Yours Until Dawn (3 page)

Beckwith had insisted that his master had once been “a prince among men.” Gazing about her at the overblown opulence, Samantha sniffed. Perhaps it wasn’t so difficult to claim such a title when one was raised in a palace.

Determined to locate her new charge, she decided to employ one of the tools in his own arsenal. Cocking her head to the side, she grew very still and listened.

She didn’t hear any crashing or shouting, but she did hear the musical clinking of dishes and glassware. A sound that grew distinctly less musical when an explosion of shattering glass was followed by a savage oath. Although Samantha winced, a triumphant smile touched her lips.

Gathering her skirts, she sailed through the breakfast parlor where her interview had been conducted and out the opposite door, following the noise. As she strode through one deserted chamber after another, she was forced to veer around several signs of the earl’s passing. Her sturdy half-boots crunched over broken porcelain and splintered wood. As she paused to gently right a delicate Chippendale chair, the cracked china face of a Meissen figurine laughed up at her.

The destruction wasn’t surprising given Gabriel’s penchant for charging recklessly through the house with no regard for his lack of sight.

She passed beneath a graceful arch. The dining room’s lack of windows denied the cavernous chamber even a hint of daylight. If not for the branches of candles blazing at each end of the majestic table, Samantha might have feared she’d wandered into the family crypt.

A pair of footmen in navy livery guarded the mahogany sideboard, standing at rigid attention beneath Beckwith’s watchful eye. None of them seemed to notice Samantha standing in the doorway. They were too preoccupied with scrutinizing every move their master made. As the earl’s elbow nudged a crystal goblet toward the edge of the table, Beckwith made a discreet signal. One of the footmen rushed forward, catching the teetering goblet before it could fall. Shards of china and glass littered the floor around the table, evidence of their earlier failures.

Samantha studied Gabriel’s broad shoulders and muscled forearms, struck anew by what an imposing man he was. He could probably snap her delicate neck between thumb and forefinger. If he could find her, that is.

His hair gleamed in the candlelight, its wild tangle combed by nothing more than impatient fingers since he’d rolled out of bed that morning. He wore the same rumpled shirt he’d worn the night before, but now it was spotted with grease and smeared with chocolate. He’d unceremoniously shoved the sleeves up to his elbows, sparing the ruffled cuffs from being dragged through his plate.

He brought a rasher of bacon to his mouth, tearing off a hunk of the tender meat with his teeth, then groped at the plate in front of him. Samantha frowned at the table. There wasn’t a piece of cutlery in sight. Which might explain why Gabriel was scooping shirred eggs out of a porcelain ramekin with his cupped hand and doling them into his mouth. He polished off the eggs, then tucked a steaming crossbun into his mouth. He swept his tongue around his lips, but still managed to miss the dollop of honey at the corner of his mouth.

Although she felt like the worst sort of spy, Samantha couldn’t tear her gaze away from that single golden drop of honey. Despite his appalling lack of table manners, there was something unabashedly sensual in the way he ate, in his raw determination to appease his appetites, convention be damned. As he plucked up a fresh chop and began to gnaw the meat directly from the bone, juice trickled down his chin. He looked like some sort of ancient warrior fresh from routing his enemies and ravishing their women. Samantha half expected him to wave the bone at her and bellow, “More ale, wench!”

He suddenly froze and sniffed at the air, his expression feral. Samantha flared her own nostrils, but all she could smell was the mouthwatering aroma of bacon.

Lowering the chop back to the plate, he said with ominous calm, “Beckwith, you’d best inform me that you’ve just brought in some fresh lemon for my tea.”

As he spotted Samantha, the butler’s eyes widened. “I’m afraid not, my lord. But if you’d like, I’ll go fetch some immediately.”

Gabriel lunged across the table, making a blind grab for the butler, but Beckwith was already disappearing through the opposite door, the tail of his coat flashing behind him.

“Good morning, my lord,” Samantha said smoothly, sliding into a chair across from him, but well out of his reach. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Beckwith. He obviously had more pressing duties.”

Scowling, Gabriel settled back into his chair. “Let’s hope they include forging some letters of reference and packing his bags. Then the two of you can return to London together.”

Ignoring the jibe, Samantha smiled politely at the frozen footmen. With their naturally blushed cheeks, freckled noses, and tousled brown curls, neither of them looked to be much older than sixteen. On closer examination, she realized they were not just brothers, but twins. “I’m famished this morning,” she said. “Might I have some breakfast?”

Even without his sight, Gabriel must have sensed their hesitation. After all, it was hardly
de rigueur
for a servant to dine at his master’s table.

“Serve the lady, you fools!” he barked. “It wouldn’t be very hospitable to send Miss Wickersham on her journey with an empty stomach.”

The footmen scrambled to do his bidding, nearly knocking heads as they whisked a china plate and silverware in front of Samantha and filled a tray from the sideboard. Offering one of them a comforting smile over her shoulder, she accepted a ramekin of eggs, a crossbun, and several rashers of bacon. She had a feeling she was going to need all of her strength.

As the other footman poured her a cup of steaming tea, she told Gabriel, “I spent last night getting settled into my room. I didn’t think you’d mind if I waited until morning to begin my duties.”

“You don’t have any duties,” he replied, raising the chop back to his lips. “You’re dismissed.”

She smoothed a linen napkin across her lap and took a dainty sip of the steaming tea. “I’m afraid you don’t have the authority to dismiss me. I don’t work for you.”

Gabriel lowered the chop, his gilt-dusted eyebrows forming a thunderous cloud over the bridge of his nose. “Pardon me? My hearing must be going as well.”

“It seems that your devoted Mr. Beckwith hired me on the instructions of your father. That would make the marquess of Thornwood, one Theodore Fairchild, my employer. Until he informs me that my services as your nurse are no longer required, I shall endeavor to perform my duties to
his
satisfaction, not yours.”

“Well, that’s fortunate for you, isn’t it? Since the only thing that would satisfy me is your imminent departure.”

Using knife and fork, Samantha sawed a tender bit of bacon off a rasher. “Then I fear you are doomed to remain unsatisfied.”

“I realized that the moment I heard your voice,” he muttered.

Refusing to dignify the provocative insult with a retort, she tucked the bacon between her lips.

Bracing both elbows on the table, he let out a gusty sigh. “So tell me, Miss Wickersham, as my new nurse, which duty would you like to assume first? Would you like to feed me, perhaps?”

Eyeing the wolfish white flash of his teeth as they tore another hunk of meat off the chop, Samantha said, “Given your…um…
unbridled enthusiasm
for your victuals, I’d be a little worried about getting my fingers that close to your mouth.”

One of the footmen suffered a sudden coughing fit, earning an elbow in the ribs from his scowling brother.

Gabriel sucked the last of the meat from the chop and tossed the bone to the table, missing his plate entirely. “Am I to surmise that you find my table manners lacking?”

“I just never realized that blindness precluded the use of napkins and cutlery. You might do just as well eating with your feet.”

Gabriel went very still. The taut skin around his scar blanched, making the devil’s mark look even more forbidding. In that moment, Samantha was rather glad he didn’t have a knife.

Draping one long arm over the back of the chair next to him, he angled his entire body toward the sound of her voice. Although she knew he couldn’t see her, his focus was so intent Samantha still had to fight the urge to squirm. “I must confess that you intrigue me, Miss Wickersham. Your tones are cultured, but I can’t quite identify your accent. Were you raised in the city?”

“Chelsea,” she offered, doubting he’d had much occasion to frequent the modest borough on the north side of London. She took an overly generous gulp of the tea, burning her tongue.

“I’m quite curious to know how a woman of your, um…
character
came to seek such a post. What was it that drove you to answer such a calling? Was it Christian charity? An overwhelming desire to help your fellow man? Or perhaps your tender compassion for the infirm?”

Carving a spoonful of egg out of its china cup, Samantha said crisply, “I provided Mr. Beckwith with several letters of reference. I’m sure you’ll find them in order.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Gabriel replied, his voice gently mocking, “I wasn’t able to read those. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to their contents.”

She laid aside her spoon. “As I informed Mr. Beckwith, I served as governess for Lord and Lady Carstairs for nearly two years.”

“I know of the family.”

Samantha tensed. He might know
of
them, but did he
know
them? “After the hostilities with the French resumed, I read in
The Times
how so many of our noble soldiers and sailors were suffering from lack of care. So I decided to offer my services to a local hospital.”

“I still don’t understand why you’d trade spooning pabulum into the mouths of babes for dressing bloody wounds and holding the hands of men half out of their minds with pain.”

Samantha struggled to purge the passion from her voice. “Those men were willing to sacrifice everything for king and country. How could I not offer a small sacrifice of my own?”

He snorted. “The only thing they sacrificed was their good judgment and common sense. They sold them to the Royal Navy for a starched bolt of blue broadcloth and a shiny bit of gold braid on their shoulders.”

She frowned, appalled by his cynicism. “How can you say such a cruel thing? Why, the king himself lauded you for your own valor!”

“That shouldn’t surprise you. The Crown has a long history of rewarding dreamers and fools.”

Forgetting that he couldn’t see her, Samantha rose halfway out of her chair. “Not fools! Heroes! Heroes like your very own commander— Admiral Lord Nelson himself!”

“Nelson is dead,” he said flatly. “I can’t say if that makes him any more of a hero or less of a fool.”

Defeated for the moment, she sank back into her chair.

Gabriel rose, using the backs of the chairs to feel his way around the table. As his powerful hands closed around the carved finials of her own chair, it was all Samantha could do not to bolt. Instead, she stared straight ahead, each shallow breath audible to her own ears as well as his.

He leaned down so far his lips came dangerously close to brushing the top of her head. “I’m sure your devotion to your calling is sincere, Miss Wickersham. But as far as I’m concerned, until you come to your senses and resign your post here, you have only one duty.” He spoke softly, each word more damning than a shout. “To stay the bloody hell out of my way.”

He left her with that warning, brushing past the footman who scrambled forward to offer his arm. Although she supposed it shouldn’t surprise her that he would choose to blunder his way through the dark rather than accept a helping hand, she still flinched when a loud crash resounded from somewhere in the house.

Samantha was left with nothing to do with her morning but wander the darkened chambers of Fairchild Park. The hush was nearly as oppressive as the gloom. There was none of the efficient bustle one might expect from a thriving Buckinghamshire country house. There were no chambermaids briskly running feather dusters over the banisters and wainscoting, no red-faced laundry maids trudging up the stairs with baskets of fresh linen, no footmen bearing armloads of firewood to stoke the fireplaces. Every hearth she passed was cold and dark, its embers crumbled to ash. Carved cherubs gazed at her dole fully from ornate marble chimneypieces, their plump cheeks smudged with soot.

The handful of servants she encountered seemed to be creeping about with no particular task in mind. Upon spotting her, they would melt back into the shadows, their voices never raised above a whisper. None of them seemed to be in any rush to fetch a broom to sweep up the splintered furniture and broken shards of porcelain that littered the floors.

Samantha swept open a pair of double doors at the end of a shadow-draped gallery. Marble stairs spilled down into a vast ballroom. She had allowed herself little enough time for whimsy during the dark winter months, but for just a heartbeat she couldn’t resist closing her eyes. She imagined the room awash in a swirl of colors and music and merry chatter, imagined herself being swept around the gleaming floor in a man’s strong arms. She could see him smiling down at her, see herself laughing up at him as she reached to tweak the gold braid adorning his broad shoulders.

Samantha’s eyes flew open. Shaking her head at her folly, she slammed the ballroom doors. This was the earl’s fault. If he would allow her to perform her duties as she was hired to do, she might be able to keep her treacherous imagination in check.