Clara finished dusting the fixtures in Eliza’s room, then set down her duster upon noticing a wrinkle in the bedclothes. With a crisp tug the wrinkle was removed, and she stepped back to smooth her hand over the counterpane. Stella’s head appeared suddenly from around the open doorway.
“Mrs. Malone would like everyone downstairs to help with preparations for tonight’s dance.”
Reaching across to fluff the decorative pillows adorning the bed, she glanced worriedly at Stella. “But I’m not finished in here yet.”
The maid waved off her concern. “You can finish the bed, of course. But I wouldn’t make Mrs. Malone wait more than a few minutes if I were you.” Stella tipped her a smile, then hurried down the hallway.
The housekeeper had approved an informal gathering tonight belowstairs to celebrate Eliza’s return to Lawton Park. Festivities such as these would be considered quite out of the norm in a grand house such as this, where servants were generally expected to remain unseen and unheard. The earl did not seem to mind this divergence from the normal routine, however, and it was entirely possible that he would be attending himself.
The thought of seeing him again made her nerves alight with tingling anticipation, although she knew very well that they should not dance with one another tonight. Not when she was plagued by memories of him, tall and looming, his body coiled and powerful. The only thing that had shocked her more than the ferocious hunger of his kiss was the way she had returned it. How her hands had dived through his mud-matted hair to bring him closer, kiss him harder. For a fraction of a second, she thought they might end up in that tiny tub together.
Even worse, she thought she might be the one to pull him in.
Clara lowered down onto the chaise longue stationed below a huge window that overlooked the gardens, wishing she could take a walk outside right now to clear her troubled mind. This was all very new to her, and so hard to understand. She’d never been driven by such a thing . . . never met someone who could fill her with such need, yet leave her feeling empty, as if she would never be satisfied. What she did know was that she was in no position to kiss anyone—especially the earl—and that even the smallest intimacy could open her up to something far more sensual. Something that was absolutely off-limits.
Bleak, gray afternoon light filtered in through the gleaming panes of glass, and she heaved a sigh. She knew she should get downstairs before Mrs. Malone noticed her absence, but the sound of approaching footsteps surprised her. She stiffened in alarm as Lord Ashworth came into view, his frame easily filling the doorway. It was a not unpleasant reminder of how large he was. She shot up to her feet with a soft exclamation as he glanced around the room, his gaze dancing over the bed, before coming to settle back on her.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I—I was just tidying in here, my lord.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed her sitting. “What are you doing?” she asked, unable to think of anything else to say and immediately feeling foolish.
His eyebrows raised in surprise, then he laughed softly. “Well, I suppose I am putting off a task I find cumbersome. Otherwise, I can’t really explain why I decided to change my coat.”
He ran his palms over the chest of his forest green morning coat and Clara stared, wishing she could do the same. Instead, she retrieved her feather duster and began dusting the porcelain figurines upon the bureau.
“Which task would that be, my lord?”
Ashworth paused, then crossed over to the window. He seemed to be debating whether or not to speak of his troubles with one of his servants, even one he’d seen fit to kiss. She almost thought he’d forgotten her question entirely until hearing his murmured reply.
“There is someone I must invite here—the tradesman I’d been going to meet when Rosa went missing.”
Clara turned, confused. “But why would you find that bothersome?”
He twisted his lips. “The last time I met with him, I lost most of my family on the return trip home. The next time I went for a meeting, Rosa nearly fell into a well.” Scoffing, he looked away. “I’m not certain if Mr. Scanlan is the bringer of bad luck or if I am, but I owe it to my father to at least see this through to its conclusion, whatever that may be.”
She stood in shocked silence, not missing the way his hands had curled tightly at his sides. Clara wanted to go to him, but knew that such a thing would only be an invitation to further temptation, something a woman in her situation could not afford.
She found herself doing it anyway.
Setting her duster aside, she joined the earl at the window. A small tremor passed through him when she slid her fingers around his, but she could feel how his hand loosened and relaxed, finally allowing her fingers to slip inside, warm and secure. It was terrifying in her triumph, standing there holding his hand, and she could hardly believe her own audacity. Part of her feared that he would snap and turn her out of his house that instant, but for some reason she didn’t think he would. And this was not truly about her. Not right now, anyway. Clara rose up on her toes to whisper in his ear.
“You are the only bit of good luck your family has seen in all of this, my lord,” she breathed softly. “Never forget that.”
Ashworth swallowed hard, his gaze still transfixed upon the garden below. He remained frozen, his long fingers wrapped around hers, as if not entirely certain how to proceed. Her heart suddenly felt like it would pound out of her chest and realization slammed into her. She was not at her family’s home in Essex, and this man was not courting her. She was his housemaid, and soon she wouldn’t even be that if she kept breaking the rules. Clara tugged at her hand, but to her surprise, he held it fast.
“Sometimes I feel cursed,” he said quietly, almost as if he hadn’t meant to utter the words aloud.
Clara thought of her sister’s elopement, and of the ruinous season that had followed. She remembered sitting at the Mayfair ball, waiting with watchful hope, for a suitor to appear and rescue her from that purgatory. But the man beside her now, greedily clinging to her hand, had been busy fighting demons of his own that night. Had he shown himself, would he have been willing to fight hers too? She would never know.
Oh yes, Clara knew what it was like to feel cursed.
She blinked and glanced away, her eyes stinging with the effort to keep her emotion in check. The slight movement caught his eye and he turned to study her face, the golden flecks in his serious gaze catching the afternoon light.
“This is not your burden,” he said in slow wonder. “And yet you act as if you care. Why?”
She shook her head and pulled harder at her hand in another futile attempt at freeing herself.
Because I do.
“Forgive me, my lord, if I’ve offended you somehow—”
He frowned. “It’s just that I’ve tried to figure it out. I need to know . . . what is it about you that’s so different?”
Trying to comfort him had been another mistake, as she’d known it would be.
A soft pull brought her forward and she gazed up at him helplessly, highly aware that his lips were only inches from her own.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, increasingly desperate.
“I think you know exactly what I mean.”
His head lowered slowly until his mouth hovered above her own, just close enough for the warm whisper of his breath to caress her lips. She stood there in a daze, her eyes drifting closed, every inch of her body alight with the anticipation of his kiss. Still, he withheld it in what must have been an attempt to drive her mad. Clara shifted restlessly in his arms, her cheeks burning as her breasts accidentally brushed against the hard surface of his chest. She felt a momentary flare of delight at his murmured response, and his lips lowered once more to hungrily seek hers. To her dismay, he tore himself away at the last moment, stepping backwards to release her. He ran his fingers through his hair with an anxious sigh.
“No. I will see you tonight and I need to be able to act . . . normally . . . in front of the others.”
She realized that he was talking about the dance. With a sense of dread, she realized she would have to act normally too.
“I, no, of course not,” she forced out.
The earl shook his head and stared down at the patterned carpet. “I appreciate your time, but I should not have interrupted you at work. Pray, excuse me—”
Clara lowered her gaze to watch the polished leather of his boots as he walked swiftly out of the room. She waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps, then sank down onto the bed hoping to calm her overexcited nerves. She wondered if the earl really had just happened by, or if perhaps he had ventured back upstairs hoping to meet her along the way. She couldn’t be sure, but he had certainly not refused her offer of comfort. He’d almost kissed her again too, but she tried not to think about that, or the fact that there’d been a bed nearby.
Suddenly, she frowned. Her head cocked abruptly. A servant had not passed in quite some time, nor had she heard one at work in another room.
Oh no . . .
Clara had forgotten all about Stella’s reminder to come belowstairs, and now she was very late. Hastily she stood and smoothed the bed, then grabbing her tools, rushed out into the hallway. She deposited her feather duster and polishing cloths in the supply closet, then untied her soiled apron and jerked it over her head, only to realize that the ties had hooked on her cap.
In a panic, she worked to loosen the tangle of ribbons and hair, to no avail. Gripping the apron, she yanked, ignoring the tears that rose in her eyes. It finally came free, taking her cap with it and sending her neat knot into disarray.
Clara dropped the tangled fabric in the closet beside the other implements, kicked the door shut and bolted to the grand staircase. She raced down the stairs and rounded the balustrade, heading towards the rear of the house, then paused, craning her neck to listen. A man’s footsteps could be heard from the direction of the dining room.
Heart sinking, Clara turned towards it. She really didn’t want the earl to see her in such disarray, but when she reached the pristine dining room, there was nobody inside.
“Greetings, Helen,” came a man’s voice from behind her.
She whirled around to find Paxton, the land steward, standing at the opening of the green baize door. Clara smiled at him in relief.
“Hello, Paxton. What a pleasant surprise to find you here . . .”
“And not the earl?” he asked with a glimmer of mirth in his eyes.
She shrugged. “I must admit I would rather him not see me in my current state,” she said, gesturing hopelessly at her appearance.
“So . . . it looks like you have been hard at work doing, er, something rather laborious,” he finally managed while smothering a laugh.
Clara glared at him in good-natured embarrassment, just as Amelia emerged from the open doorway behind them. Paxton jerked around at her sudden appearance, and Amelia’s mirrored expression of surprise seemed disingenuous at best.
“Oh my,” she said, her eyes wide as she looked inquiringly to the land steward, then took in Clara’s bedraggled condition. “What’s happened here?”
Clara looked at Paxton, wondering if he had registered the not-so-subtle insinuation.
“I was rushing downstairs and . . . my cap became tangled in my apron.”
The land steward snickered under his breath and she shot him an accusing glance.
Amelia arched a slender red eyebrow. “Could it be possible you are wearing your aprons wrong?” she asked sardonically.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake . . . I was trying to remove it, when it got stuck . . .”
“It’s of no consequence,” Paxton interjected, placing his hand around Clara’s shoulders in an attempt to guide her through the doorway. “We will see you tonight, Amelia,” he called back to the maid, ignoring her ensuing huff of displeasure.
In surprise, Clara glanced at him as they made their way down the stairs. “You have come for the dance?”
He scoffed in mock offense. “I was invited, I’ll have you know. And by the earl, himself.”
The earl.
Clara swallowed. She was starting to think that since Lord Ashworth would be at the party tonight, she would need to find a way to be otherwise engaged. There was simply no version of events where she could see them being at ease with one another, and if any servant had reason to suspect something untoward—Amelia, for instance—she was as good as unemployed. Not that Amelia needed concrete proof to fuel her suspicions.
They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and Clara glanced at Paxton, forcing a smile upon her lips. “Then I suppose I shall see you tonight,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.
The steward tipped her a friendly wink. “I may even ask you to dance.”
She laughed lightly. “Well if I don’t find Mrs. Malone soon, she’ll sack me before you have the chance.” The threat carried some weight, but she knew full well that her lack of timeliness was the very least of her punishable offenses.
The other girls had long since gone down to the servants’ hall for the dance, but Clara anxiously remained in her room. Stella had loaned her a dress of coarse, dark blue muslin, and it fit her rather well once she had pinned up the hem to account for their difference in height. Her thick sable locks had been reassembled into their typical arrangement minus one very important detail . . . the starched white cap that marked her as a housemaid.
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and sighed wistfully. It was a far cry from her wardrobe of seasons past, the delicate lace, tulle, and satin from her former life–the becoming fit of her gowns, the exposed shoulders, the complimentary necklines. Glumly, she stared down at her hands, dried and roughened from too much time spent in mop buckets, the palms calloused from gripping heavy wooden brooms and brushes. Even were she to don one of her old dresses, her skin would be sure to snag and catch upon the fragile fabrics. She might not be wearing her white cap at the moment, but she still carried the unmistakable marks of a servant.
Feeling low, she turned her back on the mirror. If only she could find a way to avoid the event entirely. But Clara knew she had to at least make a brief appearance to avoid raising suspicions among the staff. She made her way down the staircase, her steps causing the cold boards to creak beneath her feet. Before she had reached the bottom floor she could hear sounds of a lively fiddle tune, and a chorus of accompanying clapping and laughing. Slowly, she opened the door and entered the hallway. To the left was the servants’ hall, and the source of the cacophony. But to the right, she heard other sounds coming from the room past the kitchen.
Happy for an excuse to prolong her arrival, she ventured down the long corridor into the scullery and found Tess, the young scullery maid, standing on a wooden platform in front of two large stone sinks. She was hunched over and hard at work, busily scrubbing the last of the day’s dishes.
With a small rap on the doorway to signal her presence, Clara entered with a smile. “Hello, Tess.”
The girl, who couldn’t have been older than fourteen or fifteen, looked up and pushed a matted lock of hair from her face with the back of her hand. “Oh, hello. Why aren’t you at the party?” she asked.
“I could ask the same of you, but judging from this stack of pans, I think I know the answer.” Clara took a step forward, unhooking an apron from the wall. “Would you like some help?”
Tess’s eyes grew wide. “Oh no, miss. That wouldn’t be right. I’ll be done eventually.”
“Yes, and by that time the festivities will have ended,” said Clara as she rolled up her sleeves and joined her at the sink. “What would you have me do?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the young girl threw her wet arms around Clara in a sudden show of gratitude. “Thank you so much. If you could help rinse and dry . . .”
“I am at your service,” said Clara with a laugh, leaning over to retrieve the nearest pot.
Normally, Tess had her duties well in hand, but Mrs. Humboldt and Gilly had been very busy that day, cooking anything that could be made safely in advance of Eliza’s arrival. There were cake pans, pie pans, roasting pans, mixing bowls and dishes from the earl’s evening meal. Tess scrubbed each one with all her might, and only when it gleamed would she pass it down to Clara. When the cooking pans were finished, Tess placed a copper bowl in one of the sinks and washed the earl’s fine dishes in that vessel, so as to not chip the delicate china on the unforgiving stone basins.
Finally, the washing was complete. Clara righted her sleeves and smoothed her hair, noticing with a sigh that her skirts had gotten wet despite her protective apron.
“I’ll be back,” said the scullery maid excitedly, opening the door to the staircase. “I need to change out of these clothes . . . do you think Oscar will be there?” she asked after a moment’s hesitation.
“I’m sure he will be,” replied Clara, keeping her face straight despite her urge to smile. “I’ll meet you in the dining hall upon your return.”
The girl sprinted up the stairs, and Clara walked slowly back towards the servants’ hall, from where the music and laughter still flowed. Lifting her chin in an attitude of confidence she did not truly feel, she entered the hall and surveyed the gathering from a distance. The sight that greeted her was a surprise.
Matthew was standing on an old wooden stool at the far side, energetically playing a fiddle. The long table had been pushed to one side of the room, creating just enough space for the crowd of people that had gathered, although it was still a tight fit even then. Nobody seemed to mind, though, and Clara stared in wonder at Matthew’s unexpected display of talent, and how deftly he was able to maintain his balance on such a precarious stage. Given the amount of his perspiration, she could safely assume it was hard work.
It was nearly impossible to hear herself think amid the festive din, with the rustling of skirts and stomping of boots providing the only circulation in the sweltering room. Clara fanned herself with a hand as she scanned the crowd, where most of the servants were clapping a lively beat to Matthew’s tune, but many were also dancing in the middle of the room. Even Amelia was managing to enjoy herself, caught up in dancing with the groom. The stable boy, Oscar, was there as well, although it did not appear he’d worked up the courage for dancing quite yet.
She found Paxton on the opposite side of the room, quenching his thirst with a mug of ale. Rosa’s blonde curls bounced up and down as she cheered next to Stella, but what she was excited about was a mystery. Clara continued to scan the crowd for signs of Lord Ashworth, for surely he had accompanied Rosa. Then with a jolt, she discovered why he could not be found near his niece.
He was in the middle of the room . . . dancing.
Clara’s mouth fell open. The fifth earl of Ashworth was twirling Mrs. Humboldt around the floor, and the woman was moving with such competent agile grace, she could have been a debutante. In fact, Clara had never seen the cook look so young or carefree. Certainly, the earl had been raised to dance the refined quadrilles and sumptuous waltzes of high-society ballrooms, but here he displayed none of the pomp of his elite position, pulling away to clap briefly before swinging her back around the dance floor.
He laughed, and a stab of what felt like jealousy pierced through her. She may have kissed the man, but she had never made him laugh with such abandon.
The last notes of the fiddle died away, and the earl bowed deeply to his partner, who grinned from ear to ear and curtsied in return. The surrounding crowd clapped wildly in good-natured approval. Tess appeared in the doorway, looking renewed in a clean dress, and Clara pulled her aside before anyone could take notice.
“Oscar is in want of a partner,” she whispered with a wink.
Tess stared at her, wide-eyed. “It wouldn’t be proper of me to ask him, though . . .”
“Don’t be silly,” replied Clara, laughing. “This isn’t Grosvenor Square—it is the servants’ hall and the earl is dancing. Surely if he is willing to bend the rules, you can as well.”
The scullery maid looked at the dance floor in disbelief. Upon seeing the earl wiping his brow following his dance with Mrs. Humboldt, Tess let out a nervous laugh and glanced in Oscar’s direction.
“Well, perhaps I could stand near him to gain his attention.”
Tess made her way into the crowd to strategically position herself near the boy. Clara tried to follow her through the crush of people, but was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Paxton bowing before her.
“We meet again,” he said in a jovial tone. “Perhaps you would like to start the evening with a dance?” he offered, extending a friendly hand in her direction.
“Helen!”
Stella’s cry came just a moment before she lunged forward to hook her hand around Clara’s arm. Paxton grinned and took a step back to avoid getting caught in their path.
“You should dance with Lord Ashworth. He’s danced with every woman here!”
Coming off of the dance floor to skirt behind their group, Amelia eyed Clara with a dismissive huff. “I suppose that dress is tolerable on you. But as Stella said, he’s already danced with every woman here.”
“Amelia,” came the earl’s rich, deep voice, suddenly beside them, “it’s best to not muddy your compliment with an insult.”
Stella eyes grew huge and she hid a sudden laugh behind her hand. Amelia’s cheeks turned as red as her hair. The maid lowered into a brief curtsy before retreating, annoyed, to the refreshment table, and a bloom of fire spread through Clara’s chest when Ashworth’s eyes flicked over to meet hers. She reeled inwardly at his sudden nearness, trying not to stare at the light sheen of sweat glistening on his throat, or how he had loosened his cravat in the heat.
“My lord,” she said with an accompanying curtsy, praying she sounded normal. “I hope you have been enjoying yourself this evening.”
He may have felt relaxed and lighthearted with her fellow domestics, but as she’d feared, his demeanor shifted back into guarded reserve near her. “Indeed. You were late to the party,” he replied.
Indicating the water on her dress, she said, “I stopped at the scullery to help Tess complete her chores.”
“Is this something you do often?” asked Ashworth, his eyes drifting ever so slightly down the length of her skirts.
“No, my lord. I only wanted to ensure she arrived at the party before it had ended for the evening.”
The earl stared at her then, in the midst of all the voices and noise. “That was very kind of you,” he said softly. He then turned to survey the dancers on the floor. “And your kindness paid off, for she has found herself a dance partner.”
She looked over his shoulder to see that shy Tess had managed to secure Oscar after all. Clara’s face beamed at her success, and for one moment, she caught a flash of the earl’s answering grin before he censored himself back into an attitude of stern indifference. A disbelieving thrill raced through her at the sight. It was disturbing how profoundly she was affected by his smiles.
The first notes of a new song rang out from Matthew’s fiddle.
“My lord,” cried Stella, “you should dance with Helen—they just started a new one!”
Clara stiffened at Stella brazenly suggesting such a thing to the earl. She had a suspicion that the usually reserved maid must have been partaking of the ale.
Ashworth’s eyes darted to Stella, the surprise in his golden-green eyes transforming, crystallizing into rejection. They returned to settle on Clara.
“I’ve finished dancing for the evening, but I’m certain Helen will have no trouble finding another partner.”
Clara heard an unbecoming snort come from behind the earl, and knew that Amelia must have been lurking nearby. Her entire body went numb as humiliation coursed through her. Was this how the earl intended to act normal after their earlier encounter upstairs? By actively shunning her in front of her peers? Despite her lowly position, she found herself unable to leave his insult unchallenged.
She would have no trouble finding another partner, indeed.
Clara forced herself to smile until it felt halfway genuine. “How amusing . . . the earl has finished dancing and I’ve yet to even get started!” She stretched out her hand to Paxton. “I believe you offered to dance, sir?”
After all, Clara had suggested that Tess have courage in asking a man to dance. Now she would draw on that same bravery to dance with each man present.
She felt this particular flavor of revenge was best served blazing hot.
William escaped the happy gathering belowstairs and headed outside in the dark, stripping off his jacket as he walked. The air was cool and clean and refreshing. He inhaled deeply and attempted to clear his mind of thoughts of Helen, twirling merrily in the arms of other men.
He glowered at the landscape, now blanketed by night. It was true he had panicked at Stella’s suggestion of a dance with Helen—perhaps he could have handled that better. But the contrition he had initially felt upon rejecting her had been extinguished somewhere around her third dance partner, and it had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep from throttling any man near her after the sixth.
He tossed his jacket over a wrought iron chair and strode around the garden. He needed to walk off this frustration. How strange that a housemaid could bring him to such a state of emotional upheaval. While the reality of it was unsettling, he couldn’t deny her pull. He’d given in to it earlier that same day, even seeking her out on the way back from his room. William couldn’t regret it, foolish as it was. He’d risk being discovered a thousand times over if it would mean holding her once more, or seeing the way her eyes softened when they spoke.
He imagined part of the appeal was the distraction she provided from the worry and sadness that had become a pervasive presence in his life. There had been countless days since the accident where the only motivation for him to even open his eyes, let alone get out of bed, was his sense of duty to his family. The need for him to carry on, no matter the cost. After all, they had already paid the ultimate price—
Christ.
Lowering down to sit on the stone wall that circled the rear garden, he worked to reign in his emotions before they got out of hand. William could recognize that this was not simply a matter of battling against his desire for Helen. Somehow, the emotional scars he’d suffered had become entangled with his feelings for her.
Standing, he scooped up his jacket from atop its iron perch. Then with a growl of anger, he hooked his fingers around the cold metal and hurled the chair across the garden, sending it to clatter noisily across the ground. The cacophony was unseemly and out of place in the chilly quiet, but incredibly satisfying. If only it were that easy to rid himself of the memories that had been burned into his brain, the guilt of surviving when no one else had, the need to deny himself the thing he wanted most . . .
With an irritated sigh, he walked back towards the house, scooping up his jacket on the way. He had come outside to sort through the tangle of his thoughts, yet only succeeded in twisting them further. Grabbing the door to the service entrance, he crept into the dimly lit kitchen, feeling like an intruder in his own home. The whoops and cheers from the party down the hall continued unabated, and he took advantage of their merry distraction to slide unnoticed into the servants’ staircase. Staring down at his feet, he vaulted the stairs two at a time, in a sudden rush to be upstairs. He would just proceed through the hallway near his bedchamber—
A soft exclamation caught him by surprise, and he whirled around to find Helen, barely illuminated from the yellow glow that shone weakly from her candleholder, flattened against the wall in an attempt to avoid him. Anticipation and turmoil affected him in equal measures at her appearance. Her upswept mass of hair appeared black in the poor lighting. William longed to sink his fingers into it and hold her immobile for his kiss. Instead, he straightened up to his full height and scoffed at her in irritation.
“I’m surprised to see you so soon. Are your feet sore from all of your dancing?”
She glanced at him guardedly in the flickering light of the candle. “You dance very well yourself, my lord,” she replied acidly. “Please, excuse me.”
Helen curtsied then brushed past him, and although he told himself not to, he reached for her as she passed. His hand slid across her waist to restrain her gently, and he was rewarded by the soft intake of her breath.
“Certainly, there may still be a few men who did not receive the pleasure of your company tonight,” he murmured near her ear, loving the way her breathing had accelerated.
She tipped her chin into the air and glanced away with a sniff. “There was only one, my lord, but he was feeling rather disinclined.”
He felt a flash of annoyance at having realized she had indeed danced with every man at the party. “I’m still disinclined, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he growled.
“Not at all,” she replied pertly. “I’m only curious as to why you are detaining me if that is indeed the case.”
Despite yearning to bring her closer, he released her and observed her very obvious relief.
Stepping to the side, William gave her ample room to pass, yet she remained there as if unsure of how to part ways. After evaluating each other in silence, he raised a brow in her direction.
“So you admired my dancing?” he asked, hoping to provoke her.
It was too dim to see her clearly, but he could almost feel her rolling her eyes. “It was rather capable.”
He gripped the railing along the wall and leaned against it to survey her. “It was my first time since before the accident.”
Helen’s head snapped over to him, her eyes widening.
“I . . . oh. Have you . . . you have not been out in society at all since then?” she asked.
“Not when I could avoid it,” he admitted. “I’m not certain that the company of Lord Evanston counts as society—not polite society, at least.”
Her gaze held his, the cool anger that had lurked there before having dissolved into something warmer now. “May I ask, my lord . . . were you injured in the accident?”
William resisted answering her question, the familiar surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins—his prelude to panic. But as usual, and even despite their disagreement tonight, he could detect nothing in her question but the most genuine compassion. He exhaled slowly.
“Broken leg, broken ribs, dislocated shoulder. I did not wake for a week. All minor things.” He glanced away in grim contemplation. “When I did wake, I found I’d acquired my family’s titles and lands. I’d survived to become the fifth earl of Ashworth, and it only took burying all the other men in my family.”
Helen’s dark eyes shimmered with compassion. “I’m so sorry . . .”
“Eliza’s husband, too, was such a loss.” His mouth twisted in remorse and he pushed restlessly away from the wall. “God, I don’t know why I’m telling you this—” The poison of his trauma crept in once again, and he felt his breath catch as a sickening sense of unreality took hold.
She moved closer, her eyes solemn, still carefully gripping her candleholder in one hand. “Perhaps it helps to unburden yourself in some way, even if it causes distress?”
“Not particularly,” he uttered through gritted teeth.
Her other hand lifted, gently touching his shoulder, running along the jacket seam then further to brush against his cheek. The smooth satin of her skin was a soft contrast to the stubbled scrape of his jaw. His eyes fell closed in something that felt like . . . relief.
“I think it must,” she whispered.
Helen stroked his brow, his cheek . . . soothing him. Although he knew better, he allowed it because her touch was proving more curative than those weeks spent languishing in bed had ever been.
She eyed him curiously. “You stop breathing when you are upset, my lord,” she said. “Try remembering to breathe.”
William had never really thought about it before. He tried it, breathing in deeply, then releasing. The fresh intake of air immediately helped to invigorate his mind, and he opened his eyes to regard her in hesitant surprise. She brushed a sweaty lock of hair away from his forehead.
“Again,” she demanded softly.
Another inhale, another exhale, and each time he felt more refreshed, more like himself. He sighed and felt a hint of tension ebb out of his shoulders. When her fingertips danced lightly across his lips, an answering surge of pleasure flooded his loins.
“You shouldn’t,” he managed, while doing nothing to stop her, praying for her to continue. “I told you once before; you shouldn’t touch me when I’m like this.”
“I know,” she murmured, with another teasing brush of her thumb.
He recognized his own words to her, from that day he’d kissed her in his room, muddy and angry and exhilarated from his time in the village. He wanted to kiss her now . . . kiss her everywhere. Craved the taste of her on his tongue. He could never have enough. Even if she ended up naked and breathless in his bed, it would never be enough . . .
His hand slid around her wrist, and her eyes went wide. He was ready to tug her upstairs to his bedchamber. Ready to satisfy his fascination. Ready to end the sleepless nights, spent occupied with thoughts of her, and days devoted to catching even just a glimpse of this woman . . .
A raucous shout from the other side of the servants’ door yanked him out of his reverie. Someone was approaching, and the shame of being discovered like this with his servant was something he could not bear.
Releasing her, he shouldered roughly past. The inevitable confusion and hurt flashed in quick succession across her face, and he couldn’t bear to see it, especially after the way she’d seen him tonight. How she’d helped him. Sparing her any kind of farewell, he turned on his heel and launched up the stairs to his chambers, slamming the heavy door behind.
He sank back to lean against the solid wood, desperate for some stability. He berated himself for having been so careless with his feelings, knowing something had shifted tonight . . . and that it frightened him. For months, he’d felt like an imposter in his own home, a pretender. And in an uncharacteristic lapse of judgment, he’d invited Helen, briefly, to see a side of him that very few had seen. He had made himself vulnerable to her.
Worse, it had felt good to do it. It had been like coming home, like being cared for.
Or like falling in love.