Chapter 3 - West
Three
West
Over the last few days, someone has turned the manor into an ice box.
Every room I walk into, the windows are thrown open wide, salty wind buffeting the curtains as it gusts inside.
The radiators that groan on the walls are no match for a constant swirl of frosty air.
My plant clippings huddle in their pots.
On the third day, I corner a few of the housemaids as they go about their work, demanding answers—but they all shrug and hurry away.
As soon as they’re out of sight, I’ve forgotten what they look like.
They’re small, all of them, with… hair. And matching black dresses.
A couple of them, I probably interrogate twice without realizing, but needs must.
The mystery window-opener must be found.
Found and fired.
At this rate, every single plant pot in this manor will need to be moved to the greenhouse in the grounds.
It’s that or risk having hundreds—no, thousands—of rare plants wither and die from the sudden drop in temperature.
Does this saboteur have any idea of the damage they’re doing?
Are they deliberately threatening my life’s work?
“For Christ’s sake.”
Entering my study, I toss my cane on top of my desk before limping to the big, open window.
Outside, the wind howls across the island, tangy with brine.
It numbs my cheeks and flaps the collar of my shirt as I reach up for the pane.
I’m not dressed for winter to come inside my home, wearing only my customary shirt, waistcoat and dark trousers.
Really, after the last few days of freezing my bollocks off, I should have known better.
Muscles flex across my back as I heave the window closed again, cursing under my breath. The wooden frame is swollen with age, and it sticks a little as I shove it back into place. It fastens with a dull thunk.
A throat clears behind me, at the other end of the room.
I jerk around, pain cramping my thigh muscle from the sudden movement. One of the housemaids waves awkwardly from the wall of bookcases, a feather duster clutched in her other hand.
No, not one of the housemaids.
Her.
Madeleine Price.
The woman with dark hair that lightens to caramel by the ends. The woman with the hot pink suitcase. The woman with the laugh.
The woman who has been leaving the faintest scent of cinnamon everywhere she goes. I may not have met her face-to-face before now, but there’s never been a moment of doubt in my mind who the scent belonged to. The culprit.
“You,” I say stupidly, my balance teetering without the help of my cane. I grip the back of my leather desk chair instead, an unaccountable tremor running through my fingers.
Madeleine snorts, the sound drifting easily through the large, quiet study. Her hair is braided down her back, and the lacy white collar of her housemaid dress has flipped up on one side.
“Me,” she agrees.
Then she turns her back, and continues dusting the shelves like I’m not here.
It’s a mercy, really, that my tormentor has turned away, because otherwise she’d catch me staring at her wide-eyed, like a madman. A muscle ticks in my jaw, and I squeeze the desk chair. My leg throbs hot with pain.
For a full month, I’ve avoided this particular member of my staff.
I’ve passed messages through Jenkins, bringing her volume down to more reasonable levels.
I’ve wholly avoided the wing of the manor where she lives.
I’ve not set foot in Mrs Ainslie’s kitchen for weeks, not even when my stomach was growling for sustenance, just on the off chance that this errant housemaid might be there.
I even passed along the feedback about her distinctive cinnamon scent, all to better pretend that this woman is not under my roof. The whole operation has been a roaring success, enabling me to almost entirely forget that laugh, but—
“You,” I say again, my voice too rough, too loud in the quiet. The pieces are slotting together in my sluggish brain. “You’re the one opening all the windows, aren’t you?”
Of course she is. Since the moment this woman set foot on the island, she’s caused nothing but disruption. Everyone else I employ seems able to come and go with no trouble, doing their tasks seamlessly and barely causing a ripple in my consciousness, but Madeleine—
“Yes,” she says, the feather duster whispering over the bookshelves. Her back is still turned, her slender shoulders stiff in her black dress. Like she’s angry too. Angry at me. What on Earth? “I’ve been opening the windows, Lord Westmore.”
Snatching up my cane, I stride forward, my gait uneven but determined.
“Why?”
So many questions have haunted me since that first day I overheard her laughing with Jenkins out on the gravel driveway. Why was she laughing? Why is she here? Why does she disturb my peace so badly? And why, of all the manor houses in all the world, did she have to come to mine?
“I received some feedback,” Madeleine says, her tone crisp as she addresses the spines of leather-bound books. The feather duster dances across the shelves, a puff of white cloud. “That my personal odor was causing offense.”
My steps slow as I approach, and my palm is suddenly damp where it grips my cane. I didn’t phrase it like that, surely. It may have been years since I troubled myself with society and manners, but I’m not a complete ogre.
Am I?
“I merely meant…”
Cane thumping against the rug, I come to a stop directly behind her. Within arm’s length, though naturally, my hands stay firmly in place: one on my cane, one balled into a fist at my side.
Is that threatening? Exhaling slowly, I force the fingers of my free hand to unfurl. No need to unnerve my employee if she ever deigns to turn around.
“I know what you meant,” Madeleine says serenely. “There’s really only one way to interpret feedback like that. So I started opening the windows, your lordship.”
Madeleine is shorter than me by several inches; short enough that she’ll have to use the step ladder to reach the highest bookshelves.
From this close, I can examine every loop and bulge of the braid hanging down the center of her back.
Not only that, I can smell her cinnamon scent stronger than ever now that I’m here with her in person—though, I have to admit, it’s not nearly as over the top as I’d assumed.
It’s subtle. Tantalizing. A silent hint that a person might want to draw her bare arm to his nose, might want to inhale at the crook of her inner elbow; that he would be rewarded with the most appetizing scent…
Christ. My grip flexes on my cane.
“You can’t throw all the windows wide open in winter, Madeleine. The indoor plants will die.”
“Well, I can’t change the way I smell. I already shower plenty.” At that, she throws a glare at me over her narrow shoulder, as though daring me to argue. To accuse her of poor personal hygiene or some other nonsense. My knee throbs, and I shift my weight further onto my good leg.
…No. Even tied up in knots as I am, I’ve never thought that the problem was Madeleine smelling bad.
It’s that she smells too fucking good, and I can’t concentrate. Can’t complete writing up my research when that scent is in my lungs, and all I can think about is hunting her down in this vast building, undressing her, and inhaling every inch of her bare body.
“Leave them closed, then,” I order, trying to sound like the decisive lord of this estate, and not like a man knowingly signing his own death warrant.
If the choice is between dooming my plant specimens and dooming myself, well, my ruined leg is evidence of my priorities. “We can’t risk the cuttings.”
“Gosh, no.” Madeleine finally spins to face me fully, leaning back against the bookshelves and tipping up her chin to meet my eye.
There’s a glint in her gaze. She’s bold, daring.
The sort of person who is completely unsuited to the silent servant’s role—and yet, the words that would send her packing don’t come to my tongue.
They never have, despite lecturing myself dozens of times that she’s too much of a distraction. “We’d never risk those.”
Up close, getting a clear look at her at last… Madeleine is arresting. As compelling as any rare flower or hardy lichen I ever found on my travels. Somehow, I knew she would be.
Her brown eyes are large, framed with sooty lashes, and her top lip forms a cupid’s bow.
Her skin is smooth and olive-toned, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She looks young—mid twenties, perhaps—and a hot prickle of shame crawls down my neck as my gut twists with interest.
I’m too old for Madeleine Price. Too pained, too cranky, too exhausted with the world. Too much her employer. And far too late to wonder otherwise, after insulting her deeply already.
Excellent work, West. You moron.
“You don’t smell… bad.”
The words are clunky. Awkward. I force them out anyway, my face heating beneath the scruff of my beard. When was the last time I trimmed my facial hair? Was this shirt ironed when I put it on this morning? Just how unkempt do I seem right now to this rare flower?
Whatever humiliation I am feeling, at least I deserve it.
“Go on,” Madeleine says, waving a hand between us. “Say more non-awful things.”
“I…”
“Just try it, your lordship.” There’s a smile playing around her mouth now; a teasing sparkle in her eye.
The tension has finally bled from Madeleine’s shoulders, and though I wouldn’t say the atmosphere is comfortable in this study, at least it’s no longer hostile. “Just for fun. Call it more research.”
“No one calls me ‘your lordship’.” I sound pained.
“Lord Westmore, then?”
“Or West.” My throat is thick when I swallow, and Christ, I didn’t realize how out of my depth I was with this woman until a few seconds ago when she turned around. Now I’m floundering. “Friends call me West.”
“You have friends?”
Her question is honest and automatic, the doubt crinkling her pretty forehead. It hits me like a blow to the solar plexus, and I can’t help the way my body stiffens. My palm is slick against my cane.
Had. I had friends. Before…
No, I can’t think about that now. Can’t think about it ever. Pain lances up my leg, a white-hot warning to guard my thoughts.
“Oh,” Madeleine says, horror dawning as her own words catch up with her. “Oh god, no, I didn’t mean—”
“No, of course you didn’t.”
Whatever else this woman is, she’s not cruel. Her plump mouth turns down with genuine dismay, like she’s worried she hurt my feelings with her careless question. It’s laughable. I don’t have any feelings left to hurt.
“Keep the windows closed.” I step back, breathing freer away from that hint of cinnamon. “And try to keep your volume down, if you please.”
She huffs. “Fine. But—”
“That’s enough cleaning in here for today.” I nod at the open door, my chest thudding. Here I am, being an unrepentant ass again, but right now there’s no room in my brain to care. There’s too much noise, too much jangling horror, too many memories to fend off.
I need to be alone.
Everything is better when I’m alone. It’s tolerable, at least.
And yet, when the door closes behind Madeleine and the silence presses in from all sides… I catch myself breathing deeply, longing for another whiff of cinnamon.