“It’s true,” Pippa insisted, and turned to Mr. Dawson. “But within a week, she was dancing at my cousin’s wedding.”
“Fancy that.” Mr. Dawson’s brow wrinkled, but he was most polite.
Pippa’s nod was extravagant. “I promise you, Lord Westdale, I don’t mind a bit skipping the visit to Plumtree.” She thought for a moment then tugged her forelock, a deferential move that she’d seen the stable boy make on occasion. Unfortunately it pulled her wig slightly askew, so with a panicked look she gave a dramatic bow, managing to adjust her cap and hair while flourishing her arms. “Though you’re kind to be so thoughtful. And modest. You were going only for me.” She turned to Mr. Dawson and gave him a humble yet knowing smile. “I know I’m a loyal servant. As well as the best valet in England. But this is too much.”
Gregory watched the display with a measure of mild amusement completely outweighed by acute annoyance. “Yes, well, your grandmother might recover, but I have at least a dozen other reasons for visiting.”
Pippa nudged Mr. Dawson in the ribs. “My twelve cousins. My aunt and uncle had a passel of children, and still they took me on. My parents died young.” She heaved a great sigh. “In fact, Lord Westdale only hired me because he felt sorry for me. Now he watches after those cousins as if they were his own.”
“Yes, I do,” he said, “which is why I refuse to stay away. Let’s go.”
“But Westdale,” Marbury said, “you’re taking us to Thurston Manor. To hell with those cousins. They’re after your money, I have no doubt.”
“I don’t care what you think—Marbury,” Gregory said in the intense way that he knew made the round little man livid. “Hopefully, by tomorrow afternoon you’ll be ensconced in a comfortable hired coach.”
“While you attend to those greedy brats in Plumtree.” Marbury scoffed and waved a dismissive hand at him. “I thank you for absolutely nothing, Westdale.”
Gregory did feel a momentary twinge of conscience when Pippa exchanged a glance with Mr. Dawson—it was obvious they were friends now.
“Good-bye, sir,” she told him. “And good luck.”
“To you, too, young man,” Mr. Dawson said with a warm smile. “I’ll be sure to employ that remedy for blisters. And I’ll never wear that old bottle-green coat again.”
“Good, sir,” Pippa said. “I folded it and put it at the very bottom of your trunk so you’ll forget all about it. It would be a hideous color on you.” She bowed and turned away.
And Gregory saw her eyes.
They were shiny and wet.
But she walked quickly outside.
Gregory’s heart lurched. He hated to see a woman cry, especially Pippa—not because he liked her better than other women but because she only cried when she meant it, deuce take it.
Guilt about her and guilt about a sweet old man stranded at an inn made him reconsider his plan. “I’ll take you to Thurston Manor,” he told Mr. Dawson, who was watching Pippa leave.
“You will?” His eyes shone with relief.
“Yes. I suppose the visit to Plumtree can wait.”
“Damn right it can.” Marbury clapped Gregory hard on the shoulder. “I knew you’d give in. No one can stand up to me for long.”
“I don’t know that I have room for you in the carriage, Marbury.” Gregory’s tone was cool.
Suddenly, Marbury’s bravado evaporated. “I’ll ride on the top,” he squeaked. “With the coachman.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Gregory, “but I know for a fact Oscar can’t stand you. He might throw you off. No, you’ll be safer inside with me. But you must be on your best behavior.”
Marbury pouted a brief second. “All right,” he said next. “But don’t make me sit next to that upstart valet—Farrow, Marrow, Wheelbarrow, whatever his name is.”
“Harrow,” said Mr. Dawson. “If you don’t mind, Lord Westdale, I’d be most grateful to engage Harrow’s services while we’re ensconced at the manor. I’ll be sure to tip him well.”
“No tips required.” Gregory grinned, feeling lighthearted in spite of the fact that he would have Pippa—Pippa dressed as a valet—with him for two more weeks. “I hope you don’t mind that he’ll be riding in the carriage with us. He’s prone to chills.”
“And he has dyspepsia,” added Marbury with a disgusted leer. “Ugh.”
Chapter Eleven
Hatless now as proper etiquette dictated and praying her wig wouldn’t slip, Pippa thanked her lucky stars as she beamed at her traveling companions from behind her spectacles. Only one of them looked pleasantly at her, and that was Mr. Dawson, who sent her a sweet smile. He was incredibly modest and kind. Pippa wanted to keep him as a pet of sorts, to cluck over and make tea for. She was so glad she’d be able to help him dress at Thurston Manor.
Not that she’d be in his room when he was completely undressed, of course. Surely he could manage pulling on his own pantaloons or trousers. She’d helped Uncle Bertie often the past several years, and he’d only required assistance with his cravat and putting on his coat. Occasionally, she’d brush him down and suggest he choose another coat or waistcoat—she was extremely picky about colors and fabrics.
If Mr. Dawson needed a bath, Pippa would claim she had a bad back and make a male servant help out there. She looked forward, however, to shaving him. She loved the soap, the razor, and the efficiency with which she dispensed of unwanted beard. She’d shaved Uncle Bertie many a time.
“What time will we get there?” Marbury’s petulant voice repeated the question for the umpteenth time.
“After dark.” Gregory sighed patiently, and went back to his book on the architecture of Rome.
His Apollo-like profile did something to Pippa’s middle—in fact, being around Gregory heightened all her senses. It was torture pretending not to care that his thigh rested flush against her own the entire trip, sending heat into her skin when she didn’t need any extra warmth.
And that beef pie she’d eaten simply wasn’t enough. She craved cake or another sweet, like marzipan. And she wished she could share it with Gregory. She’d loved looking across the table at him when they’d both dug into their crusty beef pies oozing brown gravy. There was something about watching his beautifully carved lips move when he chewed, something that made her think of the way those same lips had devoured her own in Eliza’s garden. And the way his eyes looked into hers—it was as if they shared an amusing and very personal secret no one else knew.
They did share a secret now, she realized. A very naughty secret. The memory of what they did in the Old Oak Inn private dining room made her shift restlessly in her seat.
“Do you mind, Harrow?” Gregory looked up from his book.
He was outrageously handsome. It really wasn’t fair to people like Marbury.
“Sorry, sir,” she muttered.
Her craving for sugar—and his kisses—grew stronger, and she fell into a daydream about what had happened in the private dining room, but this time, the castle sculpture she’d made for Uncle Bertie’s birthday was somehow involved. She mused about a sweet, sugary drawbridge and a fine, soaring turret …
Just thinking about turrets and Gregory at the same time, she was tempted to giggle a little hysterically, so she hid her face in her hands and coughed, the heat of her cheeks nearly scorching her palms. It was a scandalous, shameless comparison she made in her head, one that was beneath her dignity.
But she kept going back to it and remembering how brazenly Gregory had let her know he desired her—pinning her between his legs and yanking her closer by cupping her bottom and kneading it while he kissed her with hot, demanding kisses. It had been the most primitive, pleasurable moment of her whole life.
And the most fascinating part about it had been that it had been perfectly right, the way sitting in the sun on her haunches and watching a bumblebee dance over a flower was right—or when she lifted her head to luxuriate in the smell of the thunderclouds rolling off the sea and onto the moor.
She sighe
d and indulged in a long, languorous stretch that left her feeling distinctly lonely, especially when she looked down at her breasts, which had come so achingly close to being exposed when she’d stood on tiptoe to kiss Gregory’s ear and his jacket button had snagged on her neckline, pulling it perilously low.
And then there was the drawbridge part of the daydream … she could barely muse on it without moaning out loud.
His turret.
Her drawbridge.
She was an idiot. She was supposed to be thinking about how she’d find a way to keep her turrets on her castles, or she’d never succeed as a sugar sculptor. Who cared about Gregory Sherwood?
You do, her body said, refusing to forget that he sat right next to her and that at Thurston Manor he’d be walking around on those muscular legs and speaking with that tender mouth and caressing a brandy glass with the same playful thumb that had toyed with the tip of her breast.
“I’m ravenous,” she told him. Of course, she didn’t tell him what she was ravenous for. “When we get there, I want dinner immediately.”
Not really, but it was something to say. Daydreaming was doing her no favors.
“We don’t care what you want,” said Marbury. “You’re a valet.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Pippa replied.
“Did you hear him?” Marbury looked at Gregory and pointed at her, which wasn’t necessary, as she was mere feet from him. His index finger was practically at her nose.
“Yes,” Gregory replied, and went back to his book.
“I knew it,” Marbury said with relish. He looked at Dawson. “Did you hear Harebrained’s rude retort?”
“I believe his name is Harrow.” The old man spoke in his usual pleasant manner. “And I did hear him, yes.”
“Then why isn’t anyone doing something?” Marbury scowled at Pippa.
She merely yawned. Gregory turned a page of his book. Mr. Dawson looked out the window and quietly hummed a tuneless ditty.
“I hate you all,” said Marbury, and folded his arms over his chest. “Except for Mr. Dawson, of course,” he amended. “He can be forgiven for playing the diplomat. In fact, he should be rewarded.” He tossed him an unctuous smile, then looked at Gregory. “It’s you, Westdale, who’s at fault. How dare you go to America and come back with all these ridiculous notions of equality?”
He narrowed his eyes and stared at Pippa. She stared right back, but then she averted her gaze.
Marbury chortled.
She didn’t care. She was tired and ached to lean against Gregory’s comfortable shoulder. But she couldn’t, of course.
Fortunately, Lord Marbury and his boorish witticisms managed to keep her awake—that and the fact that his knees knocked against hers off and on the entire trip. When they did, he would emit a small growl, like a wounded dog. Eventually, however, with the help of some of Gregory’s whiskey, he fell asleep, his hands clasped atop his immense orb of a stomach, nodding off occasionally onto Mr. Dawson, who would methodically push him away.
An hour after darkness had fallen, they turned up a lengthy winding drive illuminated by a bright moon.
“We’re here,” Gregory announced.
Mr. Dawson, who’d fallen asleep against the carriage wall, awoke, as did the snoring Marbury. The crunch of gravel beneath the carriage wheels and the flaming torches greeted them as they ascended the final incline to the house, proclaiming in dramatic fashion that they’d come to a large, wealthy estate.
“It’s about time,” Marbury said. “Mr. Dawson needs some refreshment.” He stepped on Pippa’s toe—on purpose, no doubt—and she jerked upright in her seat and glared at him. “Harrow, you’ll see to it as soon as we get out. Make sure it includes some ale.”
“I’m sure that Lord and Lady Thurston will have a cold supper waiting for us at this late hour,” Gregory informed him. “Harrow will go straight to the kitchens for his own refreshment.”
Pippa felt a frisson of fear. As a servant, she’d be relegated not only to the kitchen but to the attics. Would she be assigned her own room? Or would she have to share? She’d die if that happened.
Her heart began to race. How would she change her wig? What if she saw the male servants naked? What if they scratched their crotches and expected her to? What if they somehow guessed she was really a woman and got angry—or worse—about it?
You can do it, she told herself. Just think of Monsieur Perot.
Events became one big blur as the steps were brought out, liveried footmen in powdered wigs surrounded the carriage, and everyone but Pippa was treated like a welcome guest.
She ascended the stairs to the front entrance and paused to look at the beautiful stained-glass window above the door when a footman shoved her lightly in the back.
“Where are you going?” he said. “Turn around this instant and come around the side of the house.”
And she wasn’t even allowed to be upset. She had to act as a valet and say nothing about that window nor linger to admire it. She must turn around, descend the steps, already having made a disgrace of herself, and not even have the chance to say good-bye to Gregory.
“I need to get the trunks first,” she told the footman. “Or someone else does, please. I’ll oversee it. I have a bad back.”
He laughed. “You think we’d wait for a valet’s orders to pull down the trunks? They’re already in the house. Come on, let’s go.”
Pippa looked over her shoulder at the light coming from the entryway. Gregory was besieged with men in their fine coats and women in their silk gowns and well-coiffed hair, greeting him as if he were a hero returning from the wars instead of from a long, probably lavish sojourn in America. They hadn’t even waited for him to join them in the drawing room. They’d rushed to the front door to see him.
Which one had been Damara? Pippa couldn’t help wondering.
And above all the action at the door had come the high nasal tones of Lord Marbury, lost behind Gregory on the steps, his back arching and his nearly nonexistent neck stretching in the hopes that everyone inside could observe that he was there, too. “Make way!” he was yelling. “Make way!”
Two footmen ahead of her on the path started with rude comments about Marbury, and Pippa felt a strange burning in her throat.
Loneliness. That’s what it was. She was really and truly alone now, and she couldn’t even lay claim to her own identity. Instead here she was pretending to be a man—and a valet—and not even a plausible one at that. What had she been thinking?
She wished there were a familiar face, even Lord Marbury, nearby to speak to. She heaved a sigh, then gave herself a shake and pulled her chin up. It was time to strengthen her resolve, to “straighten her spine,” as Uncle Bertie often advised.
“You shouldn’t make fun of your betters,” she admonished in her strictest valet tones.
One of the footmen, who had a square jaw, turned to look at her. “Lord Marbury? Our better? You’re jesting.”
And then he proceeded to laugh wickedly with his sidekick, parroting Marbury’s shouting “Make way!” in a fairly accurate and nasal fashion.
“Why, with those skinny legs and big round belly, I’d say he looks like a stuffed American turkey, wouldn’t you, mate?” the other footman said in a Cockney accent.
They both guffawed and hit one another on the back in merriment.
“That’s better than looking like a doll in a china shop,” Pippa declared.
Both servants stopped.
“Do you mean us?” Cockney asked, his fists bunched at his sides.
“We can’t hurt ’im—we’ll get in trouble,” said the square-jawed one.
“We can yank down his trousers,” the other answered.
Square-jaw laughed.
“I didn’t mean you two,” Pippa said hastily. “I meant the little man, Mr. Dawson. He’s so small, he’s like a china doll.”
Both footmen eyed her as if she’d gone mad.
She smiled miserably at them. “I’m starve
d.” She was hungry, after all.
Cockney winked at her. “Cook has saved some leftover cold livers for you. That and a pint of ale should do you good.”
“That’s right.” She tried to sound enthusiastic. “Although I’ll need a glass of milk, too, please. Doctor’s orders. And I—I think I’ll skip the livers.” She’d always hated them. “A piece of bread will do.”
Square-jaw made a face. “You’re a picky little bugger, aren’t you?”
“He’d better not be when he sleeps with us tonight,” said Cockney.
Square-jaw nudged him. “On the floor, he’ll be, between our two beds.”
“You mean between the two chamber pots under the beds. We’ll be pissing over his head.”
Ugh.
They both guffawed again and brought Pippa along a path to the kitchen door. Another half hour passed rather in a blur. It seemed everyone wanted a snack, so the other servants sat around the table with her. She bolted some bread and milk—which revived her—and listened to a cacophony of voices gossiping about all the visitors. So far, Gregory was winning as the most admired man. He was viewed as handsome, wealthy, and charming.
“He’s dangerous, too,” she added.
Everyone stopped talking.
“No, he is,” she said. “Although I don’t think he’s killed anyone,” she added into the silence. “The good thing is, I know I need never fear being mistreated with him around. He doesn’t tolerate bullying of his servants—not that any of you would ever do such a thing.”
And went back to chewing.
Slowly and a bit awkwardly, the conversation resumed. The talk moved round to the most admired woman in the house party—Lady Damara Poindexter.
Pippa stopped eating so she could hear every word.
So far, she’d heard Lady Damara had a figure like a heavenly angel, a laugh like the queen of the fairies, lips as lush as a red, red rose, and other bits of nonsense gleaned mainly from old songs—nothing original and truly compelling, until Cook declared—
“That demmed lady has eyes that scorch a man’s soul and drive him mad with the need to possess her, until nothing is left of him but a vacant shell.”
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