Devilish Games 0f A Virtuous Lady (Steamy Historical Romance)

by Scarlett Osborne

  Before Algernon could make sense of it, he was standing at the top of the stairs that led down to the kitchen. His fingers tightened around the doorframe.

  What in hell am I doing?

  He was rather sure he’d just made the decision not to think of her any longer. Miscalculated invoices and all that…

  Still, he reasoned, he was here now, for better or for worse, and surely it would be remiss of him not to see how his new employee was faring. A quick thank you and good evening, of course. A thing of courtesy. Nothing more.

  Algernon made his way down the stairs. The clattering in the kitchen grew louder with each step.

  He realized his heart was thumping. Realized he was holding his breath. How was it possible, he wondered, that this fragile scrap of a girl might have such control over his body?

  He’d never experienced such a thing before. He had loved his wife, yes. Dearly and completely. Lying with Charlotte had been a thing of joy and passion. His body had responded almost instantly to her touch, and he’d often found himself thinking of her as the workday drew to a close. But he had never felt his breath leave him like this when he had approached her. Charlotte had never left him feeling jittery with anticipation, the way he felt now, creeping down the servants’ passage to see Molly Cooper.

  At least, he hoped it was Molly Cooper. Finding Margaret hunched over the soup pots would be a disappointment Algernon could rather do without.

  It was not Margaret.

  Through the open door, he could see Miss Cooper standing at the bench, scrubbing hard at the roasting dish. Her sleeves were pushed up above her elbows and her apron blotchy with oil.

  Algernon had never seen anything quite so lovely.

  He was suddenly aware of how improper it was for him to be down here. This part of the house was the domain of his staff. A place that belonged to them. A place the Marquess was not supposed to venture.

  I ought to leave.

  But as he turned, the floorboard creaked beneath his feet. Miss Cooper turned abruptly.

  “Oh,” she gasped. “My Lord. I…” She pressed a thin hand to her chest.

  “I’m sorry,” said Algernon, pushing open the door and stepping inside the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He hesitated. “May I come in?”

  She smiled. “Of course, My Lord. This is your house.”

  My house, yes.

  But the thought didn’t stop him from feeling as though he was somewhere he ought not be.

  He stepped inside. Stood a foot away from Miss Cooper. In the faint glow of the lamp, he could see the freckles sprinkled across her nose. Saw that strand of blonde hair clinging to one cheek, just the way he had imagined it might.

  “I heard you down here,” he began huskily. “I thought I’d see how you were faring.”

  Miss Cooper smiled. “Very good, My Lord. Everyone has been most kind. Very helpful.”

  “And the work? You are managing well enough?”

  “Oh yes,” she gushed. “I’m managing just fine.” Her eyes were alight. “Quite well.”

  Algernon found himself smiling. He felt certain Margaret wouldn’t give such a glowing report of Miss Cooper’s cooking skills. The bread he’d eaten at supper that night was as flat as a pancake and as solid as a brick. By far the worst bread he had ever eaten. And yet, he had found himself smiling the entire time.

  “And Margaret?” he asked. “I do hope she is not being too difficult.”

  Miss Cooper lowered her eyes a little, the smile not leaving her face. “Margaret is…”

  Algernon chuckled. “I’m sorry about her. She can be something of a dragon. Try not to let her get to you.”

  That smile…

  It seemed to reach through to his very core. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was her lips he was staring at, Algernon realized. The soft, pink curl of her lips. And he was not just staring at them, he was imagining how they might feel against his own.

  The realization caught him by surprise. When was the last time he had thoughts of such a nature?

  He tried to shake them away. Such thoughts were simply not appropriate. She was his kitchen hand. She had come here expecting work, not to be ogled by the Marquess.

  But they were difficult thoughts to push away. And they left a warmth inside him he had forgotten he was capable of feeling. She left a warmth inside him. How he longed to take a step closer to her.

  And when was the last time, Algernon wondered, that he had longed for a lady? That part of him that desired and fantasized and ached for another person’s touch had been locked away after Charlotte had died.

  But it was locked away no longer. In spite of himself, he found his eyes drifting to the top of Miss Cooper’s bodice. Found himself thinking of how it might feel to run a finger over that creamy skin. How it might feel to slide a hand inside her stays and have the firm curve of her breasts straining against his palm. To have her body pressed against his, to have her touch him in ways he had not been touched for more than a decade.

  He swallowed heavily.

  Good Lord. So much for a simple “thank you and good evening”…

  He felt a tug in his groin.

  Hell, I need to leave at once. Leave before this lovely, innocent creature sees how profoundly she is affecting me.

  As Algernon began to garble something of a good night, he heard brusque footsteps clicking their way down the passage. Margaret appeared in the kitchen with a dish cloth in her hand, shattering the spell Molly Cooper had cast over him.

  Algernon had never been so glad to see Margaret in his life.

  Her wolfish eyes darted between him and Miss Cooper. “Can I help you, My Lord?” she said, her voice cold and expectant.

  Algernon thought to cobble together an excuse.

  What am I doing? I’m the master of the house. I don’t have to answer to my staff.

  If he wished to see how his new kitchen maid was faring, that was entirely his prerogative.

  Standing here lusting after the woman, however, is not quite so appropriate.

  “I’m quite all right, Margaret,” he said shortly. “I’ll leave you both to finish your work.”

  Margaret gave a slow, untrusting nod. Miss Cooper flashed him a smile, then turned hurriedly back to the pot.

  “Good evening then, Margaret, Miss Cooper.” Algernon’s voice was caught in his throat. His disappeared from the kitchen, barely catching their replies.

  * * *

  “You and the Marquess seemed to be having quite a lovely time together last night,” said Margaret in the morning.

  She and Letitia were in the kitchen, preparing the meals for the day. Letitia had been ordered to peel a pile of potatoes, while Margaret was busying herself boiling cream for a lemon cheesecake.

  It had been the first time the cook had mentioned Lord Radcliffe’s odd visit to the kitchen. After he had left the previous evening, Margaret had wiped down the benches in stony silence.

  The coldness in her words made Letitia’s shoulders tense. She kept her eyes on the vegetables. “Lord Radcliffe was simply making sure I’d settled in all right,” she said. Her voice came out softer than she had intended. She knew she had not done anything wrong. Knew there was no reason for Margaret to be upset with her. But she did not want to create conflict between herself and the cook. Conflict was something Letitia hated. And she knew that if she wished to, Margaret could make her life very difficult indeed.

  How I wish I could learn to stand up for myself…

  It was something Letitia Caddy had never been able to do. At least, not until it came to marrying the Duke. It gave her a flicker of hope that perhaps standing up for herself might be something Molly Cooper could learn how to do.

  “Making sure you’re settling in all right,” Margaret snorted. “And when did he ever think to do that for anyone else?”

  Letitia frowned. Perhaps it was unusual for Lord Radcliffe to have visited her in the kitchen last night. Perhaps it was something the Marquess wou
ld not usually do. She had so little experience with such things she couldn’t be sure. But Margaret’s reaction to the whole affair seemed to give her an answer.

  Though Letitia had not let herself dwell on it, she had felt, somehow, as though there had been more to Lord Radcliffe’s visit than a simple checking in. He had looked at her in a way no one had ever looked at her before. A way that said she was wanted. Needed. A way that made her feel at once both precious and intensely, breathtakingly vulnerable.

  And she had not wanted it to end.

  “Sage,” Margaret said suddenly.

  Letitia looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’re out of sage,” said Margaret. “Go to the market and fetch some more.”

  Letitia nodded, grateful for an excuse to escape the stifling atmosphere of the kitchen. She took the small basket from the shelf and looked shyly back at Margaret. “The market,” she said, her cheeks coloring with shame. “Can you remind me how to get there?”

  Chapter 7

  After two wrong turns and three instances of stopping to ask passers-by for directions, Letitia found herself back at the market. It was busy in the late morning, the air filled with scents of bread and meat, and the constant hollering of the stall owners. Letitia eyed the toy-maker’s stand as she passed, thinking of the men who had sought to take Harriet.

  The men who inadvertently sent me on this dizzying adventure…

  She pushed her way into the crowd, the basket pressed against her side. The bright colors of the market were just as overwhelming as they had been the first time she had visited, standing out starkly against the gray of the city. She wove her way past spice-merchants and bakers and cobblers, searching for the grocer’s stall.

  Then she stopped walking. Froze.

  That man. I know him.

  Standing on the edge of the marketplace was one of her father’s footmen. No doubt the Baron had sent him out looking for his runaway daughter. Letitia buried herself deeper into the crowd and made her way to one of the thick stone pillars that rose up behind the stalls. She pressed herself against it. From there she could see the footman going from stall to stall, speaking with the traders.

  What is that in his hand?

  A portrait, she realized sickly. A pocket-sized painting of her that had sat on the mantle in her parents’ room. The thought brought a swell of guilt, but it was quickly pushed out by panic. If the footman found her here, she would be dragged back to the Mullins manor. Dragged down the aisle to marry the Duke.

  She had to leave. But she had not yet purchased the sage for Margaret. Letitia was unsure which would be worse: being forced into the Duke of Banfield’s marriage bed or returning to Margaret’s kitchen empty-handed.

  She pulled her hood up over her blonde hair and walked with her eyes down. On the edge of her vision, she could see the footman making his way towards the cobbler. Were there more of her father’s men here, she wondered? Did footmen travel in packs? Her heart was speeding.

  She edged her way through the market, keeping herself hidden within the throngs of people. She let out her breath in relief at the sight of the grocer’s stall. She hurried towards it and quickly bought the sage. As she turned to leave, her basket swung into the apples piled up on the table, sending them tumbling across the ground. People whirled around to look.

  And Letitia ran. She raced out of the marketplace and down the street, ignoring the angry shouts of the grocer.

  She had not run since she was a little girl. The feel of it was exhilarating. With her skirts in her fist and her basket knocking against her side, she tore into the streets, weaving her way past carriages and vendors and surprised passers-by. But not having run since she was a little girl meant that Letitia was not able to keep it up for long. Barely two blocks from the market, she stopped on a street corner and hunched over, trying to gulp down air, her chest straining against her stays.

  I have to keep running. I’m not far enough away.

  Her legs and lungs blazing, she set off again, in what she hoped was the direction of the Radcliffe manor. In her panic, she had not stopped to take note of which way she was running. Was this the right street? She had little thought of it.

  A swell of relief rushed over her as she turned into a street she recognized. She stopped to glance over her shoulder. If she had been followed, there was no way she could go back to the manor. No way she could let that footman know where she was staying. But she saw no one. If the footman had caught sight of her at the market— which she knew was a likely possibility after the debacle with the apples— he had not followed her here.

  She tore through the gates of the Radcliffe manor and slipped through the servants’ entrance, heaving a sigh of relief as the door closed heavily behind her.

  * * *

  The sight of her father’s footman had Letitia rattled. Had he seen her? Would he go back to the Baron and report what had happened?

  She took her bread and cheese up to her attic again that afternoon. Her thoughts had been racing since she had returned from the market. She needed a little solitude to try and calm herself. A little quiet to try and steady her thoughts.

  Letitia sat on her bed, pulling her bread roll to pieces. She had little appetite.

  Despite the roundabout journey she had taken to get there, the market was not far from the Radcliffe manor. If the Baron’s footman had seen her dressed as a kitchen hand, he would know it was likely she had found work at a house close to the market. Perhaps she was not as well-hidden as she had hoped.

  And then there was the thought of her father. Letitia had known he would be worried, but the sight of his footman trawling the city for her had been a stark reminder of such a thing.

  She imagined the Baron pacing in front of the hearth in the parlor, the way he did when he was anxious. Could imagine him with a glass in his fist, talking at the Baroness, while she sat silently in her armchair, nodding in agreement.

  Letitia hated the thought of causing her parents such distress.

  Perhaps I ought to write to them. Let them know I’m safe.

  She could do so without revealing where she was, surely.

  No, she decided. The Baron had his ways. He would trace the letter back to where it had been sent. His footmen would be on the Marquess’s doorstep within days. She’d be dragged out of this place in shame to become the Duchess of Banfield. And even worse than that, Lord Radcliffe would discover she had been lying to him all along.

  “Miss Cooper?”

  Letitia was glad to hear Harriet’s voice. Glad for the distraction from her tangled thoughts. She pulled open the door of her attic room and smiled down at the girl.

  “What are you doing?” Harriet asked.

  Letitia hesitated.

  I’m picturing the look of disappointment on your father’s face when he learns I am a liar…

  “Taking my nuncheon,” she told Harriet, gesturing to the plate of bread and cheese sitting on the side table.

  “In here?”

  Letitia pushed past the question. “And what are you doing? Don’t you have classes with Miss Scott?”

  “Classes are finished,” Harriet announced happily. “Do you want to read some more of the story about the pirates with me?”

  Letitia smiled. “That would be lovely.”

  Harriet grinned. She grabbed Letitia’s hand and tugged her out of the attic.

  Letitia frowned. “Where are we going?”

  “My room, of course.” Harriet marched her down the stairs.

  “Oh, Harriet,” Letitia spluttered. “I’m not sure I ought to…”

  The girl grinned. “Don’t be silly. You can come in my room any time you like.” She pushed open the door. “Do you like it?”

  Harriet’s bedroom was painted pale purple, with a large curtained bed in the center and a wide window looking out over the gardens. Beneath the glass was a narrow window seat, decorated in embroidered cushions and a pink crocheted blanket. It reminded Letitia very much of the way she
had decorated her own bedchamber back when she was a child.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said with a smile.

  Harriet hurried to the side table and grabbed the book. She handed it to Letitia, then proceeded to pull the pillows and cushions from her bed and hurl them onto the floor. She gathered them all up into a giant, nest and flopped onto them in a most unladylike fashion. She grinned up at Letitia, her skirts tangled around her knees. “Come on. Sit! It’s so comfortable!”