Chapter 3 #2
“Let me guess,” he said, though he hardly needed to conjure a vision of his despoiler. She had lived behind his eyes since last night. “Ebony hair. Skin smooth enough to be marble. Blue eyes, as I recall.” Like a faraway ocean. Distant. Untouchable.
Ramsey shrugged. “Can’t say I noticed.”
He felt like marching down the stairs, propping Ramsey’s eyes open with sticks and checking he wasn’t blind.
He should be relieved.
How could a man not notice Miss Harland?
Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps there was a rational explanation. Even so, he knew it was her. He could feel it in his bones. Who else would invade his house disguised as a maid, armed with forged references and that clever mouth wielded like a weapon?
“Shall I give her a month’s wages and turn her out?”
Dominic hesitated, the urge to say yes dancing on his tongue, though he’d left his better judgement in Templeton’s ballroom.
“No. I’ll assess her abilities myself. Have her bring up the water for my shower-bath. She’s to carry two buckets up the servants’ stairs.”
He allowed himself a thin smile. He would see how long that composure lasted. See whether she truly understood the game she had chosen to play.
The image forming in his mind was wicked enough to make a priest sweat.
They didn’t call him the Prince of Darkness for nothing.
If Mr Beattie asked her to polish the silver again, she’d tell him exactly what to do with his chamois cloth. No doubt Mr Hawke liked staring at his own reflection while he dined. One glint of a knife at the window was enough to summon an infantry from a mile away.
Wasn’t it the job of the footman? Or the under-butler?
Trust him to break with convention.
Her shoulders ached. Her hands smelled of vinegar and soot. She could lay a fire with military precision, and still Mr Beattie was dissatisfied.
He loomed over her like an ageing bloodhound as she sat at the crude oak table in the butler’s pantry, his long, mournful face sagging under the weight of Mr Hawke’s expectations.
“Miss Smith, I can’t comment on your previous employer’s standards. But at Shadowmere, everything must be first rate.”
Anyone would think Mr Hawke entertained the King, not a pack of lecherous libertines. Since when did debauchers and opium-eaters care about polished tableware? Most probably ate with their fingers.
Just when she thought Mr Beattie might pull out the boot polish and ten pairs of muddy Hessians, Mr Ramsey appeared at the door.
He stared at her from beneath hooded lids, as if the word liar were carved on her forehead. Then he turned to Mr Beattie.
“Hawke is home. And he’s not in the best of moods.”
Her heart shot to her throat, though it had nothing to do with the man and everything to do with his cold manner.
Well … that might be a small lie.
It had a little to do with the man, the one whose eyes were the shade of moss at dawn, and whose arrogance was utterly unmatched.
“He wants two buckets of water for his shower-bath.”
Shower-bath?
So, he might live in a fortress, but he wasn’t a heathen. He liked to indulge in modern comforts.
Perhaps the wicked ladies of the ton sat in velvet chairs, drinking ratafia, watching him tend to his ablutions.
“I’ll have Cook heat the water at once, Mr Ramsey.”
The sly curl of Mr Ramsey’s lips warned he had something shocking to say. “Hawke wants the new maid to carry the buckets upstairs. I’ll follow behind. Make sure she can find his chamber.”
Her stomach dropped. She’d been hoping to spend a few days moving about the house unnoticed, to delay the inevitable confrontation. Lady Soanes expected her to stay a month. At this rate, she would be lucky to last the hour.
Mr Beattie eyed her as a major would the worst cadet in the barracks. “I’m not sure Miss Smith is up to the task.”
Daphne straightened her spine. She’d carried burdens heavier than buckets and insults sharper than Mr Beattie’s stiff little moustache.
She smiled through gritted teeth. “I can manage the buckets, sir.”
“It isn’t a question of managing, Miss Smith. Hawke was quite specific.”
Of course he was. He’d make her climb the stairs, sweat dripping down her spine, just to gloat.
The buckets were heavy. Heavy enough that Mr Ramsey took pity and carried one to the top of the stone staircase. She adjusted her grip, ignoring the splash against her skirt.
“There’s more on the floor than in the bucket.”
“Alas, I lack your brawn, Mr Ramsey.”
“What you lack in brawn, you make up for in courage. Pity the same can’t be said for your father. Hawke won’t rest until he makes him pay.”
So there had been no duel at dawn. No blood spilled in her name. Mr Hawke hadn’t hunted him down and fired regardless.
He had chosen restraint.
He was not a complete scoundrel.
Her father had done more to disgrace her than Mr Hawke with his scandalous waltz. At least he fought for a cause, one she had yet to understand. Her father fought only for himself.
Mr Ramsey led her down a narrow corridor, stone yielding to wood so polished it shone like old wine. Mr Hawke might be short on scruples, but he didn’t cut corners.
They stopped outside a door with two keyholes and a plaque that read: Enter upon pain of death. One had to admire a man who didn’t mince words.
Mr Ramsey knocked twice.
“Enter.”
The rich sound of Mr Hawke’s voice stirred the hair at her nape. Her belly fluttered, which she put down to nerves. This would be their second round. She had to win this bout.
Mr Ramsey handed her the bucket and opened the door. He didn’t set foot over the threshold, merely closed it behind her.
Daphne took a moment to scan the room, not him.
The deep reds and plush velvets that dominated the house were absent here.
The walls were painted hunter green, the wainscoting and heavy oak poster bed evoking the quiet hush of a forest. The furnishings were spare but elegant: an escritoire scattered with papers and numerous quills, a book he was midway through reading.
She knew the traits of the man who owned Shadowmere.
Not those of the person who slept here.
She noticed the monstrous shower contraption raised on a tiled dais in the far corner, and reluctantly drew a breath. The room smelled of him, as she feared it would, that tantalising mix of dark spice and danger.
“Put the buckets beside the shower-bath, Miss Harland.”
She caught him in the corner of her eye: grey trousers, a loose white shirt, and—lord help her—bare feet.
“It’s Miss Smith while I’m working here, sir. A lady on the run should remain incognito.”
He closed the gap between them, his fingers warm as they slid over hers to take the bucket. “I’m sorry to say you’ve been misinformed. There is no vacancy.”
She turned to face him, ready to fight, but he was too close for comfort, her eyes level with the open neck of his shirt. Her hand trembled. Water slipped over the rim of the remaining bucket, splashing onto her feet.
“You’ve made a puddle on the rug, Miss Harland, and I’ve not touched you yet.”
“Hell will freeze over before you touch me again, Mr Hawke.” She met his gaze and wished she hadn’t. Mischief lived in those compelling green eyes.
“Then I’d better buy a fur coat.”
She set the bucket down with a thud. “I used you last night. I’ve no plans to do so again.”
The slight jerk of his head said he’d felt her bite.
“We used each other. And now it seems the advantage is mine. I don’t want a maid, and you need employment.”
“Is this where you make me a different offer?”
“I don’t want a mistress, either.”
He probably burned through them at a rate of one a week.
“I was referring to your guests for the Autumn Masque. You said I’d top most men’s list. Why not use me to your advantage? I could be the entertainment.”
He clasped her elbow. “Over my dead body.”
Satisfied she’d achieved the desired effect, she tugged her arm free. Somehow, she had to persuade him to let her stay.
“You hurt me. And now you must make amends. I’m your responsibility, whether you like it or not. I deserve a home. An income. You stole my airs and graces, and so I’m more than happy to work as a maid.”
He stepped back, dragged his shirt over his head and threw it on the leather chair. “It’s not safe for you here.”
Her gaze dropped of its own volition.
Cook had always said she was a greedy minx, and she couldn’t help but sneak one look at Mr Hawke’s muscular chest.
Well. Maybe two. Three, if one counted the slow glide to where that trail of dark hair vanished beneath his waistband.
“Pour the water into the basin. If you want to work as a maid, let’s see if you can follow orders.”
He began unbuttoning the fall of his trousers.
Good heavens above.
“I can be obedient. You’ll scarcely know I’m here.”
“A man would need to be deaf and blind to miss you, Miss Harland. Now hurry. Before the water goes cold. Consider this a test. You’ll need to grow accustomed to nakedness if you want to keep your position.”
There was no danger of the water chilling. She was warming it with the heat from her cheeks. She lifted the bucket with as much grace as she could muster and poured, determined not to spill a single drop.
She saw him fling his trousers onto the bed.
“Once I step in, take a firm grip and pump hard.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The mechanism, Miss Harland. How else shall I bathe?”
She might have shot him an irate glare, but daren’t look above his firm calves. Dark hair lay against skin drawn taut over corded muscle. And she cursed her own curiosity.
She gripped the handle with both hands and began siphoning water from the basin into the tank above.
“Faster, Miss Harland. A man might freeze to death.”
“I’m going as fast as I can. It’s extremely stiff.”
Thank heavens Mr Beattie wasn’t listening at the door. Doubtless he’d insist she empty the water and start again.
“How long should I pump?”
“Until I’m satisfied you’re up to the task.” She could hear the laughter in his voice. “Look at me, Miss Harland, so I know you’re listening.”
She knew what he wanted. To embarrass her. To remind her this was a house of sin. To suggest his weekend guests might expect more than a steady hand at the pump. And to see where her greedy eyes would settle.
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t take the bait.
Lady Soanes’ warning echoed like a bell.
Be yourself. Refuse any other role he gives you.
She stepped back from the contraption, wiping her hands on her pink muslin dress. Mr Beattie had refused to issue a uniform until she proved herself capable.
“Pull the chain, Mr Hawke. I’m confident the tank is full. Do try not to drown.” She crossed the room and gripped the doorknob. “How would you avenge your mother then?”