Passion and Pride (A Historical Romance) (3 page)

“She always was a troublesome child growing up, it’s just like her to be causing mischief on her very first day – ”

“Auntie!” Marian whispered, her cheeks blushing red.

“It was no trouble at all,” Evan said. His eyes had strayed to Marian’s face, and now he could not turn them away…

“And it was ever so kind of your father, God bless ‘im, to give our poor Marian here a chance – if only she’ll behave and not make your good father regret it, but don’t you worry, I won’t let her be play at the devil’s business for a moment she’s here – ”

Marian’s cheeks had turned a fiery crimson. Evan found himself wanting to cup them in his hands, to tilt her head up to his –

“Yes, well, I’m sure everything will work out fine,” Evan said, tearing his eyes away once more.

“You can be sure she’ll be a hard worker if I have a thing or two to say about it – ”

“I’m sure, but if you’ll excuse me, I really have to get back to the doctor,” Evan said, then turned to the butler. “Whittaker, I don’t have any money on my person – please give me three shillings out of the house account.”

The butler was a dour man in his fifties with bushy grey sideburns who looked after Lord Blake’s pennies as assiduously as a mother badger guards her cubs. “Sir, is that much really necessary?”

“I have to pay the driver, too.”

“Oh – I forgot, I was to pay him when we got here,” Marian said, embarrassed.

Evan gave her a frown mixed with a smile, like
Don’t even worry yourself.

However, Whittaker was doing enough worrying for everyone involved. “I would think a couple of pence would suffice, sir.”

“He’s suffered heatstroke.”

“That’s hardly
your
fault, sir – ”

“Just do as I say, Whittaker.”

The butler sighed heavily and pulled out three coins from a wooden box on the desk. “Your father will not be happy.”

“Have my father speak to me about it. If you wish, you may tell him I threatened you at gunpoint.”

Marian giggled. Realizing her error, she quickly put a hand to her mouth.

All the servants glared at her – but Evan was utterly charmed. He had to leave,
now
, before he drowned again in those emerald green eyes…

“Miss Marian,” Evan said, and slowly backed out of the room. He did it so that he could look at her as long as possible… and then he finally, regretfully, turned heel and went back to the parlor.

He gave the doctor two shillings.

“Much obliged,” Dr. Harrick said as he pocketed his fee.

“I would rather you come willingly when we call, rather than grudgingly.” Evan tucked the third coin in the carriage driver’s jacket pocket. “Do tell him it’s there when he wakes up, won’t you?”

“Quite generous of you.”

“Well, if he’s out of work for a few days, he’ll need a few extra pennies. For another bottle of his mistress.”

“Mrs. Stone will
love
you for that.”

“Let’s let that be a gentlemen’s secret then, shall we?”

“Ha! At these rates, old Stone will come calling with heat stroke every week.”

“On second thought, tell him you don’t know where the money came from. Harcourt, Johnson – another job for you!”

As he watched them all ride off – the doctor’s trap first, followed by Harcourt in Stone’s carriage, and lastly a carriage from Blakewood – Evan thought about the day’s events and shook his head.

A servant girl.

Damn it all to hell.

Marian looked around the cramped room and sighed. It was smaller than what she was used to in her parents’ house… but it would do.

Best to be positive in the matter, since she really had no choice.

She sat her two valises on the bed. They were her father’s, so they were sturdy rather than feminine. That was fine by her. She only cared about what was inside.

She unpacked the most important contents first. First was an edition of
Les Liaisons dangereuses
, a going-away present from Mr. Powell.

Her father had worked twenty years as a clerk for a small importing business. Mr. Powell was the owner, a life-long bachelor who had adopted Marian as the granddaughter he had never had. He was a dear, dear old man.

Papa was a practical fellow, dull and lacking ambition. Mama was of the opinion that a woman’s greatest calling was to be a good wife, housekeeper, cook, and mother. Which was fine for those who wanted it – but Mama frowned greatly on a woman stretching her mind or talents beyond that. Unless the woman in question was a gentlewoman… in which case painting and the pianoforte were acceptable, housekeeping and cooking were not.

They were both loving parents, but they had never shown any interest in Marian’s schooling. They had not even taught her to read.

Mr. Powell was the one who had recognized that she was bright at an early age.
He
was the one who had paid for a tutor to instruct her in reading, arithmetic, and French. And he was the one who had encouraged her love for books. He lived half a mile away, and had allowed her access to his private library. She had greedily devoured everything in his collection.

Mr. Powell was a voracious reader, and had everything from translations of ancient Greek plays to the most modern novels and collections of poetry.

Among other things.

During her afternoons at his home, she had found some quite…
eye-opening
volumes on his shelves. Stories which her mother would
never
have approved of.

Marian supposed her mother had a point. If she had never read some of the things on Mr. Powell’s shelves, she might never have gotten in trouble with Tom…

…but then, she would never have met Mr. Blake.

At any rate, those were the stories that captured her fancy – the shocking, the scandalous, the illicit.

Those were the stories that she read over and over again.

Those were the stories she had in mind when she first began to write.

She pulled out several thick bundles of papers, tied together with red ribbon. She had been writing since she was fifteen. Her earliest efforts made her cringe now, but she kept them as a record of where she had been and how far she had come. She still admired their ferocity, their
will
to make her voice heard.

Next she pulled out a box filled with 500 sheets of paper – another gift from Mr. Powell. Then her small collection of quills, a knife for sharpening the points, pieces of blotting paper, and a couple of bottles of India ink.

Ignoring her clothes, she arranged her writing supplies on a small desk in the corner. There was a lamp and several matches on the nightstand, but the light from the single window in her room was more than adequate. She figured she had at least an hour’s worth of daylight left before she would have to light the lamp.

Marian uncapped the ink, dipped in a quill, and then paused for a moment to remember the shiver of pleasure when Mr. Blake touched the small of her back that afternoon, the melting warmth throughout her body when she looked into his eyes…

She did not dwell on the chill in her heart when he found out she was a servant, the moment she suddenly saw his whole expression change.

That would not suit the story she had in mind.

She pictured his eyes, staring into hers from just inches away…

She imagined his lips, firm and sensual, leaning in to press against hers…

She could feel his large, sculpted hands plucking at her clothes, caressing the bare flesh of her neck, her shoulders, her breasts… could imagine her own hands running along the length of his thigh, where she would feel his manhood, stiff and long and thick under the cloth of his trousers…

When the ache in her loins became almost too much to bear, she turned her attention to the paper and began to write.

Dinner was a sorry affair. But then, whenever Evan’s father was in attendance,
any
event was a sorry affair.

Lord Blake was a thin man with stooped shoulders and a perpetual frown. He was balding on top with a fringe of grey hair sprouting from the sides of his head.

He always looked as though he were suffering from dyspepsia, or extreme constipation, or some other unpleasant – but non-fatal – medical condition. Though he was not exactly the picture of health, he had the wiry toughness of a gnarled old tree in a swamp marsh. If bitterness could keep a man alive, then Phineas Blake would live to be five hundred and three years old.

He snarled and barked at the servants throughout the meal. Whereas other men seasoned their food with salt, Evan’s father preferred his underlings’ unhappiness.

Only Whittaker, the butler, was unperturbed. He had become so accustomed to the abuse that he answered the old man’s rants and ravings like he was commenting on the weather.

“Yes, m’lord. No, m’lord. Right away, m’lord,” he answered with perfect equanimity.

Evan was glad that Marian had not been put right to work. He hoped she would be able to avoid Evan’s father as long as humanly possible.

Unfortunately, Marian appeared to be on Andrew’s mind, as well.

“The new servant girl arrived today, father. She’s quite charming,” Andrew remarked.

“What?! What do I care for charming? She’s a servant – she best be industrious and nothing more.” Then the old man seemed to register the entire comment. “
What
new servant girl?”

“Marian Willows, I believe her name was,” Andrew said. “Mr. and Mrs. Chapman are her uncle and aunt.”

The old man sputtered. “New servant girl?! Whittaker – what the devil is this about a new servant girl?!”

“Your son is correct, m’lord. We need a replacement for the chambermaid who ran off with her beau two months ago.”

“Need?!
Need?!
You need nothing but a good stiff boot up your ass, Whittaker! How dare you hire another mouth to feed without asking me first!”

Evan almost laughed – not at the insult, but at the suggestion that Whittaker would have
ever
done anything involving an outlay of more than a crown without the old man’s approval.

In writing.

For future incidents such as this.

“Begging your lordship’s pardon, but I brought up the matter three weeks ago and received your consent, after which I advised Mr. and Mrs. Chapman to notify their niece.”

“Consent?! I gave no such consent!”

“I can retrieve the written document with my lordship’s signature, if he so desires,” Whittaker said as he poured more wine into the curmudgeon’s glass.

“You may lie all you want, Whittaker, but I gave no such consent,” the old man grumbled. Of course he knew that Whittaker had proof – Whittaker
always
had proof – so now he changed tack. “I see no need for another servant! I have not noticed any difference in the quality of work around here, which is to say,
dreadful!”

“Yes, m’lord,” Whittaker agreed mildly. “But Miss Morland has been at her wits’ end keeping up with the extra work.”

Miss Morland was the head maid, and directly under the Housekeeper’s supervision.

“What do I care for Miss Morland and her wits, or rather, her lack thereof? How can I give a damn about something that does not exist?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Whittaker said.

“Evan saved her from a rather spectacular death, father,” Andrew announced cheerily.

“What? Who, Miss Morland?”

“No, the new girl. Her carriage was out of control. Evan rode up alongside it and stopped the horse.”

Evan gave his brother an annoyed look for dragging him into the conversation.

“Why did you do that, you idiot?” Lord Blake snapped at Evan. “Could have saved me a good deal of money if you had just let her die! Whittaker!”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“How much is this fool girl costing me?”

“Ten pounds a year, m’lord.”

“That’s too much! Far too much!”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Tell her she’ll have to accept half!”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Whittaker, of course, would do no such thing. He was parsimonious, but his word was his bond.

And Evan would never have let him go back on it, anyway.

“No – tell her she’s fired! We don’t need another chambermaid!”

“It would greatly help Miss Morland, m’lord.”

“What the devil do I care about Miss Morland!”

Evan let his mind drift back to Marian, and as he did so, his father’s barking voice subsided in the distance. He recalled her wind-tossed hair, the sparkle in her eyes, the dazzling smile…

And he recalled her slim waist… the shapely turn of her ankle… the modest but firm swell of her breasts beneath her blouse and jacket…

“Evan,” Andrew called, shaking him from his daydream.

Evan looked around in a daze.

“You fool!” Lord Blake roared. “You endangered yourself and a damn good horse to save a hired trap? And a useless servant girl who’s costing me ten pounds a year?”

Around and around the old man went for the next twenty minutes, until Evan devoutly wished he had his pistol at hand so he could shoot himself in the head and so excuse himself from the remainder of the meal.

Marian had been at the house for two weeks when the confrontation occurred.

Her life at Blakewood was hard, but not unbearable. She had heard tales of servants in London whose very existence was misery. Though Lord Blake was known to be a tyrant, the old man rarely saw or spoke to any staff beside those who served meals. And while Whittaker the butler/steward was a tight-fisted miser, he was unusually lenient. As long as the work was done, he did not bother any of the staff with overbearing comments or unreasonable demands.

Not so her Aunt Sally. She berated Marian constantly, as though she had been waiting and praying for someone to lord over. She would tell Marian to stand up straight, then five minutes later command her to stop putting on airs. After all, she was only a lowly chambermaid. She would tell Marian to fix her hair and smooth out her clothes – “You are an ungodly mess” –and not half an hour later would snipe at her for her vanity. “Smile, child, you are unpleasant to look at.” “Wipe that foolish grin off your face, you look a fool.”