My Lady Below Stairs

A Note of thanks from Mia Marlowe

Thanks to my agent Natasha Kern, who always believed
in my writing. And to my fabulous editor, Leah
Hultenschmidt, who gave me my first chance. And
most especially, I want to thank my parents who showed me what love that lasts looks like. They were married on Christmas Day (A three generation family tradition I did not feel called to continue when my DH and I tied the knot!). My parents
will celebrate their 58th Merry Christmas together this year! Now that's a legacy of love!

Wishing you the same,

Mia

P.S. Hope you’ll visit me at
www.miamarlowe.com
!

Nobody misses Lord & Lady Hartwell's Christmas Ball, . . . but they all go for different reasons. When Lady Sybil runs off with an Italian portrait painter, her bastard half-sister Jane Tate goes in her place. Lord Eddleton plans on proposing to "Sybil" under the mistletoe. Lady Darvish is on the hunt for her fifth husband.. And Ian Michael MacGarrett, the head groom with more than horseflesh on his mind, is determined to show Jane that love doesn't have to pretend
.

“Bastardy has its privileges,” Jane Tate muttered. She slogged across the snowdrifted alley from Lord Somerville's grand townhouse to his not-so-grand henhouse. No one else wanted to gather eggs on this bitterly cold morning, so Jane had been pressed into service.

Which suited Jane better than a dollop of milk in her tea. Cook might get suspicious if she volunteered again.

She picked her way through the fresh snow. Even in this top-lofty London neighborhood, his lordship kept a dozen fat guineas and six red-capped Dorking hens. Their coop squatted next to the stable. An ill-tempered rooster strutted along its sagging peak, standing guard over his harem.

Cold lanced up Jane's shin. She had pulled on two
pairs of woolen stockings that morning, but they were no
match for the shilling-sized hole in her left shoe.

He's worth a touch of frostbite
, she reminded herself.

Before she pushed through the henhouse door, a hand grasped her elbow and pulled her into the shadows of the
stable. Even though she had hoped for this very thing, the man's mouth swallowed her cry of surprise. He
smelled of fresh straw and oiled leather and warm horse
flesh.

And tasted like heaven itself. Jane slid her arms into the warmth of his open jacket, pressing herself against him.

Ian Michael MacGarrett.
The sight of the head groom's angular face was enough to give Jane shivers, even with
out a hole in her shoe. His kiss warmed her, sending hot urgent messages to secret places in her body. Places of which an unmarried scullery maid shouldn't be so achingly aware.

“Janie, love.” His voice tickled her ear and his lips set
her skin dancing. She thought her name ordinary in the extreme, but when Ian said it, his soft Scottish burr caressed the sound with reverence, as if she were a grand lady.

His rough hands found her waist and tugged her closer. Even through the layers of wool, Jane felt the solid maleness of him. All the unattached female kitchen help, and even a few of the married ones, made an excuse to take a trip to the stable when the weather was warm enough for Ian Michael to remove his jacket and roll up his shirtsleeves. Dealing with the heavy team of horses that pulled his lordship's equipage made Ian's arms and chest ripple with strength.

“If the man's arms are that fine,” Jane's friend Agnes
had exclaimed the first time she watched Ian subdue a particularly mettlesome stallion, “just imagine what the rest of him must be like!”

Jane smiled. She had a good imagination. If Ian had his way, she wouldn't have to imagine much longer. She
pushed against his chest and he drew back to look down
at her, his peat-colored eyes hooded with wanting.

“Please, Ian. Someone might see us.”

“There's none here but Tom and he's busy polishing the brass on the brougham. Come, lass, you're cold as a well-digger's knee.” Ian rubbed her hands between his
and blew on them, his breath puffing in the chilly air like
a dragon's. Then he pressed a kiss on the skin of her exposed wrist. A wicked smile curved his lips. “I'm only after warming you a bit.”

“If you think I believe that, you're the stupid, big Scot
everyone takes you for.”

Jane knew behind his rude upbringing, Ian's sharp mind bristled with intelligence. Their friendship had be
gun when he discovered she knew how to read and write.
Ian had convinced her to teach him. Of course, the only
reason
she
knew how was because of a well-kept secret.

Though Jane wasn't quite sure what to name it yet, her
friendship with Ian Michael had blossomed from reading lessons into something much more.

“I brought you a copy of Locke and a warm tart.” Jane
handed him the precious book she'd pinched from his lordship's library. Lord Somerville would never miss it and she'd return the book after Ian read it, so it wasn't stealing. Not really. The neatly wrapped tart she'd made herself.

“Something for my mind
and
my body, eh? No one can fault ye for ignoring a man's appetites. Not all of
them, in any case.” He pocketed the book and unwrapped the fragrant pastry, waggling his dark brows at her. “Ye
know how fond I am of...
tarts.”

Jane smacked his chest. “I'm no tart, Ian Michael MacGarrett.”

“No, I can see you're not. But ye canna deny ye enjoy kissing me like one, can ye?” He bit into the plum tart with relish. “Och, Janie, this is almost as sweet as your
kisses. Give me half a moment and we'll start again where
we left off, so I can make a true comparison.”

“I don't think that's a good idea,” Jane said, even though the thought of Ian's kisses was what had had her tripping through the snow with a light heart this morn
ing. “You know his lordship doesn't allow liaisons among
the staff.”

“Liaison,” he repeated with a laugh, as he dusted the
last tart crumbs from his big workman's hands. “You've picked up some mighty fine airs, my Lady Jane.”

“And you've some plum filling at the corner of your mouth, sir.”

She reached up to wipe it away. Ian caught her hand,
slipped her finger between his lips and sucked the jam off. Her knees threatened to buckle.

“Is that what we're after having? A liaison?” He
planted a kiss on her knuckles and then pressed her hand
against his chest so she could feel the great muscle of his
heart pounding beneath her palm. Eyes closed, he leaned down and touched her forehead with his. Need hummed between them. “A liaison sounds like more than a stolen kiss or two. Sounds like verra much more.”

For a few heartbeats, Jane thought of Ian's little room
at the far end of the horse stalls. Of his string bed. Of what might happen if she let him lead her there. Her in-sides melted like a wax candle, but with effort, she pinched off the flame. Being an earl's bastard was bad
enough. Being a scullery maid's bastard didn't bear con
templating. She wouldn't hang that label on an innocent child.

Jane stepped out of the circle of Ian's arms. “Don't you realize it's the sack for both of us if we're found out?”

“And I'm thinking that wouldn't be all bad.” Ian tugged her close again. He was so warm, it was like a snuggling up to a roaring fire. Jane went willingly. “In fact, I just found out—”

“Jane! Where are you? I say! Janie, come quick!”

“That's Agnes,” Jane said. “What's she doing out in this cold?”

As an upstairs maid, Agnes rarely ventured down into
the kitchen unless it was mealtime, and never out to the stable, if she could help it.

Unless Ian Michael was in his shirtsleeves.

“After all,” Agnes had explained, “this has nothing to
do with our friendship, Janie. The day I fail to notice a fine-looking fellow is the day I turn up my toes.”

“I must go.” Jane pulled away from Ian.

“Stay, Jane. If we're caught together, we'll—”

“Ian, please.”

He swept her up for a last kiss, an urgent play of lips, teeth, and tongue. The now-familiar ache
down there
made visions of Ian's string bed swim in her head.

Jane swayed unsteadily when he released her. “If I
can,” she said breathlessly, “I'll come again.”

“Aye, lass, I'd make sure of that if you'd let me,” he murmured as she ran off.

From the huskiness in his tone, Jane knew he'd said
something vaguely naughty. Warmth glowed in her belly
as she stumbled back toward the main house where Agnes was tiptoeing around the deeper drifts.

“Jane, where've you been? You'll make me ruin these
slippers!” The outlandish beaded mules were Lady Sybil's last-season castoffs. They were a little small for Ag
nes, but she was wearing them as she worked, in the hope that they'd stretch a bit. “I have to keep them nice for the
Ladies' Maids' Ball.”

Once a year, all the footmen and maids from the city's
great houses decked themselves in secondhand finery
and "tripped the light fantastic" 'til dawn. The satin con
fections on Agnes's feet would be perfect for the coming event.

But they were not so handy in a snow-washed alley.