“How well you’ve summed up the situation.”
“I am merely observant.” At the last second she stifled anything else she wanted to say. He was a lord and not the sort of man she should carry on a conversation with—albeit on dits—especially in a kitchen and alone. Once again, her situation and its dire consequences swept through her mind.
“Be that as it may, the guests have departed.” No emotions reflected in his eyes. Did the man find anything about this night amusing or even annoying?
“Most likely it was from her ladyship’s screaming about her gown instead of my antics.” Clarice backed away until the table was between her and him. There was something intensely compelling about him. His presence filled every nook and cranny in the small kitchen, as if he were used to being obeyed or waited upon. She narrowed her eyes. That sort of man meant trouble, and she had no intention of suffering him or any other at the moment. “Lord Swandon, I implore you to return upstairs. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the parlor?”
“Will you come with me?”
“Of course not. It’s simply not done.”
“Yet tarrying here in the kitchens is? Lady Drummond said you don’t belong here with the lower servants. Had you dined at her table tonight, it would have been with members of Society.”
The very position she needed to be in if she hoped to meet her father one day. Clarice ignored his logic. “Lady Drummond will be livid to find you here—or anywhere—with me.”
“She is otherwise occupied.” He rested his gaze on her—assessing and speculative. “Why did you refuse my friendship? You are Lady Drummond’s companion and therefore well able to converse with members of the aristocracy.”
Sweat trickled down her spine. “I am, but that is beside the point.” Could he see the resemblance to her father in her face? Was he a contemporary of the man, and if so, could she further his acquaintance to complete her quest? “I shouldn’t talk to you. Lady Drummond would consider that competition. Things would be… difficult for me if that were so.”
“Competition? Is she chasing me then?” Amusement wove through his voice.
Clarice affected a tiny smile. “It’s been my experience Lady Drummond never stops chasing men—eligible or not. You have apparently interested her in a romantic way.” A vague twinge moved through her heart. A man such as Lord Swandon was much too good for the likes of her employer, yet they had Quality in common, which was more than she and Lord Swandon could claim. A match between him and Olivia would no doubt be imminent.
“I highly doubt Lady Drummond has romance on her mind. Regardless, it takes two to commit to a relationship. I have not.” His gaze was no less intense but now there was a hint of softness there. “If you refuse to accompany me to a better location, I shall remain here since I’m not done conversing with you.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the door frame.
“Lady Drummond will not be pleased.”
“So you keep saying. It’s doubtful she will know. I certainly don’t plan to tell her. Now, what would please you—talking here or the parlor?”
Clarice blew out an exasperated breath even as flutters tickled her belly. He was stubborn to a fault. No one had ever bothered to ask her what she preferred. It was rather pleasant. “My lord, it rubs her the wrong way when her guests acknowledge the existence of servants in her household.” She stole a glance at him and then wished she hadn’t as a tingle raced down her spine. Random strands of silver glinted in his dark hair. They lent an air of sophistication and power to him.
“Yet, you are not like the other servants.” Again, his brilliant blue gaze rested on her. “Besides, I suspect you are not a mere servant.” He unwound himself from the doorway, only this time, he clasped his hands behind his back. His waistcoat of sapphire blue shot with gray almost matched his eyes. “You have a certain air about you that doesn’t belong to the lower classes.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” At the last second she remembered to keep her gaze glued to the floor. It was how Lady Drummond always taught her when dealing with titled people. Most of the time Clarice forgot for it went against her forthright nature. “If you’re here to ask me to apologize for ruining her gown, I won’t do it.”
“I never asked you to.” When he remained quiet, she fought the urge to look at him. “I imagine Lady Drummond’s pride has taken a bruising, but at least she’ll leave you in peace tonight.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
“Miss Delacroix, please do me the favor and look at me while we converse. I dislike talking to the top of your head.”
“All right.” Clarice gaped as a grin curved his sensual lips. His eyes crinkled at the corners and slight lines framed his mouth. That smile transformed him into a softer version of himself, chasing away the stern image she’d drawn of him. What would he look like if that smile reflected in his eyes? What would it take to make him laugh with abandon? She couldn’t help but give into a grin as well. Never had a man of Quality made her feel as if he wished to remain in her company because he enjoyed her.
Voices drifted to her from the servant’s dining room just beyond a closed door, reminding her there were other people about. She chewed her bottom lip. “If we were to be discovered…” What then? It was a ridiculous notion to think he’d offer for her, a mere employee in the Drummond household. Instead, she’d be turned out without a reference with rumors nipping at her heels. Not that her reputation could be more sullied simply because she was her mother’s daughter. “I’d rather not lose my position, my lord.”
“Well, since you refuse to accompany me to the parlor, I suppose we can take this conversation into the stairway.” He gestured toward the doorway he’d come through. “Would that do?”
“No.” Anyone could come upon them there, and the more unsavory of the servants would tell stories. At least in the kitchen, all staff was behind the closed door. Any servant could pass them or listen in the stairwells if they chose, but with Lady Drummond in the boughs, most of the staff would have fled for their rooms. “I suppose if you insist on being recalcitrant, we shall stay here.” She planted her hands on her hips. There was something about the man that compelled her to linger in his company. Clarice, he is too high above you in rank. Don’t dream of being friends or anything else. Not that she would. She knew better, yet a tiny part of her wished circumstances were different. “What did you want to discuss?”
“I came here to compliment Cook on the meal. Nothing more.” A shrug pulled his jacket snug across broad shoulders. “Lady Drummond’s accident—while unfortunate—has no bearing on my visit or enjoyment of dinner.”
She studied him then yanked her gaze from his before the hypnotic pull of those blue-gray eyes could tempt her. “Thank you, my lord. I prepared the soup as well as the trifle.” She planted her gaze on the floor. One of these days she’d remember her place.
“Ah. And Miss Delacroix?”
“Yes?” She forced the word out of a tight throat.
“I meant what I said. Please look at me when I’m talking to you. I dislike downcast eyes from someone I find interesting, no matter their place in Society.”
“Yes, my lord.” She swept her gaze to his and stifled a gasp. Speculation darkened his expression.
“Good.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “More’s the pity I could not sample the dessert.”
Clarice couldn’t hold back a grin. “Not unless you wanted to lick it off Lady Drummond.” She snickered as the image flitted through her mind, but then her body warmed as the picture just as quickly shifted and she replaced her employer in the fantasy scenario. She cleared her throat and shoved the thoughts away. “Be careful though. It’s said she has the tendency to be quite bitter and horrible.”
Lord Swandon didn’t respond, merely kept his gaze fixed on her and quirked an eyebrow. Did he not condone a bit of idle prattle or did he keep his own council for lack of
interest or facts?
An uncomfortable silence sprang between them. Clarice wished for something to occupy her hands, but finding nothing except her abandoned cup of tea on the table, she scrabbled for it. Once she curled her fingers around the porcelain, she brought the cup to her lips. Lord Swandon watched her every movement with mild amusement lurking in his eyes. What did he think about? After taking a gulp of the lukewarm beverage, she set down her cup. “Would you care for a cup of tea, my lord? I can make a fresh pot.” The thought of sitting down with him to a proper cup of tea gripped her mind. Would he partake of niceties like chatting about the weather or the political climate of England, or would he pass the time in grim silence like so many of his contemporaries—not that they would ever condone taking tea with a servant stuck between classes.
“No thank you, Miss Delacroix. I’m quite content for the moment.” He pushed off the wall and came a few steps closer to her. “I’m puzzled by something. Would it be terribly indecent of me to speak my mind?”
“I don’t see why not. After all, we’re both conducting a conversation here. Outside of you throwing me onto the table and having your way with me, we haven’t done or said anything untoward.” Heat swept into her cheeks at her frank speaking as well as the idea. Never before had a man interested her in that way despite her mother teaching her the finer points of how to flirt with a man or touch him in a manner designed to tease. “I mean, it’s not as if we don’t have an audience should our conversation take too bold a turn.” And it won’t. She wasn’t her mother. Clarice jerked a thumb toward the closed dining room door. “Most likely the girls have their ears pressed to the wood, listening.”
“Indeed. It wouldn’t do to give them a show.”
That eyebrow rose again. Insecurity crept in to take up residence every time he did that. Lord Swandon stroked a hand along his jaw as if he contemplated what she’d blurted out, then he held her gaze. “If you are a companion to Lady Drummond, why do you insist on hiding yourself away in the kitchens? Is that not beneath your station?”
“My station?” A laugh sailed past her lips before she could recall it. “That’s a bit of a conundrum it itself, my lord. I have no appropriate place due to the circumstances of my birth.” She ran a fingertip around the rim of her teacup. “I live between worlds. I’m neither a proper member of the aristocracy, yet neither am I a full servant. I’m at once good enough to rub elbows with the upper class if dinner numbers are uneven, but too good to spend all my time below stairs.”
“Ah, I see. Not good enough to marry into the Quality, but not common enough to sleep in the servants’ quarters.”
Her breath caught to hear her situation summed up so succulently. “I suppose.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “As a result, I feel most comfortable in the kitchens and take refuge here when Lady Drummond becomes trying.” He didn’t need to know just yet of her employer’s true colors. If their paths crossed again, she’d be honor bound to inform him.
“How odd, yet in a small way, I do understand.” He narrowed his eyes while tapping a fingertip against his chin. “I’ve often wanted to run away and hide from my duties. Why do you feel such need?”
Clarice shrugged. Why indeed? A smidge taken aback at his interest, she frowned as she contemplated his question. “I understand food. It does what I want it to do and it doesn’t judge me. My creations please people. They smile when they eat, and I’m happy when they do. Did you not enjoy the meal?” At his nod, she continued. “Then, what more can I ask out of life?” She heard the lilt of the French accent in her voice, and smiled. I am interesting and unique. I do not care if he scoffs.
“What of marriage or children? Do you not want at least those two things other women value?”
Clarice sat in her chair once more. Her heart squeezed since she was well-familiar with this particular problem in society. “That is one of the drawbacks of being between classes. Who of gentle breeding would marry a lord’s bastard child once that tarnished word got ‘round?” She mentally berated herself for the slip. It could ultimately harm her, perhaps devalue her in his eyes, but she rushed on. “Or who among the servant class would dare to fall in love with a woman who has a tenuous tie to the Quality?” She stared at him with her chin set in a familiar stance of defiance. Let him think what he wanted. She wasn’t ashamed of her heritage, just regretful she couldn’t bury it and move forward.
“Ah, then that is what you meant when you hinted about not being a proper member of the aristocracy. I’ll wager your father was, or still is, in the Peerage, correct?” When she nodded, he again clasped his hands behind his back, the perfect image of a former military man. “How do you know of your father?”
Clarice’s cheeks burned under his unwavering scrutiny. “My mother told me who he is before she died. I had no reason to doubt her word.”
“Ah, then he is still alive.”
“Yes.” She swallowed around the ball of silly tears in her throat. The last thing she wanted to do was admit what her mother really was, so she grasped onto the brighter side of the truth, the part that made her proud, deep down. It wouldn’t matter if her kitchen friends heard. No one would believe them if the story leaked. Even to her it sounded too much the fairy tale at times. “In France, my mother was a daughter of a comte.” A whoosh of air expelled the word from her tight throat.
Interest lit his arresting eyes. “Why not claim that titled bloodline instead of one where you’ve ended a bastard?”
“The English, as a rule, are not overly impressed by anything French at the moment, unless it’s fashion or food. Then they manage to turn a blind eye at the atrocities committed against their countrymen at the hands of mine.”
One corner of his mouth tilted upward. “In this you are correct. However, please reconsider your ancestry. The granddaughter of a comte is nothing to sneeze at.”
“True, but that would provide no end of other complications to my currently complicated life. I want to make my own way in the world.” She stifled the urge to blurt out the reason why it was so important to her.
“Stubborn in every aspect, aren’t you? Most women of my acquaintance are more than willing to grasp at any straw to further their advantage. I’m glad you’ve chosen to be different.”
“Thank you, I think.” He’d managed to surprise her yet again.
He chuckled, and the sound stirred her soul, planted the hope that she was better than she’d let everyone tell her. “If I may, can you name the man who fathered you?”
Clarice looked over her shoulder at the closed door that separated her from the kitchen staff. It might have been her imagination, but she swore it grew silent behind that door, as if they listened with baited breath for her answer. She rolled her eyes. “I’d rather not say his name.” She didn’t know him well, and it would be her word against his if the rumors happened to leak into the Ton.
“That is your prerogative, of course.” It didn’t appear he cared either way for all his expression didn’t change.
“You think I display a lack of manners since I’m not willing to give you the information you ask for.” She frowned. “I can assure you, that’s not the case.”
“I thought nothing of the sort. Class may divide the masses but manners shouldn’t be the determining factor of why they’re divided. In your case, manners have no bearing on the subject matter.”
What difference did it make which class had more manners? Clarice shook her head, very much out to sea, yet without flirting, she was uncertain how to converse with a man. “It shouldn’t, yet it often is. Just look at the deplorable state of Parliament if you don’t believe me.” He was like all the rest of her supposed betters. He could care less what divided them as long as he didn’t have to take responsibility for it.
“Oh?” His eyes glittered. “How so?”
She sucked in a breath. The mood between them had changed. Instead of easy conversation, tension filled the air. “The Peerage and Parliament need to look out for the commoners. T
he divide between classes is steep and dreadful.” The longer she talked, the louder her voice became. “The poor cannot make a living, and every day it grows worse while the titled continue to throw money out as if it’s dirty wash water. To my way of thinking, not one man in government gives a fig for the people of England. As long as their bellies are full and the roof over their heads doesn’t leak and their cocks are sated, they’ll continue to waste time in pointless arguments—not for the good of the people but merely because it’s a duty they cannot escape.”
Throughout her speech, Lord Swandon’s face reddened and his eyes roiled as she imagined an angry sea would look like. He cut her speech off with a gesture. “Enough, Miss Delacroix. In this matter, you and I are destined to be on opposite sides of opinion.”
Belatedly, Clarice realized he probably sat in Parliament and she’d insulted him in one of the worst ways a person could. Her mouth fell slightly open. “My lord, I apologize—”
“Don’t patronize me by apologizing for something you feel passionate about. We all have opinions. You are entitled to voice yours, but I do not need to agree.” He gave her a small bow from the waist. “I’m afraid I need to bid you adieu for the evening. The dinner was lovely as was the conversation. Thank you for making the effort.”
As quickly and silently as he arrived, he departed the kitchen. Clarice sagged against the wall with a hand pressed to her quaking stomach. Merciful heavens, if I live to my next birthday despite my free speaking, it will be a miracle. Lord Swandon was a handsome eyeful and an interesting conversationalist. Too bad she’d never see him again.
Chapter Three
Felix rattled his newspaper in the hopes his female relatives would take the hint he wished to dine in silence over luncheon. They did not. Instead, his mother and Charlotte prattled on about only God knew since Felix hadn’t paid them the slightest attention. He’d merely known the noise of said talk annoyed him to no end. When he folded down a corner of the paper and peered at his sister, who didn’t pause in her jabber, he cleared his throat.
Darrington 01 - Marriage Minded Lord Page 3