The Townsbridge's Series

by Sophie Barnes

  “You were right to do so,” Charles said. “Temptation can be hard to resist, but it’s important you do so now. Before it’s too late.”

  “Consider the following,” James said in a gentler tone as he took a seat adjacent to William. “You’re an eligible bachelor and she’s a young woman. From an external point of view, you are her employer and she is your employee, even if Mama and Papa are the ones paying her salary. Anyone who sees the two of you chatting together at greater length or sharing a joke will assume the worst.”

  “She’ll be labeled your mistress even if she’s not,” Charles stated.

  The coffee arrived and the conversation paused for a moment until the cups had been filled and the maid who’d served them was gone.

  “Mama and Papa will have no choice but to sack her,” James said. “And neither of them will thank you for it, I can promise you that.”

  “So then—”

  “You must keep the appropriate amount of distance,” Charles said. “Better yet, forget her completely and find someone else. I’m sure Mama has a list of suitable young ladies lying about somewhere.”

  William bristled. “I have no interest in courtship or marriage.”

  “Then all the more reason for you to leave Mrs. Lamont alone,” James said. He shared a cryptic look with Charles, who answered with a nod, then quickly added, “Perhaps telling us what you’ve been up to this past year will help.”

  “I did write,” William grumbled. The brilliant mood he’d been in all morning had dimmed significantly during the course of the last hour.

  “Yes,” Charles said, “but you never gave a descriptive image of Lisbon or a detailed account of the people you associated with during your stay there. Surely you must have made friends.”

  “I did. And the town itself was a marvelous experience.” Thinking back, William described the colorful buildings and narrow streets, the plazas lined with orange trees and the fresh ocean breeze.

  As the conversation progressed and turned toward his brothers and the birth of James’ first child six months earlier, William relaxed. His initial reaction to what they’d said with regard to Mrs. Lamont had been outrage. He’d gotten defensive. But the truth was they were probably right. What sort of relationship could he possible hope to pursue with her besides one in which she would be ruined? So maybe the right thing to do would be to stay above stairs from now on and keep his distance. It was what he’d planned to do on his own before he’d happened upon her this morning.

  Charles and James weren’t wrong. She was from a different social class, and if he showed an interest in her, people would start to wonder about the nature of their relationship.

  Perhaps if he kept himself busy, he could forget about her all together.

  “Do you still box and fence?” he asked, the question so sudden his brothers both blinked.

  “I gave up boxing a few months ago but I still fence,” Charles said.

  “I do both,” James said. He offered a wry smile. “Want to join me one day?”

  “Yes.” William snatched up a biscuit and took a bite. “When I was in Lisbon, I swam almost every morning, and when the weather didn’t allow for that, I rode. The exercise was invigorating – much better than all this sitting about.”

  “We could head over to Gentleman Jackson’s this afternoon if you like,” James said.

  “I would,” William said. “Very much so.”

  “And I’m happy to spar with you tomorrow and Thursday,” Charles said.

  William appreciated the offer. “Maybe we can also meet for luncheon one day at Mivart’s?”

  “Sorry,” Charles said. “Bethany and I have something of a luncheon ritual with the children. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

  “Thank you.” William glanced at James. “How about you?”

  “I haven’t eaten at Mivart’s in a while,” James said. “Name the day and the hour and I’ll be there.”

  A schedule was confirmed and by the time William headed home to collect his boxing equipment, he was satisfied with his increasingly full schedule. Tonight he’d go to White’s in the hope of meeting some of his friends. Hopefully, he’d be able to convince them to go fishing, take a ride out of the City, or meet for a game of cards.

  If all went well he’d be mostly away from home for the next week, after which he’d simply have to repeat the process.

  Yes. This could work quite well. He had no doubt about it, and as it turned out he was right. His brothers and friends kept his mind away from Mrs. Lamont. They joined him for breakfast, luncheon, and dinner at various restaurants and clubs, ensuring that not even food would tempt him with thoughts of the lovely French cook. His parents and sisters were naturally perplexed by his insistence to stay away from the house, and he was equally reluctant to offer an explanation.

  But when he arrived home one afternoon for a quick change of clothes and the smell of baked goods wafted toward him, William’s resolve wavered. Someone – a servant most likely – had forgotten to close the door to the stairs leading down to the kitchen. The temptation the sweet scent offered was overwhelming as it swirled around his nostrils.

  Unable to resist the pull, he advanced. He reached the door and paused with his hand on the handle.

  Just close the door and step away. Right now.

  His body leaned forward until the aroma engulfed him. His feet moved. The top step creaked beneath his weight. William’s mouth began to water and before he knew how it had happened, he’d arrived in the kitchen where servants hurried to and fro while doing chores.

  The scullery maid’s eyes widened the moment she saw him. She almost tripped over her feet as she hurried past, barely managing a curtsey before she ducked inside the larder. One of the grooms who’d been taking a break in a corner leapt to his feet. He set the cup he’d been drinking from down so quickly, its contents spilled over the side. Offering a hasty nod he fled before William had a chance to stop him.

  Ludicrous.

  William shook his head. One would think he had the plague, considering the speed with which he was able to clear the room. Allowing his gaze to wander, it slid across the hot bread rolls resting on the work table, and toward the woman who’d made them.

  His heart stopped. Or at least that was how it felt. Because Mrs. Lamont wasn’t alone. She was standing with flour-covered arms elbow deep in a bowl, kneading dough while laughing in response to something one of the much-too-young-and-far-too-handsome footmen was saying. His name was Matt Cleaver and while William hadn’t really had an opinion about him before, he suddenly disliked him intensely.

  Don’t engage.

  Ignoring his own sage advice, William moved farther into the room, until he was able to see Mrs. Lamont’s pink cheeks and the smudge of flour across her chin. A stray lock of hair curled next to her brow and her eyes, while downcast and focused upon her chore, crinkled at the edges with amusement.

  An ugly sensation grew inside William, writhing and clawing until he felt sick. Clearly the roast beef he’d had for luncheon at that new place one of his friends had recommended was disagreeing with him.

  What else could it possibly be?

  Forcing a bland smile, he looked at Matt. The footman hadn’t noticed him yet. Neither had Mrs. Lamont. But that was about to change.

  “If I knew baking could be such fun, I’d have taken it up years ago,” he drawled.

  Matt’s head jerked sideways until he found William. “Mr. Townsbridge.”

  “Indeed.” William noted that Mrs. Lamont had chosen not to deign him with her attention.

  He reached out toward the bread rolls, allowing his hand to hover above them. Matt sucked in a breath and Mrs. Lamont slowed her movements. There was a pause in which it felt as if the continued existence of the world was at stake.

  And then she glanced toward him and said, “If you touch those right now, you do so at your own peril.”

  Oddly, instead of getting annoyed, the most peculiar compulsion to swe
ep her into his arms and kiss her struck him squarely in the chest. Feeling brave – at least a great deal braver than what was probably wise – William raised a brow and lowered his hand.

  The footman took a step back and shook his head. Don’t do it.

  Mrs. Lamont’s brilliant blue gaze latched onto William’s, jolting his heart into rapid motion. He wasn’t sure what compelled him, perhaps her domestic appearance, her challenging gaze, the dreadful sensation twisting around in his gut, or possibly all three combined, but rather than withdraw, he grabbed a bread roll and shoved it into his mouth while staring straight at her.

  Eloise wasn’t sure how to react. Ordinarily she would have yelled at anyone brave enough to tamper with the food she prepared. But Mr. Townsbridge had more right to the freshly baked bread rolls than a servant. Yet she had warned him, so she really ought to follow through with her threat. He had thwarted her after all, challenged her even, and if she did nothing in response, she would be yielding to his control.

  Somehow, she had to regain the upper hand. It was the only way for her to maintain her composure, to not lose herself in all the odd feelings he stirred within her, to recover from his sudden appearance after not seeing him for nearly a week.

  She’d enjoyed their outing to the market more than she ought. And she’d expected him to show up in the kitchen no later than the following day. But then he hadn’t, and rather than dismiss the issue, it had prompted her to wonder when she would see him again and why he was staying away, and oh, she almost wished he would go back to where he had come from so she could stop feeling so edgy.

  At least then he’d be out of her life for good.

  Except now he was here, watching her while he chewed on a bread roll. A smug gleam in his eyes dared her to do her worst.

  Pulling her shoulders back, she raised her chin and removed her hands from the dough she’d been kneading. “Those aren’t intended for you. They’re meant for your mother’s charity event this evening, and now I am one short.”

  Mr. Townsbridge swallowed the bite. Brief hesitation dulled his eyes before he narrowed his gaze and said, “My mother hasn’t mentioned any charity event to me. I think you’re bluffing.”

  “I never bluff.” Flattening her mouth into a straight line, Eloise placed her hands on her hips. “My schedule is calculated with exact precision, Mr. Townsbridge. I don’t have time to make additional bread rolls now.”

  He glanced at the half eaten one in his hand. “Er…”

  “Neither do any of the other servants, so that leaves you.”

  Mr. Townsbridge’s mouth fell open. Matt sputtered something inaudible that sounded like a combination of humor and shock. Eloise hoped he would leave before he upset her goal.

  “You’re making a new dough right now, though,” Mr. Townsbridge said. “I can see it from where I’m standing.”

  “That is the pie dough for luncheon tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “Unless you wish to disrupt your mother’s event by denying one of her guests a bread roll, you ought to clean your hands, grab that bowl, and begin measuring flour.”

  He gulped, glanced over his shoulder, and slowly turned back to face her with wide eyes. “I’m supposed to fence with my brother.”

  “In that case you probably ought to get started.” She raised both eyebrows.

  Mr. Townsbridge looked at Matt, who held up both hands while backing away.

  “I’d do as she says,” Matt said. He gave Eloise a look that warned her to be careful before removing himself to some other part of the house.

  “How about an apology?” Mr. Townsbridge tried. He added a smile that threatened to melt her bones.

  Annoying man.

  Determined to keep up her guard, Eloise raised her chin and met his gaze boldly. “I’d certainly appreciate one, but you’re still making another batch. Now go clean your hands. There’s water and soap over there.”

  A clear scowl marred his forehead as he trudged across the floor. Eloise hid a smile and went back to kneading her dough. When Mr. Townsbridge returned to the work table, he grabbed the bowl she’d pointed to earlier and reached for the flour. “How much?”

  “You might want to remove your jacket.”

  “How much?” he gritted.

  Eloise shrugged and gave him the amount, then watched as he lifted the bag of flour and started pouring it into the measuring cup he held. As expected, the flour poured out much quicker than he’d anticipated, spilling over the sides of the cup and filling the air with a cloud of white.

  Mr. Townsbridge made an impossible attempt at righting the situation before he gave up and coughed. Eloise bit her lip and tried to force back her laughter. But when the haze cleared and she saw he was covered almost entirely from head to toe in a fine layer of powder, she exploded. Mostly, because she wasn’t sure how he’d managed it.

  “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?” His tone was dry.

  “Honestly,” she choked, “I had no idea.”

  “Really?”

  He didn’t believe her. Eloise tried to regain her composure and meet his gaze, but doing so just made her laugh even harder. “I did try to warn you. Oh dear, I think it’s in your ears.”

  “Hmm.”

  She had about two seconds to figure out what hmm meant before something soft and airy breezed over her face. Stilling, she opened her eyes and licked her lips. Flour. He must have tossed a handful at her while she’d been laughing, if his victorious grin was any indication. Reaching up she touched her cheek.

  “Alors…” Eloise withdrew her hand and studied the white-covered tips of her fingers. She pondered her options while casting a glance at some nearby eggs. Tossing one at him was tempting, but it would also be messy, would certainly ruin the egg, and possibly his clothes as well.

  So she picked up the small bowl of water she used for rinsing her hands and smirked.

  He tracked her movement. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Did you not just throw flour at me?” she asked as she started toward him.

  “That was different.” He backed up a step when she rounded the corner of the worktable and approached him, bowl in hand.

  “It was deliberate, n’est-ce pas?”

  He swallowed and backed up further. His hands rose before him like a shield. “A mistake, I assure you.”

  She paused for a moment. “You’re making quite a few today, Mr. Townsbridge.”

  “Yes. Well. I really ought to go.” Panic was creeping into his eyes. “The fencing with my brother, if you’ll recall.”

  “You still have to bake, and clean yourself off.” The devil inside her – a creature she’d not even known existed until this moment – rubbed its hands together in glee. “I can help you with the last part.”

  Mr. Townsbridge’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Lamont. I—”

  Eloise dipped her hand in the bowl and flicked a spray of water at Mr. Townsbridge. It was more than she’d intended. Droplets dripped from his hair and ran down his face.

  She covered her mouth with her free hand. “Oh dear.”

  His eyes narrowed, not with anger or irritation, but with playful intent. “Oh dear, indeed.”

  Eloise inhaled sharply and planned her retreat, but before she was able to move, he stepped toward her with shocking speed. The bowl tipped, sloshing water all over the front of her apron. She gasped, reached behind her, and grabbed a handful of flour. But before she was able to fling it at him, his hand clasped her wrist.

  “No more,” he murmured. He was holding her steady and leaning in, gazing down into her upturned face, eyes sparkling with humor.

  Eloise sucked in a breath. He was close. Too close. So close she could smell his masculine scent – a rich combination of sandalwood oil and exertion. Her heart skittered, the foolish thing. And her stomach began twisting about in all sorts of peculiar directions.

  Unable to stop herself she lowered her gaze to his mouth, to the perfect slope of his upper lip and the fuller fi
rmness of the one beneath. When she looked back up, his expression had changed. All humor was gone and if Eloise could have retreated further she would have done so, but somehow the work table blocked her escape.

  Mr. Towsbridge inhaled and his nostrils flared. Awareness, as thick as a fragrant perfume, began overwhelming her senses. Her mouth went dry. She wanted to shake her head in denial of what was happening. He wasn’t the right man for her. It would never work. She was merely a servant.

  And yet her heart pounded. “Mr. Townsbridge.”

  He reached up and stroked her cheek, only briefly, but the touch was enough to ignite her skin, and she let out a low sigh of pleasure.

  “I must have your name,” he whispered, his breath like a gentle breeze wafting against her. “Your given name.”

  “Eloise,” she confessed before she was able to think of the repercussion.

  “Eloise,” he repeated as if in a daze. And then he stepped back, adding the appropriate amount of distance. “You may call me William if you wish.”

  All she could do was blink and nod like a dimwitted fool. Her heart still raced like a rabbit chased by a ravenous fox. She didn’t even have the ability to tell him it would be inappropriate for her to do so, she was so overcome by the forceful effect of his nearness.

  He tried to dust off some of the flour with his hands, but it wasn’t very effective. “I need to go now, Eloise.”

  Again she just stood there, trying to comprehend what had just transpired. Had they really been throwing flour and water at each other? It was absurd and…and wrong. Everything about this encounter with Mr. Townsbridge had tipped her world off its axis. She wasn’t sure how to react anymore.

  It wasn’t until he was gone that she realized he’d gotten away without making a single bread roll. A disgruntled sigh left her. She shook her head and began cleaning the mess they’d made, all too aware that she was in serious trouble. Because for a moment there, perhaps even longer, she’d actually hoped he might kiss her.

  Chapter 3

  He wasn’t supposed to like her. He wasn’t even supposed to be thinking about her, and he damn well wasn’t supposed to find her remotely attractive. But when William woke four days later to yet another memory of how desirable Eloise had looked the last time he’d seen her, he knew every gentlemanly intention he harbored had been shot to hell and beyond.