Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“Are you all right, Miss Crampton?” the butler’s voice called out, though his words barely reached her over the pounding of her own heartbeat.
Lucy stood frozen, every nerve alight, as if the world had been overturned in an instant.
The sun had been warm on her shoulders just moments ago, the estate’s gardens tranquil and orderly, their paths lined with neatly clipped hedges and swaying oaks.
Now, everything felt suddenly wrong, as though the calm had fractured.
Her hands and arms were coated in a slick, staining substance that clung to her skin and fabric alike. It was everywhere, sticky and heavy, and the bright red gleam made the morning light feel harsher, exposing every soaked inch of her skirts and bodice.
Her breath came in short, uneven bursts.
The sensation of the liquid, cold and clingy, seeping into every fold of her dress, made the world seem impossibly unstable.
The polished stone beneath her feet felt slippery and alien, and even the faint rustle of the leaves outside sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else’s serene morning.
Lucy’s vision blurred at the edges, every movement making her feel more encased in the dripping, sticky mess that now defined her.
Time seemed suspended. She could only stare in disbelief, feeling the material sticking to her skin, the sharp tang of the beet juice in the air, and the sudden, shocking heat that bloomed in her cheeks, unsure if it was from embarrassment, anger, or sheer surprise.
She had been walking through the estate, noting the subtle arches of the corridors, admiring the play of sunlight on the marble, savoring the calm order of the house…
and then suddenly, she was covered in beet juice, drenched from head to toe.
“I am afraid you have fallen victim to one of Master Brook’s little schemes,” the butler said gently. He stepped closer, offering a handkerchief, though Lucy barely noticed, so focused was she on the slick, staining mess coating her skirts and bodice.
“Brook?” Lucy’s voice trembled slightly, half disbelief, half indignation.
“Ah, he is clever beyond his years, Miss Crampton,” the butler, Higgins, replied, his voice tinged with resignation.
“I assure you, you are far from the first. Many a poor soul has met his tricks. The gardeners, footmen, tutors, even I have been caught more than once, though I am careful these days.” He gestured vaguely to the corridor, as if warning her of unseen traps.
“He relishes in the chaos he can create, and woe to any who cross him lightly.”
Lucy’s hands flexed in the sticky, red mess, and she pressed her palms against her skirts to steady herself.
A high, mischievous giggle drifted down the corridor, sharp and unmistakable.
Lucy froze for a moment, her soaked skirts clinging to her legs, heart pounding as her eyes followed the sound.
The laughter grew louder, echoing off the marble floors and high ceilings, teasing her like a whisper she could not ignore.
Her eyes darted toward a shadowed corner, and there he was, Brook, crouched low, barely able to contain his grin, eyes alight with triumph at the chaos he had wrought.
“Brook!” she barked, voice cracking slightly with a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “Come here at once, and explain yourself!”
The boy only tilted his head and snickered again before darting a few steps forward, ready to slip past her. Lucy surged after him, the sticky beet juice tugging at her skirts with every step, threatening to slow her down but only fueling her determination.
“Do not run!” she demanded, trying to keep her balance. “You cannot possibly think you’re faster than me!”
She pressed onward, determined not to let him outwit her twice.
“Brook! Stop this instant!” Lucy’s voice rang sharp through the corridor. She lunged around the first corner of the corridor, expecting to catch him, but the boy was gone, laughter echoing faintly down the hall.
“Brook! I mean it, come back here!” she shouted, spinning into the library, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. Bookshelves towered above her, and for a moment, she thought she might have cornered him, but a flash of movement near the fireplace proved otherwise.
He darted past her, nimble as a cat, and she pivoted, skidding slightly on the slick floor. “Brook! Oh, just wait till I catch you!”
From the library, she followed the sound of his high-pitched giggle into the sunroom, her arms flailing to keep balance. He was just a shadow flitting past the doors, daring her to reach him.
“Brook! This is not a game!” she called, rounding another corner, her chest rising with exertion and indignation. The boy’s laughter seemed to echo from every doorway, every hallway, as if the house itself had joined in the prank, mocking her.
She twisted sharply, expecting to intercept him at the servant’s corridor near the back stairs, when her momentum betrayed her, and she tripped.
She let out a startled gasp, stumbling forward, but just when she braced for impact on the hard marble floors, something caught her—or someone, as she felt strong hands close around her tightly—and she felt like she hit her body against a wall with arms.
Rowan pressed her gently but firmly against him, the heat of his body radiating through the fabric of his coat, his heartbeat thudding faintly against her chest. Lucy froze, taking in the press of his torso, the grounding grip of his arms, and the scent of him in the close air.
Her hair brushed across his jaw as she attempted to tilt her head, trying to meet his gaze to steady herself in a storm of surprise.
For a heartbeat, he simply held her, as though the world had contracted to just this single, impossible moment. Then, in a low, careful whisper, he asked. “Are you steady enough to stand on your own?”
Lucy blinked rapidly, swallowing the heat rising in her chest. She nodded, faintly, and he loosened his grip just enough, still guiding her upright. Slowly, he let her go, the moment lingering between them like a held breath, the chase forgotten, replaced by something fragile, intimate.
He stepped back just enough to give her space, and Lucy’s gaze involuntarily dropped.
His dark waistcoat, usually immaculate, bore a faint smear of deep red, an almost comical testament to the chaos she had left in her wake.
The crisp white of his shirt peeking from beneath the coat was stained too, causing her to feel a pang of guilt for ruining his clothes.
He looked down at himself for a moment, then lifted his gaze to hers with a wry lift of one brow. “Lucy...” he said quietly. “... would you care to explain why you are sprinting about the halls in such frantic disarray?”
Lucy swallowed, cheeks flushing. “I did not mean to cause such a disturbance, Your Grace,” she stammered. “It was Brook and his penchant for pranks. He did this to me.”
Rowan’s eyes flicked toward the corridor behind her, then back to her face. “I see,” he murmured. “I should have warned you about his pranks.”
“Yes,” she said, exasperated, “you probably should have. But I do apologize for running in the halls. I may have gotten a little… involved in retrieving him. I had no idea he would be so nimble nor that the complicated halls would become such an obstacle course.”
He let out a soft laugh, one that caught in his throat as he tried to maintain composure, and Lucy felt an odd warmth at the sound.
“I apologize for my son’s actions. It seems I have underestimated his creativity.”
“I would admit this must have taken some effort to pull off,” Lucy answered and sighed.
“Yet,” he continued, stepping closer. “I find you still standing here, soaked, sticky, and utterly exposed to the elements when you should have gone straight to your rooms to change, Lucy. You’re drenched.” His glance flicked down at the fabric clinging to her skirts.
Lucy squared her shoulders. “And miss the chance to repay the culprit?” she shot back. “My priority was catching Brook before he escaped.”
He raised a brow and scoffed. “Brook isn’t going anywhere, Lucy. He’d still be here when you clean yourself off. But I will ensure that Brook is punished for this prank that he pulled on you. I will remind him to act proper in the future and not upset our guest.”
“I see no need for that, Your Grace. That was not the reason I was chasing him in the first place,” Lucy said firmly, brushing the damp strands of hair from her forehead and giving a sharp glance at him.
“If Brook must be taught a lesson, I can repay him myself quite adequately with my own beet juice. I just have to be much more clever about it than he was.”
Rowan’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re going to... prank him?”
“Indeed,” she confirmed.
Rowan’s dark eyes widened, a flicker of incredulity crossing his face. “Lucy, you are a lady. Surely you do not intend to douse a child in juice!”
Lucy straightened, meeting his gaze. “He is not merely a child to punish, Your Grace. He is a boy with a mischievous mind, and children’s minds are far simpler than one assumes. Brook wants only to play, and he will be sorely disappointed if I do not meet him on equal footing.”
Rowan blinked, lips twitching. “Did you say equal footing? You would contend with my son in beet juice warfare?”
“I would,” she replied, trying to peek past Rowan to see if she could catch a glimpse of Brook, but he seemed to be long gone. “I am certain it is what he expects. If I refuse, he will remember nothing but triumph, and the lesson of consequence will be lost. I must retaliate.”
He shook his head slowly, incredulous. “Don’t do that. It would be ridiculous to stoop to his level. I will talk to him. You can be rest assured he won’t do it again.”