The Gamekeeper's Lady (11 page)

At the sound of a throat being cleared from the doorway, the cook turned to face the butler framed in the doorway. ‘Good morning, Mr Snively.’

Another battle in the offing?

The grim-faced butler acknowledged the greeting with no more than a flicker of an eyelash. ‘Maisie, Miss Bracewell is in the breakfast room looking for tea and toast.’

Not in bed dreaming, then.

‘In this house, breakfast above stairs is at eight o’clock,’ Cook muttered, handing Maisie a slice of bread and the toasting fork.

‘Family is served when they want to be served. I will return in fifteen minutes for the tray,’ Snively uttered in awful accents. Receiving no reply, he left.

‘Family,’ the cook uttered with scorn. ‘Hardly. Making out like she’s real family. Well, she ain’t. Mark my words, she’ll come to a bad end.’

A flash of anger shot through his veins. Hot words formed on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them.

‘Good Gawd, Maisie,’ Cook yelled. ‘Watch what you’re doing. You’ve burned the toast again. Scrape it off quick and slap some butter on it before old Iron Drawers returns and finds nothing ready.’ She turned back to Robert. ‘You mark my words, blood will out. The mother was no better than she should be, and the daughter will turn out the same. Now, if you’re finished, Rob, I gots work to do.’

Seething with rage, he clenched one fist under the table, taking one slow breath after another, angry at her. But worse. Anger he could say nothing in her defence. It was not his place to defend Miss Bracewell. Any sign of interest would fan the flames of gossip.

The sight of congealed egg on his plate turned his stomach. Either that or the vicious words had stolen his appetite. He pushed the plate away. ‘Quite finished, Mrs Doncaster. Thanks.’

He rose and picked up his hat and coat. For once he couldn’t wait to leave the warmth of the kitchen and get back to his labours.

Outside in the passage, where the servants’ stairs led to the bedrooms above, he took a deep breath and fastened his coat buttons, residual anger making his fingers clumsy.

‘Rob?’

He turned at Maisie’s breathless call. ‘Don’t you have a breakfast to prepare?’ he asked. ‘You’ll be in trouble if it’s not ready.’

‘Snively came fer it right after you left.’ She closed the gap between them. He backed up until he hit the newel post.

‘Cook meant to give you this.’ She waved a small package. ‘Tea.’ She made a dive for his pocket.

He snatched the packet from her hand. ‘Give her my thanks.’

Still blocking his path, she peeped up at him from beneath stubby lashes. ‘They’ll be right busy when the guests arrive. No one will notice me and thee.’ She nudged him with a generous hip. ‘Perhaps we can have our own party. Ee, but I do fancy you, Rob.’ Scarlet blazed on her plump cheeks as she aimed a kiss at his mouth. Jerking back, he fielded her moist lips on his cheek at the same moment he heard a gasp from farther along the passage.

Maisie lifted her chin and glanced over his shoulder. Smirking, she bobbed a curtsy, then sauntered away with an exaggerated sway to her hips. ‘Enjoy yer tea, Mr Deveril,’ she called over her shoulder.

Wincing, Robert turned to face Frederica, feeling just a little too warm for comfort.

Frederica regarded him gravely from eyes swirling with grey shadows. A silent considering stare. He had no idea what she was thinking. A little jealousy would have been nice.

‘She kissed
me,’
he said at last.

‘I saw. You are certainly popular.’

Robert huffed out a breath. ‘I thought you were eating breakfast?’

‘Cook forgot the jam.’

Probably on purpose. He gestured for her to pass and turned to leave.

She grabbed his sleeve, glanced up the hallway and back to him. ‘Snively mentioned you were in the kitchen. I wanted to ask you something.’

A pot clattered. They both jumped. Robert raised his eyes to the ceiling and saw no help forthcoming. ‘We cannot talk here.’ They would put two and two together and unfortunately would make four.

‘I’ll come to your house,’ she murmured. ‘Later.’

‘No!’ he whispered.

‘Where, then?’

‘Down there.’ He caught her elbow, feeling once more the delicate bones beneath his fingers. A shimmer of awareness over his skin. He sucked in a breath and released her. ‘The cellar.’

With a nod, she whisked along the hall and down a few steps into the dark. He ducked in after her. ‘What did you want?’ he murmured, aware of her scent mingling with the smell of coal and mildew.

‘I need your help.’

‘Ask your uncle.’

‘He can’t help me in this.’

‘What makes you think I can? I told you it is best we not meet again.’

‘Y-you s-said…’ She gave a little moan of distress. She sounded desperate. His body strained in response, the desire to defend and protect rising rampant.

What the hell? He never let women get to him this way. Yet he couldn’t help it with this one. He softened his tone. ‘Take a deep breath, then tell me what is wrong.’

Her quick, indrawn gasp was like a knife to his heart. She sounded terrified.

‘I need to learn to waltz.’

He retreated up a step, unaccountably disappointed. ‘A dancing lesson?’

She touched his arm. An unexpected sensation in the dark. The heat of it travelled straight to his chest. He flinched.

She snatched her hand back as if she too felt scorched. ‘I must learn to waltz or I will make an idiot of myself. Can’t we still be friends?’

Friends, when the thought of holding her in his arms stirred his blood and drove his brain to the brink of madness?

Somehow he kept his voice calm, glad the dark hid his expression. ‘There must be someone else who can teach you.’

She stilled. He felt her stillness as if her heart had stopped beating and had thus stopped his own.

‘I’m s-sorry,’ she whispered, her voice full of ache, as if her only friend in the world had let her down. ‘I was wrong to ask.’

Now he felt guilty, a pain that bit all the way to his heart. ‘All right.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’ll teach you. One lesson.’

He heard her sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. When?’

‘Tonight. My house.’ Footsteps sounded in the passageway. He moved deeper into the dark of the stairwell, protecting her from casual sight with his body. One of her breasts pressed against his arm; the scent of her hair, vanilla and roses, a heady combination, filled his nose. His body quickened. Demanded more. Somehow, he kept his hands off her. Breath held, he waited while the footsteps passed them by. No outraged shout of surprise broke the silence. Nothing but her rapid breaths against his neck. One move that even suggested she wanted to kiss him and he wouldn’t be able to resist. She drew him, more than any woman he’d ever met. He worried about her, when he didn’t want to care. People he cared for always let him down. He knew that and yet he could deny her nothing.

He was in over his head and drowning.

The sounds faded. He leaned close to her ear. ‘Whatever you do, do not let anyone see you leave the house tonight.’

She nodded.

His body shaking with the effort of not kissing her senseless, he released her, strode up the stairs and, with a quick look to make sure all was clear, made the two steps to the back door and out into the yard. He released a shuddering sigh of relief.

Was he mad? Had he actually agreed to meet her again?

She’d looked so vulnerable, so afraid, he couldn’t say no. Not and sleep at night.

He’d promised. One dance lesson, but nothing more.

God save him, he’d seek other work. Somewhere far away.

Wrapped in sacking, Pippin’s hooves made little sound on the frosty earth. Thick clouds obliterated any light from above, but Frederica found her way to Robert’s cottage with ease.

A faint chink of light shone through the shutters. She slid from Pippin’s back and tied him to a tree. His hot breath warmed her chilled cheeks as she patted his neck. ‘I won’t be long.’

Her heart set up a steady thud in her ears. Suddenly unsure, she crept to the door and tapped softly.

Nothing. Perhaps he’d gone out and left a candle burning. Or perhaps he’d changed his mind.

She rapped louder and backed up into the shadows. If the door didn’t open by the count of three, she’d leave.

The sound of a bolt being drawn through metal held her suspended between fleeing and staying. Her heartbeat drummed against her ribs.

Light spilled onto the ground in front of the door from his lantern.

God. He was just so beautiful. His shirt, open at the throat and tucked into tight-fitting buckskins, revealed a glimpse of crisp, dark hair at the base of his throat. The dark shadow on his jaw gave him a disreputable air. Frederica swallowed, trying to find enough saliva to speak.

Shaking his head, he started to close the door.

‘It is me,’ she croaked, stepping closer.

‘I’d begun to think you weren’t coming after all. Come inside before you are seen.’ He leaned forwards, clasped her hand and pulled her over the threshold, and she stumbled into the room.

He’d tidied up. The bed was neatly made, no sign of supper dishes or clothing. The chair and table were pushed back against the wall, leaving an open space in front of the merrily blazing hearth. He’d been waiting for her. Her heart gave a little lurch of happiness.

She twirled around.

His face held a pained expression. He was looking at her legs. His eyes widened as he took in her attire, a pair of Simon’s old breeches and one of his shirts. ‘What in hell’s name are you wearing?’

‘I rode. I thought it would be easier than skirts.’

‘Good God.’

‘I borrowed some of Simon’s breeches. He’s grown out of them. And one of his shirts,’ she said. ‘I had to saddle Pippin myself and I need help to mount a lady’s saddle. I know I look dreadful.’

‘I wouldn’t say dreadful.’ His gaze reached her face and in the firelight, his eyes seemed alight with embers. ‘Certainly…unusual.’

A giddy swirl hit her brain as if the air in the cottage had turned to steam and she laughed, albeit a little breathlessly. ‘I always ride astride when I can. I can go so much faster without fear of falling off.’

‘You ought to be spanked.’ He looked as if he might like to undertake the task himself.

She felt hot all over. He wouldn’t, would he? ‘You promised me a lesson.’

‘In waltzing.’

She eyed him warily. ‘Yes.’

His jaw flexed and his mouth flattened. ‘Then let us begin. First, have you ever seen a waltz performed or tried it yourself?’

She shook her head.

He huffed out a sigh. ‘Then we will begin with the basics. A waltz is a gliding dance in three-four time. When danced well, it is a sensual experience for dancers and watchers alike. Performed badly, and it is simply two people galloping around in circles.’

He ran his eyes from her heels to her head. No doubt expecting her waltz to be of the galloping variety.

‘Where did you learn?’ she asked.

Her question seemed to catch him off guard. He blinked a couple of times as if trying to come up with a story. He gave a small dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘In my misspent youth.’ His smile was bitter.

The waltz was considered scandalous by many. He must have had a misspent youth. A flitter of excitement skated through her abdomen. ‘Show me.’ Her body trembled, awaiting his touch.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘First, let me see you move. Go and sit down in the chair by the hearth.’

Puzzled, she strode across the room and dropped on to the seat.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Forget you are dressed like that. Pretend you are wearing the most elegant of gowns. Do it again. This time don’t swagger, glide.’

She went back to the centre of the room and walked slowly to the chair and lowered herself into it.

‘Better,’ he said. ‘You are the most beautiful woman in the room. You do not dance with just anyone. Your partners have to be worthy.’

She batted her eyelashes at him and smiled. She didn’t feel particularly beautiful, only rather silly.

He shook his head. ‘No. Ignore me. Feel it inside yourself. Feel light. Ethereal. Beautiful. Calm. Be completely unconscious of anyone except the person seated beside you.’

‘There isn’t anyone.’

He glared at her. ‘Pretend you are talking to someone.’

When she shook her head, he growled something under his breath. Seconds later he had picked up a broom and stood it next to her chair. ‘You are an artist. Use your imagination. This is Lady Stuck-up. You are not visibly aware of anything but her gossip. Yet you know the world is looking at only you.’

She closed her eyes for a moment, imagined a ballroom full of glitter and members of the nobility. She straightened her spine, opened her eyes, but let the images remain. Her companion, a luscious blonde in a diamond tiara and sky-blue gown, spoke in soft tones. Music played in the background. Eyes followed each nod of her head. Aware of Robert’s approach, she pretended not to see him, but smiled at something Lady Stuck-up said.

‘Miss Bracewell,’ Robert said, ‘may I ask you to honour me with the next waltz?’

She slowly turned her head to look up at him. A small, devastating smile curved his lips. He held out a hand.

She hesitated for a moment. Would she, the most beautiful woman in the room, dance with this man? Perhaps she would do him the honour, this once. With a slight incline of her head, she rested her hand on his palm.

He stared at her for a moment, as if lost. He was certainly a good actor, playing to her role of
coquette.

He raised her to her feet, placed her hand on his sleeve and drew her into the centre of the room, his guiding hand almost imperceptible as he steered her to her place, yet full of energy and demand.

How did he do that? She tried to look unconscious of his powerful presence.

He swirled her around, then placed one of her hands beside his lapel, and kept the other firmly grasped. She felt pressure from his other hand between her shoulders. ‘The orchestra plays the opening bars,’ he murmured. ‘Listen to the rhythm. One, two, three. One, two, three. Feel it inside your body.’