Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Arthur? Philip?” she called out as loudly as she dared, her eyes darting to the shadows of the pedestals.
Imogen’s pulse continued to thrum in her ears, nearly blinding her vision as she hurried in her search. She rushed from the first gallery through to the secondary gallery, then to the parlor.
Presholm House was a labyrinth of cold stone and expensive tapestries where a child’s laughter was as out of place as a weed in a rose garden.
Suddenly, a piercing, high-pitched shriek shattered the silence.
“My shoes! My floor! Someone, catch these imps!” Lady Presholm shrieked. “Common thieves!”
Imogen’s heart plummeted. She sprinted toward her mistress’ private quarters, skidding to a halt at the threshold.
The scene that lay before her was pure chaos.
Lady Presholm was staring down at her feet, her face a terrifying shade of puce.
A small bucket, likely left by the housemaids as they went about their work, lay overturned.
A pool of soapy water soaked into Julia’s silk slippers, as well as her priceless Persian rug.
Behind the heavy velvet drapes, two pairs of small, muddy boots peeked out. A muffled, high-pitched giggle escaped from the fabric as it shook.
“Imogen!” Lady Presholm screamed, spotting her and pointing a bony finger at her. “Whose brats are these? Did the cook let her gutter spawn into the main house? Get them out! Have the footmen throw them into the street this instant!”
Imogen knew the Countess was too blinded by fury to notice the boys’ expensive coats or refined features. To Lady Presholm, they weren’t children. They were merely stains on her carpet. She only truly saw what she could use.
“I will see them home safely, My Lady,” Imogen said, stepping forward with a calm she didn’t feel.
She reached behind the curtain and took Arthur and Philip’s hands in hers. Arthur was still red-faced with mirth, while Philip looked a bit pale at the Countess’s harsh words.
“You will pay for this negligence, Imogen,” Her Ladyship hissed, her eyes narrowing to tiny slits. “I shall deal with you once I am dry. Now, get them out of my sight!”
“Yes, My Lady,” she whispered in reply.
Imogen didn’t wait for a second dismissal. She practically whisked the boys out of the room, her grip protective but warm. She did not stop until they were through the garden gate and standing on the lawn of the estate next door.
Ambrose was on the verge of calling for the Bow Street Runners when he saw movement near the hedge.
He lunged toward the garden path, his heart hammering against his ribs. Relief flooded him, sweet and dizzying, followed immediately by a scorching wave of hot anger.
“Where in God’s name have you been?” Ambrose’s voice boomed across the lawn. “Do you have any idea what you have put this household through with your capers?”
The two boys flinched at his bark.
The butler, who had been trailing behind Ambrose, let out a sob. “Oh, thank heavens! And thank you, Miss!”
Ambrose hadn’t looked at the woman yet. He was too angry to look anywhere but at the boys, who both resembled his brother but in separate ways. He shrugged away the thought as he stepped toward his nephews, his shadow looming over them.
“Do you have any idea the panic you’ve caused? To run off into a stranger’s house? You are Lockharts! You are to behave with dignity, not act like common runaways! What if something happened to you? Hm? Did you think of that?”
Arthur’s chin wobbled, his small chest puffing out. “We didn’t want to be here! It’s boring and—”
“Arthur.”
The woman’s voice was as soft as Chinese silk, stopping the boy’s retort mid-breath. Ambrose’s gaze finally shifted to the person standing with them.
She was dressed in simple, drab wool, with deep brown curls tucked neatly under a cap.
But as she knelt on the grass, bringing herself level with the boys, she didn’t look like a servant.
Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds. Her beautiful smile was as shiny as pearls, and as she looked up at him, she was an anchor in a storm.
“It was a very grand adventure,” she said to the boys, her voice a gentle melody.
“But even the bravest explorers must report to their commander. You gave His Grace a fright because he cares for you. A true gentleman knows when an apology is owed for causing such worry.” She looked at Philip, who was hiding a damp hand in his pocket.
“And Lord Philip, remember what we said about the sad bear? He isn’t angry because he’s mean.
He is angry because he thought he lost you. ”
Ambrose watched, mesmerized. For months, he had hired the most expensive governesses in London, with excellent references and endless accolades.
All of them had ended up in tears within a week, and, after today’s little disappearing act, it was likely that the most recent addition would depart in the same manner.
Yet here was this stranger, speaking to the children with a mix of authority and kindness that really got through to them. He could not make sense of it, but felt it pull at him.
Arthur looked at his boots, then up at Ambrose. “I’m sorry, Uncle. For the water, too. I know my nice boots will need repair.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Philip whispered. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright, Uncle.”
Ambrose felt the air leave his lungs. He had been bracing for a shouting match, not a surrender.
“I… accept your apologies,” he managed to say, his voice rough as he ran a hand through his still unkempt hair.
“Your Grace! Oh, thank God!” The current governess yelled as she came running down the path to them, her skirts hoisted up to her knees as she hobbled over. “You’ve found them! Oh my!”
“Take them upstairs, Miss LaPointe,” Ambrose ordered, though his eyes never left the stranger. “And see that they are fed in the schoolroom. No more exploring today. That is an order.”
“I will see to it at once,” Miss LaPointe replied as she quickly gathered the boys. “Apologies again, Your Grace!”
“Good evening, Miss!” Arthur called out as he was led away with a final wave to the mysterious rescuer. “Wait, what is your name?”
“Imogen. Imogen Lewis,” she said with a smile, calling out to them as they went into the house. “And a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lords. And your acquaintance as well, Your Grace.”
Ambrose turned to his butler with a sharp nod. “Jones, go to the kitchen. Have them prepare a tray for Miss Lewis. Tea and perhaps some of those biscuits the chef makes. Bring it to the small library.”
“That really isn’t necessary, Your Grace,” Miss Lewis said, rising to her full height and wringing her apron in her hands. “I must be getting back to my employer. I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
“Whom do you work for, Miss Lewis?”
“I’m just next door, Your Grace. I work for Lord and Lady Presholm.”
“I shall talk to them, then. Allowing you a moment of reprieve will not be a problem, I assure you. I insist you stay.”
“You do not know my mistress as I do,” Imogen said softly, still wringing her apron in her hands. “I cannot afford to be in trouble with My Lady.
“It will be no trouble. I can be charming when I need to be,” he replied.
Despite her apparent nerves, her posture was remarkably straight. She kept her shoulders back in a way that suggested a lifetime of etiquette lessons she shouldn’t have had as a mere scullery maid. There was something different about her that Ambrose could not quite figure out. He needed more time.
“You must allow me to give you some refreshment,” he pressed.
“I’m afraid I must return, Your Grace. My mistress is… not a patient woman,” she said as she backed away slowly.
“And I’m afraid I must insist, Miss Lewis,” Ambrose said, his voice dropping an octave as she stopped in her tracks.
He stepped closer to her. His tall height was usually enough to intimidate anyone, but she did not flinch. She simply met his gaze with steady, intelligent green eyes and a tiny, almost amused, smile. She almost seemed to lean into him, yet he knew he was imagining it.
“You’ve done me a great service today,” he said, looking down at her. “More than you know. Come.”
“It really isn’t proper, Your Grace. I’m only—”
He put his hand up. “Please, Miss Lewis. It is far from improper to show my gratitude to you. I will be quite offended if you keep protesting.”
He gestured toward the house, and with a small, hesitant nod, she followed, her head fixed on the ground as they walked.
Inside the library, the firelight caught the copper glints in her hair. It was slightly lighter than he initially thought, peeking out in ringlets from beneath her cap. He wished he could see it fully cascading down her back.
She sat in the armchair by the hearth as Ambrose leaned against his desk, watching her, observing her every move.
“I must admit, Miss Lewis… You handled the boys with remarkable ease,” he finally settled on.
“Well… I, erm, I’m quite fond of children, Your Grace,” she said, taking a dainty sip of tea.
“Do you have any of your own?”
“No, Your Grace, I do not,” she said with a small wince, clearly uncomfortable at the forwardness of his questions. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but you have an extraordinary library. Have you read all these books?” She said softly.
“Hardly,” Ambrose huffed. “The maintenance of a duchy does not allow for such leisurely pursuits. Mostly treatises, contracts, and agreements.”
“Is that a first edition of Robinson Crusoe?” she asked, gesturing toward the book on the side table. “Your nephews would enjoy it immensely. They’ve struck me as boys with a taste for adventure.”
“You enjoy literature in your spare time?”
“There is no finer escape than a good book, in my opinion, Your Grace,” she said, her fingers trailing over the spine. “That, and a good long walk in nature, among the trees and the animals.”
“How long have you been with the Presholms?”
“Quite some time, Your Grace,” she answered. “I serve the Countess of Presholm personally.”
“Hm. Curious. You have the eloquence of a scholar and the composure of a Duchess. Where were you educated, or trained, should I say?” Ambrose inquired, his brow furrowing.
“Well, I, uh, I was educated properly in literature, the arts…” she replied cryptically, not offering more.
He noticed that her voice was smooth, devoid of regional accents that were common among help.
Ambrose took a step toward her, drawn by an inexplicable gravity to figure her out, like a puzzle in need of solving.
He was a man who knew the ton, who knew the difference between a girl playing a part and a woman who truly belonged in a drawing room.
There was a mystery in her high cheekbones, a hidden depth in her green irises that his instincts were screaming to uncover.
Despite his better sense, he wanted her. But for what, he did not know, nor could he admit.
“And what of your family?” he asked, his voice softening in hopes he would catch more flies with honey than vinegar. “Where are they from?”
“I am an orphan, Your Grace. I have only myself.”
The honesty in her small voice struck him. He let silence fall for another moment. Somehow, the space between them suddenly felt exceedingly small despite the grandeur of the townhouse.
Ambrose looked at her, really looked at her. He took in the curve of her neck, the way she didn’t look away from him, even though she should have.
He cleared his throat, the sudden tension in the room becoming too thick to ignore. “Thank you again, Miss Lewis.”
“I only did what seemed right, Your Grace,” she murmured, offering a small, graceful bow that was far too elegant for a servant as she rose to her feet. “Pardon me, but I believe it’s best I return to Presholm House.”
“Of course. Thank you once more, Miss Lewis, and have a good night.”
She stepped back toward the door. The movement was fluid and quiet. “You as well, Your Grace.”
Ambrose watched her go, the sway of her curves its own kind of goodbye.
His mind began racing. He had spent his life avoiding proper women and seeking out complications to soothe his needs and weary heart. Yet, as the door clicked shut, he realized he had never encountered a complication quite as intriguing as the little maid next door.