A Return of Devotion Page 7

  She’d already opened the door enough for her to squeeze through it, so she slid into the room and quickly retrieved what she needed. Despite the fact that she hated causing anyone distress or pain, she closed the door behind her, sending another grating noise straight to his lordship’s pounding head and making him moan again.

  “I’m sorry,” she said gently before nudging him back toward the kitchen.

  He lowered himself carefully to the stool, then folded his arms along the top of the table and dropped his head down on them. Dark blond hair fell in messy waves about his head, curling at the ends as it stuck up in various directions. That was slightly different than Benedict. Her son’s hair was completely straight, even when it was in need of a cut.

  Daphne set the lantern on the table and pushed her son out of her mind, along with everything else other than the task at hand. With all immediate threats averted, she was able to focus on taking care of another human being. It was the easiest she’d been able to breathe since he’d arrived. She knew how to do this. After all, she’d been the one to clean scraped knees and kiss smashed fingers. She’d been the one to hug away tantrums and sit up through the night to offer aid and comfort.

  The fact that this was a grown man who could send her life into ruin—again—and not one of her children didn’t change what needed to be done.

  She bustled about the room, stoking the banked fire and setting the kettle on to heat, then dipping a rag in the bucket of cool water by the door so she could place the damp cloth across the back of his neck before preparing the medicinal treatments.

  A bit of willow bark tea had been used to aid many an aching head in this house, along with a dose of quinine for particularly painful cases. The tea took a while to steep, though, which left her fretting for something more to do, something that would start him on the path to recovery.

  When the children had suffered such pain, she would always hold their heads in her lap and run her hand through their hair.

  That didn’t seem quite appropriate in this instance.

  Thinking about it made her fingers itch to run through his hair, though. Would it feel the same as Benedict’s? Or did William being a handsome man change the way it would feel?

  And he was handsome. She hadn’t been willing to admit that earlier, even to herself, but the dark, quiet night was made for silent confessions. There was a seriousness to his face that drew her. The angles were strong and defined, catching the light of the lantern in interesting ways as he lifted his head and moved the cloth to his forehead.

  His eyes slowly blinked open and met hers, turning the reflected lantern flames into a mesmerizing blue fire. Even in pain, he didn’t seem like the type of man to run away from responsibility, to shirk his duties, to deliberately set out to ruin a woman’s reputation.

  How different would her life be if she’d met such a man on that dance floor all those years ago? Someone who would have swept her away to a quiet country life on a secluded estate. She could have been mistress of a place such as Haven Manor instead of its housekeeper.

  He tilted his head to the side, lifting a brow in inquiry as she stood there, staring at him, falling into the imagination that had caused her so much trouble over the years. The imagination that needed to be safely locked away in the back of her mind. Only once had she let it mingle with reality. That had ended with her fleeing London with her best friend at her side, a ruined reputation at her back.

  Her future had been questionable then. It wasn’t much better now.

  She slid the dose of quinine toward him and busied herself with the tea.

  “This isn’t what I normally use to ease pain,” he mumbled after swallowing the quinine.

  She set the tea in front of him, carefully avoiding any additional eye contact. “Drink this.”

  Obediently, he took a large gulp before setting the mug on the table in front of him and spinning it slowly as he stared into the murky liquid. “What is the real reason you don’t live in the house?”

  “It’s a rather large place for someone to live on their own, isn’t it?” she asked before realizing that he, essentially, lived in it alone. Or he would think he did. Did he consider himself to be alone or did he count his servants? Although at the moment there was only Mr. Morris under the roof.

  “Hmmm.” One hand lifted the mug to his lips again and he took another gulp as his other hand reached for the medicine bottle and rolled it around in his long fingers. “I’m glad you had this.”

  She started to tell him they had the means to handle just about any minor illness or injury, but she clamped her mouth shut at the last moment and simply smiled. It had been a long time since she’d had servants in her life, but she remembered they’d been expected to be silent and unseen. She’d been envious of that sometimes when she’d been forced to attend one social situation or another.

  Despite learning how to do a great deal of manual labor over the past few years, Daphne didn’t really feel like a servant. She had been raised to make polite conversation. The two ideas warred in her mind even as she opened her mouth to speak. “Does your head pain you often?”

  “When I travel. Mostly when I’m sleeping in a new place. Something about the air, I suppose, though getting up and walking around has seemed to ease the pain a great deal tonight.” His voice was quiet. Because of the night or the pain, she didn’t know.

  Once again she wondered if she should slip away and leave him to drink the tea in silence as a proper servant would do. It seemed rude, though. When she was miserable she didn’t want to be alone. She wanted someone to coddle her and tell her she’d feel better soon.

  She couldn’t do that for him, but she could keep him company. If he wanted it. Which she couldn’t really ask him.

  She also couldn’t leave. Now that the fire was more than warm coals she’d have to wait until Jess arrived to start cooking, then return to the cottage to dress properly for the day.

  So she would compromise. She sat on another stool, the one farthest from him on the opposite side of the worktable, and watched the fire crackle. She would be present but silent. If he wanted conversation, he could be the one to start it.

  He didn’t. He simply sat in silence, watching the fire as well.

  Daphne let her mind drift away.

  If she’d married a country squire or a clergyman like she’d always assumed she would, this could be a normal evening. Her and him, sitting before a dying fire as she took care of whatever ailed him.

  Or maybe he would be taking care of her. What if it were her head that was aching? What if her country-bred husband fixed her tea and took the pins from her hair?

  It would be nice to take care of someone who could potentially take care of her in return. Children were wonderful and Daphne loved them dearly, but there was a definite direction of care in that relationship. And while Kit had always been closer than a sister and Jess had become a very dear friend, neither had ever been overly nurturing.

  A sigh escaped her before she remembered she wasn’t alone with her imagination.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She turned to him in automatic response to find his direct gaze pinning her in place. How long had he been watching? Did he wonder what she was thinking? Did he wonder about her at all? Did she want him to? She cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to the lantern. “Is it helping?”

  “Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair and across the back of his neck. “Better than anything I’ve tried before, actually. I’ll turn in now. If I need anything else, I’ll know where to send Morris.”

  “I’ll leave the medicine out for a few days so it’s easy to find.” She was not letting that valet anywhere near her stillroom. It was obvious he didn’t care to be in a house without sufficient staff and cut off from what he probably considered to be the civilized world. He hadn’t spoken a word to anyone when he’d come down to collect his dinner and take it back to his rooms.

  Daphne forced a smile in Lord Chem
sford’s direction as he rose from the stool. Her issues with his valet weren’t his problem. Neither was the fact that she was going to have to stay up in the kitchen and keep an eye on the fire. Those were the types of comments servants didn’t share with the master of the house. “Good night.”

  He nodded, scooped the lantern from the table, and left the kitchen.

  And then she was alone.

  Gentle noises pierced Daphne’s sleep, prodding her back into the real world. She blinked as she lifted her head, the various aches and pains caused by sleeping bent over the kitchen worktable making themselves known with screaming intensity. A groan rumbled up her throat as she stretched before mumbling a greeting in the direction of Jess and Eugenia.

  The young girl bounded over, her dark gold braid swinging behind her, and wrapped her arms around Daphne. “Mama Jess said to let you sleep even though it had to be mighty uncomfortable.”

  Daphne smoothed back a curl that had escaped the girl’s thick braid. “Sometimes comfort isn’t the most important thing.”

  Eugenia nodded, a serious pucker to her mouth, before her expression cleared and she returned to collecting the cooking implements Jess needed to prepare breakfast. “That makes sense. I don’t always like how hot Mama Jess heats the dishwater, but it does make the pots come clean easier.”

  “Exactly.” Daphne smothered a grin as she peeked over at Jess, who was shaking her head as she sliced bread and slid it onto the rack to toast.

  “His lordship is still abed, so he won’t be going for a ride this morning.”

  All three women turned their heads to the kitchen doorway where Mr. Morris stood. Despite the early hour, he had on a perfectly pressed, discreet set of clothing, immaculately groomed hair, and boots so shiny Daphne was sure she could see herself in them from across the room. It was enough to make her very aware that she was in a robe that had nearly worn through at the seams and dull leather boots that hadn’t quite gotten laced correctly the night before.

  “That’s interesting,” Jess said, not slowing her movements. “What would you like us to do with that information?”

  “The stable lad needs to be notified. I’m sure he would have been charged with morning preparations.” The man’s mouth turned down at the corners, his face settling into displeased grooves so easily it was testament to the fact that this was probably his natural state.

  Daphne half rose to deliver the message. She needed to go down to the cottage anyway and the barn was only a bit out of her way. Besides, it would get her out of this room and away from one of the new people in her life whom she still wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

  The cutting look Jess sent her had Daphne plopping her bottom back down on the stool. The frayed edge of Daphne’s robe, peeking out from beneath the pelisse she’d thrown on the night before, was suddenly fascinating. She looped a loose thread around her fingers and hoped it wasn’t obvious she was breaking out in a cold sweat.

  “Reuben is more of a boy-of-all-work than a stable lad, but I’m sure Mr. Pasley would like to know of Lord Chemsford’s change of plans.” Jess pointed her knife at the door that led outside. “The fastest way to the stable is through that door and down the path to the right. Take a left at the fork.”

  The valet straightened his jacket and sniffed, curling his lip into a sneer. Was he actually going to argue with Jess? No one argued with Jess. Well, they might once, but no one argued with her twice because she usually ended the argument by tossing a knife into the woodwork on the other side of the room. Daphne had once seen her slice a feather off a boot at twenty paces. So far she’d never actually thrown a knife at anyone—the boot had been wearer-free at the time of its defeathering—but this morning she looked like she was considering it.

  Daphne couldn’t help feeling a little bit of sympathy for the man. He was certainly accustomed to different working conditions. Still, he didn’t have to be quite so stiff-necked about it.

  She held her breath as he opened his mouth, but all he asked was, “When are the dining times?”

  “I’ll serve his lordship whenever he wishes,” Jess said, not pausing in her food preparations. “The staff eats at half past nine unless Lord Chemsford is in need of something.”

  The man’s upper lip curled even farther as he glanced at Eugenia, who grinned and waved before hauling a bucket of warmed water off to the scullery. “All the staff?”

  “Yes.” Jess dropped her spoon onto the table and braced her hands on the wooden work surface, a bit too close to the knife she’d used on the bread for Daphne’s liking. Jess didn’t pick the knife up, though, simply leaned into the table a bit to better glare at the valet. “All the staff. I’m already having to keep food warm and ready for two different serving times. I’m not adding a third.”

  “But—” Mr. Morris started to protest, clearly affronted at the idea of an upper servant dining with lowly maids and groomsmen. He was actually going to argue with her.

  Daphne tried to shrink into a slightly smaller ball while Eugenia peeped out of the open doorway to the scullery, eyes wide as she took in the scene.

  Jess grabbed the knife and the remainder of the loaf she’d been cutting earlier, despite the fact that she’d already cooked toast. She emphasized every word with a swift slice through the bread. “Not. Doing. It.”

  Daphne bit her lips to keep from smiling. She certainly hadn’t gotten a favorable first impression of the man the day before, but it would seem he’d crossed Jess even more at some point.

  The man swallowed and walked to the door with brisk steps. “I believe I’ll take my message to Mr. Pasley.”

  “Tell him half past nine, would you?” Jess asked with a sickly sweet smile. “And if you could have Lord Chemsford ready to dine by nine, I’ll be able to serve his food at its freshest.”

  The man sneered once more. He was really quite good at creating the ugly expression. “His lordship will be down when he wishes. And if I am not down at the nebulous half past nine you dictated, I expect my meal to be ready after Lord Chemsford’s.”

  Daphne eased around the worktable, making sure there was nothing between Jess and the pockmarked wooden beams across the room. Jess had a great deal of control over her temper, but she let it loose to make a point when it served her. It would go off like a well-aimed gun. If a gun could shoot knives that sliced with precision. Daphne shook her head. That was a terrible analogy.

  Jess shrugged and continued slicing bread. There was apparently going to be a great deal of toast this morning. “Your plate will be on the servants’ dining table at half past nine. When you eat it is up to you.”

  He gave another frown but said nothing else as he wrenched open the door and stomped through it.

  Jess slid the knife back into the block and then tilted her head to look at the mound of sliced bread. “Looks like another evening of bread pudding, then.”

  Before she realized it, Daphne was doubled over laughing. Bright, solid, cleansing laughter. The kind she wasn’t sure she’d indulged in since they’d learned that the owner of their beloved refuge intended to actually claim it for his own. Once she’d caught her breath, she snagged one of the already cooked pieces of toast and left the kitchen to dress for the day.

  As she walked down the path to the cottage, she couldn’t help feeling a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, everything was going to turn out well.

  Chapter eight

  The sun was shining through the windows when William finally woke considerably later than normal and with a remarkably clear head. Whatever Mrs. Brightmoor had given him last night had allowed him to sleep better than he had in ages, which, in turn, eased his head more than usual.

  Morris had everything laid out in the dressing room, ready to prepare William for the day. He’d even arranged for William’s daily ride to be postponed until the afternoon, not that William intended to ride today. Walk outside and let the fresh air clear the last of the tension from his head, maybe, but not ride.

  Within an ho
ur, William was trailing his hand along the banister as he made his way down the stairs, craning his neck this way and that to take in pieces of art he’d somehow missed the day before. There was too much to actually appreciate any of it. If this were going to be any sort of comfortable home, the collection would have to be pared down.

  And the staff was going to have to be bulked up.

  There was no one to send belowstairs to request that his breakfast be served and there was no bell in the dining room. That meant he had to wait, go upstairs and send Morris down, or go down himself the way he had yesterday. None of those were a good precedent to set.

  As it turned out, though, his light staff was apparently efficient. Even as he stood beside the ridiculous table, contemplating his options, Mrs. Brightmoor appeared, tray in hand. She arranged the plate of food, teacup, and teapot with steam curling from the spout at the head of the table while he carefully arranged himself in the chair.

  “It’s a beautiful morning,” she said as she turned his plate so it was presented to him in as appealing a form as possible. “Have you plans for today?”

  His fingers fumbled across the edge of his toast. While it was somewhat normal for the housekeeper to know the schedule for the master of the house, the exchange of information usually wasn’t handled as breakfast chitchat. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  “I see.” Her smile drooped a bit but then punched back up, looking a little stiffer than it had before.

  He picked up the toast and reached for the small container of marmalade, moving slowly and darting several quick looks in his housekeeper’s direction. “I’m . . . going to eat now.”

  She didn’t move.

  He cleared his throat. “Alone.”

  Her brown eyes disappeared as her lashes lowered and she stepped back before executing a perfect curtsy and then scrambling awkwardly from the room. He suspected she hadn’t gone far, but at least she wasn’t hovering over his breakfast anymore.