by Lily Maxton
“Certain things aren’t said around children, Mrs. Davis. I respect you.”
Her eyes widened. It felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. “Do you?” she asked, more invested in the answer than she would ever admit.
He laughed, a humorless sound, as he lifted his hand in a careless gesture. But he quickly let the hand fall, and it hit his knee with a harsh slap. “You are good at your work. That’s worthy of respect, is it not?”
“It is,” she agreed, feeling the last vestiges of her physical longings slip away with a pang.
“You’re having trouble with the feminine and the masculine,” he said suddenly.
She started. “What?” she blurted out. The first thought that came to her mind was that he meant the feminine and the masculine meeting in the most primitive way.
“The feminine and masculine articles,” he said.
A weak laugh escaped her. He was talking about German. She felt like a complete fool. She hoped he couldn’t read her expression. “How shall I fix it?”
“I’ll think of something,” he answered.
“Hopefully it shan’t be too painful,” she replied.
He smiled, a slightly crooked smile—the first she’d seen. For an instant, her heart simply ceased to beat, the blood frozen in her veins. His smile was strangely boyish—awkward and unused. Tentative, like he wasn’t quite sure how it would be received. Which was ridiculous. Lord Riverton was never tentative about anything.
“An hour has passed,” she said, suddenly desperate to get away from him and that heartbreaking smile.
“You do believe me?” he said.
“About what?”
“The maid…whoever she is. I never touched her.”
Cassandra nodded. “I believe you.” She hesitated, and then forged ahead, “But do you care?”
“Care?” he echoed.
“That she may have been hurt in your household.”
“Yes, I care…if this means she’s too distraught to do her work—”
“That’s not what I meant.” She shook her head roughly. Even as she spoke, she knew what she was saying was silly. Perhaps there were some households where servants and masters formed close bonds, but it certainly wasn’t normal. Why should she hold Lord Riverton up to a standard that wasn’t even a standard? Except, apparently, she did, because she continued speaking. “These people are like your family, Lord Riverton. They live in your home. They eat your food. You’ve known some of them for years. You don’t have to be friends with them. It doesn’t even matter if you like them very much. But I should at least hope you care a little about their fate.”
Lord Riverton looked contemplative after her little speech, but Cassandra only experienced a flash of despair. She realized she’d been silently asking him another question—do you care about your servants? Do you care about me?
He probably didn’t. And even if he did, a little, it would never be enough to bridge the vast distance between them.
Chapter Ten
“Cassandra,” Henry said slowly when she finished reading, savoring the sprawl of her name on his tongue. She was still having some trouble with the feminine and masculine—he’d thought of a way to help her but it could wait until later. Right now, he was far more concerned with the mantel clock and how time passed so quickly when she was here.
She lifted her head. He was caught once again, startled by the depths in her gaze, the compelling blue of her eyes.
And, as he always did, he tried his best to tell himself this was a fluke, some trick of the sunlight, but he felt like a man repeating a lie he’d been told and desperately trying to believe it.
“In the myth, Cassandra was cursed by Apollo. A prophetess destined never to be believed. I believe she went mad and died tragically—are you certain your parents read the story?”
She smiled wryly. “I suspect they didn’t. Or if they had, they simply liked the name enough to ignore the myth.” For a moment she was silent, then she spoke again, quietly. “I used to pretend I was a Greek princess, like my namesake.”
Something about imagining Cassandra as a girl, playing make-believe, dug into his skin, made him want to know more about her childhood, even though it was irrelevant. “And what kind of princess were you?”
“A selfish one,” she said. “As the oldest, I was always sharing my toys and my clothes. Making sure the younger ones were looked after. So, I pretended I had no siblings but had all the toys and dresses and riches in the world, and my parents never, ever made me share.”
He was unexpectedly charmed by this new vision of her—a girl who coveted, who wanted things of her own, even when she forced herself to be generous. His lips quirked upward, almost involuntarily. Her eyes focused on the motion, on his mouth, before she glanced away. In another woman, he might have taken that lingering glance for interest, but she was so contained he couldn’t be sure.
And yet, despite his uncertainty about the gesture, desire tightened his body, as unwelcome as it was strong. He imagined her hair falling down around naked, creamy skin—reclining on a bed with heat in her eyes and welcome in her touch. The hard beat of his pulse resounded through his body.
He was tempted to shake his head with the vigor of a wet dog. He hadn’t yet sunk to lusting after servants, and he wasn’t about to start now.
As he warred with himself, Cassandra stood, drawing him back to the present. He nearly sighed as he looked at the clock. Exactly an hour had passed. She never stayed a second longer.
And even if that was a tinge of disappointment in his chest, he wouldn’t ask her to remain.
After she was gone, his restlessness had him pulling a stack of parchment toward him, intent on distraction. Once he started writing, he didn’t stop until several hours had passed and his hand ached. He carefully placed the assembled parchment scraps on the table and rang for a maid.
This was the first time in a long while that he remembered being so focused on a task, so carefully precise.
It wasn’t that he didn’t do work—he had plenty to occupy him in running Blakewood Hall. And he did his job well, since his own wealth depended on the prosperity of the estate, which in the end, boiled down to the productivity and wellbeing of the tenants who farmed his land. But he had help with those goals—a secretary for the writing of hundreds of letters that he dictated, a land steward to help him manage the estate, other servants that went down through the lines.
This was the first intensive chore he’d undertaken on his own in some time, simply because he wanted to.
The maid who answered the call was the blond one who’d come in to light the fire when he’d been with Mrs. Davis. The one with the wary eyes. He wondered if this was the maid who’d been attacked.
She curtseyed.
“I’d like you to take these scraps of parchment,” he said, beckoning her closer when she stayed rooted to the floor about ten feet away. “On the back the word is written in English for you, but I want the German word facing outward. Place them on the objects they name.” He frowned. “You can read, can’t you?”
She looked a little puzzled, but she lifted the parchment carefully. “Yes, my lord.”
He glanced at her. “What is your name?”
“Kitty, my lord.”
“Kitty,” he repeated, surveying her. He could remember that—her eyes were a light green like a cat’s eyes. He paused as he realized what he’d just thought. It didn’t matter if he knew her name. He didn’t care about her name.
But Mrs. Davis’s voice rang through his mind like a bloody conscience, telling him that he should at least care a little, even if he wasn’t about to give the woman the coat off his back. And he could do that, couldn’t he? Caring a little didn’t sound so very difficult. It wouldn’t actually require anything of him, other than a few questions here and there.
“How long have you been here, Kitty?”
She stared at him suspiciously, and he wanted to roll his eyes, though he refrained. “Two years,
my lord.”
“And do you like working here?”
She nodded.
Well, there. That didn’t sound like a woman who’d been accosted. “Very good.”
He spotted one of the parchment slips on the floor and bent down. She jerked back as though he’d reached out to strike her. He picked it up, taking in her wide eyes and the strain around her mouth speculatively. “I dropped one,” he said calmly, reaching it out to her.
When she lifted her hand to take the parchment, it was shaking.
A flash of anger shot through him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he snapped.
She sucked in a breath, her lower lip trembling, and he closed his eyes and prayed for patience. He needed to remember that not every woman was Mrs. Davis. Not every woman was as strong as she was.
“Forgive me,” he said reluctantly. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”
Kitty inclined her head. She still looked wary, but at least she wasn’t on the verge of tears.
“Is there anything you wish to speak to me about?” he asked.
A soft huff of laughter was expelled from her lips. “No, my lord.”
He nodded. “Very well. Go awa—” He caught himself, remembering Mrs. Davis’s exception to that choice of wording. Was it his fault that telling his servants to go away was a more efficient phrase than some drawn-out polite request? Somehow, he didn’t think Mrs. Davis would take well to that excuse. Damn that woman—she was working her way into his thoughts far too often. “You may go, Kitty,” he said gruffly.
The maid hesitated, and he had to keep himself from snapping at her for not following his order immediately. “May I ask what these are for?” she asked.
He stared at her, and then his gaze drifted down to her outstretched hands, which cradled at least a hundred pieces of paper with his broad, scrawling script flowing over them.
“They’re for… They’re for Mrs. Davis,” he said simply.
Which, he realized, was the exact truth.
Chapter Eleven
The servants’ hall was a neat, bare room with one long table—not made from the glossy mahogany of the main dining room, but a plainer, cheaper wood—surrounded by about fifteen chairs. The walls were undecorated, and the fireplace was simple stone, though a warm fire blazed within it.
The austerity of the room was why Cassandra immediately noticed something was different when she stepped inside for the evening meal. She halted when she realized what it was—little squares of parchment about two or three inches long, were stuck on things everywhere. One was on the back of a chair. One was on the table. There was one on each type of dinnerware—plates, forks, knives, spoons, teacups, saucers, teapots. There was one on the window and another on the curtain. She looked behind her and frowned. And the door.
The servants who were already in the room glanced at her, their eyes speculative.
Kitty came in, nearly running into her back.
“There you are, ma’am,” she said. “Is it all right?”
“Is what all right?” Cassandra asked, completely baffled.
“The words, Mrs. Davis. He said they were for you. I had a devil of a time trying to figure out how to stick them…in the end I used a spot of Flander’s glue on each one, even though it’s only ever used for wall hangings. I hope it doesn’t ruin anything…”
Cassandra had stopped listening at “He said they were for you.” She moved forward slowly, walking through a softly lit dream. She paused at the edge of the table, lifting an empty teacup. The parchment read die Tasse in Lord Riverton’s handwriting, which she recognized from the broadness of the letters. She glanced at the plate and then the spoon—each labeled with their German names and articles.
“How many of these are there?” Cassandra asked quietly. She had a peculiar feeling…her body was numb, but she could still feel her heart racing. In fact, her heart seemed to be the only thing that felt real.
“Too many,” Kitty said. “At least a hundred, I think. There are a lot in other rooms, too.”
Mr. Perkins, the valet, who’d been spending most of his time in the servants’ quarters since Lord Riverton rarely needed his services, stepped forward. “They’re all in his lordship’s handwriting,” he said. “I checked.”
Cassandra lifted her head to meet his gaze, which was dark and perceptive. Out of all of them, the valet probably knew Lord Riverton the best.
“Mr. Faulkner told me to keep his patient occupied,” Cassandra said levelly. “I am simply following his orders.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Perkins said. “I would guess this took his lordship a long time.”
She tamped down a sudden rush of anger. Not only for herself but for Lord Riverton. Their relationship, which was entirely innocent, was no one else’s business. Though all of the other servants seemed to think it was.
“Then he was well occupied,” Cassandra said.
Mr. Perkins looked irritated by her dry remark. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do anything like this for another woman.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but Mary beat her to it.
“Come now, Mr. Perkins. What are you suggesting? It’s not love poetry…it’s just German words.” She let out a snort. “And anyway, can you imagine Lord Riverton having a dalliance with a servant? He has the most beautiful courtesans in London as his mistresses. I don’t think he’d have much interest in our Mrs. Davis.”
Mr. Perkins appeared to contemplate that, and then nodded once.
Cassandra didn’t know if she should be relieved or thoroughly insulted. Her hand circled around her wrist, squeezing tightly, as she remembered Julia Forsythe, who was, indeed, the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Mary was right. Cassandra was the last sort of woman Lord Riverton would look to slake his lust upon.
If only the knowledge didn’t gnaw away at her gut like termites.
“If we are done with this nonsense, I should like to sit down for dinner,” she said briskly, taking her place at the table.
The other servants hastily sat down, some averted their gaze, some glanced at her, still looking a little intrigued by the matter. She felt Mr. Taylor’s gaze on her most keenly. But she kept her chin high. It was only when the others were occupied with their meal that she brought one of the labeled pieces of silverware forward—die Gabel, the fork, and let her fingers trace around the loops of Lord Riverton’s careful handwriting.
She couldn’t believe he’d done all this…for her.
Chapter Twelve
After dinner, Cassandra met with Mr. Taylor in the housekeeper’s room for their weekly card game. When she went inside, he was already sitting by her small desk. He smiled when she came in, shuffling a deck of cards between his hands.
She was the only servant who would agree to play with him, and she understood why—he always won. If she didn’t know how respectable he was, she would have suspected him of cheating.
“So…you are having German lessons from Lord Riverton,” he said without preamble as she took the chair across from him. “That is honestly a statement I never expected to say.”
She smiled blandly and folded her hands in her lap. She’d known this was coming. She’d already braced herself. “Only on the surgeon’s orders to keep Lord Riverton from sinking into melancholy. Which you managed to wriggle your way out of,” she added pointedly. Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely upset with him for it.
“So you took it upon yourself instead of finding someone else?”
“Who else would do it? I seemed to be the most viable option,” she said mildly.
He watched her with his kind, dark eyes for several moments, making her want to shift in her chair like a guilty child. “I begin to suspect I might have been premature,” he said, “when I assumed your stiffness around Lord Riverton was due to dislike.”
Her heart lurched painfully. She forced a smile. “To what else would it be due?” she asked, feigning puzzlement.
He began to deal the cards for a game of piquet
. “I don’t know if it’s my place to guess,” he said, his hands moving deftly over the deck. “But tread carefully there.”
This was one of the reasons she’d worked so hard to hide her attraction to the marquess. She didn’t want the other servants, her friends, looking at her with pity, thinking she was a ninny to allow herself to be swept away in his spell. They all knew he would never return the sentiment. She glanced down and smoothed her skirt, taking a moment to gather her composure.
“Before we play cards,” she said quickly, and much more firmly, “there was a matter I wished to speak to you about. Kitty—”
He glanced at her sharply. “Kitty? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. At least, I think she’s fine,” she added. “Something she told me led me to believe that someone may have forced unwanted attentions on her.”
His back straightened. “Indeed?”
Disappointment filled her at the surprise in his face. She’d hoped Mr. Taylor might have some idea as to what had happened. “She won’t tell me who it is. I don’t know why. I don’t know if she’s scared, or perhaps she might even be trying to protect the man.”
“Don’t press her,” he said. “She might not want to relive it.”
She held her hands up. “I have no wish to press her, but if a man like that is working here, he must be dealt with.”
“How do you know he works here? Lord Riverton has enough guests…it could have been anyone.”
“That’s true enough,” she said. “I just wish I knew.”
“Kitty will come around,” he said, “if you don’t press her.”
She nodded, but the weight on her shoulders wouldn’t go away. “I suppose it’s the only thing I can do at this point. But I feel as if I’m not protecting her.”
“Ah, Mrs. Davis,” he said fondly. “Taking the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
She smiled slightly and shook her head. “Not the world,” she corrected. “Just Blakewood Hall. It’s…” She was going to say, it’s my home, but she stopped herself. Maybe the sentiment wasn’t unusual for a servant, but perhaps it was. She didn’t want Mr. Taylor tilting his head and looking at her with that fond smile, and having it be edged with pity.