by Eileen Wilks
George Netherby, Harriet’s father, pushed through the crowd.
“Your coat,” Aimée said through chattering teeth. “She needs . . .”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently and peeled the little girl from Aimée. “You’ve done quite enough.”
The front of Aimée’s pelisse was soaked with icy, rank pond water. Her arms felt empty and cold. She wrapped them around her waist as a flock of servants led by Freddy Keasdon swooped from the house.
The servants enveloped the children and their parents in a cloud of blankets and concern, sweeping them up and carrying them off toward baths and fires and safety. George Netherby carried Harriet up the stone steps of balustrade. Peter trudged in his father’s wake. Lottie sniveled in her mother’s arms. Most of the house party trooped after them, leaving Aimée standing on the bank.
Forcing her weighted limbs to move, she dropped onto the bench. Fumbled with her straps.
“Let me help you.” Howard Basing crouched at her feet, brushing aside her frozen fingers.
She glanced over her shoulder, shaken and more hurt than she would admit by the Netherbys’ recriminations. “I have to go. They will need me in the nursery.”
Howard tugged on her skate buckles. “We have servants. Let them deal with the brats. It’s even possible that my sister, now that she’s been reminded of her offspring’s existence, will care for them herself.”
Aimée barely heard him. On the frozen lily pond, Lucien was getting slowly to his feet, brushing ice from the front of his waistcoat. His right hand dripped blood.
She sucked in her breath. Harriet must have kicked him with her skates when he pulled her across the ice.
She felt a touch on her ankle and then on her calf. Startled, she looked down.
Howard smirked and squeezed her knee, his hand under her skirt. “We must get you back to the house and out of these wet things.”
She froze a moment in numb disbelief.
And then hot anger flowed through her veins, flushed her cheeks, burned in her heart. She lashed out, kicking at him, his hands, shoulder, stomach.
With a grunt, he slipped and tumbled backward.
“Connard! Cochon! Pig!” Rage, kindled by fear and fueled by disgust, thickened her voice. “Don’t you touch me! Don’t ever touch me again!”
Howard scrambled up, an ugly look in his eyes. “You little bitch, I’ll—”
“You heard her.” Lucien stood at the bottom of the bank, tall and solid as a church, his eyes hard and cold. “Back off.”
Howard glanced over his shoulder. Growled. “This is none of your concern.”
Aimée jumped to her feet, prepared to throw herself between them.
Lucien narrowed his eyes. “I have bloodied my knuckles once already rescuing your niece. It would cost me nothing to bloody them again.”
Howard sneered. “Except my family’s goodwill.”
“Miss Blanchard is also family, is she not?” Lucien asked in a deadly soft voice. “You are cousins.”
Howard’s face reddened. “Once removed.”
“And now removed again.” Lucien shook out the coat draped over his arm and dropped it around Aimée’s shoulders, overlapping its edges in front. The collar reached up around her ears.
His coat was wonderfully warm and smelled like him, like man and sandalwood. She clutched its heavy folds gratefully, shielding herself from the cold and Howard’s eyes.
A dizzying memory swept over her, an impression of hard, strong arms and wheeling stars and a road far below unspooling like a silver ribbon in the dark. She almost staggered.
Lucien offered her his arm. “Permit me to escort you to the house.”
She blinked at him, disoriented, trying to force her mind to function.
If she went with him, Howard would be furious.
But if she refused his escort, she would be leaving the two men behind to fight.
Slipping a hand from the shelter of his coat, she gripped Lucien’s arm.
He did not speak as they climbed the hill. She was aware of Howard staring after them, his face an ugly red, as she squelched and slipped up the icy slope. She shuddered with cold and reaction, hard, deep tremors that shook her chest and radiated outward through all her limbs.
“Thank you,” she said as they reached the shallow stone steps of the walk. “I don’t know what I would have done if you had not come along when you did.”
“You must tell me if he bothers you again.”
He thought she was talking about Howard, Aimée realized with a jolt. “I refer to Harriet. It was very brave, the way you ran out on the ice. You saved her.”
He looked at her sideways, his face inscrutable. “She is not the only one I have saved.”
Another spark, another contact, another flutter in her heart or memory. She swallowed. “Naturally, I am grateful. But I can look out for myself.”
“You were quite fierce. Formidable, in fact.” He lifted her hand where it rested on his arm and unexpectedly kissed her knuckles. Shock held her still. The pressure of his lips, the warmth of his breath, seared through the wet fabric of her glove. “But you are a woman.”
Aimée reclaimed her hand, conscious of the staring windows of the house. Of Howard, somewhere behind them. “And because I am a woman, I must be weak.”
“Not weak. But smaller than a man. In any physical encounter, you are outmatched.”
She licked her upper lip, made suddenly aware of his size, his strength, his overwhelming masculinity. In any physical encounter . . .
She slid her gaze from his. “I hope your interference will not spoil your chances with Julia.”
Lucien frowned. “Your cousin cannot excuse her brother’s behavior.”
“Oh no,” Aimée assured him. “But if Howard were to complain to Lady Basing . . .”
“She would defend his abuse?”
“It is not as bad as you are thinking,” Aimée said, leading him around the side of the house, out of Howard’s sight. “It is only that she does not wish to think poorly of her son.”
“You give them too much credit.”
“They are my family.”
“They do not deserve your loyalty.”
His concern was seductive, more seductive even than his austerely handsome face or the warmth of his hand or the strength of his arm. She had never had a champion before. Or a confidant. There was no one at Moulton who understood, no one she could talk to.
“It was better when I first came here,” she said. “Howard was away at school then. Even now, he spends most of his time in Town.”
“He is Sir Walter’s heir. He must visit.”
“Not as often as his parents would wish. There is little here to hold his attention.”
Another assessing, sideways look. “Except you.”
She shrugged, uncomfortable with his admiration. If that’s what it was. “I can keep out of the way. Until he leaves again.”
“Or you could leave,” Lucien suggested.
Ah. He did not truly understand. He was a man, after all.
“And go where?” she asked. “I have no money, no family, no other acquaintance in England.”
“You have skills. You speak French. You play the piano—even if you will not play in company,” he added with a glint of humor. “You could seek employment.”
“As a governess.”
He nodded.
“I have no references.”
“You have experience.”
“Not enough to impress an employer.” She winced. “Particularly after today. You heard the Netherbys.”
“The Netherbys are fools.”
His support warmed her. But she said, “Susan was upset. Any mother would be.”
“Any other mother would not blame you for her own neglect. I know a woman in London who could find you a position if you wish it.”
Aimée snorted inelegantly. She could not let his interest blind her to reality. “I have heard of such women. They meet the stagecoaches, looking for poor d
umb girls from the country. Me, I am not so stupid.”
“Not stupid at all. But Miss Grinton is completely legitimate, I assure you.”
“Maybe.” He meant well, she told herself. “Even if your Miss Grinton could help me—and I do not believe it is as easy as you think to find a position without references—I would only be exchanging one situation for another. I might find it harder to escape the attentions of an employer.”
She led him to a small side entrance. “You do not know what it is like to be without resources or defenses. At least here I have a family.” She turned her head to look up at him. “If I left, I would have nothing.”
Lucien regarded her upturned face in the shadow of the doorway. Conviction lent passion to her voice, passion and the faintest hint of accent, like the scent of wine or sun-warmed grapes. Her eyes were as blue as the vault of Heaven.
Her words stabbed him. You do not know what it is like to be without resources or defenses.
Lucien opened the door for her to get her out of the cold. To give himself time to think.
He had quarreled with Amherst about his lack of freedom and independence.
But Aimée had even fewer options.
“You could marry,” he said when they were both inside. The hallway was dark and cramped. A servants’ entrance, he thought with another stab.
Her look was pure French, pragmatic and a little amused between long dark lashes. It stirred his blood. “I have no dowry.”
He took a deep breath of stale air, imposing control on his unruly thoughts. “There must be some gentleman in the neighborhood who would value your other qualities.”
“But of course,” she responded promptly. “There is Mr. Willford, one of Sir Walter’s tenant farmers, who needs a wife to help raise his seven children. And old Mr. Cutherford, who requires a nurse. Perhaps one day I will choose to exchange one form of servitude for another. But not yet.”
“Not every marriage is based on convenience.”
She gave him another direct look from those blue, blue eyes. Despite the cold, her lips were pink and ripe. “Indeed. Why are you courting Julia, Mr. Hartfell?”
He was beginning to wonder that himself. But he said stiffly, “My situation is different. I need a wealthy wife.”
“Because the earl’s estate is entailed?”
“Because he’s bloody threatened to cut me off.”
“Ah.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “Then you should understand my fear of being cast out.”
His mouth tightened. Aimée’s defense of her own wretched family made him realize that Amherst deserved, if not Lucien’s loyalty, then at least his honesty.
“Amherst would take me back if I asked,” Lucien admitted. The acknowledgment tasted bitter in his mouth. “If I dance to his tune.”
She tilted her head. “And you would rather dance attendance on Julia.”
They were almost the exact words he had used with Amherst. If I must woo for favors, I would rather court a woman. But coming from her, they made him sound like a sulky schoolboy.
He glared at her, annoyed. “I have responsibilities,” he said curtly. “People who depend on me.”
“We must both be grateful, then,” she said in a polite tone, “that I am not one of them. Good-bye, Mr. Hartfell.”
She slipped out of his coat. Her wet pelisse molded to her small breasts.
“Keep it,” he rasped. “You are half soaked and shivering. I’ll send a maid up to your room to get it.”
“The servants will all be busy in the nursery.”
“I will send a maid,” he repeated stubbornly, fixing his gaze on her face. “You need one, anyway, to help you out of those wet things and into a bath.”
A short, charged pause while he thought she might argue with him. He was torn between amusement and exasperation. Damn the wench, must she question everything?
And then she smiled, a wide, genuine smile that curled warmly around his heart and dazzled his eyes. “Then . . . Thank you. For everything.”
Turning, she ran up the steps, the sodden hem of his coat dragging behind her.
He watched her slender figure retreat up the dim passageway and out of sight, feeling as if all the light and warmth of the day went with her.
Chapter Five
Only fools and children wasted time wishing for what they could not have.
Aimée regarded her bright eyes in the spotted tin mirror and sighed. It was entirely possible she was a fool.
Because despite all her practical words to Lucien Hartfell, when she was with him she could not help wishing that she were Lady Aimée again, with wealthy and indulgent parents and a dowry sufficient to secure the attentions of a tall, blond, and angelically handsome fortune hunter.
She pulled off his coat and dropped it on her bed with a little shiver of loss and longing.
It would not do.
She fumbled with the fastenings of her wet pelisse. She did not think she had misinterpreted the gleam in Lucien’s eyes or the kiss on her knuckles. Quite possibly he desired her. Most certainly he felt sorry for her.
But he was not for her. Not only was he her cousin’s suitor, but he had openly admitted he intended to marry for money.
All of which made him more dangerous to her peace of mind than Howard Basing could ever be.
Standing in her damp chemise, she pulled her second-best gown from the wardrobe. The door to her room opened. She had forgotten to prop the chair under the knob.
Aimée whirled, her heart in her throat.
But it was only Finch carrying towels and a pitcher.
“Sorry, Miss Amy,” the lady’s maid said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Aimée swallowed her rapidly beating heart. “You surprised me, that is all.”
Stupid, stupid to let her guard down with Howard in the house. Had he rejoined the other guests? Or was he upstairs, changing?
Finch set the towels on the bed. She was a personable young woman, with coal black hair and a round, usually cheerful face. “I couldn’t manage a hot bath, like Mr. Hartfell asked for you. But I brought up some warm water.”
“That was kind of him. And you.” No one lugged hot water up four flights of stairs to the servants’ quarters. Aimée had grown accustomed to breaking through a film of ice in her pitcher every morning.
“It’s no problem, miss.” Finch poured water into the basin, holding the pitcher at an awkward angle, as if its weight was too much for her.
“They don’t require you downstairs?”
Finch shook her head. “Miss Julia and them’s all still in the drawing room. Taking tea.”
“Are the children all right? Harriet?”
“Seem to be. I hear Mrs. Netherby visited the nursery, which is more than she’s done since they got here.”
So poor little Harriet had gotten her wish.
“And Mr. Basing?”
Water splashed. The heavy ironstone cracked against the floorboards. Aimée jumped backward as the pitcher rolled under the bed.
“Oh, miss, I’m sorry.” The maid looked close to tears.
“It’s all right, Finch.” Aimée stooped to retrieve the pitcher. “See, it’s not really broken. Just a chip.”
Finch reached out a shaky hand to take the pitcher.
Aimée sucked in her breath. “Why, you have hurt your wrist.”
A mottled bruise circled the maid’s arm like a bracelet.
Finch colored and tugged on her sleeve. “It’s nothing, miss.”
Aimée drew in a slow breath, taking in the maid’s red eyes and nervous manner. Something wasn’t right. “You can tell me.” she said gently.
“I can’t tell anyone. He said.”
“Who said?”
“I’ll lose my place,” Finch burst out.
Ah. Comprehension slithered down Aimée’s spine. She met the maid’s gaze in perfect, horrified understanding.
I might find it harder to escape the attentions of an employer. She had said it herself,
to Lucien, less than an hour ago.
“Howard?”
Finch looked away.
Outrage kindled under Aimée’s breastbone. Determination squared her shoulders. “We have to tell Sir Walter.”
Finch trembled. “Please, I can’t risk her ladyship finding out. I’ve only got another couple of months to save up, and then where will I go? Nobody’s going to hire a lady’s maid with a full belly and no character.”
Aimée’s gaze dropped instinctively to Finch’s waistline. Did she mean . . . ? “You are with child? His child?”
“He says it isn’t his.”
Of course he did. Connard.
“And you?” Aimée asked. “What do you say?”
The maid’s mouth twisted. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Who’s going to believe me?”
“I do.”
Finch looked at her sadly. “Begging your pardon, miss, but your word doesn’t carry much more weight around here than mine. You can’t help me.”
Aimée flushed at this bitter reminder of her own powerlessness.
But this wasn’t about her. If the Basings cast out Finch, the maid would be pregnant, vagrant, and destitute. How long before she ended in prison or a pauper’s grave?
You can’t help me.
“No,” Aimée admitted slowly. “But I know someone who can.”
Lucien rested his head back against the high, curved edge of the mahogany tub, his long arms stretched along the sides, his knees poking out of the water. Warm water lapped his chest and thighs. A red fire snapped in the grate.
His body was heavy. Relaxed. His injured hand throbbed. His thoughts drifted to Aimée, shooting him a look of amused challenge through thick, dark lashes.
Why are you courting Julia, Mr. Hartfell?
The question bobbed around his brain, slippery and hard to handle as the soap in his bath.
He wasn’t ready to grapple with the answer yet, so he pictured Aimée instead. Her bright face vivid with laughter or anger. The subtle arch of her spine, made for his hand. The sweet shape of her breasts under the wet pelisse. Blue eyes a man could drown in.
Under the water, his body stirred. She stirred him. Aimée.
Sinking lower, he reached his uninjured hand into the water.