A Rake by Any Other Name (4 page)

Unpalatable? She thought him unpalatable? What on earth could she have to complain about in him? Plenty of women would jump at the chance to have him. They'd eat the future Marquess of Somerset up with a spoon.

“As a great heiress,” he said through clenched teeth, “surely you could have your pick of suitors.”

“You'd think so, but my father is nothing if not diligent in his study of a market, even a marriage market. Of all the great houses under financial duress with an eligible heir, yours is the highest ranking. Why should my father's fortune bring down an ordinary beast when it can bag a trophy stag?”

“Back to the stag metaphor again. Remind me never to go hunting with you.” They turned a corner and entered a long, high-ceilinged hall. “Here is the gallery.”

Row upon row, his ancestors stared down at them from age-darkened canvases. Some were in medieval dress and suits of armor. There were cavaliers in plumed hats alongside stolid-looking reformers. A few sported the powdered wigs and lace-trimmed cuffs of the past generation.

Sophie peered up at each one, her brows drawn together in concentration. “There are some fine works here.”

“There should be. My ancestors believed in hiring the best.” Scattered among paintings by lesser-known artists, there were portraits by Holbein the Younger, Van Dyck, Joshua Reynolds, and Gainsborough.

“But none of your progenitors look terribly happy, do they?” Sophie said after she'd walked the full length of the room and back.

“I believe the point of the portraits is to impress the viewer with the power and prestige of the subject, not to give a window to their souls.”

“Pity. Since their souls are all that still exist.”

“That's not true. Somerfield Park still exists. Everything they bled and worked for is still here.”

“And you intend to bleed and work for it too. Dead men's bones and dead men's dreams.” She cocked her head, considering him like a kestrel eyeing a field mouse. “I do believe you've never had an original goal in your head.”

If she'd been a man, he'd have laid her out for that insult. “Of course I have. You may as well know that my plan right now is to marry another woman, one my parents have not chosen for me.”

“Really?” She cast a genuine smile at him then, a sudden burst of such luminous glory that it nearly took his breath away. “There may be hope for you yet.”

Then she spoiled the effect by arching that one brow again.

“But it's only a plan,” she said. “I wager you've never actually
done
anything unexpected.”

He'd show her. “You lose.”

He'd give her unexpected. Richard snatched her close and covered her mouth with his. He meant to shock her, to silence her goading tongue. Now that little pointed tongue of hers was all tangled up with his in a sudden, desperate exploration.

He pinned her to the wall, her spine pressed against the flocked wallpaper next to a rather lugubrious rendering of his grandmother.

Her hands found his hair, raking her fingertips past his temples. She palmed his cheeks and slid her hands down his neck, her touch cool at first, then hot as she smoothed her fingers down his chest and around his waist.

God help him, she made him hard as iron.

Then the kiss changed. Yielded. Her breath poured into him, warm and sweet.

Trusting.

She made a soft sound, as if she were melting, like sugar in a saucepan. The little sigh went straight to his groin.

Then he slanted his mouth over hers, determined to make her sigh again.

Her lips were supple. Giving.

She answered his kiss with longing, with urgency, with a small tremble that he'd give anything to still. But he wasn't able to make her sigh again.

When he finally released her, he had to fight to master his breathing lest she see how deeply she'd affected him.

He was shocked to his soul at what he'd done. He was devoted to Antonia. Besides, no matter how sorely he was provoked, he wasn't the sort to ravish a young lady he'd just met as if she were a common trollop. What had gotten into him?

“Where does a virgin learn to kiss like that?” he whispered.

Sophie Goodnight smiled at him again. She could command angels with that smile, and they'd obey without question. Then she slipped out of his arms and headed for the door. She hesitated at the threshold, turned, and winked at him.

“What makes you think I'm a virgin?”

A hostess always wants her guests to wish a dinner party would never end. However, sometimes the best thing one can say about an evening is that it did, in fact, sputter to a conclusion.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Eliza Dovecote had sauntered down the empty gallery. As the kitchen maid, she wasn't allowed in the upstairs portion of the great house except to lay fires in all the hearths during the early morning hours. Even then, she had to scuttle right smart to make sure she wasn't seen by any member of the family.

But Eliza couldn't resist sneaking peeks at the upstairs world when she could. It fair tickled her fancy, with its polished brasses and gleaming hardwoods and ceilings painted with scenes so beautiful she ached to lie on the floor and imagine she could float up into the cherub-filled clouds.

Few people ever entered the gallery. Other than the maids, who straightened the occasional pillow tucked into side chairs and kept the picture frames and the bust of someone named Cicero free from dust, Eliza often thought she was the only one in Somerfield Park who visited the long row of artwork for pure pleasure.

She lingered over the ornate dresses in the portraits and wondered what the stiff lace had felt like against a lady's neck, or imagined how her insides might go all squishy if a fellow like the one in the hat with the long plume ever gave her a courtly bow.

Eliza was sure she'd faint dead away.

When she'd heard Lord Hartley and that Miss Goodnight approaching, she'd barely managed to scurry away to hunker behind the servant's door. But she'd been careful not to latch it. The chance to be a wee mousey in the corner was too tempting not to take. She couldn't pull away from watching the fine people in the gallery. What she heard and saw shocked her to her curled toes.

What
makes
you
think
I'm a
virgin?

That was more wicked than Eliza had ever imagined. Miss Goodnight hadn't even blushed.

And such a kiss the scandalous Miss Goodnight and Lord Hartley had shared! Eliza had never been kissed herself, but she'd imagined what it might be like plenty of times. Now she'd have to reinvent her own daydreams to live up to the kiss she'd just witnessed.

Lord Hartley was still in the gallery, staring after Miss Goodnight as if his boots had been nailed to the Turkish carpet. He—

“I say, Eliza.” Mr. Hightower's voice made her jump. “What are you doing here?”

She twirled around, leaning back on the hidden door so that its latch caught with a soft snick. “Nothing, Mr. Hightower. Truly, sir. I was just going up to my room to fetch—”

“Never mind that now. It's time for supper. You don't want to keep Mrs. Culpepper waiting.” The butler started down to the below stairs common room. “And don't let me catch you loitering on the back staircase again.”

“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. Thank you, sir.” She rabbited around him on the narrow steps, anxious to obey. Her mum had been delirious with joy when Eliza was first given a position at Somerfield Park. Mrs. Dovecote would be devastated if her daughter somehow lost it.

Eliza skittered into the kitchen.

“There ye are, girl. Where've ye been? Oh, never mind. Once ye start on a story, it takes forever for ye to finish and won't amount to spit in any case,” Mrs. Culpepper said as she filled a tureen with chicken stew that was mostly potatoes with a chicken tracked through it. “Here. Take this into the commons.”

Eliza hefted the ornate tureen with a built-in platter beneath it. The piece was fine, with hand-painted curlicues and a bit of gilt here and there. It had been used upstairs, until a clumsy footman chipped one of the porcelain handles.

The tureen was still in service. The footman was not. Mr. Hightower did not suffer mistakes that reflected badly upon the house.

The rest of the Somerfield servants had already gathered around the long table in the common room. Mr. Hightower had taken his place at the head, with Mrs. Grahame, the housekeeper, at the foot. Between them, Mr. Cope, who was Lord Somerset's valet, and Miss Minerva Gorny, lady's maid to Lady Somerset, took their seats wherever they had a mind to.

And
why
shouldn't they?
Eliza thought. They were second only to Mr. Hightower and Mrs. Grahame, respectively, in below stairs society.

The senior housemaids, Sarah and Drucilla, filed in and collapsed into a couple of empty places along with the rest of the housekeeping staff. Sarah was young and lively, always ready with a smile and a kind word for Eliza, despite the fact that she was only a kitchen maid. Drucilla was a thin, pinched sort of woman with her hair scraped back into a bun so tight Eliza thought it must give her headaches. Her hair was dusted with enough gray to show her to be on the downhill slide of forty. Drucilla was too mindful of other people's business to have any of her own.

But Sarah and Drucilla worked well together. Not only did they help clean the great house to within an inch of its life every day, but between the two of them, they contrived to serve as lady's maids for Lady Ella, Lady Petra, and Lady Ariel as well.

“It's a mercy that Lady Ariel is still in the schoolroom,” Sarah often said. “Don't know as we'd manage elsewise.”

Lady Ariel's age, about thirteen as nearly as Eliza could guess, meant that her governess, a dour-looking stick of a woman named Miss Constance Bowthorpe, was responsible for her appearance and deportment most of the time. As a governess, Miss Bowthorpe was neither fish nor fowl. She wasn't invited to dine with the family unless the numbers of the party required another female. Yet she was technically above all the other help and not comfortable eating in the common room.

Or especially welcome there, come to that.

Eliza would take a tray to her room on the second floor after she served the rest of the staff. Miss Bowthorpe's chamber was one level down from the rest of the servants, but not in the same wing as the family.

Mr. Hightower led the gathering in a brief prayer of thanks, his sonorous voice ringing a benediction of blessed stillness. Eliza's life was filled with constant trotting to fetch and carry, and run errands for others. It was restful to stop for even a few moments and let Mr. Hightower's words roll over her.

He
should
have
been
a
preacher, a voice like that
, Eliza thought as she began ladling out the stew, mindful of trying to make it stretch for the entire company.

“What did you make of Miss Goodnight?” Drucilla asked Mr. Hightower.

Wish
someone
would
ask
me
what
I
made
of
her. I'd give them summat what would curl their
hair.

Of course, Eliza knew better than to speak before she was spoken to in the common room while the others were dining. She was ever conscious of her place as the servant of servants. It was important to do things correctly if she hoped to get on in the big house. With any luck at all, she'd work up to being a chambermaid soon. She could wear a smart uniform and not have to sneak around upstairs.

“Drucilla, I find the question grossly impertinent,” Mr. Hightower said. “It is not our place to comment on the guests of this house.”

“Not even if that guest is about to become Lady Hartley,” Drucilla muttered.

“That's enough, Dru,” Mrs. Grahame said before Mr. Hightower could get up a full head of steam. “We none of us have a window to the future, so let's not be getting ahead of ourselves. The Family invited the Goodnights, so we must show them Somerfield's best face and not fret over what changes may be coming.”

“Speaking of changes,” Toby Welch, the second footman, said as he breezed in and plopped down next to Sarah. “Since Lord Hartley is back, he'll be needing a valet, Mr. Hightower. Have you decided whether it'll be me or David?”

“I have not yet made my decision,” Mr. Hightower said with a frown.

Toby was always pushing himself forward, Eliza thought. But if a chap didn't toot his own horn, who would?

“Better let us know before he's ready to turn in for the night.”

Mr. Hightower sent him a frosty glance. “This is not the appropriate venue for that discussion.”

Toby's chair must have been a bit too close, because Sarah scooted hers a few inches away.

If
Toby
Welch
sat
down
next
to
me, I wouldn't scoot
away.

Toby was tall and well favored with light brown hair that glinted with gold and russet highlights. He was handsome after the manner of footmen. They were always the most presentable young men in the house. Eliza had to tear her eyes from him, lest he mark her interest and begin teasing her.

“A kitchen maid shouldn't get above herself,” Mrs. Culpepper always said.

But
I
can't very well get below myself either. There's precious little beneath me,
Eliza had thought furiously at the time but didn't say. Sometimes she wondered if unspoken thoughts would build up in her, and someday she'd burst from all the ones she hadn't let escape out her mouth.

Toby helped himself to the bread basket in the center of the table. “Well, either way, it's an advancement for me,” he said with good cheer. “If David's made Lord Hartley's valet, that means I'll be first footman, won't I?”

“You'll be the
only
footman, Toby,” Sarah said. “There's a difference.”

“Well, be that as it may, this was a different sort of dinner party tonight, weren't it? Mr. Goodnight's naught but a glorified shopkeeper. My father runs the dry goods shop in the village,” Toby went on with a laugh. “Do you suppose his lordship will ask him to tea one of these days? By God, this house is becoming positively republican.”

Tension roiled off Mr. Hightower like a pot near to boiling as he glared at Toby, who was too busy slathering butter on his bread to notice. Finally, the footman realized that the rest of the company had laid aside their spoons and were waiting in silence for what must surely come. He glanced at Mr. Hightower, whose face had flushed an unhealthy shade of puce.

“The occupations or stations of the guests of Somerfield Park have no bearing on how we treat them, Toby,” the butler said evenly. The softness of his tone did little to disguise its menace. “If you cannot remember that, you may shortly find yourself without a position in this house.”

Eliza's breath hissed over her teeth. Since a number of their fellow workers had been shown the door since “the troubles” began, it was no idle threat.

“Mr. Hightower, I beg your pardon. I meant no disrespect and I hope you didn't find fault with my work this evening. I never give less than my best,” Toby rattled on. He was worried now, the smile completely gone from his voice. “But surely you, sir… I mean, your reputation for adhering to good form is legendary. There's nothing the least traditional about this match in the making. Surely you can't like what's happening here.”

Mr. Hightower would like it even less if he'd witnessed the little scene in the gallery that I did. And her admitting to not being a virgin—like she was proud of
it.

Eliza was confused by Miss Goodnight right enough, but she did admire the girl's confidence. She carefully placed the tureen in the center of the table, so latecomers could help themselves, though there was precious little chicken left among the potatoes and broth.

“I don't have to like what's happening to support it,” Mr. Hightower said through clenched teeth. “Much as it pains me to think of Lord Hartley and—” He interrupted himself and tugged his waistcoat down. “Nevertheless, we must trust the Family to do the right thing, whatever that may be in order to ensure that Somerfield Park continues. If it means some traditions must be…modified somewhat, we must be accommodating.”

Eliza could be accommodating. While he was speaking, she filled Mrs. Grahame's teacup with her favorite blend. If only the housekeeper would notice how well she was coming along, how willingly she'd don a maid's crisp uniform and work her heart out upstairs in the realm of beauty and light.

“The dignity of this house depends upon the dignity with which we all go about our appointed tasks,” Mr. Hightower was saying.

He warmed to his subject now. His discourses on the dignity of service would put an Oxford don to shame. “Serving without being servile is an art. It uplifts both parties in the exchange.”

Toby rolled his eyes, and Eliza clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from giggling.

“Even the kitchen girl…” Mr. Hightower waved a beefy hand in her direction and then gave her a second look that said he'd forgotten her presence until that moment. “Why are you still here, Eliza? Shouldn't you be taking a tray to Miss Bowthorpe?”

“Yes, sir, right away, Mr. Hightower, sir.” She dropped a quick curtsy and scurried from the room, tamping down her disappointment. She'd hoped to at least catch a glimpse of David, the first footman, but he was probably still in the parlor seeing to the family's after-dinner drinks.

Toby was all flash and dazzle, and sometimes the backs of Eliza's eyes burned just to look at him, but David Abbot quietly took her breath away. He was a little taller than Toby, and possessed such dark good looks, they'd made him the target of a number of unattached ladies both upstairs and down.

Yet surprisingly enough, David seemed a bit shy. He moved with a careful self-consciousness that said he didn't know how attractive he was. Sometimes, Eliza imagined him in that cavalier's costume, rakish hat askew, long plume bobbing as he gave her a wickedly flirtatious bow.