It had been a bloody awful day, so it was only fitting that the snow had turned to icy rain by the time Benedict left the firm to go home for the night. The hood of his cloak kept it out of his face, but even through the sheepskin lining, he could feel the cold. Dark patches stained the leather where water had splashed.
He was going home to a steaming bath and a fortifying meal, and then he was going to sit her down and explain, as nicely as possible, why living a simple life was the best choice for his family.
They had enough privilege—a roof over their head, food on the table, people that loved each other—and they didn’t need the fawning and the excess and the waste of the upper class. She just needed to give it some time, and she would see. She could be happy without that opulence too.
He stamped his feet on the mat at the front door, trying to shake off the mud. As he did so, the door opened. Tom Greenhill stood at attention, everything stiff from his posture to his shirt front, which looked to have been starched and ironed.
“Tom, is everything well?”
“Good evening, Mr. Asterly.” He bent at the waist. Shockingly, no creaking sound accompanied it.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” Benedict asked as he stepped inside. In thirty years, Tom had never addressed him as Mr. Asterly. Tom stood behind him, reached over to grab the lapels of his cloak, and tried to pull it off him.
Benedict stepped away. “Good God, man. What are you doing?”
“Taking your cloak, sir.” The man’s face was as uncomfortable as his movements.
“Sir?”
This was his wife’s fault. What numskull idea had gotten into her head while he was gone?
“I can hang up my own damn cloak.” Hell, the frail, white-haired man would probably sink under the weight of it.
“Of course, sir.”
As he hung the cloak in the cupboard by the door, he saw the local lad who delivered the newspaper each morning walk through the foyer, executing an odd bow without breaking stride.
What the devil? He followed the lad through the dining room and into the kitchens. Chaos. Unbelievable chaos.
Half the damn village was in the room wiping pots, cutting food, or sweeping the floor. At the head of it all, using a wooden spoon as a directing stick, was Mrs. Duggan from the bakery, barking orders as if she were a military general.
She hustled over when she saw him, swatting her younger daughter out of the way as she did. “You shouldn’t be in here, Mr. Asterly. It’s not your place, and you’ll just get in the way.”
She’d been calling him Benny since he was in knee breeches, and he didn’t appreciate her newfound formality. “Mrs. Duggan, what are you doing in my kitchen?”
“It’s my kitchen now. Off with you.” She hesitated. “Respectfully, sir.”
He slammed the kitchen door shut as he left. “Amelia!” he bellowed. “Amelia!”
He was about to take the stairs when he noticed the door to the east wing was open for the first time since his mother had left. Two children sat on the floor in her old sitting room, polishing candlesticks. They looked at him with wide eyes.
“Have you seen Lady Amelia?”
The children shook their heads. “Not this way, m’lord,” one answered.
“I’m not a lord.” And he sure as hell wasn’t going to become one to satisfy the whims of his wife.
He took the stairs two at a time. “Amelia!”
This was insanity. What right did she have to bring people into his home? He didn’t bother knocking. He just marched straight into her room.
Three heads swiveled in his direction as he entered. Two wide-eyed with alarm, the third with that damnable cold smile.
“Cassandra. Daisy,” he said. Of course Amelia had surrounded herself with a human bloody shield.
Daisy paused, her hands wrapped in Amelia’s hair, pins between her teeth. She bobbed. “Mwah Ward.”
“I am not a lord.”
“Daisy is going to start doing my hair,” Cassandra said, smiling.
“You wear your hair in braids. How hard is that to do?”
His sister flinched, and he cursed his wife for putting him in such a mood.
“Amelia thinks it’s time I start wearing my hair up,” she said hesitantly. “Like a young lady. And she says we’re to go shopping as soon as the weather turns. I’m old enough to wear more delicate fabrics.”
This. This was exactly what he’d spent Cassandra’s lifetime trying to avoid. He had good bloody reasons for raising his sister like he had, and no upper crust chit was going to change that.
He took a deep breath. “She says that, does she? Lady Amelia seems to have a great many ideas at the moment.”
Amelia sat silent through the exchange—more than happy to have his sister wade into musket fire for her.
“She found you these fashion plates.” Cassandra stood and collected a handful of periodicals from Amelia’s dresser. Several pages had been marked with ribbon. Cassandra smiled up at him. “I like this one the most.”
It was hideous. Blue breeches, purple shirt, green waistcoat. The paisley cravat was tied up in such an intricate knot that no man would have full range of motion in his neck.
He wanted to toss the plates into the fire, but his sister was looking at him with such joy. He was going to wring Amelia’s neck for getting Cassandra’s hopes up. “Thank you both for your consideration, but I’m happy with my wardrobe as it is. Amelia, a word?”
She sighed and shooed Daisy away from her curls. “Spoilsport.”
“Daisy, take Cassandra downstairs to play.” There was a tightness to his voice that his housemaid clearly recognized because she grabbed his sister and left the room at remarkable speed.
“For someone who’s not a lord, you certainly are acting like one.” Amelia’s dry sarcasm hit right under his skin, crawling up his neck, causing his teeth to clench.
“Why is my house full of people?”
“Our house is full of staff hired to restore it and run it in a manner fit for its occupants.”
He ground his teeth. “It has been fit for its occupants for the past three decades.”
“Truly?” How she was able to load one word, two syllables, with scorn, derision, disbelief, and challenge, he was unsure.
She continued. “It’s fit for the grandson of a marquess and the daughter of an earl? Please don’t insult my intelligence.”
She turned back to the mirror in short dismissal and began to play with the loose strands of her hair.
Her brush-off was not unlike the first time they’d met, when she’d not even acknowledged his presence. Frustration, hurt, anger, and embarrassment all warred for pride of place inside.
“I wouldn’t give a damn if you were King George’s daughter. You are a useless pain in the ass. And I don’t recognize the marquess as family.”
That finally elicited an emotion from her. She slammed the ivory brush onto the dresser and spun to face him. “You may not, but what of your sister? For heaven’s sake, Benedict, she has the chance to make an excellent match. She’s a natural beauty, well-connected if you can look past your own ego to accept it, and with your wealth and my guidance, she could be a society diamond.”
The picture she was creating was Benedict’s worst nightmare.
“How well did being society’s diamond work out for you, princess?”
That shot landed. He saw it in the way she pressed her lips together, the way she sat back as if to put as much room between them as possible, the way she looked to the side at the faded curtain and threadbare rug and a barely perceptible shudder passed through her.
How he resented her.
“I will not have my sister joining that cesspool of human vice. And I will not have men whom I’ve grown up with suddenly fetching my meals and shining my shoes and bowing as if I’m above them because I married a damn aristocrat.” He spat the last word out.
“You. Are. A. Hypocrite.” She stood, her hands on her hips. “You talk about the importance of bringing security and income to the working class, yet what I offer them is exactly the same thing.”
“A life bending to your whims and serving others? I’m sorry if I don’t see the appeal of that.”
She countered, ticking off points on her fingers. “They’ll be paid well; they’ll develop skills working in a big house, prestige, and good references; they’ll have a career path in front of them. If you can’t see the appeal, it’s because you’re blinded by prejudice.”
She accused him of prejudice? She, who turned her nose up at anyone with pride enough to work. She, who took a week to remember three people’s names.
“You have the money to employ dozens of people,” she continued. “It’s selfish for you not to. Cruel, even. But by all means, you go out there and tell all those people they no longer have work because you’re a stubborn goat.”
He ran his hands through his hair. He hated being outmaneuvered. Of course he wasn’t about to walk out of that room and fire people.
“This wasn’t your decision to make. You should have spoken to me about it first.”
“Would you have agreed?”
“Of course not.”
She shrugged. “Then speaking to you about it would have served no purpose at all. I’m hardly going to ask permission when I know it won’t be granted.”
He paced the room. With every lap, it got smaller, the walls looming. “Amelia, you need to fix this.”
She gave him a pitiful look. “I just did. You can thank me for it when you’ve calmed down.”
He bristled at the gentleness of her tone—as though the fight was won, and she was consoling the defeated. Because this was a battle he had lost before he even knew it was being waged.
Unable to look at her, he walked out, almost running into a young girl from the village. She jumped. One look at the furious expression on his face and her eyes widened.
And now he’d been turned into a monster terrifying young women.
“Sorry,” he said, trying to keep the gruffness from his voice.
“It’s all right, m’lord,” she said as she curtseyed.
“I’m not a lord.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
He sighed and walked toward his bedroom door.
“I want to thank you,” the girl called from behind him.
He turned. “Thank me?”
“For this opportunity. Me mum’s sick and hasn’t been able to wash sheets like she used to. She was right thrilled to hear I had a position. And Lady Amelia says it’s all right for me to work here and go back to me mum at night. She’s kind.”
Kind? She was the devil incarnate. Was he the only person who could see that?
“Good night—” Damn, he couldn’t recall the girl’s name.
“Sarah, m’lord—sir, I mean.”
“Good night, Sarah. I hope this job turns out to be everything you expected.” He doubted it, though, but there was nothing he could do. His wife had trapped him. Again.