CHAPTER 4
Clara found herself close to infernal regions as Gabriel would sit idly in his chair, drinking his spirits at all hours of the day, commenting on her inadequacies.
"You're going about it all wrong,” Gabriel informed her for the seventh time that hour.
Clara, balanced precariously on a ladder that had seen better decades, possibly better centuries, gritting her teeth whilst she continued to endeavor dusting the leather-bound volumes that hadn't been touched since approximately the Norman Conquest.
"I'm dusting," she said with forced patience. "One can hardly dust incorrectly."
"And yet, you're managing it."
"Perhaps you'd like to demonstrate the proper technique?"
"I'm the duke. I don't dust."
"No, you just sit there like a particularly judgmental gargoyle and criticize those who do."
"Gargoyles are protective spirits. I'm merely decorative and disapproving."
"At least you're self-aware."
As she reached for a particularly high shelf, the ladder wobbled ominously.
Her feet, still tender from their blistered journey, though somewhat healed after three days of Edmund's wife's mysterious salves, protested the position.
The dress Edmund's wife had sent fit reasonably well, though it was plain gray wool that made her look like either a governess or someone in half-mourning.
Given her circumstances, both seemed appropriate.
"That volume," Gabriel said, pointing with his brandy glass to a book just out of her reach, "is a first edition, Sir Walter Scott. Should you allow it to fall, I shall withhold a portion of your wages.”
"What wages? We haven't discussed specific amounts."
"Exactly. You might end up owing me money."
Clara stretched further, fingertips just brushing the spine of the book. The ladder made an alarming creaking sound.
"Careful," Gabriel drawled. "If you fall and break your neck, I'll have to find another desperate woman to exploit, which will be terribly inconvenient."
"Your concern is touching."
"I'm not concerned. I'm practical. Do you know how difficult it is to remove blood from Persian rugs?"
"Speaking from experience?"
"War, Miss Whitfield. One learns all sorts of useful domestic tips when watching men die on expensive carpets."
The casual darkness of it made her pause. She glanced down at him, finding him staring into his brandy with that thousand-yard stare she'd noticed more frequently over the past three days.
He was in the habit of uttering dreadful jests regarding the late war, death and his scar…It was as if he was daring her to flinch.
Which he failed to do so.
"Well then," Clara said, returning to her dusting, "I'll be sure to aim for the bare floorboards if I fall."
"How considerate."
The ladder creaked again, more insistently this time. Clara froze.
"That doesn't sound good," she observed.
"It's held for three generations of Hales."
"Yes, well, three generations of Hales probably maintained their equipment better than the current one."
"The current one prefers his equipment, like his staff, to have character."
"Character being another word for 'near collapse'?"
"Precisely."
The ladder chose that moment to prove Clara's point by splintering spectacularly. She had a brief moment of weightlessness, enough time to think .This is how I die—not from starvation or cold, but from Gabriel's negligent ladder maintenance, before strong arms caught her.
The impact knocked them both to the floor, Clara landing on top of Gabriel in a tangle of limbs and gray wool and startled breathing.
For a moment, neither moved. Clara was acutely aware of every point of contact, his hands at her waist, her palms pressed against his chest, their faces inches apart.
His eyes, she noticed irrelevantly, had gold flecks in them. How had she never noticed that as a child?
"Miss Whitfield," he said, his voice oddly rough. "You appear to be crushing me."
"You appear to have caught me, yet again."
"A terrible habit I'm developing."
"You could stop."
"I could."
Neither of them moved. The air between them crackled with something that definitely wasn't employer-employee appropriate.
Clara could feel his heartbeat under her palms, quick and not entirely steady.
His hands on her waist tightened fractionally, and she had the absurd thought that he was about to pull her closer when…
"Am I interrupting something?"
They sprang apart like guilty teenagers, Clara scrambling to her feet while Gabriel remained on the floor, glaring at the doorway where Edmund stood with barely concealed glee.
Edmund Hartley was everything Gabriel wasn't, fair where Gabriel was dark, cheerful where Gabriel was brooding, unscarred where Gabriel was.
.. He was also holding a basket that smelled like heaven and looking at them with the expression of someone who'd just won a particularly satisfying bet with himself.
"Edmund," Gabriel said from the floor, with great dignity considering his position. “Pray tell, do you not deem it fit to knock?”
"I do indeed, and I did. Three times to be exact. Three times. You were apparently too busy catching falling women to notice."
"The ladder broke," Clara said quickly.
"Of course it did." Edmund's grin widened. "Ladders are notorious for flinging women into convenient arms. Happens all the time. There ought to be an advertisement placed in the papers to alert the public.”
Gabriel finally got to his feet, brushing dust from his clothes with movements that suggested he'd like to be brushing Edmund from existence. “What is the purpose of your visit?”
"I brought food from Margaret. She's concerned that Miss Whitfield is surviving on whatever gruel you're providing."
"I don't make gruel," Gabriel said, offended.
"You don't make anything. I've seen your kitchen. There's a family of mice that have given up and moved somewhere with better prospects."
"They were rats, actually. And they were ungrateful. I offered them perfectly good cheese."
"When?"
"1812."
Clara couldn't help it, but at that point, she burst out laughing. Both men turned to look at her, Edmund with delight and Gabriel with something more complicated.
"She laughs!" Edmund exclaimed. "Gabriel, you've found the one woman in England who finds you amusing rather than terrifying."
"I'm paying her to find me amusing."
"No," Clara corrected, taking the basket from Edmund with a grateful smile. "You're paying me to clean. Finding you amusing is an unfortunate side effect of proximity."
Edmund clutched his chest dramatically. "She has wit! Gabriel, where did you find her?"
"Dying on my doorstep."
"How romantic."
"It wasn't…" Clara began.
"It was Tuesday," Gabriel interrupted. "Nothing romantic about Tuesdays."
"Everything's romantic about Tuesdays if you're doing them right," Edmund countered. "Margaret and I…"
“We do not need to be informed about yourself and your wife.” Gabriel said flatly.
"Miss Whitfield might care. She seems to be someone who appreciates a good romance."
"Miss Whitfield seems to be someone who appreciates food more than your agreeable union. Now please allow her to eat."
Clara was already unpacking the basket, which consisted of fresh bread, cheese, cold chicken, apple tart. Her stomach, which had been slowly remembering how to process food after days of starvation, growled audibly.
“When was your last sustenance?” Edmund asked, his joviality fading into concern.
"This morning," Clara said quickly.
"Toast doesn't count as a meal."
"It was very substantial toast."
Gabriel snorted. "She lies terribly. Always has."
Edmund's eyebrows rose at the 'always has,' but he wisely didn't comment. Instead, he pulled out a chair. "Sit. Eat. Gabriel can survive without his criticism for a few minutes.”
"Can I though?" Gabriel mused. "Criticism is my primary form of communication. Without it, I might have to express actual emotions."
"The horror," Clara murmured through a mouthful of bread.
"See? She understands me."
"Nobody understands you," Edmund said cheerfully. "You're an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in an uncommonly bad attitude."
"You forgot wrapped in devastating good looks."
Edmund looked pointedly at Gabriel's scar. "Did I?"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Clara set down her bread.
"Edmund," she said quietly. "That was unkind."
Both men stared at her. Edmund had the grace to look ashamed. Gabriel looked... stunned.
"I apologize," Edmund said after a moment. "That was beneath me."
"Yes, it was," Gabriel agreed, but he was still looking at Clara with that complicated expression.
An awkward silence fell. Clara resumed eating, determined to ignore the tension. The food was exceptional, and she had no intention of allowing mere male consequence to spoil her evening.
"So," Edmund said finally, clearly desperate to change the subject. "The gardens."
Gabriel groaned. "Not you too."
"Margaret says Miss Whitfield asked for gardening tools."
"Miss Whitfield labours under the fantastical notion of restoring the departed to life.”
"The gardens aren't withered and dried up," Clara protested. "They're simply dormant."
"They're a wasteland."
"They're neglected. There's a difference."
"You and your differences," Gabriel muttered.
Edmund looked between them with increasing interest. "You two do this often?"
"Do what?" Clara asked.
"Argue like you've been wedded for twenty years."
"We don't…" Clara began.
"We're not…" Gabriel said simultaneously.
"Very well," Edmund's grin was back. "My mistake. This is clearly the normal dynamic between a duke and his... what is your official position, Miss Whitfield?"
"Housekeeper," Clara said firmly.
"Temporary housekeeper," Gabriel corrected.
"Who lives in the house?"
"In the servants' quarters."
"Which are in the main house because you dismissed all the staff and closed the servants' wing."
"Details."
Edmund was practically vibrating with glee. "Oh, this is delightful. Gabriel, you've actually found someone who argues back."