Holy hell.
Ashworth’s eyes fell shut and he exhaled, struggling to control the desire that pumped through him. He was no saint, but knew that to indulge this fantasy could result in nothing good for either of them. But as her lips moved softly over his, her hands traversed the expanse of his chest, delicately testing and teasing. Unsurprisingly, his primitive brain started bargaining with him.
Just once, it pleaded.
Ashworth darted forward to nip at the wet lusciousness of her lips and she moaned against his mouth, sending a lick of fire straight through to his core. He clenched his hands into fists.
Don’t touch her. Don’t you dare touch her.
He ought to shove her away. He needed to get her away, but found himself submitting to her touch instead, hoping she would take it farther while dreading the consequences.
Ashworth’s thoughts were shattered by her light tug on his cravat, and he squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. How he yearned for her to untie it, slip it off from around his neck. All too easily, he could imagine her undressing him right here.
The earl heard a muted groan, belatedly realizing it had come from him.
Control.
He needed to master himself before things went too far. The Earl of Ashworth was destined to be with a different kind of woman. Even the notion of a disreputable dalliance made him feel like an unworthy son and brother.
William reminded himself that he also had a responsibility not to debauch his own employees. While not every peer held himself accountable this way, he did. And regardless of this intolerable need, he would not do her the dishonor of violating that trust. Even if she wanted him to.
Her sweet smell drifted around him, a faint trace of furniture polish barely detectable. His body was galvanized by the sweet taste of her; all his imaginings could never have captured her plush perfection.
Control!
The earl was shaking with the effort of his restraint. Helen trembled at the insistent searching of his mouth on hers, and he responded by exploring further until her lips parted, allowing his tongue to slide inside. Heat surged through him again, and he realized he was very close to simply ignoring all the reasons he shouldn’t just take her against the wall. He tensed against it, determined to resist, when she moaned and tugged on his jacket to bring him closer, the tip of her own tongue flicking against his. Helen pressed against his chest and he was nearly undone by the soft weight of her breasts.
You need to stop–
He moved his hands to encircle her wrists and lifted his head to break the kiss. Helen’s lashes fluttered up and a pretty pink blush crept over her cheeks and chest. Her dazed eyes were a mesmerizing contrast to her skin. Too dark to be called brown, but much warmer than black. A lock of the same indescribable color escaped her damnable cap to tumble across the pale curve of her cheek.
He wanted her.
He could never have her.
“Helen . . .” His voice was rough with emotion, something he hadn’t expected. He cleared his throat and her anxious eyes met his for one moment before lowering her focus back down to his mouth. She wanted to kiss him again, with lips that were swollen and reddened from the first time. And he wanted to let her.
Damn it!
Releasing her completely, Ashworth retreated, defying every instinct screaming for him to take her with his mouth once more. Instead, he turned swiftly and strode across the room to seat himself behind his desk, raking his hands restlessly through his hair.
He stared numbly at the smooth surface of his workspace while she remained frozen. He needed to drive her away from him. If he wanted to avoid ruining Helen, he would need to hurt her.
Ashworth drew in a deep breath. “Your attentions are unwelcome,” he stated soberly, hating himself but saying it anyway. “I believe Stella is expecting you in the drawing room.”
A soft intake of breath disturbed the ensuing silence in the study, and pain lanced through his chest.
He was such a bastard.
William heard the swish of her skirts, perceived the breeze as she rushed past his desk, and lowered his head into his hands as the door clicked shut behind her.
Your attentions are unwelcome.
Clara stumbled through the machinations of her tasks, lost in a fog of disbelief. The Earl of Ashworth had soundly rejected her. Moments after responding to her kiss.
True, she didn’t possess an excess of experience with men, but discerning when one desired you was another thing altogether. Clara flushed thinking about the way he’d tried to hold back at first, only to have his carefully cultivated self-control slip away with every kiss that followed. But somehow, she must have been mistaken. Their kiss probably carried no more weight than any other meaningless flirtation he could have—and probably did—with multitudes of women. Scorching tears filled her eyes at the thought.
Clara ducked her head and focused on buffing the leg of a richly sculpted rosewood table. She needed to hide her strained emotions from Stella, who was occupied in the opposite corner of the drawing room, polishing windows.
As if on cue, Stella swiveled on her feet and gazed out the windows, which faced south along the circular gravel drive. After a moment’s observation, she turned to look at Clara.
“Did the earl mention anything about a trip today?”
“No,” replied Clara slowly, rising to her feet. “I know Paxton was heading to the village to speak to some tenant farmers, but that’s all I can recall.”
Clara approached the window and caught sight of Lord Ashworth on his horse, riding like a man with a purpose. Even from this distance, he looked resplendent in his riding gear. She averted her eyes before they could linger on the way his breeches molded to his powerful form, striving to appear indifferent before her fellow housemaid as he traveled out the gates of the estate. “Wherever he’s off to, he can’t be planning to stay for long. It’s probably just a day’s trip to the village.”
She returned to her work, pouring all her energy and attention into it in the hopes of keeping her thoughts from wandering dangerously to the earl. With her tasks completed for the afternoon, Clara decided a visit to the stables was in order. She figured an apology was due to Oscar, the stableboy, after his unwitting involvement in her scheme to help Rosa. She tugged her thin cloak more tightly around her shoulders to ward off the cold and ventured out from the rear servants’ door to cross the courtyard.
Lawton Park’s flower gardens had been put to bed for the winter, and as Clara gazed at the woods surrounding the estate, she saw the brilliant orange and rust colors of fall had faded into dingy brown hues. Few leaves remained clinging to withered branches, the lush abundance of color transformed into a sparse kind of beauty instead. She could hardly believe she’d been living here long enough to see the seasons change. With a pang she thought of her parents and wondered what they had made of her long absence.
Shrugging off a wave of guilt, she ducked her head down and walked faster, entering the warmth of the stable gratefully after taking a quick peek around the door. Normally, for an earl with a house this large, there would be upwards of five dozen horses housed in the structure. But Lord Ashworth, not interested in entertaining society with shooting parties and the like, owned a meager twenty-one. Even then, she doubted many of them were exposed to the kind of usage considered common at most country estates.
“Hello?” she called, pausing near the huge wooden doors. The familiar scents of cut hay and horses filtered through the air. The boy emerged from a stall, pitchfork in hand. His wide blue eyes showed unwelcome surprise at again being confronted with Clara.
“Hello, miss. What do you want?” he asked cautiously.
Clara walked towards him through the stables, and stopped to stroke the nose of her cohort, the beautiful gray horse she had ridden on that cold and stormy night. The animal whickered softly in response.
“I’d like to apologize for what happened, Oscar,” she said. “It was never my intent to cause trouble for you.”
A reluctant smile flickered across his face. Most likely, he’d been anticipating another unconventional request. He twitched his head, sending a lock of blond hair out of his eyes.
“Aww, miss. It ended up being no trouble, especially since you were able to help the earl’s niece.” He surveyed her sheepishly. “I heard you got it worse than me.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “But it was all worth it in the end, right?”
“That it was,” he agreed.
A tiny whinny caught her attention from a nearby stall, and Clara peeked over the gate. She gasped in delight at the small spotted horse that stood there, gazing back at her with huge black eyes. “Oh, what a dear!” she breathed. “What’s his name?”
“Goliath,” replied the boy, resuming his chores with a sweep of his pitchfork.
Clara burst out laughing. “Who, pray tell, was responsible for naming Goliath?”
He looked as if she had lost her senses. “The earl, of course.”
Her smile faltered, and she tried to quell the frisson that passed through her. She wasn’t certain why evidence of his sense of humor would affect her, except it was appealing to think of the normally straitlaced earl as finding amusement in the naming of a pony.
Stop it. Stupid girl.
She leaned over to pat Goliath on the nose, chortling as he nuzzled her hand. The muffled sound of horse’s hooves clattering in the courtyard alerted them to a rider’s presence outside, and the pair stopped and stared at one another.
“You should leave,” he whispered urgently.
“Be at ease, Oscar,” she replied, trying not to laugh. “If the earl still trusts me with his niece, surely he trusts me with his horses.”
Ignoring her, the boy rushed over to the broad doors of the stables and was greeted not by the earl, but by his friend, Thomas, Lord Evanston. The man swung off his horse and landed gracefully on his boots, handing the reins of his horse to Oscar a moment before noticing her presence nearby.
“Ah, Helen! How nice to see you again. You’re not aiming to steal another horse, are you?”
She averted her eyes and smiled. “No, my lord. Not today.”
Evanston’s eyes scanned over her provocatively, but she felt this was standard behavior for him with most every female. If the tales circulating belowstairs were to be believed, the viscount had a tendency to indulge in gratuitous hedonism whenever an opportunity availed itself. This was no surprise to Clara, as she had heard similar tales of his prowess throughout the ton during her time in London, thought she’d never chanced to meet him, herself.
“I have news which may be of some import to you,” he said.
She wondered what it could possibly be. “Yes, my lord?” she inquired with a curtsy.
“You will need to draw a bath for the earl.”
Clara stood in mortified silence and cleared her throat before speaking.
“My lord?”
Evanston looked up at her, taking in her confused expression, and laughed. His deep tones rang out through the wooden walls of the stables.
“Our Earl of Ashworth has spent the better part of the day digging a drainage channel with his tenant farmers to ease their chronic flooding. He even coerced poor Paxton into lending his assistance. I passed them on my way through the village.” The viscount shook his head. “The man is covered head to foot in mud.”
Shock and disbelief rooted Clara to her position. She felt her jaw drop.
“I see you are surprised,” he said wryly. “Could you make appropriate arrangements with the staff?”
Clara dipped into a brief curtsy. “Yes, my lord.” She turned and hurried out of the building, nearly knocking down a flustered Oscar in the process.
Her mind raced as she swept towards the service entrance of the main house. The earl may not have appreciated her uninvited affections, but he had taken her advice to heart, even assisting with the labor. Of course, the idea of him digging a ditch in front of the entire town was outrageous. News of his scandalous behavior was sure to reach London society, including the very people he had already managed to offend. She should have kept her mouth shut. But who could have predicted the earl would take such a rash approach to the matter?
Rapping twice at the heavy door, she did not wait for an answer before barging through to the kitchen. Mrs. Humboldt and her kitchen maid, Gilly, looked up in surprise, a fine plume of flour surrounding them as they busily rolled out the dough for that evening’s pies.
“Mrs. Malone?” she asked breathlessly.
Eyes wide, Gilly pointed down the hallway. “In her room,” she said. Clara nodded her thanks and headed towards the housekeeper’s room, where she found the woman taking tea and going over menus for the next week.
“Excuse my interruption, Mrs. Malone, but I happened to meet Lord Evanston outside. He communicated that Lord Ashworth would require a hot bath upon his return.”
Mrs. Malone’s cool gray eyes held Clara’s as she placed her teacup on its saucer with precision. “Do I want to know what the earl has been up to?”
Clara twisted her hands nervously. “Well, you see, apparently he spent the afternoon digging a drainage ditch. The viscount saw him on his way through the village.”
The housekeeper’s mouth puckered tightly in disapproval. “Which means that every other person traveling through the village could likely see him too.” Standing abruptly, she brushed past Clara to the servants’ hall where most of the domestics were busy quietly mending clothes and polishing shoes. The woman clapped loudly and the staff snapped to attention. Amelia pricked her finger with a needle and sighed loudly in annoyance.
“Charles and Matthew, bring the slipper tub into Lord Ashworth’s chambers. Amelia, Stella, and Helen will run pails of hot water upstairs.” Leaning backwards out of the room, she shouted down the hall to Gilly. “We need bathwater on the stove, now!” The kitchen maid’s immediate reply of “Yes, ma’am!” floated back to the dining hall.
Mrs. Malone stepped back as the servants set about their new tasks. The footmen rushed upstairs to retrieve the earl’s bathing tub, and the housemaids tidied their belongings before heading into the kitchen for the heavy pails of heated water. Again and again, the three women voyaged up and down the stairs with their pails, Amelia glowering at Clara as if she had purposefully intended to make her evening more inconvenient.
At long last, the copper tub was nearly full. Matthew positioned himself outside the chamber to wait for Lord Ashworth, should he require assistance. Stella and Amelia emptied their final buckets and returned downstairs. Clara leaned over to deposit the contents of her bucket into the tub, and with a jolt realized she was alone in his room. Given the current circumstances, she did not wish to encounter the earl at all, let alone in his room near his bath.
Hastily, she draped a plush towel over a nearby chair and bent down to retrieve her pails. She turned around just as the door flew open, thudding unceremoniously into the wall.
The earl stood before her, clad in his riding breeches and a shirt. His muddy coat and boots had likely been spirited away by Mrs. Malone to be brushed and polished anew. As Evanston had foretold, Ashworth was indeed covered in mud. His face was streaked with dirt, his clothing clung to every muscular curve of his body, and his blond hair was damp with sweat. If her heart palpitations were any indication, his state of dress had probably caused a frenzy down in the village.
She could hear Matthew behind him, offering his service and suggesting ideas for how to disrobe without creating any further mess. Ashworth silenced him with one sharply raised hand, his dark, unreadable gaze on Clara. Despite his unkempt appearance, the cultivated tones of his low voice betrayed him as an aristocrat of the bluest blood.
“That will be all, Matthew.”
Matthew bowed and turned down the hall. Clara bobbed into a curtsy filled with false cheer and darted to the side, hoping to escape through the open door. He sidestepped to stand in front of her, blocking her path, and she jumped back just in time to maintain a proper distance. She dreaded the idea of looking at him, but found herself gazing upwards anyway, and what she saw on his face startled her beyond words.
Ashworth looked like he wanted to devour her.
Finally, he blinked. She took this as her cue to leave, holding her breath and trying to skirt around him with her buckets.
“Helen.”
She stopped abruptly. All she wanted was to reach the security of the servants’ hall. It wasn’t that much to ask, really.
Instead, she slowly pivoted around to face him.
“My lord?”
Lord Ashworth took one slow step in her direction before coming to a stop. “Thank you.”
Bewildered, she ran through the potential reasons for why the earl would choose to thank her—for being concerned for his welfare, for watching Rosa, for suggesting he meet with his tenants, or . . . kissing him in the study?
Surely not that.
Deciding further conversation would be an unnecessary risk to her sanity, she simply nodded in reply and turned to leave. She was stayed again by his voice.
“One more thing.”
Clara’s heart sank. She stared longingly at the hallway.
Glancing over her shoulder, she was once again arrested by the sight of him, somehow more accessible in his dirt-streaked clothes, his golden skin flushed from his exertions. “Yes, my lord—”
Ashworth came forward. He gripped her shoulders and spun her around, crushing his mouth onto hers. Clara dropped the empty buckets she’d been holding and they clattered noisily across the floor.
He took her lips with his, tasting her deeply, groaning in satisfaction. Unable to ignore the desire he stoked within her, she reached up, fingers diving into his normally gleaming and golden hair, now muddied and wet. The urgent pressure of his mouth traveled, down her jawline to her neck, making her gasp. His hands slid against her back, bringing her flush against him.
Clara turned her head, and suddenly realized the door was still wide open. “My lord, we mustn’t,” she said, panicking.
At her words, the earl must have regained some awareness. He released her and swore, stepping backwards, his breaths swift and unsteady.
“I know,” he finally said.
After a long, silent moment, Clara cleared her throat awkwardly. Ashworth blinked, but refrained from meeting her eyes. A terse nod gave her permission to leave.
Bending down to gather her buckets, her head whirled in confusion, body still blazing from his touch.
She wordlessly exited his room and closed the door, leaning back against it for a moment to catch her breath. Only then did she glance down and notice the condition of her uniform. It seemed a stop at her room for a quick change would be necessary before returning belowstairs.
Otherwise, she might have a difficult time explaining how her dress was now covered in mud.
An unexpected meeting was called by Mrs. Malone the following day. Stella poked her head into the music room, where Clara was busily polishing the pianoforte, to inform her that servants were expected to finish their current duties before hurrying downstairs for the assembly.
“Do you know the purpose of this meeting?” she asked, intrigued.
Stella shook her head. “Not yet, although I do know the earl received a letter earlier today.” The maid’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “I think perhaps we will be receiving visitors soon.”
Clara diligently completed her task, then loaded her tools onto the rolling cart and returned it to the supply closet in the hallway. She rushed down the servants’ staircase to the dining hall, where most of the other domestics were already seated and awaiting the housekeeper.
Her eyes scanned the faces at the table. Beth, the stout laundry maid, was laughing raucously at something Mrs. Humboldt had said. Amelia’s red hair could be spotted midway down the table, Stella’s profile was a few seats from her, and the young scullery maid, Tess, sat quietly with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Clara gazed across the table to see Matthew and Charles conversing animatedly over an empty chair. Matthew caught sight of her and grinned.
“Helen!” he hailed, gesturing at the empty seat next to him. Charles sat on the other side of the seat, waggling his eyebrows mischievously at her.
“I promise the company from this side of your chair would be far superior,” joked Matthew.
“Surely, you did not reserve a seat just for me,” said Clara in a chiding tone.
Matthew glanced sideways at Charles, then back in her direction.
“I make it a rule never to sit next to Charles, as he gets up to all sorts of tomfoolery. Plus, you smell better than he does.”
The footman in question was undoubtedly offended. “I smell fine!” he raged loudly.
A scrape of a chair interrupted the friendly banter. Amelia had risen from her spot to stare incredulously at the two footmen.
“Let me end this farce of a contest.” She glanced over at Clara with obvious irritation. “Helen, sit here,” she said imperiously, pointing to her now vacant seat.
Amelia’s condescending attitude did not sit well with her, but regardless of the annoyance, she reminded herself that Amelia outranked her belowstairs. All eyes followed her wordless procession over to where Amelia stood, tapping her foot. She sank down into the chair and smiled up at the peevish housemaid.
“Thank you for offering your seat, Amelia. How kind of you.”
The look on the girl’s face was priceless.
Clara ventured a glance across the table at Matthew. His eyes were overly bright with the burden of suppressed laughter, but all emotion vanished from his face when Amelia rounded the table in a huff and flopped down into the seat between him and Charles.
The jingle of Mrs. Malone’s keyring could be heard down the hall, and the staff straightened up and gazed attentively at the doorway. The appearance of the housekeeper came only seconds later, and in her arms she carried a large stack of blankets. She made her way to the head of the table, setting them down and placing her hands possessively on top of the pile.
“This,” she said, “is not something I have ever seen in my days as a servant. However, we will accept the earl’s generosity gracefully, and with thanks.” Mrs. Malone started passing the blankets to Mrs. Humboldt on her right, who continued to pass them further down the table, a blank look of confusion on her face.
“It is Lord Ashworth’s impression that the staff is in need of additional coverage at night.” The housekeeper shook her head. “He bade me issue one additional blanket per each domestic servant. You will bring them up to your rooms before continuing with your daily chores.”
As Clara’s fingers slid over the soft material of her new blanket, she could feel the blood draining from her face. Words exchanged between her and Lord Ashworth in the study the previous morning came back to her with sudden clarity.
This had to be some kind of odd coincidence. Otherwise, it would mean that the earl had gifted his entire staff with extra blankets based solely on her comment. It not only wouldn’t happen, she felt preposterous for even thinking it. Still . . .
“Now, on to the true order of business,” said Mrs. Malone, her sharp voice interrupting Clara’s musings. “This morning, the earl received a letter from his sister, Lady Eliza Cartwick. She has finished with her dealings at home and is anxious to join Miss Rosa here at Lawton Park. We anticipate her arrival in three days, and there is a lot to accomplish before then.”
The lecture continued, but Clara vaguely registered the commands being barked out by Mrs. Malone. Open and clean Lady Cartwick’s old chambers. Prepare a room for her lady’s maid. Process the additional goods purchased for the revised menus. Ready the servants’ hall for an informal celebration . . .
The list of tasks was long, but soon the meeting came to a close. The servants stood with their blankets either held tightly against their chests or bundled under an arm. There were many smiles all around her, but she could not quite partake in their cheer. She scooped up her blanket, hurrying towards the exit while trying to ignore the lump in her throat, but a tap on her elbow stopped her just short of the staircase.
“What luck!” exclaimed Stella, beaming. “Why, you were cold just the other night and now here you have an extra blanket.”
Clara’s eyes shifted to the nearby servants, trying to assess whether anyone had heard Stella’s words, before returning to settle back on her friend. The last thing she needed was someone believing that the earl was doing her favors. She could only imagine the kind of trouble Amelia could cause with that idea in her head.
Stella eyed her carefully, and a thoughtful expression passed over the maid’s face.
“You were cold the other night, and now you have an extra blanket . . .” Stella repeated slowly, staring at her.
Clara quickly pulled Stella in for a hug before releasing her with a bright smile.
“And now so do you. What luck!”
Heart pounding, Clara brushed past her friend, retreating up the shadowy staircase to her room.