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She didn’t run. That would have been humiliating. But she hadn’t tarried either. The way he’d looked at her had scared her—no, that wasn’t right. The way her body had responded to the way he’d looked at her scared her.
When James had turned around, there’d been no trace of the charming footman in the man she saw. He’d looked dark and dangerous and sinfully handsome. Heat had shot through her, making her knees buckle. Now she stood, back braced against a tree, the cold air cooling her hot cheeks. Her legs were still wobbling, and her belly was still fluttering.
No one had ever kissed her like that. She hadn’t even known it was possible to kiss like that or to feel the way she did in that moment. Her body practically throbbed with want. It took everything she had not to go back to him and let him have his way with her.
But something in addition to common sense and propriety stopped her. For just a moment there, she saw something in him that gave her pause. Yes, she knew him as James, the footman. But she’d seen someone else in him too. And it made her wonder, who was James? Who had he been before he’d come to work for her family? Who was he when he was not at work?
She didn’t really know him. Up until now they’d talked of trivialities and she’d enjoyed their time together because he made her laugh and, well, he was no chore to look upon. But she’d never really tried to know him. He evaded questions that were too personal, about his family or his childhood in Ireland. He turned those conversations back to her and her life.
She’d thought it was because he was uncomfortable telling her about his modest upbringing. But what if it was something else?
“My lady, do you need assistance?”
Phil blinked and focused on her surroundings. Mr. Jennings, the groundskeeper, was walking toward her. With spring coming soon, he was no doubt surveying the grounds and determining what needed to be done as soon as the weather turned.
“Oh, Mr. Jennings. How lovely to see you.”
“Are you well, my lady? Do you want me to take you inside?”
“I’m quite well. I just stopped to rest and enjoy the cool air.” How long had she been away? Was her mother worrying about her? “What time is it, Mr. Jennings?”
“Almost half past one, my lady.”
“Ah. Thank you. I should go inside and eat something. No wonder I’m feeling tired.”
“Shall I escort you, my lady?”
“No need.” She pushed off from the tree, feeling more grounded and less shaky now. “Do carry on, Mr. Jennings.” And she strode away, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder at the dowager house in the distance.
Once inside, she slipped into the dining room. With relief, she noted her mother was not there. Phil grabbed an apple and headed for her brother’s library. With the current duke in Berkshire with his new wife, the library hadn’t been in use much. Her mother preferred to deal with matters of business in the morning room. Though their butler would deal with most of the hiring of staff, Phil hoped one of her brothers or her mother would also have records.
She paused at the door to the library, glanced over her shoulder, then went inside, closing the heavy door silently behind her. The chamber was dark, and she pulled the curtains open to let in some light. Fortunately, she hadn’t removed her pelisse as the room was also cold. She went to the desk and opened several drawers before she found records of payments to the staff. Looking through those, she confirmed James Finnegan had been added to the household the year before in June. She had been in London then and hadn’t met him until she’d returned. She stared out the window now, remembering that day in late July when she’d returned to the country at the close of the Season and spotted him among the other servants lining the front drive.
Of course, she’d noticed him. He was taller than many of the other men and it was clear his stockings needed no padding. He had dark hair, thick and black, and eyes almost as black under thick eyebrows. She’d known him for an Irishman even before he’d spoken. With effort, she’d drawn her gaze away. As the daughter of a duke, it was unseemly to stare at the footmen, but again and again that summer, she had found herself looking for him.
He had been everything that was right and proper. If he’d ever looked at her with more than polite deference, she had not caught him. Of course, he must have noticed her and wanted her as she’d wanted him, but he had not pursued her.
It was only after the death of her brother Richard at Christmastime that they’d spoken more than what was customary between mistress and servant. With Richard dead and Phineas to rise to the position of duke, no one had much time to spend with her. She’d been crying quietly in the dining room one afternoon, and James had entered. He’d looked appalled to have disturbed her, but instead of leaving as she’d expected, he’d offered her his handkerchief and sat with her. He’d been kind and understanding, and she found herself spilling all of her worries and sorrows. He’d listened and been sympathetic.
The next day she’d sought him out and apologized for her behavior, but he had insisted there was no need for an apology. And he’d left her with a phrase she hadn’t forgotten to this day: I was honored to serve as your friend.
She’d needed a friend during that time, and gradually they began to find ways to spend more time together. That time became more than simply friendly. She had been the one to suggest meeting at the dowager house, and that was where he’d first kissed her. She knew what people would say if they found out—he had seduced her. But the truth was that nothing had happened that she hadn’t wanted to happen.
But James Finnegan had a life before that summer of 1816. Why hadn’t she thought to ask more about it before now? She put the ledger of payments away and sifted through papers until she found notes that the butler had taken during his interviews with prospective staff. She found the notes for James Finnegan and read through them. There was nothing remarkable in the interview—questions about previous experience and pertinent skills. Attached to the interview had been letters of reference, including one from Lady Birtwistle, whom she knew from various social functions. The other letters had been from people she did not know and with little rank, so it must have been the letter from Lady Birtwistle that secured James the position. Lady Birtwistle’s brother Rafe had served on the Continent with her own brother Phineas.
Phil put the documents away and sat in the chair behind the desk, staring unseeing out the window. She’d be in London the day after tomorrow. Then a month after that she’d be there for another Season—months of social engagements where her mother would foist her upon every eligible peer between the ages of eighteen and eighty. She could suffer through that or she could agree to marry Viscount Knoxwood and spend the Season having her betrothal celebrated. No, she didn’t love Knoxwood, but he was as good as any other man her mother was likely to pair her with and better than most.
She’d been foolish these past few weeks when he’d been courting her. She’d allowed her infatuation with James to influence her. It had been lovely to daydream about running away with him, marrying him, falling into bed with him. But the staff records before her reminded her he was a servant in her family’s employ. She couldn’t be with him. They’d never be allowed to marry, and how could she bring that scandal upon her mother after all she’d suffered these last months and years? Phineas had caused enough scandal with his marriage to the Wanton Widow.
She’d always known that her destiny was not her own. Perhaps she hadn’t had it pressed on her as much as her brothers, but she’d been taught from an early age that there were certain expectations of a duke’s daughter. The first of these was to marry well.
Phil stood and brushed off her skirts. She would marry Knoxwood. She’d tell him she’d reconsidered when he came to dinner tonight. She’d do it quickly and before she had time to think too much about it. Her mother would be happy, her brother would be happy, all of Society would be happy.
Perhaps one day even Lady Philomena herself would be happy.
***
JAMES HAD A FREE HOUR before he had to report for dinner service. He’d polished the silver when he’d returned from the dowager house and was then sent to his room to change into formal livery. As it took him all of three minutes to change, James took the additional time to lie on his small bed and stare at the ceiling. Usually William, another footman, shared the room with him, but William was in charge of the front hall and coat room tonight. James had privacy as well as a moment of leisure. He didn’t intend to waste it.
But his thoughts seemed to wander where they would, and he couldn’t manage to steer them toward lazy pursuits. His mind would not let go of the morning’s rendezvous with Lady Philomena. Generally, he tried not to think about her. He didn’t waste his time thinking about piles of gold or treasure chests of precious jewels, and both of those were about as attainable as Lady Philomena. Of course, he didn’t have gold or rubies waved in front of his face on a daily basis. Lady Philomena and he crossed paths almost every day.
She was not a woman he could ignore. James managed to ignore the rest of the family quite easily. It was his job to at least to pretend to ignore them, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from watching her. Part of the problem was that she was beautiful. He’d never seen a woman with eyes so blue or hair so thick and golden. Her skin was a delicate and translucent pearl that he longed to touch but feared he would soil. She was always so clean and sweet-smelling. Even the beds of her fingernails were clean.
In the slums of Dublin, where he’d grown up, he’d never seen anyone with soft hands. Everyone worked hard and their hands were rough and red. His ma had been a stern woman, though she’d loved him beyond measure. She would have liked to see him serving as a footman in a great house, if she’d still been alive. She’d told him often enough to stay away from the rabble and make something of himself.
Would that he’d listened to his ma sooner.
His door opened and he sat, feeling guilty that he wasn’t yet dressed. William, almost out of breath, stuck his head in. “Letter for you.”
James tempered his surprise and schooled his face as he rose and took the proffered paper.
“Who’s it from?” William asked.
“Me ma,” James answered, mentally crossing himself at using his mother in a lie.
“Oh.” William’s brows lowered as his interest waned. “You’ll be ready soon? The guests should be arriving any minute.”
“I’ll be ready.”
William closed the door and James waited until he heard his footsteps retreat before he opened the letter. He didn’t recognize the handwriting right away, so his gaze skipped to the end of the short missive where it was signed P. Birr.
It was from Patrick then. Now he was a man James had no trouble forgetting, though Patrick made sure it was never for long.
Time’s grown short. Meet me at the Blue Boar in two nights.
James would have liked to throw the letter in the fire and forget it, but if he didn’t meet Patrick, Patrick and his minion, Sean, would come and find him. That would put all three of them in jeopardy and Lady Philomena too. After all, she was the reason Patrick wanted to meet.
James tossed the letter in the fire anyway. He didn’t want William to read it and ask questions. Then he finished dressing and made his way to the kitchen where the cook was bellowing orders. The first footman was already there, and he ordered James to fetch the necessary serving pieces. The next hour was a blur of running here and there until finally the family had gone in to dinner and it was time to serve. All of the food for the first course had already been laid on the table, and James stood on one side of the room while Mr. Balcolm, the first footman, stood on the other, and Mr. Caffold, the butler, oversaw everything.
As the family entered, James and the other servants stared straight ahead, pretending to see and hear nothing. The guests did not note the men either. Instead, they continued their conversation from earlier as they took their seats and began passing dishes. James kept his head high, his eyes unseeing, but he still caught a glimpse of golden hair piled high and the smooth slope of pale shoulders. Lady Philomena’s back was to him, but he was certain she knew he was there.
He watched for Mr. Caffold’s nods to indicate he should fetch a dish from one end of the table and present it to a lady or gentleman at the other end. When not fetching and carrying, he returned to his position at the side of the room to await the signal to clear for the second course.
James kept his eyes on a distant point near Mr. Caffold, but he couldn’t stop his ears from hearing Lady Philomena’s voice when she spoke or the light sound of her laughter. He could tell it was forced laughter. Knoxwood made an effort to amuse, but it often fell flat. Not that James thought he could do much better. He doubted he would have more than three words to say to any of these nobs, save Phil, but he’d stood through enough dinners to know what was and was not amusing.
Finally, the signal to clear came, and he played his role then returned to the kitchen for the next course, presumably a fish. And so it went until the dessert course. When James entered, he heard the conversation had turned to the planned trip to London in two days. The ladies discussed the best shops and the latest fashions, none of which interested him much as he wouldn’t be needed. The town house had a full staff and only the ladies’ maids and other essential staff would accompany the duchess and her daughter. He would stay behind and be ordered by the housekeeper to assist with all of the housekeeping tasks she wanted done but which she felt would inconvenience the family too much if undertaken when they were at home.
Mr. Caffold gave the nod, and James fetched a dessert to bring to Viscount Knoxwood. It was some sort of bread or pastry with a sweet red sauce that must be drizzled on top. James held the plate within reach of the viscount, aware Lady Philomena was just to his left, and then, when the viscount had taken a portion, offered the sauce boat. At the same time, the viscount waved his arm to make a point, made contact with the boat, and sent sticky red sauce flying. James reacted quickly, withdrawing the boat and saving it from turning over completely, but he felt the sticky liquid soak through his gloves and stepped back quickly as the viscount stood and stared down at the red stain on his white shirt.
“What the devil?” he said, grasping his napkin and trying to wipe it off.
“I’m terribly sorry, me lord,” James said quickly, offering his serving towel as well.
“Oh, dear,” the duchess said. “I do think that will stain.”
“I daresay you’re right, Your Grace.” The viscount glared at James. “You cost me a shirt, sir.”
“I’m terribly sorry, me lord.” James kept his gaze down, not out of embarrassment but because he didn’t want the viscount to see his anger. The spill was wholly the fault of the viscount, and yet James must take the blame. At least he’d be sent upstairs for the remainder of the evening. Maybe one of the maids knew how to clean the sauce out of his gloves.
“It’s not James’s fault,” Lady Philomena said.
James’s head snapped up, and he met her gaze. He gave her a quick shake of the head. What was she doing? She did not need to defend him. He was a servant. It was a given he was always in the wrong.
“That’s quite enough, Philomena,” her mother said, giving her a stern look from across the table.
“But it’s not his fault, Mama. Knoxwood spilled the sauce, not James.”
James could feel all eyes land on him. The back of his collar felt hot, and he wished he would be dismissed. He was supposed to be invisible, and now he had captured the party’s attention twice. The silence seemed to drag on for a long moment, then Knoxwood turned to James and looked him up and down.
“You’re quite right, my lady. It was my fault entirely. No harm done, eh, James?”
“As ye say, me lord.”
The viscount sat again, and the butler gave James a speaking look. As soon as he was no longer the center of attention, James slipped out the door and returned downstairs.
“They done already?” Meg, the kitchen maid, asked.
“No. There was a spill.”
“Oh, heavens! You’d better go to your room before Mr. Caffold comes down. He’ll have your head.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Doesn’t matter. And hand me your gloves. If I soak them now, I might get that stain out.”
He handed her the gloves and went up the back steps so there would be less chance of meeting the butler. But before he went to his chamber, he made his way to the coat room to tell William he would be needed after all. He gave William the news then started back across the foyer just as the party adjourned to the drawing room. He stepped into an alcove under the stairs and out of sight. As he stood in the shadows, he heard Phil’s voice. “Might I speak to you in private a moment, my lord?”
“Certainly,” Knoxwood answered.
“There’s a parlor just here.”
James made himself smaller as they passed him and entered the parlor across from him. She did not close the door, and James could hear their voices as the viscount asked what she wanted to speak to him about. James couldn’t see them unless he leaned forward. He could easily slip out of the alcove and make his way to the servants’ stairs without being seen.
“It’s about our discussion last night,” Phil said, and James could not seem to move. His feet had grown roots and held him fast in place. “More precisely, your proposal.”
“Oh, that,” Knoxwood said, not sounding the least bit put out that she should mention her rejection of him. “You made yourself clear. I won’t bother you with it again.”
“Actually, I was rather hoping you would.”
No. James realized what she was doing right away. She’d reconsidered the viscount’s offer of marriage, and she had decided to accept. He’d told her to accept it himself, but now that she was doing so, he wanted to run in and stop her.
“You are too kind, my lady,” Knoxwood said. “But upon reflection, I am actually rather glad you declined my offer last night.”
Silence. James leaned forward slightly and caught a glimpse of Phil on one side of the room, seated on a couch with her rose-colored skirts about her. Her hands were tightly clasped in her lap and her expression was determined. The viscount must be opposite her. James couldn’t see him. But he could see Phil, and at the viscount’s words the color rose in her cheeks. Finally, she said, “Are you?”
“I am. You seemed to know better than I that we are not a good match.”
“We’re not?” she said, her voice rising slightly as though she was almost, but not quite, asking.
“No. We wouldn’t suit at all, you and I. Your family is old and distinguished, but it’s become obvious of late that your values are, shall we say, rather more liberal than those of my own family. I would want to raise any offspring of our union to uphold the morals and principles I was raised to believe in.”
“And you think...what? My morals are lacking?”
James stepped back against the wall and deeper into the shadows. Lady Philomena had risen, and he could see her standing with her hands on her hips in the center of the parlor.
“It’s not you, in particular, my lady,” the viscount said, his voice soothing. “But your brother’s recent marriage, coupled by the suspicious circumstances surrounding the deaths of the previous dukes, is rather off-putting.”
“And why is it off-putting tonight and not last night?”
The viscount crossed to Lady Philomena. “Last night, after our conversation, I spoke with my mother. She helped to clarify the situation.”
“I see. And what situation is that? That my brother married for love rather than Society’s approval? That we’ve had great tragedy in our family? But why should I expect you to understand any of that?”
The viscount took a step back. “I can see I have upset you.”
“You’ve done more than that, my lord. You’ve insulted me.”
He bowed. “The slight was unintentional. Please believe me when I say I have nothing but the highest regard for you. Excuse me.”
James held his breath as the viscount walked past him without seeing him.
In the parlor, he heard the sound of glass shattering.