“Well, since you’re such a connoisseur, I thank you for the praise just the same.” When she simpered, fine lines appeared around her eyes and mouth, which made her appear older than her years.
“You’re most welcome.” If he remembered correctly, Lady Drummond approached her thirtieth year and had been widowed a few years before. Perhaps she lived an anxiety-laden life for the years to have been so harsh on her face.
“It did take me hours to plan the menu.” She touched a golden locket that hung from a strand of pearls around her neck. He followed her movements with his gaze then slid it lower to appreciate the curve of her ample bosom. “I simply agonized over the choices.” A knowing grin curved her lips when he raised his gaze to hers.
The sound of crockery breaking rang through the dining room and severed the spell her charms had cast. He glanced toward the butler’s pantry.
“Who does she think she is?” Silver clanked against silver.
Though the words were in French, Felix understood them as he’d been thoroughly schooled in the language, and he grinned despite the impropriety. The speaker was obviously a person who knew their own mind and didn’t care about the consequences of talking in such an impromptu fashion.
“As if she had anything to do with the meal,” the heated speaker continued. “I’d like to see her titled rump touch any of this food before it hits the table. In fact, I’d wager her soft fingers wouldn’t know what to do if she had to work for anything.”
“Hush, love, they’ll hear you,” a second speaker joined the first.
“I spoke in French, Cook. I doubt half of them can translate. Too lazy, the lot of them, to use their brains to figure it out.”
“No matter. They’re Quality and will know the language. You are tempting fate and Lady Drummond’s goodwill. Come back to the kitchen now,” the much quieter and older-sounding voice soothed the first speaker. “I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea.”
“What is the English penchant for tea? As if such a beverage will fix anything,” the first woman complained. And then there was nothing more.
The lyrical quality of the first speaker’s voice echoed and bounced in Felix’s brain like notes played from the finest symphony. Who was that woman and why did he want nothing more than to hear her voice again? Already, he enjoyed her verve, and the passion infused into her words heated his blood. He shook his head to banish the thought and raised an eyebrow. “Quite a feisty crop of servants you employ, Lady Drummond.”
“Please, we are both of an age and well-acquainted. Call me Olivia.”
“Very well. And I am Felix.”
“Of course.” She pushed the food around on her plate while she pursed her lips. “I plan to take the servants to task in due course.”
“If you’re having domestic problems now, chances are the staff is too far gone,” one of the female guests commented.
She flicked her gaze from the woman who spoke before alighting on Felix once more. “Yes, well, be that as it may, I know exactly which of my servants caused the commotion.” Olivia’s eyes flashed her ire. “It’s my companion, Clarice. Well, she’s more of a social secretary, though she does accompany about town when the occasion demands. She shouldn’t be in the kitchens, but I’ve found I cannot stop her any more than I can stop the wind. She gravitates there despite my repugnance for fraternization with the lower servants.”
Felix cut smoothly into his beef. “Intriguing. Why would a lady’s companion seek refuge in the kitchens?” He’d heard whispered rumors of Olivia’s foul humor as well as the darker anger of her father, but there’d been nothing concrete to substantiate them. Neither did anyone know from whence the Drummond fortune sprang. Her father, the Earl of Wynesford, had holdings all over the country, as well as some in the Caribbean, but little was known of him and neither did he make many public appearances outside of Parliament.
Also intriguing.
“Why does the rain fall upon one street in London and not the next in some storms? I don’t claim to understand every little thing.” She swept her gaze around the table. “Clarice goes into the kitchens during mealtimes, which I suppose spares me from having to set a place for her at the table and listen to her prattle. She has no manners and is oftentimes rude.”
“A rather harsh viewpoint.” Felix pushed his plate away as he pondered the loveliness of the name Clarice. His appetite had fled at the outset of Olivia’s attitude. “If she’s pedigreed enough to be your companion, she doesn’t belong in the kitchens. Why do you let class lines blur?”
The guests exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Olivia flashed a toothy smile at her company. “What difference is it to you, Felix? She is in my employ, no higher in rank than a governess I daresay, and hardly the topic of dinner conversation. Given her history, I’m doing her a favor, taking her in when no one else would touch her.”
Felix waited, but Olivia said nothing else after the vague insult. He frowned. Such behavior was not something he looked for in a potential mate.
“Well then.” She nodded to her butler. “Pomeroy, please relay my wishes to have dessert brought out. I’d like to move this dinner along in order to usher in more pleasing entertainment.”
“Actually,” Felix raised a hand. “If you may, convince Cook to bring dessert personally. I’d like to convey my thanks for this meal while she attends us.”
“As you wish, my lady. My lord.” The butler moved on swift feet and disappeared into the hall.
“What is this fascination you seem to have with my kitchen staff?” Olivia ran a finger around the rim of her wineglass. Her eyes narrowed. “I thought all of you Tories held to tradition to keep classes separated.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Wishing to thank your cook for preparing a meal doesn’t mean I’ve crossed class lines.” He took a slow sip of his wine. It was a rather good red. “Remembering one’s manners doesn’t stop regardless of title or wealth. I’d like to believe the little niceties separate us from those who abuse their titles or power.”
One of the men—Viscount Hemsley—laughed. “Beneath that stanch cloak of tradition, you’re an idealist, Swandon. If you’re not careful, you’ll turn Whig before the year is out. During Parliament’s next session, you’ll be fighting for the rights of the common people and against all of us.”
Felix grinned. “Not a chance. It would delight my brother to no end, and we cannot have that.” He looked at his companions, suddenly glad he’d be free of their company and before his own hearth in a few hours. “It will take more than one voice in Parliament to work toward a united good. The Whigs need more help than mine, I daresay. Best leave sweeping changes to the younger men. I have other matters to attend to.”
Hemsley chuckled. “Rumor has it your mother has summoned you home like her lapdog and demands that you marry.”
Felix narrowed his eyes. “So she has, but that doesn’t mean I intend to follow her dictates. I’m merely here for Parliamentary duties.” Devil take the gossipmongers.
Pomeroy returned and saved him from further comment. He cleared his throat. “Miss Delacroix is here in lieu of Cook, who has declined the summons, my lady. She cited a case of nerves, I believe.”
“Of course she is,” Olivia muttered. “The woman is a plague.”
The background conversation faded as did everything else Olivia said while Felix stared at the newcomer. Her rust-colored gown set off slightly olive-hued skin. A few curly tendrils of black hair had escaped the knot at the back of her head and clung to her neck, but her big brown eyes framed with sooty lashes captivated him.
“Which one of you requested to see Cook?” Her French-accented English was as flawless as if she’d spoken the language all her life. Plush lips formed the words. With great effort, he wrenched his gaze from her mouth to focus on her. She held a crystal trifle dish in both hands. Every layer of the dessert was clearly visible, all purple jam, pale pastry cream and pound cake.
His mouth watered. His pulse pounded. Swea
t trickled down his back and dampened his shirt. What an enchanting creature. “I did.” Felix rose. He resisted the urge to straighten his clothing in her presence. “I’m Felix Darrington, well, I used to be until I assumed Earl of Swandon title.”
She curtsied. “Very good, Lord Swandon.”
Olivia rapped her knuckles on the tabletop. “Clarice, I must tell you—once again—that talking about your betters to the kitchen staff will not be tolerated.”
The Frenchwoman nodded. She cast her gaze downward. “I understand, my lady. I do apologize for making my comments so loud that you overheard.”
Felix stifled a snicker at the last second. The chit was clever. He liked her even more.
Color blazed in Olivia’s cheeks. Her eyes glittered. “Be that as it may, I intend to hold back two days of pay from your salary this month for your insolent attitude. Perhaps that will teach you more than my words do.”
“Yes, my lady.” Though Miss Delacroix kept her gaze to the floor, Felix swore he felt the heat of anger come off her even though the length of the table separated them.
Olivia nodded. “Very good. Now, let’s have a look at the trifle. And pray, tell me why Cook refused to join us.”
Miss Delacroix moved around the table until she stood at its head, pausing between him and Olivia, her gaze fixed on Felix. Mischief and slight annoyance warred for dominance in that bright gaze. “Cook is too shy so she requested I come in her stead.” A faint smile curved her lush rosy lips. “However, she’s pleased you enjoyed her meal, and I think you’ll enjoy the dessert as well.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” How would those lips feel against his? Would her voice sound as sultry whispering endearments in the dark? He banished his wayward thoughts.
“For the love of God, put down the trifle, Clarice.” Irritation clung to Olivia’s voice. “We’re all anxious to finish, and I’m certain you have other tasks to perform that don’t include bothering my guests.”
“I do, thank you, Lady Drummond.” With a barely discernible wink, Miss Delacroix turned a slow, deliberate half-circle as fluid and seamless as her voice, then she upended the trifle dish directly into Olivia’s lap.
Chapter Two
Clarice Delacroix waited until she’d gained the privacy of the kitchen before she broke down into peals of giggles. “Oh, I will be in so much trouble, but it was worth it just to see the look on her ladyship’s face,” she told Cook as she stumbled over to a rectangular-shaped table where the cook and Mary—the scullery maid—enjoyed a cup of tea.
“You let your temper out, didn’t you, dear?” Cook poured a fresh cup of tea and slid it toward Clarice as she dropped into a chair. “I keep telling you it’ll do no good. One of these days her ladyship won’t be pleased. If she hates you enough, she’ll do something drastic. Remember poor Jenny Vart.”
How could anyone forget the mousy little upstairs maid who had been in the Drummond employ until two months ago? She’d had the unfortunate luck to break one of the baubles in Lady Drummond’s dressing room, and after being dressed down quite severally, was fired on the spot.
“Don’t worry about me, duck. Lady Drummond already dislikes me, and she wouldn’t dare turn me out. I know a few secrets she’d be loath to have leaked. Besides, who will do the distasteful tasks her ladyship despises?” Clarice tapped her temple with a forefinger. She smiled at the cook. Her friend resembled a woman made of the dough she liked to knead into bread—all soft and pillowy and lumpy in the right places—but her eyes were kind, albeit tired. “You should have seen her look of outrage and shock. And the blackberry jam all over that ivory silk! I doubt the stain will come out.”
“I can imagine.” Mary chuckled. “I heard through my cousin that Lady Drummond spent enough coin on that gown to provide food for this household for a year.”
Clarice rolled her eyes. Mary’s cousin was Lady Drummond’s personal maid, and according to rumors, she was sent running hither and yon without time to breathe from the lady’s demands—some of them impossible to carry out. “Let’s just say, if her ladyship was a tad nicer to those around her, perhaps we wouldn’t sit here laughing at her.”
“Lady Drummond won’t be pleased. I heard her dress you down.”
“She did.” The slow burn of anger climbed Clarice’s spine. She detested it when Olivia did that in front of guests.
“Not good.” Cook shook her head. The lace on her cap fluttered yet a smile wreathed the plump woman’s face. “Impetuous girl. Why can you not keep your temper in check?”
“I’m half-French.” Clarice shrugged, knowing it was a copy of a gesture she’d seen her dear mother—gone two years now—do a thousand times. She loved how fluid and graceful her mother had been, adored how her French parent could convey feelings without saying a word. If only I had had more time with her. If only I could be half as carefree and vital as she had seemed. “It’s in my nature to be passionate and impetuous.”
“And a powder keg.” Cook sipped her tea. “You’re better’n us, girl. I can see it in your eyes. You shouldn’t be down here. You should let her ladyship school you, help you snag a man and start your own life.”
Mary nodded. “Wouldn’t it be romantic if you could catch the eye of a high flyer? Secure his protection and get away from here. A man such as that would set you up in your own townhouse or secure a cottage for you in the country.” Her eyes twinkled as if that sort of occupation were something to strive for.
“No!” Clarice shook her head for emphasis. “I will never be someone’s mistress. That was my mother’s lot in life. She was under a powerful man’s protection for many years before he moved on. I refuse to be like her.” As much as she adored her mother—or perhaps the romantic idea her mother had managed to portray with all her pretty clothes and beautiful jewels and nights out at the theater—that sort of life wasn’t for her. Regardless of her circumstances, Clarice thought better of herself and dreamed of a day when a man would value her for more than the carnal pleasures her body could offer.
“There are worse things,” Mary chided with a sniff.
“So there are, but the life of a prostitute is not for me. Protection and a man’s interest aren’t guaranteed. Moving from man to man, practically begging for support in exchange for bed favors, does not appeal. I’ve known many a woman beaten then left in the street when her protector’s favor wavered.” She savored the warmth of her beverage as she swallowed. Both women stared at her with desperate interest, forcing Clarice to continue. “Why shouldn’t I dream of marriage? Am I not good enough for that?”
Mary snorted. “Not to a high-flyer.”
“It’s doesn’t have to be with a titled gentleman.” Clarice rolled her eyes. “I want to fall in love and to know that a man’s only wish is to see to my happiness.”
“Yet you’re working for a living with the devil’s own consort,” Cook admonished.
Clarice shrugged. “I work because I need the coin. I refuse to depend on a man to provide me with the basic necessities simply to live.
Cook patted her hand. “You keep dreaming, miss. One day your life will change.”
Warmth spread through her chest. Cook and Mary were the only family she knew, and Cook’s belief in her made everything better. “Still, I’d rather die than take advice from her.”
“I know, dear, but some things must be endured until the good things are ready.”
The tea Clarice sipped turned bitter in her mouth. Lady Drummond had everyone fooled. Money didn’t make anyone behave better or kinder, and not especially her. The Drummond fortune had dark roots, and ones Clarice had inadvertently stumbled onto while straightening up the lady’s correspondence one afternoon, but she’d made certain her employer knew that she knew. In a way, the power between them had become balanced. Lady Drummond had a companion who’d make her appear more respectable in the eyes of Society while Clarice had employment and a chance to mingle among folks who could possibly help her on her quest—to confirm her heritage and per
haps meet her father, even if from afar.
The clearing of a masculine throat at the door startled them all into shocked silence. “I trust I’m not interrupting anything of import.”
“Zut alors!” Clarice stared at the dark haired gentleman in the doorway. From the strong jut of his chin to the points on his starched collar to the toes of his shiny Hessian boots, his stance screamed authority and leadership. “Lord Swandon.” She scrambled to her feet. Both Cook and Mary fled the moment she spoke.
“Miss… Delacroix was it?” His well-modulated baritone voice sent goose flesh sailing over her skin. When she nodded, he continued, “You’ve put quite the abrupt end to Lady Drummond’s dinner party.”
Was he here to take her to task for her abominable manners? “From everything I’d seen, it was nearly dead to begin with, and besides, her guest list this evening didn’t exactly include the city’s best.” She glanced around but her greatest supporters had indeed run away. “Those people are the dullest of her acquaintances.”
“Is that so?” One of his dark eyebrows lifted. “Then am I to understand I’m dim, and is it in your estimation or hers?”
Heat stole into her cheeks. This is what comes of speaking my mind. “Who can say, Lord Swandon? I don’t know you. Does she?”
“That information is not for debate at this moment.” He set his mouth into a tight line.
She cautioned herself to bite her tongue. Her tenuous hold on society did not need the strain of upsetting a lord, but curiosity outweighed restraint. Perhaps if she continued to talk, so would he and thereby treat her to his wonderful voice that put her in mind of warm, melted chocolate. “Why Lady Drummond engages the harpist is beyond me. Everyone in London knows the woman cannot play past rudimentary skills. If she wasn’t vaguely related to Prinny himself, I doubt anyone would hire her.”
Darrington 01 - Marriage Minded Lord Page 2