One Day for a Valet

Chapter 10

When she stumbled through the kitchen door, Mrs Simmons met her with a length of towelling, clucking over her shivering body. Christopher followed just behind.

“You”re bleeding, Sofia.” Frowning at the scratches on her arm and the bruise blooming over her wrist, he tipped up the soft side of her forearm for his examination. “Whatever were you doing outside in this weather?”

She watched the lines on his forehead furrow as he patted the wound with the corner of the towelling.

“It’s just a scratch. I was out for a walk and didn’t notice the storm until it was too late. I’m all right, truly.” She did feel markedly better in his presence.

“No, you”re not. You’re white as a sheet and soaked through. Change your clothes and get in your bed. Annie will bring tea to your room,” Christopher said.

Annie nodded from her seat at the table and Mrs Simmons moved away to put the kettle on. Christopher’s hand settled on Sofia’s arm beneath the towel, tracing a soothing caress across her icy skin.

Her fingers unfurled from their tightly clenched fists.She didn’t want to be alone.

She didn”t want Oliver, nor the wretched weather, nor anything else that had gone horribly wrong in the past hour, to intrude upon her world here. She needed this. Needed him. “I’ll change into dry clothes then return. It’s plenty warm in the kitchens.”

Christopher glanced towards the table, where boots were lined up in a tidy row, then back to Sofia. “I’m afraid I won”t be very entertaining company tonight. I’ve fallen rather behind on the maintenance of Gabriel”s boots. It wouldn’t speak very well of my competence if I allowed His Grace to stride about the estate in scuffed footwear.”

Sofia pinned him with an incredulous look. “Certainly you aren”t under the misapprehension that he’s kept you around all these years for your services as a valet.”

His lips curled into a smile. “Perhaps not. But I do have my professional pride.”

Grasping both ends of the towel, Christopher bundled her tighter, pinning her arms firmly in place beneath the thick cloth. Sliding his hands to her biceps, he rubbed briskly, as one might dry a scruffy dog. She felt ridiculous… and loved.

A soft laugh bubbled up from her chest and he paused to watch her, his expression full of delight.

“Very ungrateful, Miss Lioni, to laugh at my attempts when I am bestowing my very best services as a valet. You’ll be buffed clean and dry in no time.” She laughed again, allowing herself to be shaken about by his enthusiastic care. “Are you comparing me to a boot, Mr Keene?”

Releasing her arms, he tucked a soggy curl behind her ear. “The prettiest one I’ve ever polished. Now go before you catch your death. When you come back, I’ll have tea waiting and you can pretend to be fascinated by my ability to wield a boot pick.”

Nearly everyone had retired to their beds by the time Sofia returned, dry but still shivering from the cold that seemed to have settled in her bones. Christopher was seated at one of the long tables, boots spanning half the length of the bench beside him. Glass bottles and tin canisters were spread out amongst brushes and metal picks of varying shapes. He turned with his customary dimpled grin and stood, wrapping a thick woollen blanket about her shoulders.

“Aren’t there two boot boys employed at the estate?” Sofia settled on the bench beside Christopher, picked up a soft horsehair brush, and ran the ticklish bristles across her palm.

“Yes, but they see to the footwear of the footmen and maids. I prefer to clean and maintain Gabriel’s wardrobe myself.” Exchanging the soft brush for a courser one, Christopher picked up one boot from the line and began methodically removing loose debris. The majority of the mud fell into a metal bucket on the floor. “It’s more than just a matter of assuring the job is done properly. There is something special about providing a service for someone you care about.” He ran his index finger across the soft leather. “The older I get, the narrower the gap grows between the time I wake up and the moment I fall asleep. When I choose to spend that time in service to another, with every thought in my mind and every muscle in my body intent upon that task, it is a declaration of my affection and regard.” He flipped the boot around in his hands, examining the tread and seams for damage, then picked up a metal pick, eyes narrowed as he slid the pointed tip between each tread. “Will you tell me where you were today?”

Sofia shook her head, then crossed her arms on the table, resting her cheek against her forearm to watch him work.

He didn’t pause. “All right.”

That was it. He wasn’t going to press for more or mope when she wouldn’t give him the answers he craved. When he fell silent, it wasn’t mulish. He was simply intent on his work. He glanced over from time to time, a small smile on his face. It was as if this was the best evening he could imagine, with her as the very best company and the task before him as the very best way to spend his time.

Resentment at Oliver began to thicken in her chest. She didn’t want to keep secrets from Christopher. How good it would feel to share some of herself with him. To reciprocate his easy smile and open heart. As they sat side by side, she searched for something she could give him, some truth that would hurt no one to reveal. “My papa was not an affectionate man,” she offered.

Christopher”s hands slowed.

“He wasn’t a bad sort. Just disinterested…. in me anyway. And his involvement with Oliver—that’s my brother—extended only to what Papa could teach him about botany. In that capacity, they were inseparable. It came as quite a surprise when Oli and I discovered several years ago that Oliver was not my father”s natural-born son.”

Feeling raw and vulnerable, Sofia lifted her cheek from where it rested and clasped her hands, her fingers fidgeting against one another.

Christopher placed a boot before her on the table.

Removing the cork from a bottle, he doused a soft rag with its contents, took one of her hands in his, and demonstrated a slow circular pattern against the leather. “Don’t be afraid to put some muscle into it. The leather is sturdy.”

Her eyes trained to her task, Sofia used the rag in her hand as she continued speaking. Slowly at first. But the more she talked, the easier it became, until she could feel the weight of her secrets falling away like the soupy mud that dripped from Northam’s boots.

“It began when Oliver found a letter written by his mama, Sarah. He was sorting through some of Sarah’s old things and found it tucked away in the pages of a book. It recounted a rather sad tale about her brief relationship with the man who was Oliver’s father.”

Christopher exchanged the metal pick for the cloth and the bottle of soapy water, then began scrubbing with the same circular motion he’d shown Sofia.

“When Oliver approached Papa with questions, Papa turned him away. He refused Oliver any answers at all. I think Papa must have been hurt to find that the information mattered so much to Oliver.”

Sofia’s hands halted when she noticed the frothy, muddy mess she had made on the table. “Should this be rinsed?” she asked, grimacing at the slop. “Maybe I should stick to mathematics.”

Christopher took the boot, examined her progress, and then gave it back. “No, you are doing splendidly. So well, in fact, that Gabriel may replace me with a newer, harder-working, lovelier model. If you can achieve an artful cravat knot, I may be doomed to unemployment. Now dab away the excess with that cloth there and begin again. When you’re done, we’ll wipe it with a moist cloth and allow it to dry a bit. Soon I’ll introduce you to the exciting world of leather conditioning with cod liver oil and tallow.” He grinned.

Relaxing again into the rhythm of her work, Sofia continued. “Had the discovery of Oliver”s birth occurred even a year before, I’m certain they would have found a way to forgive one another. But as it was, their relationship was already in tatters. It was dried kindling waiting for a spark. Six months earlier, Signor Morelli, the decant—that is, the dean at the University of Pisa—wished to court me. I refused, but he wouldn’t listen. He enjoyed my discomfort, I think. The more I protested, the more aggressive he became, cornering me at every opportunity.”

Christopher’s scrubbing became acutely aggressive, but he remained silent.

“My papa liked him, respected him even, and pressed me to marry him. Oliver would not have it. He and Papa fought over what to do about Signor Morelli almost to the point of coming to blows. Then one evening, Oliver overheard a conversation between Papa and Morelli. He discovered that Morelli had dangled a more prestigious position over my father”s nose in exchange for my hand. Oliver was livid. He went over both their heads to the rettore, the rector responsible for all the administrators.”

Sofia sighed, the memory of Oliver’s fierce defence brushing against an unprotected place in her heart. “Oliver would not back down. He wouldn’t allow my feelings to be ignored, no matter the cost to himself. And it worked. Signor Morelli’s situation became uncomfortable enough that he stopped pursuing me. But in the process, Morelli convinced the rettore to dismiss Papa.”

“After that day,” Sofia continued, “things were never the same. There was a rift between Oliver and Papa that neither would bridge. Papa fell into despair… his job at the university was everything to him, and he saw our behaviour as a betrayal. I was the selfish and wilful daughter who would not bend to his demands. Oliver was the traitorous son.”

Sofia had long since ceased her cleaning, trapped within the aching memory and staring sightlessly at her muddy hands. She startled when Christopher”s soapy palm slid over the backs of her fingers, but he gently hushed her before engulfing her hands in the warmth of his own.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know. Your papa was wrong to push you. Wrong to trade your happiness for his own.”

Sofia scoffed. “English aristocrats do it all the time. A daughter’s only value lies in her ability to marry well. I’m surprised to hear you disapprove of the practice.”

Christopher tightened his grip, his fingers curled around hers in a secure clasp that caused her shoulders to sag in relief. “Ah, but I am not an aristocrat, sweetheart. And even if I am someday blessed with an entire houseful of daughters who drain my savings on ribbons and fripperies, I will see them married for no reason but love.”

She smiled at their clasped hands, and for a heartbeat she could see those ribbon-adorned daughters clearly in her mind… her dark curls and their father”s mud-puddle-grey eyes. No. Gritting her teeth against the cold she knew would return with the loss of his touch, she slid her hand from beneath his and reached for the dry cloth.

When she chanced a glance in his direction, he had resumed his work.

She should stop talking and go to bed, but his willingness to give her space made her long for less of it. Or rather, she wished to let him share her inner world, though it had always been a solitary place.

“After six months’ worth of tension, both Papa and Oliver were spoiling for a fight.” Sofia looked away. “When it came, it was terrible. Oliver left. A few months later, Papa went after him. He realised he’d been wrong and wanted to make amends, but he never found Oliver. When Papa returned, he could barely remain upright. He’d contracted consumption… It was blessedly quick.”

Sofia sponged off the boot and set it to the side.

“I spent what money we had remaining on doctors, and when that ran out, I sold our things. My mother’s paintings, my father’s books, anything anyone would buy. By the time he passed, I had nothing. No papa. No brother. No money. And, eventually, no home.”

Christopher stretched his legs under the table. When he pulled them back, his calf pressed against hers, his foot covering the top of her boot. His stockinged foot.

Cheeks tinged ruddy, he gave her a wry smile. “It hardly counts as an embrace. It’s only my toes.”

Releasing a slow sigh, she tipped her head to rest against his shoulder. “Where are your boots?”

“Last in line over there. I’ll never get to them tonight, but I would gladly accept a lifetime of disgraceful footwear for an evening with you.”

She turned her face into his shoulder, tucking her smile into his softly scented topcoat. There was no one in the world like this man. No heart more open and vulnerable, no person more selfless. She thought of Christopher and his muddy boots, perpetually at the end of the line because he was too busy providing for others. And she wondered, did anyone labour for him? Who placed his boots before all others? Protected his heart above all others? Oh, how she wished it could be her. With the warmth of the cosy blanket and Christopher”s body pressed against hers, her eyelids began to droop. “I should retire before I fall asleep on your shoulder.”

“But my shoulder likes you there. And it receives so few opportunities to feel useful.” Even as he said it, he helped her to her feet.

Mrs Simmons, who had been doing her best to appear unobtrusive at the very furthest end of the kitchen, peaked out from behind an open cupboard door. Raising an eyebrow at the cook”s blatant interest, Christopher gave Sofia a wry smile, then bowed over her hand. “I will say goodnight to you here and see you tomorrow around eight, if not before. Thank you for your help. I’ve never passed such pleasant hours at work. And thank you for another hour of your friendship.”

Unwrapping the blanket, she placed it in Christopher’s hands. He immediately tucked it close to his chest like a treasured possession. “Pleasant dreams,” she said before returning to her room.

Crawling into bed, her thoughts simmering in a sleepy blur, Christopher’s words from weeks before wriggled to the forefront of her mind. I want you to look for me to complain to when nothing’s gone right in your day.

He had become that person for her.

Drenched by rain, depleted mind, body, and soul, she had been running towards Christopher as much as she had been fleeing from Oliver. Foolish, foolish heart.

Christopher checkedhis appearance one last time, adjusting his cravat. He had tied three other more ostentatious arrangements before settling on the simple barrel knot. Smoothing his palms against the soft material of his butter-yellow waistcoat, he turned and headed for the kitchens.

Sofia had not yet arrived, and the room was notably quieter than usual. Too quiet, in fact, with only a pair of stableboys playing checkers in the corner and Jeremy lingering over their shoulders, offering up advice. Mrs Simmons was drying the last of the pots from dinner. She paused, wiping her hands on her apron. “Don’t you look dashing, Christopher. It’ll be a shame to see that striking yellow waistcoat covered in flour.” She crossed the room to where a tattered recipe book was laid out, thumbing through the pages for the one he had marked with a slip of paper. The slide of the parchment raked across his already overstretched nerves.

For weeks, he had reined in his enthusiasm, allowing Sofia to adjust to her new life and to become comfortable with him. With each passing day, however, their banter leaned more towards flirtation, and the temptation to touch her, to coax her into sharing more of herself and her past, burned more urgently through his veins. When she had willingly opened up to him the preceding evening and rested her head against his shoulder, he could scarcely keep his hands steady for the firecrackers detonating inside him.

The muted creaking of the door brought his head and Mrs Simmons’s swivelling towards Sofia, who paused under their matched gazes. He watched the bodice of her dress rise and fall with one deep breath before she crossed the room to join them. “Good evening, Mrs Simmons, Mr Keene.”

“Good evening, dearie. Well, I’ll be off to bed. Touch of the gout flaring up tonight and I’m needing to rest my feet. Christopher Keene”—she levelled him with a wilting stare—“do not burn my kitchen to the ground.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but her retreat was decidedly spry for a woman whose feet needed a rest. Despite their checkers-playing chaperones in the corner, the quiet of the kitchens loomed thick with anticipation. Few moments so far had found them quite so secluded. The thought of hours alone with Sofia stirred an unmistakable interest through every inch of Christopher’s body.

“Gout indeed. That woman’s feet are as sound as Gabriel’s prized gelding’s,” Christopher groused.

“It is unusually vacant tonight.” Sofia’s posture was rigid, and she worried her lower lip between her teeth. In short, she appeared to be considering flight. Christopher bludgeoned his disappointment into silence. He was not a lad, and he would not stomp his foot in agitation when the butterfly he longed to touch flit away at the last second. He would be patient and wait for her to land.

Christopher feigned nonchalance, looking around as if he’d only just noticed that the room, normally bubbling with commotion, was quite empty. “No doubt our interfering cook threatened the entire staff with starvation should they not find more urgent matters to attend to. And if I had to guess, I would say that her plan to leave us entirely alone was thwarted by the second most interfering person on this estate—Gabriel.” He nodded to Jeremy and the boys in the corner. “The only real question is whether he sent those three jackanapes to spy for him or if they’re here to ensure that I remain on my best behaviour.”

Christopher leaned casually against the wall. “A complete waste of his resources really, because what could be more innocent than two friends baking in the kitchen?” He winked, trying to lighten the mood. “Speaking of baking, I hope you’re better at this than I am. The few times I’ve tried, everything came out raw in the centre and charred to a crisp on the outside.” He could hear himself rambling but couldn’t seem to stop.

Her shoulders moved in a silent chuckle, curls obscuring her expression as she shook her head. “Somehow, no matter how often you do that, it still takes me by surprise.” She moved towards a pile of almonds and a knife that was waiting on the table. She will stay then. Good. He forced his stiff shoulders to relax.

Following, Christopher peered over her shoulder. “Do what, exactly?”

“Most men of my acquaintance go out of their way to tell me everything they’re good at. It’s as if they think a poor opinion of them could be flipped upside down by discovering that they’re above-average horsemen and know all six verses of ‘God Save the King.’”

He moved to the basin and washed his hands, ignoring the primal twisting in his gut that came at the thought of Sofia having acquaintances with other men. “Well, that’s just silly. No one knows all six verses to ‘God Save the King.’”

She shot him a bemused look. “But you announce your flaws, line them up in plain sight like soldiers marching into battle.” Sofia picked up an almond, turning it between her finger and thumb. “I can’t decide if you are the most confident man in the world or you’re trying to distract me from some unforgivable character flaw that makes your poorly baked biscuits inconsequential.”

He allowed her words to roll around in his mind, dried his hands, and then strolled closer. “You think I have cavalry waiting to ambush you?” Christopher considered her concern for another moment, then stole an almond, darting past Sofia’s swatting hand. He popped the almond into his mouth and chewed for longer than a single almond required. “Are those the only two choices I have or can I suggest a third?”

The corner of her mouth hitched up. “All right. Let’s hear it then.”

She picked up the knife and began slicing the almonds, her brow furrowed with the same intense care she offered to every task. But occasionally, her eyes stole away in his direction.

Christopher drew in a breath and tried not to consider that his next statement might ruin the friendship he’d so carefully nurtured. “I’m forthcoming because I don’t think it will matter to you if I make up the third verse to ‘God Save the King’ or bake inedible biscuits. None of that would matter if you like me the way that I like you.”

Sofia’s knife slipped off an almond with a thunk.

Curling his fingers into a fist, he pressed on. “If I’m wrong, and you don’t like me, then any flaw would put an end to the way you look for me whenever you walk into a room.”

He paused, the collision of nerves and excitement causing his voice to drop into a raspy baritone. “And if you are not afflicted by the same giddy madness that has overthrown my heart and head… if I am alone in these feelings. Well, it’s better that my flaws run you off before I’m lost completely to the hope of another day with you.” His mouth had gone dry, and all at once he noticed his breaths were coming entirely too quickly but he could not slow them down.

The slicing resumed, but Sofia moved more slowly now. “So, it’s the first, then? You are the most confident man in the world.”

He laughed at that. He didn’t feel confident, just stupidly hopeful.

“‘Confident’ implies a degree of certainty in the outcome, which I can assure you is not the case. My confidence tonight extends only to your ability to transform this pile of ingredients into something edible. I assume all Tuscans toddle away from their mother’s skirts already knowing how to make biscotti.”

Her chopping had returned to its swift, methodical rhythm. “You assume correctly. But in Tuscany, we call them cantucci. Now, stop ogling my superior skills and start mixing the dry ingredients.”

“I don’t think that’s what he was ogling,” Jeremy mumbled from where he stood filling his glass with milk several feet away.

Christopher glared menacingly at Jeremy who ignored the silent threat, shifting his attention to Sofia instead. Not spies for Mrs Simmons or chaperones sent by Gabriel, then, but self-appointed guardians for their newest friend.

Jeremy winked at Sofia. “All right, I can take a hint. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.” If that were the case, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. Jeremy plucked one of the checkers off the board. “Apparently your game is over, boys. Let’s go.”

The boys quickly tidied the board and left, and Jeremy waved goodbye with a cheeky grin.

Ignoring their hasty exit, Christopher returned to the mixing bowl. “You’ll have to forgive Jeremy. He was born in a stable and his humour has never extended far from that location.”

“Va tutto bene. It’s all right. You English are all so much tighter laced than I am accustomed to.” One corner of her mouth quirked up in a manner in which he was beginning to associate solely with her. “An Italian man of the working class wouldn’t bother to mumble under his breath. And unless you are planning to add twice the number of eggs the recipe calls for, that’s quite enough flour.”

Christopher looked down at his heaping scoop, grabbed a pinch from the top and promptly plopped it onto her shoulder. “Is that better?”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed with a grin that promised retribution just before she whisked a flour-coated finger down the bridge of his nose. Christopher sputtered. She giggled, then laughed outright as he took her cheeks between his floury hands, stepping near enough that he could feel her skirts brush against his breeches. Her gaze lifted to his, chasing away his merriment and replacing it with something infinitely warmer.

“Now the measurements will be completely wrong,” she murmured without so much as blinking beneath the heat of his gaze.

His eyes dipped to her mouth. “Do you always follow every plan to the letter?” His thumbs explored the softness of her cheeks, gliding across silky flour and warm, inviting skin.

“Without exception.” Sofia’s breath hitched on the second syllable, and he wanted to sip at that breathy exhale with his mouth.

“Every day with its itinerary, never to be led astray by unscheduled flirtation?”

“Precisely so.”

He let his fingers slide away in search of her hands, which he found fisted within the folds of her drab grey dress. Grey… the antithesis of the fascinating woman who wore it. Lifting one of her hands to his mouth, he kissed the soft centre of her palm, then grimaced when flour coated his lips. He licked it off, not wanting to let go of her fingers.

His hands were trembling. It was subtle, but it was there for her to see, and he desperately wanted to be steady for her. To be even a fraction of the confident man she thought he was. He took a slow, deep breath, but his quavering hands were only a minor symptom of a far more systemic problem. His body—his heart most of all—trembled in her presence and would not be calmed by his silent demands.

“I wonder,” he began, “if you might pencil me in on the morrow for a two-minute-long gaze rife with incontrovertible longing. Mind you, I do not wish to be subtle. I would like it noted in the margins of your itinerary that, if observed by children, this gaze will cause them to scamper behind trees to whisper and giggle. Ladies will flutter their fans to cool their heated cheeks. The following day, I propose an entry in your schedule labelled ‘picnic luncheon culminating in the soft brush of my lips against your cheek.’ It will be the sort of kiss that appears chaste to everyone but the two whose lips and skin are involved. Only we will experience the heightened awareness of every breath and each whisper of sensation.”

Sofia’s fingers loosened their grip on his. Instantly, he wanted to wrench back every hasty, sentimental word. She retreated a step, then looked away, her breaths quick and unsteady. In that beat of silent discomfort, absolute pandemonium broke loose inside Christopher. His emotions roiled worthlessly, and he couldn’t summon the words to set her at ease and bring her back. The jagged edges of his fear careened against all the tender insecurities of his heart. Some deeply buried, rational part of his mind searched for a way to lighten his words, make them seem in jest, but there was no way to make his declarations sound any less like the evidence of desperate longing that they were.

He wanted her. Wanted her in every conceivable way. So at the slightest indication that she might return his affection, he had laid his pair of threes on the table with all the self-control of a lad who had no idea how to play the game. He had wagered recklessly with his heart, as if he had a host of others tucked away in his pocket ready to replace the one he’d just stupidly gambled away.

But there was the crux of the problem—he had never been very good at subterfuge or caution. And he wanted her with a desperation that took up so much space inside of him that there was room for little else. It didn’t matter that she still withheld secrets from him, and God help him, it wasn’t only her body he craved.

He made himself look at her then, forced the clatter of his thoughts into silence as he watched the slow, agonising journey of her gaze rising up to meet his.

And in that heartbeat, all his fears fizzled away. Even as her body retreated, there was pleasure in her eyes. She liked his words. Liked him. And the quiver he heard within her rapid inhalations … he suddenly wanted nothing more than to incite more of them.

She licked her lips and looked away. “Are you certain you are not Italian, Signior Keene? I had no idea Englishmen were so fanciful.”

“My maternal grandfather was Welsh. Perhaps I inherited it from him.” With no small amount of effort, he returned his attention to the ingredients, adjusting the flour quantities so as to be precise. “Is this acceptable?” Pleased with the steadiness of his voice, he offered up his most dazzling smile.

“Perfetto.”