When Angels Fall (24 page)

“Nonsense,” she finally whispered. Seeing Evvie so happy, she was only more determined that her sister should keep her gown. If any dress should be sold it should be the rose one. She had no place to wear it anyway, not like Evvie, who, God willing, would soon have a husband to please. The blue velvet would be her only dowry.

She turned to the rose satin and began repacking it in the Worth-imprinted box. If any gown was expendable it was this one. After all, she told herself guiltily, meeting her sister’s sightless gaze, how would Evvie ever know she didn’t have it any more?

She would go to Cullenbury on Saturday, Lissa thought the next morning when she was in the Powerscourt kitchens. Cullenbury was the next largest town, and she was pretty certain that she could sell the rose ballgown there at a nice price. Besides, few people in Cullenbury knew her, and she would be far less conspicuous than if she went to Nodding Knoll’s dressmaker.

With that on her mind, she hardly thought about the
task in front of her. As she stared ahead, musing on what price the gown would command, her pen fell idle. When she next looked down, her list was ruined by a huge ink puddle. She hastily crumpled the paper and started again.

Today all Mrs. Lofts had instructed her to do was recopy a list of things the footman was to get on his trip to London. There was nothing interesting on the list other than a casket of hatpins from Brandreth’s Emporium which Alec, one of the stableboys, had requested. It was, no doubt, a gift to one of the housemaids. Lissa thought the girl’s name was Edith, but it could have been Edna. Powerscourt did have over fifty servants, after all. She shrugged and turned her attention to the clean sheet of paper.

“The marquis has gone out for the day.” Mrs. Lofts suddenly appeared in front of her, her hands clasped, her lips taut.

Lissa swept the white ribbons of her headpiece off her shoulder and looked up at her.

Mrs. Lofts continued. “You shall go to the Hall and dust.”

“I see.” Lissa stood.

“And when you’re through there, I want you to dust in the morning room too.”

“Of course.”

With her reply, the housekeeper gave her a covert look, one to which Lissa was becoming accustomed. She wondered why Mrs. Lofts hated her so, yet somehow she thought it had something to do with the fact that her duties had been so light. Ivan had obviously spoken to the woman. Perhaps she ought to tell him she should not be treated deferentially at the castle. It obviously did not sit well with the other servants.

“I also want you to dust the drawing room, the chapel, the billiard room, the library, the dining room, the steward’s room, and my room. And when you’re through, I’m sure I can find some other things to keep
you occupied. That is, if you finish tonight,” Mrs. Lofts added with a vile look on her face.

The housekeeper seemed immensely pleased with Lissa’s shocked expression, for she didn’t even wait for the younger woman to acknowledge her orders. Mrs. Lofts handed her a stack of clean linens, then left the pantry. Lissa watched her go, too stunned to comment.

The first three rooms took all of seven hours. Mrs. Lofts came in to check on her every thirty minutes and was quick to point out a vase or a chair left undone. If there was nothing to criticize, Mrs. Lofts then took the position that everything in the entire room needed another dusting. It was cumbersome work and, Lissa found herself growing weary quickly. It didn’t hearten her that she still had six more rooms to go.

But thoughts of quitting weren’t even a consideration. She wanted to get along with Mrs. Lofts, for surely her work would only become more miserable if she didn’t. And she didn’t want Ivan interfering on her behalf because she had gotten into this position with her eyes open. The servants at Alcester worked equally as hard. She would endure the situation with as much dignity as they did.

And so the day progressed. John Dover came to escort her home at one point, and though he quite bedeviled her when he insisted he was to take her home at five, he finally went away, promising to return every hour until she was through.

She surmised that Ivan had still not returned to the castle, and she was determined to finish everything before he did. But when Mrs. Lofts reinspected the dining room for the fourth time, Lissa grew impatient. She swore she would outlast the stern housekeeper. Yet her resolve was sorely tested when she was told to redust the mantel for the fifth time.

Nonetheless, she vowed to endure. Grimly she made for the mantel with the feather duster. There was a lot to clean. Not only did she have to remove all the Stafford
shire figurines, she also had to take off the mantel lambrequin and shake it. Yet she would do it again, if only to prove to Mrs. Lofts that she was not going to fold. She picked up the first piece, a tobacco jar in the shape of a dog’s head, and went to put it on the dining table. But because she was growing tired, or simply because her mind was not on her work, the jar slipped from her grasp and shattered on the tile hearth.

As if she’d expected such a mishap, Mrs. Lofts was at her side in a second. Lissa felt the vicious cuff on her cheek before she saw it coming. After the attack, all she could do was hold her damaged cheek and stare at the housekeeper in disbelief.

But indignation and anger soon swelled in her breast. How dare this woman strike her! She was Elizabeth Victorine Alcester; she was a lady and she was not to be slapped about like some street urchin. All her instincts came into play at once. She raised her hand in retaliation, but all at once the housekeeper froze. Mrs. Lofts wasn’t even looking at her; she was staring at something behind Lissa’s shoulder.

Horrified, Lissa dropped her hand and turned around. Ivan was standing in the doorway to the dining room, and it was obvious he had witnessed the entire episode because he looked furious. A hint of dark amusement was also on his face, and Lissa wondered if it hadn’t been caused by the shameless slap she herself had been about to dole out. Suddenly she hated herself as she had never done before. Ivan had seen the entire, horrid display.

“My lord,” Mrs. Lofts acknowledged, her face burning with suppressed anger and resentment.

Ivan didn’t even respond to the woman. He merely gave her a deadly stare and raised one of his jet eyebrows as if in surprise that she still dared stand before him.

Mrs. Lofts didn’t dare long, for quickly she disappeared behind the baize-covered door that led to the
kitchen passage. Lissa longed to do the same, yet Ivan stopped her with a word.

“Halt.”

With that, she didn’t move. Ivan walked around her, examining her as if she were something to be skinned and weighed at the butcher. She found it hard to meet his eyes.

“What are you still doing here?” he asked.

“I had duties to perform,” she said defiantly. For some reason, his imperious tone raised her ire to new heights—at Mrs. Lofts for being so cruel and forcing her into unseemly behavior; at Ivan for being such an ungodly arrogant beast; and finally at her parents, for having died and left her to fend for the family in the first place.

Ivan touched her reddened cheek.

“Don’t,” she told him, and turned away.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“I’m not,” she refuted. Quietly she stooped to pick up the pieces of the shattered Staffordshire dog. She didn’t want him to see her like this. She felt as shattered as the jar. Her hands shook deplorably.

“Lissa—”

“No, don’t. Don’t say a thing.” She scowled. “I take the blame for all this.”

Suddenly she was brought to her feet by two strong hands. Forcibly he made her release the shards. She heard the pieces of Staffordshire again fall on the hearth. “No one has the right to strike you.”

“Except you, perhaps?” She laughed, but her laughter soon turned into a sob.

“You’re overwrought. Let me take you home.”

“No!” She pulled from his grasp. Again she tried to clean up the broken porcelain.

He looked at her, frustration darkening his eyes. “Quit being a pig-headed child, Lissa. Do you hear?”

“I hear,” she answered. “But you more than anyone know what a pig-headed child I am, and I told you that I
would pay for George’s education. I’ll not be indebted to you, and I meant it, every word. If Mrs. Lofts tells me to dust, then I shall dust.” How could she have tried to slap Mrs. Lofts? The very thought made her shrink back in horror. Yet worse, how could she have let Ivan see that? She brushed a tear from her cheek. Then she swore to kill herself before she’d let him see her cry.

“You want to earn your pay, baggage?” He again pulled her to her feet. “Then I’ll see that you do. From now on you’ll report to me and only me. I’ll keep you well occupied.”

Her eyes opened wide. “No doubt you will. But we had an agreement.”

“That you should get such delicate treatment from me!” He pulled her over to the dining table. He grabbed a klismos-shaped dining chair, sat, and stretched out his long legs. Without even looking at her, he said, “Remove my boots, wench.”

She gasped, completely taken aback.

“I said, get down on your knees, Lissa, and remove my boots.”

“You,”
she spat, “are a monster.”

He laughed and said mockingly, “No, not me! You jest, Your Highness!”

Now both her cheeks were equally red. Refusing to continue this inane conversation, she meant to turn and walk away. But this was hard to do when he held two fistfuls of her black silk skirt.

“Come back here, servant. You want to play peasant and king, so be it.” A smile tipped one corner of his lips. “Take off my boots.”

He had pulled her so close that she could feel his breath on her face. She gave him a most glittering stare and they stayed there for several moments, locked in a silent battle of wills.

Second by second, he seemed to move closer. She knew if she just closed her eyes, they would meet in a kiss
—a kiss that she secretly longed for, indeed bitterly ached for. Yet she couldn’t let it happen. If she did, she might never be able to stop. She was truly Rebecca Alcester’s daughter, for the path to wantonness seemed to beckon her at every turn. Her fear alone that she would reach the same end as her mother if she didn’t keep this ravenous desire well leashed, was enough to make her pull back.

Anguish covered her face. She felt as if a bandage had just been ripped off a festering wound. Without a word, she knelt and silently pulled at one of his muddy boots. She felt Ivan’s hand stroke her hair, but his touch only made her tense. His hand fell idle and she forced all her concentration on the task before her.

The boot was tight and it took several hard pulls to get it off. When she did get it off, she did it so forcibly that she ended up on her backside. She met Ivan’s eyes; if stares could maim, he would most definitely never sire children.

She went for his other boot. As she knelt again their gazes locked; his desire and mirth met her cold disdain. She pulled on his boot and once more landed on her backside. It was all she could do not to squeal in fury when she saw his smile. And how she loathed him, especially when he picked up one of his muddied boots and promptly put it back on.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“How can I escort you home in my stocking feet?” His very glance taunted her.

“You’ll escort me to hell first!” Suddenly she couldn’t take any more of his tyranny. He was worse than the despotic sixteenth-century Russian tsar who bore his same name. He was Ivan the Terrible incarnate. She stormed from the room, vowing not to look back. He followed behind her, tripping and laughing while he tried to put on his other boot.

It took a long time for Lissa to sleep that night. After Ivan escorted her back to Violet Croft, she stumbled up to bed, exhausted. But soon she was tossing beneath her comforter, unable to forget the events of the evening. Her cheek still hurt, yet more painful was the reminder of how she had lost her temper. She’d acted like the spoiled daughter of the manor, and it was hard to forgive herself.

Rolling onto her back, she wondered what foul mood Mrs. Lofts would be in tomorrow. Things were bound to be bad when she arrived at Powerscourt in the morning. How she dreaded going there—yet what alternative did she have?

In the shadowy corner of her room, her gaze found the large box that held the magnificent rose satin gown. How much could she get for it? More than one hundred pounds? perhaps with the snood, she might.

She settled once more beneath the quilts. That was the answer: to part with the dress. The thought relieved and saddened her at the same time. The dress and the snood were the most beautiful things she had ever owned, including the lovely attire she had had as a girl. Having been deprived of such finery, she longed for it even more. Aunt Sophie had been kind to give them the gowns. The dresses were hopelessly impractical, but perhaps in her old, eccentric mind, Sophie had thought they might bring her impoverished great-nieces husbands, or at least admirers.

Lissa smiled softly as she pictured herself and Evvie in London at some posh ball, surrounded by a dozen young men as they each begged to refill their glasses or sign their dance cards. Her daydream became a bit more detailed, and she found herself dancing the night away in the arms of one darkly handsome man. He was a head taller than
she, and when he whispered some endearment, she was forced to tip her head back to look at him.