“Sylvie.”
Who gave him three curtsies. He assumed she would have curtsied until her knees gave out if Portia hadn’t placed her hand on her arm and said, “That’s sufficient.”
Marta was the final housemaid. One very nice curtsy from her. The lads, George and Thomas, followed with bows.
“It’s a pleasure to have you all at Havisham Hall,” Locke said.
“Is it really haunted?” Marta asked.
Sylvie jabbed her elbow into Marta’s side. “You’re not supposed to ask questions of his Lordship.”
“It’s quite all right,” Locke said. “But, no, it is not haunted.”
“I’ve seen her ghost on the moors,” George said.
“Merely swirling mist, I assure you,” Locke told him.
“But—”
“You don’t contradict his Lordship,” Portia said sternly.
“ ’Cuz the nobility is never wrong.” There was a snide quality to his tone.
Before Locke could bring him to task, Portia was standing before him. “George, have I misjudged your readiness for this position?”
The lad clenched his jaw, shook his head. “No, m’lady.”
“I shall hope not, but bear in mind that I shan’t tolerate any behavior that is not to my liking, nor shall I keep in our employ anyone who vexes me or his Lordship.”
“Yes, m’lady, but I did see her.”
“It might be best to keep that to yourself.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
She faced Locke. “Did you wish to add anything?”
He slowly shook his head. The woman was mercurial. One moment she was acting as though she were the servants’ equal and the next she reasserted herself as mistress of the household. A chameleon of sorts. During his travels, he’d seen enough creatures with the ability to blend into their surroundings that he knew they could be quite dangerous, had the sense that the same could be said of her. “No, I believe you handled it well enough.”
“Right.” She clapped her hands again to gain everyone’s attention. “As it’s nearly nightfall, I shall begin my preparation for dinner. Cullie, come with me. Sylvie and Marta, assist Mrs. Dorset in the kitchen. Thomas and George, report to Mr. Gilbert once you’ve seen to my bath. Will you be waiting for me in the library, my lord?”
As though there was anyplace else for him to wait. “Yes, I will.”
It would take her a while, though, so he decided to visit with his father. He went to the library first to secure them each a glass of scotch before making his way to the master bedchamber. He knocked on the door, waited for his father to invite him in. Once inside, he handed his father a glass, leaned a shoulder against the window near where his father sat, and watched the sky turning a darker gray and shadows spreading over the land.
“I wanted you to know that we’ve hired a few servants,” he told his father.
“I’m aware. Portia introduced them to me earlier. That George is going to be a handful, I think. Bears watching.”
“She can keep him in his place.”
“Is that respect I hear in your voice?” his father asked.
He sipped his scotch, kept his gaze on the land. “Merely an observation.”
“Careful, Locke, you’re going to start liking the girl.”
“I don’t dislike her.” He placed his back against the wall, studied the amber liquid in his glass. The rich hue reminded him of her eyes. “She’s comfortable ordering people about. She’s equally comfortable doing the work. One moment she gives the impression she’s a country lass, the next she takes on the airs of the nobility. What is her background exactly?”
His father remained silent. Locke glowered at him. “No harm in telling me.”
“Commoner, as she said.”
“What of her husband?”
“Well off enough that she managed a household. At least she claimed to manage one.”
“Yet he left her with nothing.”
“Men are not always the best that they can be. Nor, unfortunately, do they always appreciate the women in their lives. Or he was young enough to think there was plenty of time to make arrangements for her in the event of his death. That’s probably it. You never expect to go young. Always time to see to business later.”
The Viscount and the Vixen Page 16