William stood next to the carriage as his father boarded, then he cast his eyes skyward. The inky sweep of night overhead was a reminder of how long their meeting had gone, and a light drizzle now fell to dampen the roads.
Despite the lateness of the hour, the group was eager to start the long journey home from Manchester. Lucas slapped him on the arm and grinned before vaulting into the vehicle, and his brother-in-law paused with one foot on the step before joining them.
“Is something the matter, William?” he asked.
He stared at Cartwick mutely. The answer, of course, was no, but somehow that answer didn’t quite feel true. It was just a feeling, though. One he couldn’t voice to his family without some fraction of logic to back it up.
“No,” he finally replied. “I’m just surprised by how quickly it grew dark.”
Cartwick nodded and joined him in surveying the sky. “It seems there is a storm moving in,” he agreed, pointing to an incoming mass of heavy clouds, burgeoning with water and barely visible in the failing light. “No matter. We’ll make it as far as we can, and find an inn if we must.”
“William! Reginald!” Lucas called, scoffing lightly from the interior of the carriage. “I’d like to get home sometime in the next month.”
Cartwick smiled and gestured for William to proceed before him. His father spoke up only when everyone was seated and the carriage was moving at a swift pace, bouncing evenly along the road out of town. He had to raise his voice, for the rain that had threatened only minutes before now struck the roof with ferocity.
Casual conversation ensued, with Cartwick sharing news from Eliza’s latest letter. It seemed their young daughter had grown tired of her daily oatmeal, deciding that rather than eat her breakfast, she would prefer to paint the table with it instead. The earl suggested serving her meal on a canvas, even committing to hanging the masterpiece in the gallery at Lawton Park—a suggestion that had incited riotous laughter. When the group’s amusement had finally subsided, he then broached the topic at hand: their potential investment in a northern cotton mill.
“I think we should proceed,” the earl said, his dark gaze searching their faces for a reaction. “Scanlan said a lot of things that made sense. What say you?”
“I agree,” answered Cartwick readily.
William glanced at his brother before replying. “Of course, Lucas and I would never stand in the way of a venture you deem sound, Father. I think only that perhaps we would like for there to be more discussion with Scanlan first. Namely regarding workers and the conditions at the factory, and the technology of the equipment, which would benefit from some improvements.”
The earl raised his brow and stroked his bearded chin in thought. “I see. Well, I don’t necessarily have an issue with that. What do you two have in mind?”
The brothers were cut short by a sharp bump in the road, one large enough to lift the vehicle off the ground for a moment before landing roughly once more, first the front wheels, then the back. The conversation stopped while the men stared at each other in silence, waiting to see if things would get worse. When the ride continued without event, Lucas breathed an unsteady sigh of relief.
“Perhaps we should pull over. Have the driver inspect the—”
The loud crack of the rear axle near William was unmistakable, and his heart stuttered, then tripled its pace when the carriage abruptly lurched backwards beneath him. The undercarriage dropped and scraped against the road, and he heard the remains of the wheel dragging loudly before breaking off altogether. Cartwick let out a shout. Lucas braced himself against their father, while William struggled desperately to right himself before being thrown further into the back of the vehicle. He could see his father’s wide and terrified eyes, his hands stretched outwards.
“William!”
The force of the tilting carriage yanked the team of horses off balance, and their frantic whinnies could be heard through the noise of bending metal and shattering glass . . .
The harsh sound of his scream scraped its way up his throat and he wrestled through the bedclothes as if he were fighting off an army of demons. He didn’t stop until he’d broken free of the sodden fabric to stand, disoriented and half delirious, in the middle of his bedchamber. Then he collapsed onto all fours, his chest heaving, each agonizing breath an attempt at regaining some shred of control.
William felt weak for even having the thought, but it was on nights like these when he wished he had someone he could rely upon. Perhaps a wife. Someone who cared enough to hold him in his moment of grief . . . stroke his brow until the tremors stopped.
An image of Helen flitted through his mind’s eye. Annoyed, he banished the thought immediately and pushed himself up to a shaky stand. He slowly took stock of his body and the emotions that, so very recently, had run wild, then glanced wearily at the window. It was still dark but he could discern the faint sound of birdsong. The sun would rise soon.
Retrieving his robe, he shrugged it on. Regardless of his fatigue, he knew there would be no more rest for him this morning.
The sun was still sleeping when she and Stella entered the darkened study. Even with the warm weather, temperatures dipped in the early morning hours, and the room was cool. Stella quickly lighted the sconces on the wall, while Clara set down her tools with aching arms, kneeling with stiff, sore legs to spread a cloth around the fireplace grate. The work had been nothing short of backbreaking thus far. She dreaded Stella growing fed up with her clumsy fingers, her fumbling through tasks that ought to come easily for an experienced housemaid, and complaining to Mrs. Malone—but so far, the young woman had merely been friendly and encouraging, helping Clara when she faltered.
She glanced down at her morning dress as she slipped a pair of stained gloves over her now-calloused palms. The printed percale gown was plainly made, yet she was terrified to ruin it, despite the large apron she wore. Ruining it would mean losing a month’s worth of wages to Mrs. Malone for a replacement, a consequence she’d never been forced to consider in her old life.
Stella came and knelt down next to her, sinking to her knees far more gracefully than Clara had. Although the earl was not present, it was considered standard procedure to speak as little as possible when working upstairs. Stella nodded in her direction, and Clara picked up a stiff wire brush and began scrubbing fire-charred debris and ash from the cast iron grate. It was difficult work, and she rocked back and forth, using her whole body to generate the force required to dislodge the soot. Black powder sifted down onto the drop cloth and floated into the air, making her cough.
Her arms were screaming in protest by the time she was done cleaning the front of the grate, and she was only halfway finished. Leaning in as far as she could, she worked towards the back of the structure, making certain to scrape thoroughly between each bar. That was when she first noticed the humming sound. Pausing briefly, she turned her head and listened.
“Did you hear something?” she asked Stella.
The maid’s sober face broke into a grin. “You mean, other than your grunting and groaning?”
Clara returned her smile in good humor, but a sense of unease remained. She leaned back into the fireplace and resumed scrubbing away the grime. Minutes passed as she worked busily. The noise returned, except now it had risen to a high-pitched keening, and her head was plagued by an unbearable pressure. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, then gritted her teeth, determined to finish the task.
Without warning, Stella shot to her feet. From the interior of the hearth, Clara could hear her muted voice as she spoke.
“My lord! We were not expecting you out of bed at such an early hour.”
The Earl of Ashworth had entered the study, and Clara’s backside was sticking out of the fireplace to greet him.
Hastily, she dropped her brush and lurched backwards, turning around to push herself into an upright position.
The earl was staring at them in shock. He was dressed in nothing but a pair of loose-fitting pants and a dark satin robe tied carelessly around his hips. With his golden hair disheveled and face unshaven as if he had just risen from his bed, he had an almost piratical appeal. It was abundantly clear he had not expected to encounter anyone at this hour.
The broad expanse of chest, half covered and half uncovered, was on display beneath the fluid drape of his robe. His extraordinary green eyes were filled with true surprise. The sight of all this in combination with the gleaming stubble that glinted on his unshaven face literally took her breath away.
But no, it wasn’t just from the sight of Ashworth dressed in his robe. She really was having trouble breathing.
Clara touched her face, belatedly comprehending that her hands were covered in soot, and shook her head again, trying to chase a wave of dizziness away. What had started earlier as a hum had since escalated into a scream, and she noticed with a touch of panic that black spots were dancing over the walls.
The look of concern that crossed the earl’s face was the last thing she saw as her knees collapsed, the floor zooming towards her as darkness overtook her completely.
Clara awoke with a start. From the feel of the fabric under her fingers, she could tell she was stretched out on the velvet settee on the far side of the room. Her gloves and apron had been removed. Humiliation burned through her. She had fallen unconscious from the exertion of her task.
In front of the earl.
Her eyes shot to Stella, who was sitting beside her patting her hand, and then locked on Lord Ashworth. He was standing above her, hands on hips, his green gaze scanning her face. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or not—but she was suddenly very aware of the fact that her dress had been opened and her corset loosened. Her cheeks flushed; she wanted nothing more than to get out of that room. If one could die from mortification, she prayed the fatal blow would be arriving soon. Struggling to sit, she tugged at the back of her dress to keep it closed.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she stuttered, as she attempted to stand. “I’m so sorry—”
“Sit,” he commanded. Then less harshly, “You’re in no condition to stand.”
Slowly, she sank back down on the settee, wishing she could disappear. Her vision was a bit bleary still, but the room gradually became clearer, and she could see that, luckily, she must have pitched forward onto the carpet rather than backwards into the fireplace. And oddly enough, there were buttons on the floor. Which meant . . .
“My dress!” she cried, using her fingertips to verify the absence of buttons.
“Sorry,” said Stella, with a note of empathy. “But we needed to get you breathing again and there was no time for buttons.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I’ll help you sew them back on later.”
Clara tried to smile. “No, no, not at all. You were kind enough to help me. I will sew them on myself.”
“Well, his lordship helped the most,” said Stella, glancing deferentially back at Ashworth. “It was fortunate he was able to react so quickly and catch you. If it had just been me, you would still be facedown on the carpet,” she tittered.
The earl had caught her? And she doubted that Stella had managed to transport her unconscious body to the settee, which meant he had held her as well? Clara was torn between being humiliated and furious. Humiliated that she had fainted like a schoolgirl at his feet, and furious that she hadn’t been aware and able to remember his embrace. Even if it had been accidental. And not truly an embrace.
She gazed up at him in dawning realization. Under her scrutiny, Ashworth’s face changed, his eyes darkening in an unsettling way. He abruptly cleared his throat and walked towards the door.
“She was clearly unwell. Any gentleman would have done the same,” he said, as if it had been of no consequence. He placed his hand on the doorknob and faced them once more. “Now, if she is recovered, I will take my leave of you both.” Then speaking directly at Clara, “You seem to be exceedingly susceptible to accident. Do see that you take more care in the future. I refuse to scramble for smelling salts each time you clean a grate.”
He turned and strode swiftly out of the study, leaving Clara to stare after him. The door closed, and she and Stella sat another moment in silence, then both burst out in nervous laughter.
“That was . . . so odd!” Stella struggled to say in between fits of hilarity.
Clara worked to keep her composure. “It was,” she admitted with a soft hiccup. “But I suppose I deserved it.”
“Yes,” replied the maid, eyeing her uncertainly. “Has this happened to you before when scrubbing the grates?”
Of course, Clara had never cleaned a grate in her life. The closest she had come was sitting prettily on couch cushions next to one in the afternoon. In all their preparation, she had not thought to consult with Abigail about the actual labor that would be involved.
Clara fidgeted, trying to appear casual. “Not that I remember . . .”
Stella chuckled despite herself, kneeling down to collect the stray buttons. She stayed Clara with a hand when she tried to help her.
“Sit and rest.”
“Please,” said Clara. “Let me at least change into another dress and come finish the grate.”
“Certainly not,” said the other maid. “You’ve caused quite enough excitement for one morning. If you’re feeling well enough to walk, why don’t you get my spare morning dress from my room and come watch me finish. If you’re still fine when I’m done, I’ll have you polish the railings.”
Clara thanked her and stood on wobbly legs, when a thought occurred to her.
“I don’t suppose . . . well, I would hate to create a scandal belowstairs that was attached to the earl, and so quickly after my arrival . . .” she began.
Stella shooed her away. “It will be our secret.” Then she smirked. “Although I can’t promise I won’t tease you privately every chance I get.”
“Thank you,” said Clara, with a breath of relief. “I mean it. Even if you did rip all my buttons off.”
“Oh,” said Stella, her eyes dancing with mischief as she placed the buttons into Clara’s open palm. “I never said I was the one who tore open your dress.”
Ashworth strode down the hallway, his relief gradually increasing as each step carried him farther from his study. Surely there must have been a better way to handle Helen’s crisis, but in the moment, he’d been unable to think of anything other than what he’d done, which had been to rend her dress and loosen her corset with his bare hands.
He’d simply wanted to distract himself with ledgers, or by performing some mundane task. But instead . . .
He shook his head, trying to clear the image of her falling senseless into his arms. Forcing himself to forget the soft press of her body, and the enchanting blush that rose to her cheeks upon discovering her state of undress.
Would another peer have reacted similarly to a housemaid fainting on the floor before him? Probably not, but this difference alone didn’t bother him. The most unwelcome surprise was the strength of his reaction. It was reminiscent of the way he’d felt that day in the village, when he’d found himself bolting across the street to tackle her out of harm’s way. He hadn’t been able to help himself then either.
And here, today, he was particularly troubled by the rush of satisfaction that had followed once her condition had improved and he could examine her at his leisure. It was not appropriate for him to greedily commit every inch of her exposed skin to memory after such an event, nor was it fitting that the silken feel of her beneath his fingertips seemed burned into his skin.
Not to mention his reaction had been witnessed by the other housemaid, Stella. He didn’t believe her to be one of the worst gossips belowstairs, but couldn’t say for sure that she would keep such an instance of drama to herself. Such talk had a way of spreading easily to other households.
The earl reached his chambers, slamming the door shut with more force than was necessary. Cursing himself in self-reproach, William swiped a hand impatiently through his hair. He tugged on the bellpull to summon Matthew for his morning coffee. With how the morning had unfolded for him thus far, the idea of staying upstairs, and away from her, seemed like the most prudent course of action.
The rest of the week passed uneventfully, at least in comparison to that disastrous morning in the study. Lawton Park had been swept, scrubbed and polished to a gleaming shine in preparation for the arrival of the earl’s young niece, Rosamund, who was traveling to the estate a few days ahead of her mother.
Every servant filed upstairs and lined up on the front drive to greet her. The level of pomp and circumstance would have better suited the Duchess of York than a young girl, Clara thought. But clearly the earl’s remaining family was more than precious to the entire household. Mrs. Malone very nearly glowed with pride, and her stubby nose was tipped ever so slightly up in the air as she kept an eye on the servants to ensure proper manners.
The late September afternoon was cool and foggy, and cold enough that Clara was able to see her breath. She stood with the others, stock-still, with her chilled hands clasped dutifully behind her back. But as the front entrance swung open and the earl emerged, she found she was no longer cold. He was dressed formally in gray trousers, dark blue jacket, crisp white shirt and a midnight blue cravat. Against the dark attire, his golden hair glowed. He was dazzling.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him, ever so briefly, looking her way. His face was not friendly, and the second their eyes met, he shifted his gaze straight ahead.
Her cheeks flamed. Luckily, no one else noticed the exchange, as a well-sprung carriage was rolling up the final length of the drive. It stopped before the house, followed by a man on a large black horse. Ashworth tipped a nod at the lone rider, then instead of waiting for the footman, strode right up to the vehicle and threw the door open. A tiny girl in a ruffled yellow dress launched herself out into his waiting arms.
“Uncah!” she cried as she wrapped her tiny arms around his shoulders.
Blonde waves, similar in their striking color to the earl’s, bounced and swayed as Rosamund buried her face in his neck. The earl lifted her high off the ground, her chubby legs flailing and kicking, then set her gently on the ground and knelt beside her. He was grinning in a way that was almost boyish. Whereas one moment before his demeanor had been grave, now his eyes were alight with happiness.
Clara’s stomach fluttered. She suddenly wished, uselessly, that she could be the one to bring such an expression to his face.
“Hello, my Rosa,” he said, smoothing her hair and straightening her bonnet. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”
“Yes, Uncah,” she said earnestly. “Louise slept a lot,” she added, pointing to the woman who was currently exiting the carriage. “So I just played with Dolly.” She held up a soft doll for him to see. It was clearly homemade, with dark yarn hair and a pretty pink dress, worn at the edges and obviously well loved.
The earl admired it gamely. “And did your dolly have a nice trip?” he inquired.
Rosa’s shoulders sagged and she pursed her lips in a tiny pout. “Dolly was sleeping too,” she replied, which caused the earl to laugh.
The rider who had followed the carriage dismounted swiftly and approached the earl. He was striking, tall, with jet-black hair and bright blue eyes. Ashworth stood, shook the man’s hand and clapped him heartily on the back.
“Evanston, by God, it’s good to see you,” he said.
“Not nearly as good as it is to see you,” said the man, laughing. “The back of a carriage becomes boring scenery indeed after the first twenty miles have come and gone.”
Lord Evanston gestured towards the woman who had accompanied Rosa on the trip. “Lord Ashworth, this is Louise, Rosa’s new nursemaid.”
The pale young woman bobbed into a quick curtsy before the men. Light brown hair stuck out haphazardly from her cap, and she clutched her satchel tightly before her.
The earl’s eyebrows rose. “Florence has cared for Rosa since birth. Did she find employment elsewhere?” he asked in astonishment.
“Not at all,” replied his friend. “But she did take a bad turn and sprain her knee, making it necessary to find a replacement for this particular journey. With your sister detained by the entailment proceedings in Hampshire, I promised her I would accompany Rosa as far as I could, so we met in Brighton and I followed from there.”
A shadow crossed over Ashworth’s face, then vanished almost as quickly. Clara wondered if the shift was due to the entailment the viscount had mentioned.
The earl turned and gestured to the entrance of the house. “Let us go inside so we can get you both settled in.” He took his niece’s hand and the group started walking towards the house. Rosa’s friendly little eyes were scanning the servants, and she was smiling at each of them. Most of them stared ahead, not even looking at her in order to avoid the temptation to return a smile, which would have been highly inappropriate. Clara, however, couldn’t help herself. When Rosa’s eyes reached her own, she impulsively grinned back. The little girl broke free from the earl’s grasp and, to Clara’s surprise, ran right up to her. Stella, adjacent to her in line, issued a quiet gasp of alarm.
“You look like my dolly!” Rosa said excitedly, holding it aloft so Clara could examine the similarities. “What’s your name?”
Flushed with the embarrassment of attracting unnecessary attention, she glanced over at Mrs. Malone, who still stared straight ahead but was quite obviously displeased. She could see the earl slowly, almost reluctantly, turning and walking over to retrieve his wayward charge.
Seeing no other option, Clara smiled kindly down at her. “My name is Helen, Miss Rosa,” she said softly. “Your dolly is lovely. I am flattered you see a resemblance.”
She thought she heard Amelia snort from further down the line.
“You both have black hair and black eyes!” The girl frowned as she looked at Clara’s dress. “You need a pink dress, though.” She turned to the earl who had come to a stop behind her. “Uncah, don’t you think she looks pretty like my dolly? Can you give her a pink dress so she will be dressed like her too?”
Lord Evanston chuckled from across the drive, clearly amused as he took in the earl’s frozen expression. Clara felt her face turn scarlet; never before had she regretted being friendly to a child, but this was quickly becoming the one exception. Everyone’s eyes were now directed at Lord Ashworth, awaiting the answer to the impossible questions.
Kneeling down next to her, he looked Rosa in the eyes. “I think your dolly is lovely indeed,” he said warmly. Then he scooped her up quickly and stood. As he reached his full height, his eyes caught Clara’s for a fraction of a second. As usual, it was impossible for her to tell if he was angry, or upset, or anything at all; his eyes were expressionless, his jaw clenched. As they looked at each other, a strange electricity seemed to crackle between them. She almost expected to get sacked right then and there just for putting him in yet another awkward situation, but he simply turned and headed to the house with Evanston, while the nursemaid hurried to match their pace.
As soon as they were out of sight, Mrs. Malone motioned her over. Her face was stern.
“Why did you smile at Miss Cartwick?” asked the housekeeper.
Abashed, Clara looked down at the tips of her shoes. “I don’t know,” she said meekly. “Truly, I apologize. I should not have made eye contact with the earl or his family.”
“Do not make me regret taking a chance on you,” said Mrs. Malone curtly.
As Amelia passed by them, Clara saw she was working to conceal a caustic smile. Matthew, in contrast, glanced over in sympathy.
As the other domestics entered the house, Clara and the housekeeper remained outside. “I’d have thought you would have learned that lesson at your other places of employment. Risking interaction with a peer, especially in public, is simply not allowed.” Mrs. Malone was looking at her quite critically.
Clara dipped her chin in acquiescence, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She had worried the earl would sack her; she had not even given a thought to what Mrs. Malone would do. “Please forgive my mistake, Mrs. Malone. It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t,” agreed the woman. “For if it does, I’m afraid I will have to let you go.” Her gray eyes were cold and unflinching as she stared hard at Clara. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she answered quietly.
And with that, the housekeeper turned on her heel, gravel crunching beneath her sensible shoes, and walked briskly back to the house.
Clara worked to make herself as scarce as possible over the next few days. She could no longer afford to be so lackadaisical where the earl and his family were concerned. Her employment relied on her being capable of following convention, and without her employment she’d have no choice but to return home—and who knew what awaited her there?
Unfortunately, Rosa was making this difficult. She had proven quite adept at eluding her nursemaid, and the little girl not only sought Clara out, but seemed to prefer her above all other servants.
One day, Clara was dusting in the parlor, and she turned to find Rosa behind her, using her dolly to “dust” off a table leg. Another time, she had been on her hands and knees scrubbing the marble floors of the entrance hall, to discover she had again been joined by Rosa, also on her hands and knees, now clad in sopping wet skirts.
Clara had attempted to reason with her, explaining why she belonged abovestairs with the earl and her nursemaid, and not with her as she performed laborious tasks around the house. She had even enlisted the help of Matthew, who had acted very serious for a change, to convey the importance of staying upstairs. Rosa had nodded with wide eyes, only to sneak back down at her first opportunity.
Finally, Mrs. Malone said she would meet with Lord Ashworth to see if some solution could be found. Privately, Clara thought it would be ideal if Rosa’s nursemaid could learn to manage the girl more effectively, but she knew it was not her place to say so.
Later that evening, Clara was wiping down the wooden table in the servants’ hall. Supper had finished and she was tidying things up before following the others upstairs, exhausted and ready to tumble into her bed for a few hours’ reprieve before waking again early in the morning. Gone was her normal leisurely routine from back home. Now she fell asleep in the black of night and woke to that same darkness, her aching body still crying out for sleep as she launched into another day of hard work. The fortitude required to just make it through the day made her admire the servants here at Lawton Park all the more.
She had just finished sweeping the last crumbs into the dustbin when she raised her tired eyes and jumped, nearly knocking over the bin. The Earl of Ashworth stood leaning against the door frame, silently watching her, arms folded across his chest.
“Pardon me,” he said quietly, pushing off to stand before her. “I did not intend to interrupt your duties.”
Bewildered, she hastily set her cleaning rag on the table, then curtsied low.
“My lord,” Clara said nervously. She clasped her hands together tightly to keep them from shaking. “I hope everything is in order?”
“There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.” His tone was serious. “It is an issue that must be resolved immediately.”
Clara’s throat was tight with anxiety. She had caused a considerable amount of trouble for him lately—and now this situation with Rosa. He must have come to terminate her employment. Tears threatened and she forcefully willed them not to tumble down her cheeks.
“Yes, my lord. I understand,” she said quickly, trying to get the words out before she lost her composure completely. “You don’t need to explain. Please know that I tried my b-best . . .”
She moved to edge past him into the hallway, so she could hurry upstairs. But as she passed, the earl turned and grabbed her upper arm, firmly but gently pulling her back into the dining hall. His face was perplexed as he looked down at hers.
“Helen . . . stop,” he said. “For God’s sake, I didn’t come down here to sack you.”
She blinked at him. “You–you didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t.” Ashworth’s hand was still on her arm, warm and strong. “Although you do have a knack for getting in trouble.” His green eyes glinted with amusement as he paused, searching for the right thing to say. “My niece likes you. And I . . . I think you are a hard worker,” he concluded. His hand slid down her arm, releasing her at last. Her own hand moved to cover the spot where she could still feel the heat of his touch upon her.
Clara felt ridiculous. “Forgive me, my lord. I suppose I assumed—”
“Yes, I suppose you did,” he said, a small smile lurking at the outer edge of his mouth. “Now, I want to discuss the situation with Rosa.” He pulled a chair out from the table for her, then seated himself opposite side.
She sank down in stunned silence, grateful that she still held her position, and confused by his behavior. But then, it was difficult to think clearly when he was observing her so closely.
Ashworth leaned back in the chair and sighed.
“It is my understanding that Louise is a poor excuse for a nursemaid,” he said plainly.
Clara had to laugh at his candor, and for the first time was able to look him directly in the eye without fear of discipline. The earl returned her gaze. It seemed the temperature in the room increased noticeably. She cleared her throat before speaking.
“My lord, I believe we have independently arrived at the same conclusion.”
The earl nodded and folded his fingers together on the table. She resisted the impulse to reach over and slide her fingers on top of his. She wondered how he would react. Would he push her away? Or would he pull her closer . . .
“And I also understand,” he said, yanking her out of her reverie, “that Rosa has been a problem as well.”
“No, my lord, not at all,” assured Clara. “On the contrary, she acts the way I would expect any curious young child to act. My only concern is that her actions might displease you.”
“I see,” he said, his eyes roaming over her as he pondered. “I believe the best solution, at least until her mother arrives, is for you to humor her as best you can. Quite honestly, I can’t watch her every moment, and at this point, oddly enough, I trust you much more than I trust Louise. That is,” he added with a subtle smile, “as long as you aren’t cleaning a fireplace around her.”
She smiled ruefully at the reference, but then frowned as she tried to make sense of his words. He tipped his head as he attempted to gauge her reaction. “Is that asking too much? I understand if you object.”
Lord Ashworth had said he trusted her. For a housemaid who had plunged headfirst into both a carriage and the carpet in front of him not a fortnight earlier, that was saying a lot. Of course, he was comparing her to Louise. The standard was set low, so perhaps his trust wasn’t as impressive as it seemed.
Regardless, she was relieved. “It will be lovely to have her company, my lord, particularly with your blessing. But what of Louise?” she asked.
Ashworth scowled. “I spoke with her tonight, just before coming to look for you,” he said. “If it were up to me, she would be packing her bags forthwith. However, she is under my sister’s employ and not mine to discharge. I will address the matter with Eliza when she arrives at the end of the week.” He rose from the table and returned his chair back into its proper position. His features softened. “In the meantime, should Rosa find you, please care for her.”
Clara stood as well, sinking into a curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”
Surprisingly, the earl did not immediately move to leave the room. Lord Ashworth examined her from across the table, lost in contemplation. He took one, two steps around the table, then stopped. She could feel the heat flowing off his body, and she swayed unsteadily as she looked up at him, unsure of his intentions.
It was impossible to be unaffected by him when he was in such close proximity. He smelled delicious—unlike any man she had met before. Most of London’s aristocrats doused themselves with overly strong colognes, but Ashworth’s scent was subtle, shaving soap and clean linen. Combined with his own masculine scent, it was nearly irresistible. She longed to grip his shirt to pull him close and breathe him in.
Instead she stared up at him, mute, until he laughed softly and shook his head.
“Rosa was wrong about you, you know.” His deep voice was like a stroke of fingertips along her spine. Hesitantly, as if he knew better but couldn’t stop himself, he reached out and lightly grasped a lock of her hair between forefinger and thumb. The errant curl should have been neatly restrained beneath her cap, but had managed to slip free of its pins at some point during her day.
“My lord?” she asked, in a daze.
“Your hair,” he said. “Your eyes. They’re not black at all.”
Then, as if he’d encountered open flame, the earl jerked his hand away, turned and walked swiftly out of the dining hall.