Mrs. Potter shook her head. “He hasn’t maintained a carriage for years. All three of them are rusting away in the barn.”
“A horse then. I think I could manage side-saddle.”
“No horses either. He sold them after the accident.”
She said ‘the accident’ in a whisper as though the duke might hear her. Isabel understood why Mrs. Potter did as much. She had seen the pain on his face when she blurted out about his wife at dinner. It had been a dreadful moment and one she regretted.
“Is there anyone who will be worrying for you?” Mrs. Potter asked while she placed down the water bowl and laid the gown out on the bed. “If the weather breaks, I am sure Mr. Timms would not object to sending out a note.”
Isabel winced inwardly at the idea of the stout butler racing through the muddy woods to take a note to the village. Besides, no one would notice she was gone. “My father is away at present on some business. He gave the servants the time off as I do not really need looking after. So no one will worry for me.”
“Ah, well that is good news.” A strange sparkle entered the woman’s eyes.
Isabel could not help recall the housekeeper’s last words to her. Fall in love with His Grace.
Well, he might be handsome in an odd, gruff way but he would not be an easy man for any woman to fall in love with. Once one forgot about the eye and the shaggy beard, one could see a softness in his good eye and appreciate the broad shoulders and the strength of his features. She’d wager underneath that beard was a devastatingly handsome man. As it was, he was certainly at the attractive end of the scale. Far more handsome than say…Garth. Goodness, you could not even compare the two.
“Now let us take a look at that leg of yours.”
Mrs. Potter was down on the floor and lifting her borrowed nightgown before Isabel could say yes. She peeled off the linens and the woman winced.
“Is it terrible? Will I die?” Isabel blurted out.
Mrs. Potter laughed, sending her curls bouncing about her head. “No, my love, you will not die, not under my care at least. But if the rain continues, you shall not be walking home on that leg for a while.”
Isabel resisted the desire to flop back on the bed. “So I’m stuck here?”
“Come now, we’re not such terrible company, are we?”
“Oh no, not at all.” She bit her bottom lip when Mrs. Potter began cleaning the wound. “You and Mr. Timms and Mr. Lighthall have all been very welcoming but…”
“But our master is not so welcoming.”
“Well, yes.”
Mrs. Potter unwound some linen and bound her leg once more. “He takes a bit of getting used to, I’ll admit that.”
“But you like working for him? Truly?”
Mrs. Potter smiled. “Truly. He is a good master, in spite of his ways. Why, I am paid more generously than most and he gives me time off to visit with my sister and nephew whenever I ask. Not to mention all the help he sends to the well…” She waved a hand. “Well, never mind that.”
Isabel mused this. It was clear his few servants liked him. Why else stay in such a job in isolation, running a house that was far too big for them to run alone? Was there a good heart buried underneath those coarse manners and, well, rudeness?
“Have you worked for him all your life? You said you were a nanny for a while?”
“I was indeed.” A soft look entered the housekeeper’s eyes. “A nanny to the master himself. I was only your age when I came to work here. He was a handsome young boy but a rascal. Never really grew out of that until, well…” She finished dressing Isabel’s leg and stood. “All done.”
“Until what, Mrs. Potter?” Isabel asked, ignoring her freshly bandaged leg.
“Until the accident, my love.” She turned and scooped up the gown from the previous evening. “Now, will you need my help dressing.”
Isabel shook her head. She had no help at home and could manage well enough alone.
“What of your hair, would you like me to help?”
“I can manage, thank you.”
Though she did wonder if she should have accepted Mrs. Potter’s help simply to quiz her further. However, it was clear the housekeeper did not wish to discuss the accident. Isabel sighed inwardly. There was a story here and she so wanted to find out what it was but the duke would never release it. Perhaps Mr. Timms or Mr. Lighthall would tell her more.
“The morning meal shall be served in the breakfast room,” Mrs. Potter told her. “It’s the second door to the left of the hallway. Follow that along and it’s the third room on the right.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Potter. You’ve been very kind.”
“Not at all. It’s nice to have another woman about the place. Timms and Lighthall are not always the best of company, and they do bicker so.”
Isabel laughed at the image. It looked as though she might be here for a while longer if the weather continued and her leg did not heal quickly. There would be time for her to explore the house and find out more about the duke. And hopefully she could find that library. If she did not come away with any books for her trouble, she had to at least have a glance of the library. That would make this trip all worthwhile.
Chapter Six
A clatter from the breakfast room made Wilde pause on the way to the library. He twisted the doorknob and eased open the door an inch or so to peer through the gap. He could see Timms’ back to him while Lighthall stood on the other side of the small round table that occupied the center of the room.
“That is not how you do it,” Lighthall insisted. “I have been setting breakfast tables for my entire life. I think I should know.”
“Oh, your entire life,” Timms scoffed. “You were doing it when you were but a babe-in-arms, I suppose.”
“I’d wager I was a cleverer baby than you were,” was Lighthall’s response.
“Nonsense.” Wilde could see Timms try to make himself taller. “I was crawling by three months. I said my first word at only eight months.”
Lighthall snorted. “Well I was walking at seven months. I could say full sentences by nine months. Why, my mother hardly knew what to do with me. I was far too advanced for everyone.”
“If you are that clever, why are you merely a footman?” Timms pressed.
Wilde winced. The two men were always clashing over something but that was quite a low blow.
“Because” —Lighthall jutted out his chin—”I am not willing to climb the ladder by way of deceit.”
“Deceit?” Timms’ voice rose.
“Yes, deceit. You lie at every moment you can, simply to make yourself look better. If positions were based on true talent, I would have been butler long ago. But no. You are too busy lying to the master. Yes, Your Grace, you look excellent in that beard. No, Your Grace, the garden doesn’t look neglected.” Lighthall flung up his hands. “All lies.”
“Pffft.” Timms stepped around the table until he was almost toe to toe with the footman. It was an odd sight with the differences in height and stature. “I am as honest as the day is long. You just need an excuse to make up for your lack of achievement.”
Wilde scowled. Was his beard that terrible? Admittedly Timms was often pressing for him to neaten it up or trim it but it seemed a lot of effort when he wasn’t going to see anyone.
Shaking his head, Wilde chose his moment carefully. It was as they were eyeing each other up that he decided to intervene. Both men would be friends by the end of the day and the altercation forgotten but no doubt another argument would arise soon enough.
He stepped into the room and cleared his throat. Both men leapt back from one another and stood poker straight.
“What’s all this?” Wilde motioned to the set table complete with candlesticks and an elegant table cloth. It was the first time he’d seen the breakfast table laid in many years. For a while after Lilly’s death, the servants insisted on setting it but he would help himself to the food then retreat into the library. After more of the servants left, Lighthall b
egan bringing it straight to him.
“We thought—” both men started at once.
Timms cleared his throat. “We thought it would be a nice idea to set the table for Miss Beaumonte.”
“She is still here then?” It surprised Wilde that she had not fled in the middle of the night after his behavior. How he would explain it away he did not know. Perhaps he could not. Perhaps he was simply a beast after all. She would not understand why he needed to protect his library so fiercely, he was certain of that.
Lighthall nodded. “Mrs. Potter says the weather is too poor for her to return to the village, and her leg needs rest.”
Timms puffed out his chest. “I offered to take a note to her family but she says her father is away so no one will worry.”
Wilde pressed his lips together so as not to smile at the idea of the stout Timms racing through the woods on foot with a message. “I see.”
So Miss Beaumonte was to remain for a while. How long could a sore leg keep a woman in one place, though? She would be gone soon enough. Tomorrow, even if the weather cleared today. He waited for the wave of relief to wash over him but it did not. Instead, a strange pang struck him in the chest. If he were an older man, he’d be worried for his health but, alas, no it was the thought of Miss Beaumonte heading back to wherever she came from that did it. He’d almost rather it was a heart attack. A lot easier to deal with than some strange feelings about a stubborn, far too pretty woman.
This really would not do. First, she invaded his privacy, then she practically demanded he give her some of his property, and now she was creating odd pangs. He snatched up a plate and eyed the food laid precisely on the table.
Grabbing a fork, he scooped up several slices of bacon and put it on his plate. Lighthall and Timms eyed him. Ignoring them, he picked up a bread roll, scooped up a lump of butter and marmalade and turned to march out of the room.
He froze. The bread jumped off his plate, landed on the floor and rolled to stop at Miss Beaumonte’s feet. She peered down at the offending food and then up at him, one brow raised. A smile quirked on her lips as she bent to pick it up and hand it over.
“This is yours I believe.”
Wilde stared at the roll for too long. She wore another of his late wife’s gowns. The thin sheath of lace flowed over her body and the silk made her skin creamy and soft-looking. He swallowed hard.
Lighthall jumped forward and snatched the roll from Miss Beaumonte’s hand. “I’ll take that, miss.” He motioned to the breakfast table. “His Grace was about to sit down for breakfast, were you not, Your Grace?” He said the last part through clenched teeth.
“Um,” was all Wilde could manage.
Timms hastened forward and pulled back a chair. “Will you not join him?”
Miss Beaumonte swung an amused glance between them all before sitting. Wilde somehow forced himself to turn, place the plate on the table and sit opposite her.
Perhaps it was the fresh morning light that did it. He peered out of one of the three long windows that usually invited in the best of the morning sun. No, that was not it. The day was as damp and as grey as ever.
Maybe it was simply his terrible eyesight. If his good eye was going the way of the other, he’d be in trouble. No more reading for him. He looked to the painting on the wall—one of a hunting scene—and found he could make out all the details with ease. So his eye was fine.
Why then, had Miss Beaumonte, gone from being extremely pretty to something verging on beautiful. The sort of beautiful that made one’s heart skip a beat. The kind of attractiveness that made everyone’s head turn at a ball. The sort that men wrote poems of and lamented about in overly dramatic operas.
He found himself staring as she helped herself to a roll and cut it open to slather it with butter and jam. A little jam coated the end of her thumb and she put it to her mouth. He eyed the perfect cupid’s bow of her mouth and found himself imagining touching those lips with his own and tasting the blackcurrant from her mouth.
She glanced his way and he snapped his gaze away. He ignored the bread rolls. Knowing his luck, another would jump off his plate and he was already making a fool enough of himself as it was. He snatched up a pastry instead. A nice, long, flat one that would not be running anywhere.
“I suppose Mrs. Potter informed you that I cannot travel. You will have to forgive me for the inconvenience.”
Wilde could not decide whether she had forgotten his beastly behavior or had chosen to deliberately forget it, but he wasn’t entirely sure he could.
He cleared his throat. “Timms and Lighthall told me, yes.”
“I am sorry. I know you do not wish for my company.”
“No that is not…erm…” He gulped and stood, ignoring his plate of food. “Do forgive me. I have things of which to attend.” He gave a little bow and strode out of the breakfast room.
Wilde’s stomach grumbled in protest of leaving behind all that food but he doubted he’d have been able to eat a bite in front of her. He considered her wide-eyes and raised brows as he had stood. No doubt she was used to better manners than that. The chances were all eligible men in the village bowed and scraped to her. Why would they not? The opportunity for a marriage to a woman like her had to be appealing.
He strode into the library room and shut the door before pressing his back to it. She was right. He was beastly. Beastly manners and beastly behavior. He had no idea how to treat a woman anymore. In particular, he had no idea how to treat a woman who he was finding more attractive by the second.
Chapter Seven
Isabel stared at the space left behind by the duke. She understood he did not exactly want guests but she’d hardly expected him to dash off as though she were the big, scary beast of which the villagers spoke.
She contemplated her jam-covered roll and glanced at Lighthall who could only offer a mildly apologetic look.
Now, what exactly had she said? She frowned. She had uttered two sentences, both of which had been apologetic. Perhaps they were not contrite enough. Or maybe he was still angry at her about last night. Those words that had escaped her had been foul and horrible. He might have goaded her into saying them but she should have had more control.
She should apologize again. Yes, that was her best bet. She did not want her accusations of him being beastly lingering around anyway. After all, she did not really think that. Certainly, he was abrupt and he could do with learning how to deal with people better but flinging such words at him was almost unforgivable.
Almost but not quite, she hoped.
Under the watchful gaze of Lighthall, she finished her roll. Oh, he tried to be discrete as a well-trained footman would, blending into the background as though he were part of the wall but she caught his surreptitious glances.
After their gazes connected once more, she smiled at him. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Lighthall?”
“Most of my life, miss.” The reed-thin man offered a friendly smile. His eyes were crinkled with age but the strength of his jaw and the chiseled cheek bones lent him a dashing look. “My mother came to England to escape the war. Her papa was English you see. I found work here when I was but a boy and have been here ever since.”
“Your loyalty is to be commended.”
He made a dismissive sound. “You English speak of loyalty as if it never exists.”
She motioned to the empty room. “I take it that this house once boasted more than three servants?”
He nodded. “Indeed it did.”
“So I would have to assume that they did not have any loyalty.”
His eyes twinkled. “You would be correct, Miss Beaumonte.” He moved to gather up the duke’s plate. “His Grace treats his servants well enough but some could not tolerate his temper or reclusive ways. Others were frustrated by the tediousness of looking after one man. Many moved on to busier households. It is not for everyone, this isolation, but I find it suits me.”
“And you do not wish for a busier household?” Isab
el pressed.
“Of course I do. I would have it filled to the rafters. We would once again hold balls and see elegant ladies and gentlemen using this house as it was intended. But that is not to be, unless…”
“Unless?”
Mr. Lighthall shook his head. “Well, we can only hope, anyway.” He smiled. “Was the food to your liking? You have hardly eaten a morsel. Mrs. Potter shall not be pleased.”
“It was delicious. Please don’t let her think it was not,” she begged. “I am just not…um…that is…”
How on earth did one say they were not used to eating opposite a duke who stared at her as though he had never seen the likes of her before?
Mr. Lighthall gave a small nod. Whether he understood her, she did not know, but he understood something at least. Perhaps he thought that after last night’s fiery dialogue between her and his master that she could not eat in his presence.
“Can I help?” she offered, as he began to clear away the plates. Though her father was respectable enough, she rarely dined in fine houses. However, she knew that most houses this size would have a minimum of three footmen and yet Mr. Lighthall was doing it all alone.
He shook his head vigorously. “I would not dream of it.”
“I don’t mean to offend, Mr. Lighthall. I am not used to having little to do.”
“Why do you not seek out the library? There is plenty to do in there.” His friendly smile turned slightly mischievous, likely because he understood just as she did that his master might not be keen on her stepping foot in there.
However, the idea was planted. Before she left Blackmoor Abbey, she had to see that library. Simply had to.
After all, it was not like she was going to steal some books out from under his nose. All she planned to do was look.
“Have a good day, Mr. Lighthall,” she bid the footman as she left the breakfast room.
Though she had not figured out the entire layout of the house, she had a fine idea where the library was. She hastened across the main hallway and glanced left and right. The only sound that existed was the patter of rain on the front windows and her footsteps tapping across the tiled floor.
The Beast Who Loved Me: A Fairytale Retelling (Regency Fairy Twists Book 2) Page 4