The Lady’s Secret (16 page)

“He was tall,” she told Harland. “Dark.”

“Tall and dark?” He grinned. “What else?”

“Handsome,” she said, defiant now. “Dashing.”

A smile spread slowly over Harland’s face. “How handsome?”

“Very,” she retorted. “He was the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.” Now
that
was a bouncer.

“Was? Do I take it he is no longer around?”

Damn. Typical of Harland to pounce on that. She thought quickly about how to respond and decided to plump for a worldly lack of concern.

“He moved on,” she said, and shrugged. “People do sometimes.”

Harland tilted his head slightly and stared at her for a long uncomfortable moment. It was a struggle to keep her careless expression in place in the face of that scrutiny, but eventually he let his gaze drift away again, his eyes moving to look at what lay outside the window.

“Yes,” he said. “They do rather, don’t they?”

It was dark by the time they arrived at Camberley, dark as only the countryside could be. The sky was full of snow-filled clouds and not so much as a single star twinkled.

The great house sprawled at the end of the drive, with only a couple of windows on the ground floor illuminated. Nathan jumped out as soon as the carriage halted, just as the main door opened and a broad, middle-aged woman emerged, holding a candle.

“Mrs. Lowe,” Nathan said, smiling. “Merry Christmas to you!”

She smiled back. “And to you, my lord.”

He glanced behind him.

“Mr. Fellowes, step this way, if you please.”

Georgy followed him up the steps and bowed respectfully to the housekeeper.

“This is Mr. Fellowes, Mrs. Lowe, my new valet. He can sleep in my dressing room.”

Mrs. Lowe, usually the most discreet of servants, wasn’t quite quick enough to conceal her surprise. Jarvis had never slept in Nathan’s apartments. He had his own room, probably one of the best servants’ rooms, Nathan supposed. Mrs. Lowe’s eyes widened and her gaze shot from Nathan to Georgy before she managed to mask her reaction. Georgy looked mortified by Mrs. Lowe’s response and he suppressed his smile as he stepped inside the house, the two women following him.

“When would you wish to dine this evening, my lord?” Mrs. Lowe asked, her habitual expression back in place.

He checked his watch.

“It’s almost five o’clock. Hmm. I don’t think I’ll dine formally tonight, Mrs. Lowe. Just a light supper in the library at seven or so. In fact, Mr. Fellowes can join me. He’ll have unpacking to do, so he won’t be able to eat before them. Thank you.”

This time, despite the unusual request, Mrs. Lowe didn’t miss a beat.

“Of course, your lordship. Would you like me to have a bath brought up for you just now?”

He was about to shake his head when he glanced at Georgy. She looked rumpled and tired and cold.

“Yes, please. John and Arthur will be unloading the carriages. Have one of the footmen bring the valises up directly. There are some crates too, but put those anywhere for now. I will speak to you tomorrow about where the contents are to go.”

“Very good, my lord.” The housekeeper curtseyed.

“Follow me, Fellowes,” he said, heading for the stairs.

His bedchamber had been made ready and a fire burned merrily in the grate. He ushered Georgy inside and shut the door behind them with a soft click. When he turned around, he saw that she looked wary, a little angry even.

“What do you mean by having me sleep up here?” she hissed.

Without speaking, he crossed the room to the dressing room door and opened it, standing to one side and gesturing her in with one outspread arm. The dressing room was at least three times the size of the dressing room she had slept in at Dunsmore Manor and there was a proper bed in it—small, but better than the truckle bed. Georgy scowled and walked forward to peer inside. He watched her face with interest, detecting a glimmer of relief.

His decision to force her to sleep here had been deliberate. He wanted to keep her close and off balance. “I’m afraid I don’t trust you enough to have you sleeping in the servants’ quarters,” he said in a clipped way. “But you should find this more comfortable than your last bed.”

She turned her head and stared at him. She looked collected now, her clear gaze as impenetrable as a mirror again. “Why are you doing this?” Her voice was quiet. “This is not about you keeping me till you find another valet, is it?”

He hesitated, swithering over whether to deny it. It would be pointless to do so, since she’d plainly divined that much for herself.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

At last, he said, impulsively, “To know you.”

Damn. Too much truth there. He grinned to hide it, turning his lapse into mockery.

Her eyes. She looked so calm, yet he could sense the ripples of disquiet in those placid depths.

“To know me,” she repeated. “What does that mean?”

He wasn’t used to being cross-examined by servants—by anyone—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer her question. Even to himself. He decided to flirt with her, since he’d noticed on the carriage journey that it made her uncomfortable and stopped her seeing through him so easily. He sent her one of his slow smiles.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

She didn’t get flustered this time.

“That’s what I’m asking.
Am
I to draw the obvious conclusion here?”

He had meant it as a rhetorical question. He had imagined her blushing and turning away.

“What is the obvious conclusion?” he hedged.

Her mouth thinned. “I am becoming tired of this dance,” she said. “You know what I am asking. Do you intend to attempt to seduce me?”

Oh yes.

“Do you want me to?”

“Why do you keep turning the question back to me?” She narrowed her clear gaze on him in a way that made him feel strangely uncomfortable. She was shrewd. In a game of wits with her he would have no guarantee of success. It was a thought that made him smile.

“Because I don’t know
what
I intend,” he said at last, his honesty getting the better of him.

She looked surprised at that, falling silent. So at last he’d flummoxed her—and with the truth, no less.

“Do I want to seduce you?” he continued. “Yes, I do. You have an unusual beauty that appeals to me. Will I seduce you? I don’t know. I think it depends on whether you want to be seduced. I am not interested in unwilling conquests.”

He was rewarded for his honesty with a deep blush that scorched her pale cheeks. He wondered if they would feel as hot as they looked.

“Do you want me to seduce you?” he asked, curious. “I would be delighted to do so. Even if you do not, I daresay I shall still take a few minor liberties as I try to persuade you, but I shall not force you to anything, Georgy.”

She did not answer his question. “So this is not really about you retaining my services as a valet, then.”

“No,” he admitted easily. “Truthfully, I can’t see you as a servant now. Though I will still ask you to help me shave and tie my cravats while you are here, as I don’t have anyone else here to do that.”

“You said you’d let me leave when we got back to London.”

“And I will.”

“And when will that be?”

He paused. “Soon. I promise I won’t keep you here for more than a few days.”

She looked troubled but she said nothing. Her heavy fringe fell over her eyes in that bewitching way he’d become so familiar with. She tossed it out the way with a little flick of her head.

“Was your hair short before you came to work for me?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“Until the day before I met you, it was down to here.” She gestured to the indentation of her waist with one hand.

“I wish I could have seen it like that,” he said. “You have gorgeous hair. Like none I’ve ever seen before, except perhaps on a child, it’s so fair.” He closed the distance between them and reached out to take a lock, letting it slip between fingers and thumb in its silky slippery way, admiring the play of the candlelight on its pale metallic colour. “You see?” he said, catching her troubled gaze. “Liberties.”

She didn’t pull away.

He was so close that he heard the faint rasp of her indrawn breath, saw the slight movement of her chest as she inhaled. He stared down into her face, and her eyes reflected curiosity and fear, a strangely heady mix. He let his fingers move to her face, tenderly tracing one pale eyebrow with his thumb. Those pale crescents were just a shade darker than her hair, slivers of moonlight above her ice-pond eyes.
What a startling face
, he thought. A winter face, pale as snow. The one bit of colour was the light pink of her lips, lips that parted softly as his thumb came to a rest at her temple.

He wanted her more than he could have thought possible. What was it about her? Her provocative looks, certainly, but not merely that. Maybe something about her that was—what? Free? Yes, that was it. She was not bound to anything, or anyone. She followed a path of her own choosing, the rules be damned.

He realised he wanted to be one of her choices.

God! He had brought her here to send her off-balance and coax her secrets from her, and look at him! Practically on his knees before her. He stared at her for long moments and thought about dipping his head to kiss her, but then a knock sounded on the door. She dropped her gaze and stepped away from him, going to the door to let in the footmen who had brought up the valises.

Nathan sat down to watch as she directed them around. She slipped back into her valet persona easily, something subtly different about her posture, the way she moved.

People see what they expect to see.

Once the footmen had gone, she stepped towards the pile of luggage.

“What are you doing?”

“I am going to unpack.”

“Don’t. You are tired. Wouldn’t you prefer to lie down?”

She looked puzzled. “But my lord—”

“Nathan.”

“What?”

“Call me Nathan. Go on, say it. I want to hear you say my name.”

She laughed, uncertainly.

“It’s too strange. It’s not how I think of you.”

He cocked his head to the side, curious.

“How do you think of me?”

She stared at him for a moment.

“If I think of you at all, it is as Harland.”

Nathan frowned.
If I think of you at all?

“That is not my name, it is my title. It is not what I would have you call me.” When she said nothing, he said it again, more firmly. “Say it. Say Nathan.”

She shrugged, her eyes going to the window again. “All right. Nathan.”

“Look at me.”

She obeyed, watching him warily. “Nathan,” she said again, more slowly.

He held her troubled gaze until at last she looked away, flushing.

“Short for Nathaniel?” she asked.

He even liked the sound of that little-used longer name, the way the syllables rolled off her lips. “Yes.”

Another knock came then, disturbing the strange spell between them. The footmen again, with the bath this time. Nathan sent them into the dressing room with it and over the next few minutes they returned several times with kettles of water. When it was done and they were gone, Nathan walked to the dressing room door and waved Georgy in.

“Your bath awaits,” he said. “You need not worry about interruptions. I only take very small liberties.”

She stared at him in surprise for a moment.

“For me?” she said.

“For you.”

She moved then, going into the dressing room and staring down into the steaming tub. He closed the door on her silent back. Half a minute later the door opened again and her tousled head emerged.

“Thank you,” she said. Merely that, and then the door clicked shut again.

The library at Camberley was Nathan’s favourite room. He often dined here when he was alone. As well as the desk he used for estate business, there was a round table he used for meetings with his steward and tenant farmers. It was useful too for small informal dinners.

Georgy sat at the table, fidgeting with her white napkin. Although he had asked for a simple supper, when the food arrived, it was plain that Mrs. Lowe had arranged to serve a full dinner, albeit one that she would consider paltry by her usual standards. Two footmen were needed to bring the food in, each bearing a large tray. They entered wearing identical wooden expressions and began to array the dishes on the table.

Georgy rose and began to assist them. Nathan almost stopped her until he realised that would be a gaffe.

“Sit down,” he said, once the footmen had removed themselves.

She gave him an odd look. “I may as well serve up.” She reached for a salver.

“I said sit down, there’s a good chap.”

She raised her brows but did as she was told, watching as he stepped forward and lifted the lids from the dishes, sniffing appreciatively at the scents that rose up with the steam. He glanced at Georgy, who was also peering at the contents of the dishes with keen interest, and smiled. Most of the ladies of his own class considered it
gauche
to show interest in their dinner.

A roasted chicken, already carved, occupied the largest dish. It was smothered in a rich gravy and surrounded by sage dumplings. Another dish held potatoes roasted in goose fat, another parsnip gratin. An apple pudding sent up a heavenly aroma.

Nathan lifted a plate and began to serve.

“Since there are only the two of us,” he said, “I will do the honours.”

She frowned, not liking this.

“Have you ever been served dinner by an earl?”

“No,” she said. Then added dryly, “It is a great honour.”
 

Nathan added one last dumpling to her plate as a reward for her cheek, and placed her dinner before her. “Ah, well, we must make the most of this momentous occasion, then. Allow me to pour you a glass of wine.”

He lifted the decanter at his left hand and trickled wine into her glass. He watched as she raised the glass to examine its contents.

“I’ve not drunk much wine before,” she said, peering inside.

“Try it. That’s a lovely one. I bought several cases a few years ago, and it’s just coming into its own.”

She frowned and took a tiny sip. “Oh!” she said, eyes widening.

“Do you like it?”

She didn’t answer immediately but took another mouthful, a bigger one this time. “It has so
much
flavour,” she said at last. “It’s dark and—bright, all at once. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” He smiled, pleased but not entirely surprised by her acuity. He’d come to value her opinion in matters of taste. She had an instinctive appreciation for good, well-made things. He was looking forward to showing her the orrery. What would she make of it? He felt sure she’d be as excited about it as he was.

He served himself and while they ate, he quizzed her about what she thought of the flavour of the wine. Fruit, but not fruit, she said. Spice. Then he tutored her—how to swirl it and watch the speed of its descent against the side of the glass, how to hold it to the light and check its clarity, how to smell it, to inhale its bouquet before even taking a sip, how to roll it over her tongue to get every little nuance of its character. She listened intently, copying his movements, peering into the depths of her glass, scenting and sipping with a concentrated expression he found charming. She was clever and curious and he loved watching comprehension bloom on her expressive face. He poured her another glass, then another.

The wine loosened her inhibitions. She began to chat freely, her usual effort at maintaining the master-servant relationship abandoned. After the meal, they pushed the plates aside and lounged in their chairs.

“I remember watching my mother and father drinking wine together, when I was small,” she said in a dreamy way. Nathan’s ears pricked up. He had been finding it difficult to get a sense of her origins. She didn’t speak in the cut-glass tones of the women of his own class, nor did she have any regional aspect to her accent. Not that he recognised anyway. Her voice was pleasing—very pleasing—but neutral. Her movements gave no clues either. She was brisk and capable in the way of women who worked, yet graceful, with an elegant, upright posture one simply didn’t see in women of the serving classes who were trained not to draw attention to themselves. This casual reference to parents—parents who drank wine, certainly no workingman’s inclination—drew his attention.

“We’d sneak downstairs, my brother and I, after they put us to bed at night. They’d be in the drawing room, sitting together—maybe Mama would be on Papa’s lap.” She laughed softly. “And they’d be sipping wine. I always thought they looked—oh, impossibly elegant!” Her eyes had gone wistful as she spoke, but then she seemed to come back to herself and fell silent, her gaze directed into her empty glass.

“Are they still alive, your parents?”

She shook her head. “My father died when I was still quite small, my mother a few years ago.”

She looked sad and he wished, surprising himself, that he could touch her, merely to give her comfort.

Instead, he said, “It’s hard to lose a parent, especially when you’re so young.” When she said nothing in response, he asked, “What are your favourite memories of them?”

She smiled then, though it was still a sad sort of smile.

“Christmas,” she said. “It was lovely because we always saw a lot of Papa. Although we lived in the heart of London, Papa always brought a great pile of greenery to decorate the house with—holly and mistletoe and ivy. He probably got it at one of the markets but he used to tell me he’d gone into a deep dark forest for it, and, of course, I believed him.” Her eyes warmed at the memory. “He hung the mistletoe in the hallway, so that any guests were caught under it. Though mostly it was him and Mama I saw under there.”

Nathan smiled at the picture she painted, even as his mind picked over the information she’d divulged.

“If he saw me watching them, Papa would grab me and swing me up and say ‘A three-of-us-kiss then, Georgy.’ And we’d all put our lips together, going—
Mmmmm
.” She closed her eyes and made her mouth into a pout, demonstrating the kiss.

She was very tempting to him in that moment, and more than that. Endearing.

“They sound like lovely parents.”

“They were. Affectionate and loving. Indulgent. Not in the least bit strict. And Christmas was such fun. They’d take us skating on the Serpentine and then afterwards we’d buy chestnuts and roast them over the fire at home. Papa would peel them and we’d eat them together. There always seemed to be people coming round to wish us a Merry Christmas and play games and drink hot cider and sing round the pianoforte.” She broke off, a little breathless. “Goodness, listen to me! I’m rabbiting on and on about myself. How dull for you.” Her eyes darted away from his. She was worried she was giving too much away, he realised. And she was, becoming positively loquacious, describing a life that was surprisingly well-to-do.

“On the contrary—it’s fascinating. It sounds so different from my own Christmases.”

“How so?”

Her relief at turning the conversation to his life was palpable.

“It wasn’t that Christmas was awful,” he began. “More that it was a time for duty and alms giving, that sort of thing. My father was very aware of his position. My mother and sister would deliver baskets round the village and we would go to all the church services. And on Christmas Day, the most important families in the county would come for dinner. It wasn’t so much of a family occasion for us. We didn’t have mistletoe or chestnuts. Or party games—good Lord, the thought of my father playing a party game!” He laughed out loud at the thought, then glanced at Georgy and caught a look of pity on her face. “It wasn’t bad,” he added. “It just wasn’t so much fun as your Christmases, I expect. My father felt that Christmas was a time for charity, a time to remind us children how fortunate we were and what our duties were to the less fortunate.”

Good God, he thought—he sounded as priggish as his father now!

“He sounds as though he was very moral,” Georgy said, a hint of doubt in her voice. “A very good sort of man.” That note of doubt bothered him though, and Nathan found himself searching his memory for something more, something better. Suddenly it struck him, an old and powerful memory.

“Of course, when I was very small, the mummers used to come,” he said, a smile beginning to grow.

“The mummers? Actors, you mean?”

“Sort of. They were gypsies really. The only year I really remember was when I was five years old. They did a very strange play—about St. George and the Dragon, although there was also a part that was about the Battle of Bunker Hill.” He laughed, raking his memory for more. “It was very chaotic. Lots of pretend fighting and very old songs. And all the parts played by men.” She was smiling now, her lips parted, eyes dancing, enjoying his story. He searched for more. “Oh—and there was the Lord of Misrule!”

“The Lord of Misrule?”

“All the villagers used to come up to Camberley to watch the play. The mummers would pick out a boy to be the Lord of Misrule and that year it was Abel Jackson—he’s the blacksmith in the village now, but back then he would have been about eight. The mummers carried him over to my father’s chair on their shoulders. My father was turfed out of his chair—that was the tradition—and Abel took his place. My poor father was the butt of every joke and then afterwards he had to serve out the wassail punch to everyone.”

“Did he take it in good part?”

“Actually, yes.” Even to his own ears he sounded surprised. Strangely, his recollection of his father that day was of him laughing uproariously, a memory that didn’t fit at all with his image of his stiff-rumped parent. It made him feel oddly wistful.

“That was the last year they came, though. I’m not sure why—” Nathan broke off. Quite suddenly it came to him. The next year was the year Charlie had died. It had happened in the summer and his parents had gone into a state of inconsolable grief. He himself had been sent off to school.

That Christmas, the mummers hadn’t come. Nor any other Christmas after that.

“Nathan?”

Georgy was looking at him questioningly. Strangely, he wanted to tell her, wanted to share the unexpected shaft of understanding that he’d just experienced.

“I just remembered that the next year was the first Christmas after my brother died.”

“How old was he?” she asked, eyes softening with sympathy.

“Twelve. I was eight.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Vividly. My mother was devastated.” He didn’t intend to say another word but when he glanced at her and saw how intently she watched him, somehow he found himself going on. “On the third or fourth day after it happened, I put some of his clothes on, then went to see her in her bedchamber. I thought—in my childishness—it would help. That I could be him for her.”

The sympathy in her eyes was unbearable. He looked away.

“It didn’t?”

“No. She told me I’d never be able to replace him, then she practically tore the clothes off me and called for my nurse to take me out of her sight.”

She looked horrified and touched his hand. “I’m sure she didn’t know what she was doing. She’d have been grief-stricken.”

“I know,” he said, although he wasn’t sure he believed any such thing. “It turned out, you see, that the clothes were to be his burial clothes. She’d laid them out for him and I’d gone into his chamber and found them.”

“Oh Nathan—” she said, her voice sorrowful. Her hand rested over his, light and warm. Comforting. A lump formed in his throat and he fought hard to bring himself under control. He hadn’t consciously thought of the dark days after Charlie’s death for years and suddenly he wished very much that he hadn’t confided those childhood memories. He couldn’t imagine what sudden madness had made him decide to do so.

Seeking diversion, he glanced at the window behind Georgy’s head.

“Look, it’s snowing,” he said in a purposeful voice. “I thought it would.”

She stared at him for a long moment before she turned in her chair, then rose from the table, going to the window. Nathan followed, coming to a halt behind her. Unthinkingly, he raised his hands, ready to cup her shoulders and draw her against him. He checked the impulse, dropping his hands to his sides again, hoping she hadn’t noticed his movements in their reflection.

It seemed she had not. She was watching the snow, drawing forward to lay her fingertips against the cold glass, her breath steaming a foggy circle on it. Nathan’s gaze shifted between the churning blizzard and her mesmerised reflection.

“Do you think it will lie?” she murmured.

“I’m sure it will. It looks as though there’s an inch already and who knows how long the blizzard will last.”

“First footprints tomorrow, then.”

“First footprints?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “My brother and I used to vie to be the first one to step into the snow on our steps. You know how it is in London. The snow gets dirty and turns to slush in the blink of an eye. If it snowed overnight, the street snow would already be grubby by the time we got up in the morning but our own front steps were usually still pristine.”

She grew up in London.

“So who got there first usually?”

“Harry, most of the time.”
Harry. H.
She laughed, quiet but uninhibited. Her jagged edges had been smoothed away by the wine. “But I’m bound to get some first footprints tomorrow. There’ll be acres of virgin snow out there.”

He couldn’t think of any other woman in his acquaintance who would regard going out in snow as at all desirable.

“First footprints tomorrow,” he agreed, looking into her eyes and smiling. It started as the sort of smile he always used on women, a practised thing that almost felt spontaneous now, he’d been doing it so long.

But when she smiled back at him, unguarded in that moment, he suddenly felt his own smile become real. He felt it touch his eyes. It felt irrepressible, a thing he couldn’t put away now that it was out. He searched her face, hardly knowing what he looked for. It was only when she stepped away from him, a hasty step back, that his smile faltered.