Chapter 5 #2
Perhaps she was unused to seeing a man in such a domestic sphere.
Her father, born into privilege, could toast bread and brew tea, but he often burnt the bread and his tea alternated between depressingly weak or aggressively tannic.
Arthur, positively, knew nothing of kitchens and less about cooking.
But then, Arthur had been a man of means, and his family had taken great pride in letting all and sundry know that they had an abundance of servants to attend them, including a cook from France.
Yet, in short order, Desmond had poured a mug of tea and arranged a fried egg on a plate, complete with two slices of toasted bread. He’d also found the jar of marmalade in the larder, brought it out, opened the container, and stuck a spoon into it.
So, he made himself breakfast. That was hardly anything that merited swooning.
But then he slid everything towards her.
Bracing his hands on the table between them, he said, “Go on.”
“This is for me?” She looked back and forth between the food and his face.
“Who else would it be for?” He tilted his head slightly, clearly confused.
“You. Or Cyrus. Or Hugh. Gideon, or…what was the other one’s name? Liam?”
Desmond shook his head. “I’ll see to Hugh later. As for the others, if they want to break their fast, that’s their own concern.”
He opened and closed several drawers until he found a fork, which he presented to her pragmatically. “It’s getting cold.”
Gingerly, she took the fork from him. But she wouldn’t say thank you.
Instead, she ate slowly. The egg had a golden, slightly runny yolk, as she usually liked it, and she dipped the corners of her toasted bread into it before nibbling in appreciation.
Her tea was bracingly strong, a little over-steeped, and could use some honey, but she drank it anyway.
Silence fell, and she looked up to see him watching her intently.
“This is good,” she said, and he exhaled.
“It’s not toasted bread and cheese,” he noted.
“That’s a treat I usually reserve for teatime. Olive was being kind.”
He said nothing, then, “You did well. How you sent her away.”
“There wasn’t much choice in that matter.” She took a bite of toasted bread.
“You helped us.”
“I helped Olive.” Clara pushed her plate away. “She had to be kept safe. From you. I owe her that much, looking after me all this time.”
They stared at each other across the table.
His gaze flicked down her, and she recalled that she still wore her flimsy nightclothes and hadn’t donned the protective layer of his coat.
In the light of day, the shape of her breasts was even more evident.
She crossed her arms over her chest, hunching in on herself.
“Even for people living alone,” he said softly, “they keep at least a cookmaid. But not you.”
“No,” she said flatly.
“It’s an ample house, and it’s falling down around you.
” As he spoke, he poured another mug of tea.
The vessel looked like a child’s cup in his large hand.
He took a sip and grimaced. “Could cut timber with that. I’m not used to such fine stuff.
We have to steep our tea for a quarter of an hour to get a drop of flavor from it. ”
“There’s a shop in Cheltenham I send to for my tea. It’s rather dear, but I suppose in that, I’m spoilt.”
“Hell, had I the funds, I’d pay for quality brew. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
“Why d’you have only one servant, and she comes only twice a week?”
She stood from the table and gathered up her plate and mug, setting them in the sink. Later, she would go out back and pump the water needed to clean everything.
He watched her all the while, as if conscious that she was stalling. It wasn’t as though she owed him any explanation. She could snap that it was none of his affair, and he’d have to accept that. She’d unburden herself to those she trusted, those who were close to her.
Only…
Clara had no one.
“I left London rather…in disgrace.”
Desmond’s eyebrows rose. “A scandal?”
At that, her lips curved wryly. “Somewhat the opposite.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Well,” she said with an attempt at a laugh, “no one followed me. Certainly not my husband.” Seeing that Desmond still looked perplexed, she continued.
“Arthur sent me here, to rusticate. He remained in London. For a year, I was here more or less on my own. I think he came out to stay, perhaps once in the span of twelve months, and then, not for long.”
Desmond’s jaw tightened. “There’s no fucking reason for a husband to abandon his wife like that.”
Though the coarse language startled her, she warmed slightly to hear his outrage on her behalf. “Arthur felt there was a reason. He—”
She stopped herself. For all that she longed to confess everything to someone, to Desmond, some things were not to be spoken of.
“For that year,” she went on, “I kept a full staff. Cook, housekeeper, footmen, maids. A gardener and groundskeeper. It seemed unnecessary, even then, to have so many people attending only me. But I never knew when Arthur would come to visit, and I wanted to make certain that he’d have everything a man needed at his country estate.
He felt very strongly about that, about ensuring that everyone knew he was a gentleman if not by birth then behavior. Thus, he maintained many servants.”
“What I know of the well-heeled happens at the end of my barking iron,” Desmond said, crossing his arms over his chest. “But someone who aims to be a gentleman ought to act better than ousting his wife. A gentleman like that isn’t worth having anyone wait on him.”
She gave a slight nod. “It all changed, though, when he died. Without his visits, there seemed little point in maintaining a staff. I let the footmen go, then the gardener and groundskeeper. Eventually, the maids went. I made certain I found other positions for them, of course, but gradually it became just Olive and me, and even then, I had her come just twice weekly. I told myself that it didn’t make sense to keep so many servants, but the truth was… ”
Unable to bear Desmond’s gaze on her, unable to say the words aloud to someone staring right at her, she looked away.
“The truth was…?” he prompted, when she didn’t speak again.
“I was…ashamed.”
“You’d no reason to be,” Desmond insisted.
She faced him, then. “The circumstances of Arthur’s death were humiliating. I understood how talk spread, and how everyone in my household knew exactly what had transpired in London. It was degrading to have anyone around me know I wanted to…to…hide. From everybody, even my servants.”
“So,” Desmond said, “you buried yourself alive.”
“I suppose I did.” She went to pour herself another mug of tea before deciding she didn’t want it. There was no comfort to be found in familiar things. She took up her place again beside the table, uncertain what, exactly, she wanted or how to get it.
Desmond nudged the marmalade toward her.
Despite herself, a smile curved her lips as she reached for the jar.
It mightn’t solve much, but as she dipped the spoon into the marmalade and then stuck it in her mouth, she gave a satisfied hum.
The flavor of sweet and bitter coated her tongue.
She closed her eyes in gratification, allowing herself to revel in the sensory pleasure.
A sound made her open her eyes.
Desmond stared at her. His gaze was…ravenous. Beneath the dark bristle of his developing beard, a flush stained his fair cheeks. His chest rose and fell.
Impossible. No man ever looked at her like that. As though she was someone to be wanted.
She had to be mistaken. Except, no, he licked his lips, precisely the way a wolf might when catching sight of something delicious.
A ribbon of heat unfurled low in her belly. Against all caution and reason, despite—or because—of the circumstances, she wanted him. This highwayman. A stranger who had captured her home, and taken her captive in the process. It wasn’t right and it made no sense, but…she desired him.
The spoon dropped from her hand.
It clattered on the tabletop, and the ringing sound broke the spell that had fallen over her. She stepped away from the table, backing toward the door.
“My patient needs attending.” Her voice sounded tremulous to her own ears. “I need to change my clothes, and then check on him.”
He gave a strained nod. “I’ll take you back to your bedchamber.”
“It’s not—”
“It is necessary, for your protection.” He strode around the table, and she hurried through the kitchen door with him close behind her.
From almost complete solitude, to having a large, handsome man shadow her every move.
Only in fairy stories did lives change so dramatically within the span of a few hours. Yet she’d read enough of those fairy tales to know that the handsome man was never quite what he seemed.