The morning was beautiful, a perfect autumn morning without a hint of clouds in the sky. Suzanne stood at the open window of her sitting room, staring out at the day. The breeze was brisk, carrying a hint of the chill that the night would bring.
The formal Italian garden to the front of the house didn’t look any different in autumn than it did in spring. No blowsy, untidy flowers were allowed to bloom here. Nothing but clipped hedges and crushed granite paths.
Everything about Marsley House was manicured for presentation. She’d often felt that way about herself, delivered unto George coiffed and attired, trained and schooled—a fait accompli—the perfect duchess.
The trees below her were bathed in the sun, one side of their leaves tinted gold. An errant leaf had escaped the attention of the gardeners and it tumbled across the lawn in a joyous demonstration of freedom.
She wanted to be like that leaf. To throw off her role and race over the grass. The habits of a lifetime were difficult to break, however. Yet wouldn’t it be lovely to be someone other than who she was, if only for a few hours?
Who would that be? An image came to her then, a day from her childhood. She and her governess, Miss Moore, had gone on a picnic. Miss Moore believed in a variety of learning locations, and her mother hadn’t disapproved. On that day, they’d spread out a blanket beneath a tree. The land had sloped down to a gurgling brook. The passage of time had no doubt painted the scene with perfection. A breeze had blown the glorious perfume of lilacs to her. She could remember laughing, but not the reason.
She’d been ten years old, racing out of childhood with abandon. She wanted to know everything. Why did the bees skip certain flowers? What made the clouds go skidding across the sky? Why had the Egyptians made the pyramids the way they had? Miss Moore answered every eager question, even the ones about India, where her father spent so much of his time.
How strange that she would never feel quite that free again. On his return from India, her father had dismissed Miss Moore, replacing her with a narrow-eyed harridan who reminded her of Ella.
Gone was the appreciation for her childish curiosity. Instead, she’d been stuffed full of information, dates, names, and locations. If she dared to ask a question she only received a frown in return.
Was that child still inside her? Did she have the ability to turn an eager face to the world? She had wanted that for Georgie. She had wanted to show him that there were wonders and marvels to see and share.
Part of her died the day he did. She’d felt as if everything inside had shriveled and burned, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. Yet now she had the oddest thought. Could something of that young girl still exist?
She was not acting like herself, or at least the person she’d been for so very long. Ever since that night on the roof, she’d changed. She’d refused, again last night, to take the tonic. Granted, it was harder to fall asleep, but she’d occupied herself with thoughts of Adam.
There was something about the way he’d said his wife’s name. Rebecca. It was spoken in such a gentle tone, almost as if he cradled the word in his hand to mark on its uniqueness.
He hadn’t said how his wife had died and she found herself awash in curiosity. Everything about the man sparked her interest. Why had he gone from being in the army to being a majordomo? He hadn’t liked that comment she made, repeating something that George had often said—that a man only left the army if he was a failure. Adam’s eyes had taken on a flat look and his mouth had thinned.
A proper majordomo, perhaps one without military experience, would have moderated his expression and hidden what he was feeling. Adam hadn’t done that.
A month ago she would never have spent significant time wondering about a male in her employ. Yet a month ago she would never have gone to the Foundling Hospital or the Institute. Nor would she have returned to Marsley House with two new servants in tow.
Yes, she was most definitely changing.
She should go and check to see how the new girls were settling in. While she was at it, she would find Adam and finally get an answer from him about something else. What exactly had he said that night he’d brought her back to her room?
She avoided the bedroom because Ella was going through her wardrobe and sighing in disapproval. Evidently Suzanne had spilled something on a bodice or stained a cuff or dirtied her hem.
She stopped and surveyed herself in the mirror on the wall. She patted her hair into place, practiced a benevolent smile, and straightened the cameo at her neck. Without a word to Ella, she left her suite in search of Adam. How very odd to feel such anticipation.
Her majordomo was flat on his back in the middle of the library.
“Drummond?” she said at the door. “Are you all right?” She flew to his side and stared down at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Your Grace.”
“You haven’t fallen?”
“No, I haven’t. Nor fainted.”
“Then what are you doing on the floor?” she asked.
“Looking at the roof, Your Grace.”
She glanced up. “It’s not a roof,” she said. “It’s a cupola.”
“Very well,” he said agreeably. “The cupola. I’m trying to make out the patterns of the stained glass and I’ve found that it’s much easier to be in this position than bending my neck that far back.”
She looked up at the ceiling and realized that she had rarely noticed the stained glass windows.
“What does it signify?” he asked. “I thought, at first, that the windows were religious in nature, that they depicted a scene from the Bible. After studying them for a while, I don’t think so.”
“All I know is that George had them redone after he returned from India.”
He glanced at her. “Did he?”
She nodded.
“How odd if they’re Hindu.”
“I don’t think it would be any more odd than the Persian Parlor or the Chinese Room or the Egyptian Room.”
“You have a point,” he said. He stretched his hand toward her. “Would you care to join me, Your Grace?”
“I’m the Duchess of Marsley. I don’t get on the floor.”
Sitting up, he smiled at her. “You look horrified at the idea.”
“I am,” she said, fingering the cameo at her throat. “I couldn’t imagine what the staff might say if one of them saw me.”
“Perhaps they’d call you daft,” he said. “Or eccentric. ‘Did you hear what the Duchess of Marsley did? She was seen on the floor of the library staring up at the cupola. Have you ever heard of anything more ludicrous?’”
“Are you a spy, Adam?”
She’d never seen anyone’s face change so quickly. In one instant, there was humor in his eyes and his mouth was curved in a teasing smile. In the next second, his face lost all expression.
He didn’t answer her. He got to his feet, brushed off his trousers and the sleeves of his jacket, paying close attention to his cuffs.
“There isn’t that much dust on the floor, Adam,” she finally said.
She folded her arms in front of her, trying to push down the odd combination of feelings rising up from her stomach. She’d rarely felt anger and fear at the same time, but she did now.
“Are you a spy?” she asked again.
“A spy?”
He was stalling for time, but she’d much prefer if he would just be honest with her.
She nodded. “For my father. Is that why you’re in my household? To report back to him? To tell him when I’ve done anything untoward? Is that why he didn’t immediately order me to dismiss you?”
The idea was new, but it made a great deal of sense.
She didn’t say anything further, only turned and went to stand behind the desk, studying the view from the sparkling windows. This room reminded her too much of George, especially with the portrait of him in his military uniform hanging over the fireplace. He’d been especially proud of that painting. When it had been completed, he’d invited hundreds of people to the house to marvel at how distinguished and handsome he’d looked.
It felt like he was watching her now in that way of his, as if he were half amused by her youthful naïveté and half bored senseless. She’d been too young for him, too unschooled in certain ways.
“I never met your father until the other day,” he said. “I’m not spying for him. Nor am I reporting back to him about anything.”
“If you’re not,” she said, still not turning, “then you would be unusual. Ella is one of his spies.”
“Is she? I knew there was a reason I didn’t like the woman.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and then back at the view.
“Why do you keep her on?” he asked.
It had been easier to simply endure Ella than to change the situation. What else was she simply enduring? She didn’t know, but perhaps it was time she found out.
She turned, finally, to find that he was standing much too close. She should have stepped back, but the window was there. She put her hands on his chest to push him away, but then she looked up at his face.
His green eyes were much too attractive and much too intent.
He brushed his knuckles against her cheek. She didn’t retreat. Nor did she tell him that he mustn’t touch her. She was inviolate, his employer, the Duchess of Marsley. What would anyone say to see him touch her so? What comment would they make if they noticed that his gaze was particularly tender?
She didn’t care.
She shouldn’t smile at her majordomo. Or feel as if a rusty door had been opened in her chest. She shouldn’t spread her fingers wide against the fabric of his jacket, feeling the pounding of his heart as rapid as her own.
When he lowered his head slowly, she measured the seconds in held breaths. He didn’t rush. He didn’t pressure her. Instead, he gave her a chance to protest. Or to caution him. Or to pull away. Or, finally, to act shocked and disapproving.
She should have said something like, You’re dismissed, Adam. Leave this moment and I will have your belongings sent to you.
She remained silent, even as he reached out and cupped her face with both hands now, studying her with intent eyes. Did he wish to remember what she looked like forever? She felt bemused and bathed in confusion.
When his lips touched hers, it was an explosion of feeling. Disbelief banished in the presence of bright sprinkles of delight.
One of the maids had been brushing a threadbare rug from the servants’ quarters one day. Suzanne had seen her at her task in the back garden, noting that the sun’s rays shone through the worn fibers. She felt like that now, as if her soul, pitted and frayed in places, was being illuminated somehow.
His hands cupped her shoulders and then reached around to her back, slowly bringing her forward, closer to him. Her hands joined behind his neck.
Her mouth opened and he inhaled her breath and gave her back some of his. He tasted of coffee and iced cinnamon buns. His lips were warm, tender, and capable of inducing all sorts of strange and fascinating sensations.
Shivers traveled down her body, seemed to wrap around her stomach, and made their way up to her breasts. Her feet tingled. It was difficult to breathe, to concentrate, and to make sense of what she was doing.
Had he stolen her reason completely with a kiss?
She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to become a duchess again. Instead, she wanted to be who she had once been, the young girl about whom she’d wondered earlier.
That Suzanne would have wholeheartedly joined in this kiss. She would’ve stood on tiptoe as she was doing right now, to deepen it. She would have delighted at the fact that her heart was racing and her body felt as if it were warming from the inside out.
Somehow that girl had taken over, pushing the duchess aside.