Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“Still working, I see. Such a diligent creature,” a deep voice came from behind her. “So delicate.”
Imogen was kneeling in the damp earth, her fingers stiff as she pruned the hydrangeas so they would grow hearty and healthy next year.
It was a task Julia had assigned her at sunset of all times.
It was spiteful, busy work intended to break her spirit.
Little did Julia realize that the outdoors was the only place Imogen felt she could breathe.
Her back ached, and her palms were raw, but she kept her head down and savored the quiet.
Until that voice emerged.
Imogen tensed as she looked over her shoulder.
The moon hung like a cold silver coin over the gardens of Presholm House.
Lord Presholm stood on the gravel path, the scent of expensive brandy and stale tobacco clinging to him.
While Julia had been married to him for the better part of the year, Imogen could not get used to his brazenness.
His presence always made her stomach turn.
“The Countess wished the flowers to be pruned by me personally at sunset, My Lord,” Imogen said, her voice a practiced shield of neutrality.
She didn’t look up, focusing on a stubborn stem.
“Julia is a hard woman,” Presholm said, stepping off the path and onto the grass. He was too close. “I often think she doesn’t appreciate the… finer assets of her household. I do, though. I do very, very much.”
“I am merely a maid, My Lord. If you will excuse me—”
She tried to stand, to go back to the house, but he blocked her path, his shadow looming over her.
“You have a remarkably educated way of speaking. A smart tongue, Imogen. It’s quite provocative.
” He reached out, his hand clamping firmly onto hers.
“Surely you know what you do to a man, even dressed as simply as you are.”
Imogen recoiled, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Please, My Lord. Let me go. This is not seemly. I will not say a word, but please just let me go about my work.”
“Who is here to see?” he murmured, his grip tightening as he leaned in closer. “You’re a ward of this house, aren’t you? You owe us your gratitude for all that we do for you. Aren’t you starving for the touch of a man?”
“I am a servant who only does her duty, and I am asking you to release me!” She cried. “This is abhorrent!”
Imogen struggled, her boots slipping on the wet grass as she tried to wrench her arm free.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Miss LaPointe said, clutching her carpetbag as if it were a shield. “I cannot stay another moment in this household. Not after today’s escape… and of course, earlier, there was the incident with the grease on the stairs. I nearly broke my neck!”
“Miss LaPointe, please,” Ambrose said, his voice thick with desperation.
“They are children. They have lost everything. I will double your salary. I’ll have your room completely renovated, a new wardrobe made for you, and a wing in the library filled with your favorite tomes.
Whatever you wish, you only need to say it. ”
“No amount of gold can buy peace of mind, Your Grace. They don’t need a governess. They need a priest!” She bobbed a quick, terrified curtsey and vanished into the hall and out the door with a loud thud.
Ambrose collapsed into his leather chair, rubbing his temples to no avail. “Jones!” he roared.
When the butler appeared, Ambrose didn’t look up.
“Find more,” he ordered. “Interview every governess in London if you must. And make sure to tell them a higher salary this time.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler sighed wearily. “I will see to it at once,” he said as he left the room.
Needing air, Ambrose took a tumbler of scotch and stepped out onto his terrace. He had not yet acclimated to his new home, but the terrace was different. He enjoyed the brisk, fresh air and the quiet of the night. Yet that evening, it did little to calm him.
He felt like a failure. He was a Duke who could finish a contract but could not manage two small seven-year-olds.
Then, a sound drifted over the high stone wall.
“No! Let me go!”
Ambrose froze.
It was Miss Lewis’ voice, stripped of its composure and replaced with raw terror.
He didn’t think. He dropped his glass. The crystal shattered on the stone as he threw himself over the railing and onto the soft grass like a Samurai. He sprinted around the block, and when he reached the Presholm House’s front door, he hammered his fist against the wood vigorously.
When the bewildered butler finally opened it, Ambrose didn’t wait. He shoved past the man, his eyes wild.
“Your Grac—”
“Where is she?” Ambrose barked, his voice a growl.
He followed the sound of a scuffle toward the side hall. He burst through the door just as Imogen managed to slip inside from the garden where he had first heard her cries, only to be backed against the wall by Lord Presholm.
Ambrose lunged. He grabbed Presholm’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the man’s expensive coat, the smell of drink and smoke filling his nostrils. He hauled him back with enough force to make the older man stumble clumsily.
“Get away from her,” Ambrose commanded, his voice vibrating with a lethal authority. “Now.”
“Your Grace?” Presholm exclaimed, hastily adjusting his waistcoat, color rising in his cheeks as his gaze darted about. “What is the meaning of this? You have forced your way into my home!”
“I heard a woman in distress,” Ambrose snapped, stepping between them, his tall frame shielding Miss Lewis completely. “And I see a coward cornering his staff. Leave. Her. Be.”
“She is a member of my staff!” Presholm huffed, finally regaining his footing. “You have no right to meddle in my domestic affairs! Come now, Your Grace! What madness is this?”
Miss Lewis trembled. Her hands were white-knuckled as she clutched her apron. Ambrose glanced back at her. “Are you hurt, Miss Lewis?”
“It… it was nothing, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice shaky and eyes glassed over, looking into the distance. “I… am fine…”
This is not the first time he has done this, but it will be the last.
“We were… discussing household matters,” she whispered, bringing him back to the moment. “Truly.”
She is terrified of the fallout, Ambrose realized. This poor lamb is trying to protect her only means of survival. I will not have it.
“What is this infernal racket?” Lady Presholm’s voice cut through the hall as she swept into the room.
She stopped, her eyes darting from the Duke’s fury to her husband’s indignance, and finally to the maid.
“Your Grace? To what do we owe this… most unconventional visit? Is there a problem with my maid?”
“Your husband was accosting your maid, Lady Presholm,” Ambrose said coldly.
Lady Presholm’s face hardened, but not toward her husband. She turned a venomous look on Miss Lewis as she pointed a bony finger at her, wiggling it.
“You,” she hissed, walking forward and grabbing Imogen’s arm, hauling her toward her. “You insolent, common temptress! Just like your wretched mother! I knew you were trouble from the moment you were born. You’ve been preening for him, haven’t you? Trying to cause a scandal with my husband?”
“She did nothing but defend herself,” Ambrose barked, his blood boiling. “This was not of her making, Lady Presholm. I swear it on my name as the Duke of Welton.”
“She is a liar and a burden, Your Grace! You have no idea the pains this wretch has caused me after all we have done for her,” Lady Presholm whined, dragging Imogen toward the servant’s stairs.
“I’ll have you whipped for this insolence!
You’ll sleep in the scullery until you finally learn your place! ”
Ambrose reached out, his hand like a bar of iron as he stopped Lady Presholm’s movement with a firm, but gentle touch. He looked at Imogen, saw the fear and the exhaustion in her eyes as a sudden, sharp clarity took hold of him.
“Stop,” Ambrose said.
The room went silent.
He looked at Lady Presholm, then at Lord Presholm, and finally settled his gaze on Miss Lewis.
“Miss Lewis, come work for me instead.”
The silence that followed was deafening until Lord Presholm finally spoke.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he sputtered. “She is but a lowly maid, Your Grace! And not even a good one at that!” He laughed, a vain attempt to diffuse the situation.
“She will be my nephews’ governess,” Ambrose stated, his voice calm and resolute. “I will triple whatever pittance you pay her. She will have her own chambers, proper respect, and the protection of my House.”
The Countess of Presholm gripped Miss Lewis’ arm even tighter, and he saw her nails digging in. It took everything he had not to carry her out without delay.
He gritted his teeth, trying to think of his next move, when Lady Presholm spoke once more.
“She is going nowhere! She belongs here. She is nothing without this house.” She leaned into Miss Lewis’ ear then, her voice a poisonous low hiss, which Ambrose still managed to catch. “You have nowhere else to go, girl. Remember what you are.”
Ambrose watched Imogen look up at her, then she gazed at him.
Into him. She was a sweet, soft lamb, and he needed to be her lion.
He would be her fortress, offering her a hand out of the darkness and into the light.
In turn, she would be the solution to his own problems, a source of comfort for his nephews.
It must be this way.
Slowly, with a trembling breath, Miss Lewis reached up and pried Lady Presholm’s fingers off her arm. She took a step toward him with a small nod, her shoulders held high.
“I promise, I will never lay a hand on you,” he whispered to her only. “You will be safe and cared for as long as you are under my roof. I swear it.”
That was all she needed.
“I accept your offer, Your Grace,” she said, her voice growing stronger with every word. She turned to the Countess, her chin lifting. “I quit.”
Lady Presholm looked as though she might strike her, her hand flying up in a rush, but Ambrose moved instantly, stepping in front of Miss Lewis once more. She took her hand and wiped away a stray strand of hair, feigning innocence.
“Miss Lewis is part of my staff now,” Ambrose said, his blue eyes flashing with a warning that made even Lord Presholm shrink back. “Any insult to her is an insult to the Duke of Welton. If you have any further grievances, you may take them up with my solicitors.”
Without another word, Ambrose placed a steadying hand on the small of Miss Lewis’ back and guided her out of the house.