“Where do you plan on housing me? In the butler’s pantry?”
“The pantry. Now that’s an intriguing option I never considered.” He ran a hand down his chin, seemingly deep in thought. His twitching lips turned a portion of her debilitating anxiety into fury.
Cutting her hand through the air, she wished she were brave enough to kick him in the shin. “Stop it, you lout. Take me to my room.”
Annoyance replaced his amusement. Cold, inhospitable eyes bore into hers. “You seem to forget who is the servant and who is the master.”
She held his gaze and forced her leaden legs forward. His spark of surprise bolstered her courage. “I may be forced to be your servant, but you will never be my master, Lord Drummond.”
“No doubt, any man would find it a challenge to master you. Have they all been driven away by the icy, frigid conditions?”
His jab bobbed past her defenses. Her chest tightened. She walked stiffly out the study door and forced a practiced haughtiness into her words. “It would take more of a man than you to master me, that’s for certain. Now, I’m weary. Could you show me to my room, please?” All she wanted was to crawl into a bed and possibly have a good cry.
“You saucy piece of baggage.” He ignored her swift intake of breath. “Right this way, my lady.” He gestured grandly up the stairs, his tone falsely officious.
He started up the stairs, but she cleared her throat, standing at the foot of the stairs. Waiting until he turned around, she made sure to mimic his tone. “My trunk, Lord Drummond. Since there’s no footman, would you be so kind?”
He stomped back down the stairs and heaved the trunk over his shoulder. She wouldn’t be surprised to find her dress singed from the hot, furious look he shot her as he passed by. The heavy trunk didn’t slow him in the least, and she scampered up the stairs to keep pace, breathless by the time they reached the third floor.
She followed him halfway down a narrow hallway, where he pushed a door open and dropped her trunk in the middle of a room. She caught a glimpse of a disused nursery across the hall.
With the two of them and the trunk, little floor space remained. A few beams of moonlight illuminated the room from a window high above the bed. It smelled pleasant enough however, and besides the bed, she could make out a chest of drawers and a side table.
“I hope you’ll find the room up to your standards.” Sarcasm dripped from his words, and she could feel, if not see, a malevolent smile.
“It will be adequate. After you fetch me a candle, you may take your leave.”
“You want me to fetch? Like your lapdog?” He stalked her.
Tired and thoroughly intimidated in the dark by his size and crackling animosity, she retreated until her back hit the wall. He braced his hands on either side of her head, effectively imprisoning her. Did the humiliation start now? What was his plan? She shrank against the wall. Her palms grew damp, and a lump lodged in her throat.
“You work for me now. If I require something, you shall fetch it. If I request tea, you shall serve it. If I want my boots shined, you shall polish them. Unless you wish to leave that bank note with me and depart?” If it hadn’t been for the content of his message, his roughened near-whisper sounded almost comforting.
Not a single witty reply to his threat popped into her head. She could smell brandy on his breath, but under the sweet tones weaved the intoxicating blend of scents that had captivated her in London and haunted her dreams.
Holding her breath, she closed her eyes and turned her face away, the wall cool on her cheek. They stood close but not touching for long moments. The sudden loss of warmth and the receding clomp of boots signaled his departure.
She pried one eye open and blew out a long, ragged exhale. Tension ebbed slowly out of her body with each breath and left her exhausted. She darted out to grab a candle. After locking the door behind her, she sank onto the bed and gathered her scattered thoughts.
She had been wrong. This was worse, so much worse, than the dreaded anticipation. What would the morrow bring? Tears stung, but she refused to give in to them. Her red, puffy eyes would bring him too much satisfaction.
After removing her clothes as best she could, she pulled on a night rail and slipped under the sheets. Even in the best of circumstances, she rarely slept easily. In a strange place, not sure what her future held, she took a particularly long time to drift into a fitful, nightmare-filled sleep.
Chapter Four
Rafe deserved to be shot. No, too easy. Strung up by his ankles and lashed like the time he’d been captured in Spain. Ignoring the rhythmic, banging protest in his head, he’d risen with the sun and ridden Aries in a pounding, painful gallop.
He finished his ablutions in cold water left untouched the previous evening. His gaze clashed with his reflection in the looking glass. Accusation and shame stared back. Minerva Bellingham had looked at him as if he were a devil last night. Perhaps he was. He’d certainly felt possessed by evil spirits.
The quiet house had been lonely, and his thoughts had travelled dark, treacherous paths, treading too close to the abyss. Certainly, he hadn’t expected to have to play congenial host. The shock of seeing her ready to step out of her carriage had fired conflicting emotions. Antagonism he recognized, but the slash of satisfaction of having her at Wintermarsh confused him.
He’d acted a complete boor and used his superior size to intimidate the hell out of her. Although, she hadn’t acted particularly intimidated, stinging him with her barbed tongue.
The few times they had been in the same room, he’d felt like a huge, hulking beast next to her delicate perfection—and last night had been no different. The memory of her soft body pressed against his had haunted his dreams. He couldn’t recall the color of her travelling dress but remembered the vee of creamy white skin and the fluttering pulse exposed at her neck.
He’d become a monk since returning from France, not yet desperate enough to pay a woman to ignore his mean looks for a quick tup. It had been too long since he’d had a woman, that’s all. Yet he couldn’t quite banish the warmth he’d experienced when he’d looked down, expecting revulsion, but instead seeing only simple curiosity flicker as she studied his face.
As he’d stood over her in the nursemaid’s room, the soap she’d used on her hair had cast a spell around him, the sweet feminine scent at odds with her rigid, cold persona. He’d had an urge to pluck the pins from her perfectly coiffed hair and tangle his fingers in the soft curtain. Her trembles had vibrated the thin air between them. No sharp quip launched back. She’d been terrified.
In a now habitual motion, he traced down the red, angry scar, a jagged, puckered line that ran from his forehead across his left cheekbone down to the edge of his jaw. He counted himself lucky he hadn’t lost his eye. The stares and whispers bothered him—how could they not?—but at least the beard offered partial concealment.
He pulled on a clean shirt and shrugged into a sturdy navy waistcoat, rolling loose sleeves to his elbow. It promised to be a warm day, and he wasn’t one to sacrifice comfort for societal expectations. Anyway, the task he had in mind for Simon might prove a tad messy. Rafe found a small smile.
He popped his head out of his chamber door and grimaced when he saw who lay in wait for him in the corridor. Her eyes shot fire, and her arms were crossed over her chest. Too late for a retreat.
“Good morning, Mrs. Devlin,” he said in an overly jolly manner, hoping not to poke his former nursemaid and current housekeeper further into a snit.
“Is it, Master Rafe? For whom? The duke you stashed in the stables or his sister ensconced in the nursery?”
“In my defense—”
“Defense?” She snorted and took two steps closer. The keys at her waist jangled discordantly. “The entire situation is entirely improper. Lady Minerva is the sister of a duke and Miss Lily’s friend, for goodness sake. You’ve lodged her in an
inappropriate, inferior room, and now you demand she clean like a common maid? It’s intolerable. What the devil are you thinking?”
His diminutive housekeeper kept pace with his long-legged stride to the stairs and looked as if she planned to shove him over the balustrade. His quick, painful descent to the marbled entry hall might be justified, but surely she wouldn’t attempt murder with witnesses.
Cuthbertson waited at the foot of the stairs, holding Rafe’s practical, wide-brimmed hat. With one eyebrow raised, the butler shook his head as his disappointed tutting echoed throughout the three-story foyer. If they weren’t practically his family, he’d sack them both and hire servants who would at least pretend respect.
“Now see here, you two, her brother owes me a great deal of money. It’s time for them to pay me back. A forced helping of humble pie will do them both some good, you’ll see. Wouldn’t you agree a little housework in return for her brother’s vowels is preferable to demanding a bank note that would be sure to ruin them both? I’m doing them a favor. Consider me a damn saint.”
“Fine then. Make her brother work off his debt. But Lady Minerva wasn’t at that gaming hell, unless things have changed dramatically in society,” Mrs. Devlin said.
“She deserves… Her attitude about the entire debacle… Goddammit, I can’t explain it properly.” He ran a hand through his hair and jammed his hat down.
“I don’t think you understand why you’re doing it,” Mrs. Devlin retorted with startling insight.
Rafe had been as surprised as Minerva Bellingham when the outrageous bargain had presented itself. His original plan had been to intimidate the breeches off the duke before tearing up the voucher. When Minerva had glided into his study in a swirl of blue satin, a picture of elegant refinement, his plans had changed.
Bellingham was ultimately to blame. The duke had drunkenly planted a seed that had flourished overnight. Although, Rafe’s cloudy motivation for insisting Lady Minerva take part troubled him.
“Give her something to do. Nothing too taxing. I wouldn’t want her swooning away in the heat of the kitchens. I’ll leave it to your discretion, but I expect her to work, Mrs. Devlin.”
“Are you not staying to explain yourself to her? I’m to do your dirty work? Is that it?”
Rafe grabbed buckskin gloves off the table by the door and slapped them in his palm. “I’ve her brother to see to this morning. Let me warn you, the woman has a sharp tongue.”
Hardly intimidated by his gruffness, Mrs. Devlin looked ready to spank him senseless. He did the same thing he’d done at ten when confronted by his furious nursemaid—he fled.
* * * * *
Minerva smoothed her skirt. While she appreciated the warm water and food that arrived not long after she rose, she only managed a few bites of dry toast with some tea. A riot took place in her stomach. What sort of work was Simon being forced to do? What work would be forced on her? Dread had her delaying the inevitable.
Lord Drummond meant to humble her by her less than elegant room. However, in the morning light, she found the room clean and aired, and the bed, while small, was comfortable with soft sheets and a thick, cozy coverlet. Sunlight poured through the large window. She hadn’t missed her luxurious rugs or blankets.
The grey woolen day dress she’d chosen was plain and comfortable, but its quality would still surpass any servant’s uniform. Most of the dresses she’d packed were bold, elegant and impossible to put on without a maid’s help. None of them were appropriate for what Lord Drummond had in mind. What was the appropriate attire for humiliation and embarrassment?
A shrill laugh escaped. No, she would accept whatever the man handed out with the greatest of aplomb and not let him see her ruffled. She was a master of maintaining a cool, calm façade. The ton hadn’t bequeathed her the moniker of ice princess for nothing. She raised her chin, a mask of nonchalance blanked her face, and she threw the door open with a flourish.
The hallway was empty. Her shoulders slumped, and her breath gusted out. She had expected Lord Drummond to be lurking outside, ready to mete out her duties. Perhaps scrubbing floors on hands and knees or cleaning ash out of every fireplace or cooking and serving his meals or preparing his bath. The list made her stomach try to crawl up her throat.
Instead of Lord Drummond, the housekeeper met her at the bottom of the stairs. Disapproval radiated off her in waves. “My lady, I am so sorry about all of this. I’m not sure what Master Rafe is thinking, but he insisted I give you duties.” The woman positively cringed.
“Mrs. Devlin, please don’t fret. I don’t want to bring Lord Drummond’s wrath upon your head as well as mine. I’ll satisfy his demands to free my brother from his debt.” Minerva laid a hand on Mrs. Devlin arm to stop the woman from wringing her hands raw.
“But it isn’t gentlemanly. That man. I would take him across my knee if I still could.” Mrs. Devlin looked ready to do just that, and the mental picture made Minerva’s lips twitch in spite of her nerves. Petite with grey-streaked brown hair, Mrs. Devlin possessed a delicately lined face dominated by chocolaty, kind eyes.
“Am I to assume you’ve been the housekeeper here since Lord Drummond was small?”
“I hired on as a nursemaid when I was naught but eight and ten. After Betsy Masterson passed on, I took over as housekeeper when Lily outgrew the nursery. My husband was stable master until he passed on two years ago.” A sweet wistfulness colored Mrs. Devlin’s voice. “Master Rafe is a good man, Lady Minerva, although he can be a bit strong tempered.”
The understatement of the century.
“Since we don’t have any guests—” Mrs. Devlin rumbled a frog from her throat, “—and with Earl Windor travelling and Lily in London, the bedrooms need airing and dusted up. Do you think you might be up for such a task?”
Minerva was thankful Earl Windor wasn’t at home. Although, according to Lily, her and Rafe’s father didn’t care for Wintermarsh and was content to let her brother handle the estates and investments.
“I’m not some simpering London miss. Please follow Lord Drummond’s instructions. Honestly, I don’t want to give him any reason to break his word about absolving my brother’s debts.” Obviously, she’d never performed housework before, but really, how hard could it be? She was adept at figures and managing huge estates. A little dusting would be simple.
Four long hours later, she and Jenny, a young housemaid, cleaned yet another unused guest bedroom. Ironically, she had stayed in the lovely blue room as a guest for Lily’s wedding. A tired, borderline maniacal laugh erupted at the ridiculousness of her present position.
“Why do we take clean sheets off the bed to put clean sheets back on and then send the first set of clean sheets off to the washerwoman? Does that make sense, Jenny?” A dozen or more bedrooms lined two long corridors.
Jenny gave a good-natured laugh. “No, ma’am. Not a lick. But my auntie in the village is thankful for the washing. Since my uncle died in the war, the only coin she earns is from Wintermarsh. She has two little ones at home still.” The maid stripped the bed with a practiced hand and let a crisp, sweet-smelling sheet drift over the bed with a flick of her wrists.
After repeating the same routine several times now, Minerva had finally mastered a perfect crease and tuck of the sheet into the bottom of the bed. Not used to the unexpected physicality of the work, she rubbed at her lower back. A hot bath sounded heavenly, but a tepid basin of water would be all that awaited her at the end of the day. In reality, Lord Drummond could ring for a bath, and she would be the one carrying buckets of scalding water to his tub. The thought sobered her.
“Tell me about your family? Have they always lived in the village?” Minerva asked to distract her mind’s morose wanderings but also with a fair amount of curiosity.
Jenny was high-spirited and sweet, no more than nine and ten, a fresh-faced beauty with gleaming chestnut hair and green eyes. Even in her
dowdy black uniform, Minerva imagined the girl had to beat off the village lads.
“Yes, ma’am. My kin have always lived in Lipton. It’s a lovely little village. Papa’s the blacksmith. Black John, he’s called. It makes him sound terribly mean, but he’s always laughing or telling a joke. My mama took care of us children. There are ten of us in all.” Jenny prattled while they changed the pillow coverings.
“Ten. My goodness. Older or younger than you?” Minerva tried to imagine the chaos but also the fun of having so much family around. Her only constant in life had been Simon.
“I’m right in the middle with my brother, Henry. He’s a year younger and started work in the stables this spring. I’m happy to have some family here with me. I do miss them so.”
Minerva bit her lip at the unexpected and embarrassing stab of jealousy. “How often do you get to see them?”
“When there’s no visitors like now, we get every Sunday off. That’s more than anyone else at big houses like this gets off. Henry and I go home and spend time with Papa, Mama and the rest of the kids that are still at home. Mrs. Devlin says we’re lucky to have Lord Drummond as a master.”
That explained why no one had been about when she and Simon had arrived. Jenny spoke the truth. Minerva’s servants in London only got a half Sunday off every other week. Minerva had never considered them having lives outside of the Bellingham townhouse. Cringing internally, she resolved to write Drake at the earliest opportunity.
Yet Minerva heard something unsettling in Jenny’s voice. Fear. “What’s Lord Drummond like?”
“I don’t think…” Jenny looked around as if the housekeeper or butler might pop out of the floor.
“Does he take his temper out on the servants? He only seems to yell at me.” Minerva smiled conspiratorially and shrugged, hoping to loosen Jenny’s tongue.
“No, he doesn’t yell. And he doesn’t take advantage of the pretty maids either. I’ve heard terrible stories from girls that have worked in other houses. Honestly, he doesn’t pay much attention to us at all.
A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2 Page 4