Maid for the Duke

Chapter One

It was Amelie’s favourite time of the day—the few minutes just after dawn when the rest of the household was still in bed and she could sit and daydream about a different life.

She leaned on the little windowsill of her attic bedroom and looked across the rooftops of London.

The streets outside were quiet, but soon they would be bustling with traders and servants, all rushing to prepare the essentials of the day before there were other demands on their time.

Once, in her old life, she could have rung for a cup of tea and enjoyed sipping the drink as she watched the world wake up, but now things were very different.

She straightened and stretched, mentally steeling herself for the work of the day that was to come.

Although she hadn’t been born into a life of service, Amelie truly did not resent the hard and often heavy work.

There was something rather satisfying about smoothing down the covers on a freshly made bed or shining the silverware until it glinted in the sunlight.

After she had dressed for the day, pulling on the sensible grey dress and pressed white apron that made up her uniform, she pulled her hair into a tight bun and, not for the first time, wished that she had a small mirror.

Amelie was not vain in any way, but she would have relished the opportunity to check her hair and ensure she was not walking round with something on her face.

In her childhood bedroom, she’d had a beautiful looking glass that had stood on her dressing table.

It was heavy and old, but the glass was perfectly preserved, and Amelie had always thought it looked like something out of one of the magical stories her mother used to tell her of fair princesses, magnificent castles and brave princes.

Before venturing downstairs for the day, Amelie stopped outside the housekeeper’s room.

Mrs Potter had run the Duke’s household for decades, and prided herself on always being up with her staff, but she had been forced to her bed by a bad chest these last few days.

Amelie listened for a moment and then tapped gently on the door.

‘Mrs Potter, are you awake?’

Coughing came from behind the door and Amelie twisted the handle gently, stepping into the room. The housekeeper was sitting on the edge of her bed, bent double as she tried to catch her breath. Her skin had a horrible grey tone to it and her lips a slight tinge of blue.

Amelie rushed to the older woman’s side, crouching down.

‘I’ll be fine, Amelie,’ Mrs Potter wheezed as she saw the concern on Amelie’s face.

‘Do not exert yourself,’ Amelie said gently but firmly.

She helped the older woman lay back on her pillows.

‘I will ensure all the morning chores are completed and the butcher paid when he visits. Rest for an hour or two and then you will be better able to attend to your weekly meeting with Lord Beescroft later this morning.’

The Duke was meticulous in everything he did.

His papers were always ordered, his appearance always perfectly groomed and each and every obligation fulfilled in a timely manner.

He ran his household in much the same way, expecting perfection from his staff, but understanding that if he demanded excellent standards he would have to provide the means to fulfil them.

He paid his staff above the going rate, and Mrs Potter had a generous budget for supplies and extras to ensure everything ran smoothly.

Every Monday she sat down with the Duke and he detailed his plans for the week ahead so there would be no unexpected surprises.

‘Are you sure?’ Mrs Potter said, looking relieved at Amelie’s suggestion. Normally nothing could keep the housekeeper from her work, so she must be feeling dreadful.

‘Of course. Rest, and I will bring you a cup of tea once the stove has heated and the kettle boiled.’

‘You are an angel sent from heaven, my dear.’

Amelie squeezed the older woman’s hand and then left, mentally preparing a list of everything that needed to be done and how to divide up the work.

She had only been employed in the duke’s household as a maid for a year, a job that had quite literally saved her younger brother and sisters and her from starvation, but she had worked hard, and this had not gone unnoticed by the housekeeper who trusted her with more and more as time went on.

The work was physically demanding and, when she had first started, she collapsed into bed in the evenings wondering if her aching muscles would ever recover.

A year on, Amelie was much more used to the levels of exertion required to fulfil her role and now even enjoyed the burn in her lungs as she lugged heavy buckets up and down the stairs.

It was a life she had never imagined she would lead.

Two years ago, she had been living in comfort as the daughter of a country gentleman.

Her mother had passed away a few years earlier so much of her time had been taken up with looking after her three younger kinsfolk, but her existence had been a comfortable one.

They’d lived in a beautiful manor house in the Kent countryside, with a cook and a housemaid of their own—until her father’s debts had meant cutting back on every front.

Slowly, the life she’d enjoyed had been torn away from her, until it had culminated in her father losing the family home, leaving her brother, sisters and her homeless and penniless.

The charity of her father’s friends and neighbours in Kent had long ago been used up; he had borrowed money from everyone and no one had been inclined to help a man who had broken their trust with promises of swift repayment, so it meant Amelie had been forced to London to look for work.

Fifteen minutes later, she stood outside the Duke’s bedroom door and listened.

When she had first arrived at Ashmead House she had found it strange, slipping into a room unannounced.

She’d had to fight the urge to knock, to wait for permission, but Mrs Potter had insisted this way was just how it was done.

Servants were meant to be invisible, to glide on quiet feet around the house in their dark clothes and with their eyes downcast. Amelie found it fascinating how she could be privy to private conversations, the most intimate of subjects discussed as if she were not there to witness it.

She had mostly got used to slipping in and out of rooms when they were occupied, but it always felt a little awkward going into a bed chamber whilst someone was sleeping.

She quietly turned the door handle, opened the door just wide enough to allow her to slip through and entered the darkened room.

It was light outside now, but the Duke’s bedroom window was hung with thick, heavy curtains that did an excellent job of keeping out the sunshine.

Amelie had to give her eyes a few seconds to adapt before she stepped further into the room, her eyes flicking to the grand four-poster bed.

It was May, and the days were growing warmer, but there was still a chill in the early mornings and after the sun had gone down, so each day she had to sweep and re-lay the fire.

It was not a job she minded doing in any of the other rooms of the house but here, in the Duke’s bedchamber, with the half-naked form of the Duke asleep in the bed, she felt a prickle of apprehension.

She hurried over to the fireplace and began her work, her hands moving quickly without her having to think.

Instead her senses were on high alert—her mind attuned for any hint that the Duke might be stirring.

Amelie stiffened as there was a rustling of sheets and she cautiously peered back towards the bed.

She looked away and swallowed hard, her head snapping back round as she caught a glimpse of skin.

Sweep, gather, discard, sweep, gather, discard…

Amelie silently repeated the words that matched her actions as she cleared the fireplace of the ash from the day before.

Her pulse quickened as she heard the Duke stir again, but this time she did not turn to look; she would not be foolish enough to make the same mistake twice.

Working quickly now, she took her cloth and polished the surrounds, wishing her standards were not so exacting, but pride in her work stopped her from rushing the job completely.

She had almost finished laying the new fire when the Duke groaned softly and flung an arm out across the bedsheets. Petrified he was waking up, Amelie threw the last few pieces of wood into the fireplace and stood, cursing herself as her brush clanged against the metal bucket.

Now she was standing, there was no way to avoid looking at the Duke, and for a moment Amelia was transfixed.

Not yet thirty, he was a good-looking man; if the gossip in the servants’ hall was to be believed, he was the most eligible bachelor in England.

He had fair hair and blue eyes—at least, that was what the portrait in the hall showed her.

In the months Amelie had been working at Ashmead House, she had never had cause to meet the duke’s eye.

The skin of his face and arms were tanned to a slightly darker shade than his torso and Amelie felt her eyes drawn to the sculpted muscles of his chest and shoulders.

She did not know what a duke did to keep fit and active, but he must engage in some sort of physical activity to keep himself in such good form.

The Duke stirred again and Amelie came back to reality with a jolt.

She felt her cheeks flush at the thought her employer might open his eyes any second to find her standing there gawping at his half-naked form.

She quickly dashed to the door, slipping out into the quiet corridor with a sigh of relief.