He glanced up immediately, his pen ceasing its motion. He didn’t say anything but simply took her
measure from beneath the thick, dark wings of his brows. She was no longer the vulnerable woman who had allowed him to nurse her wounds and nearly steal a kiss. Her apron was freshly starched, her hair neatly dressed and confined to its tidy little net.
They were once again master and housekeeper, each knowing their places and which boundaries were not to be crossed.
Ever.
Striving to keep her expression as free of emotion as possible, Anne returned his gaze evenly. “You had need of me, my lord?”
His eyes narrowed ever so briefly before he closed the ledger with an audible snap, making it clear
she
was now the business at hand. “I believe it is you who have need of me, Mrs. Spencer. After our
discussion
this morning, I realized I was being completely remiss in my duties.”
“You? Remiss? In
your
duties?”
“If I hadn’t been remiss, you wouldn’t have been attempting to do the work of an entire day before the sun had so much as crested the horizon.”
“I am the housekeeper of this establishment. It’s my job to make sure everything runs smoothly.”
“That may be true, but it’s not your job to do everyone else’s job.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
His hands were everything a man’s hands should be—strong, powerful-looking, with a light dusting of dark hair on their backs and long, elegantly tapered fingers. They were the sort of hands a woman could easily imagine caressing . . . gliding . . . stroking . . . Anne jerked her gaze back to his face, horrified by the wayward direction of her thoughts.
“From what I’ve observed since I’ve been here, you’re saddled with a daft butler, an ancient cook, several affable but supremely incompetent maids, and an ill-tempered footman who doesn’t know a silver salver from a dormouse. If you keep trying to compensate for the shortcomings of your staff, all you’ll succeed in doing is working yourself into an early grave.”
Before Anne could stop it, a bitter laugh bubbled from her lips. “Perhaps I’m simply trying to work my way
out
of an early grave.”
“I’m confident you’re doing the best you can, but one woman can only do so much. It was evident to me from the first night I arrived that the manor’s staff wasn’t adequate to care for an estate this size. Yet I did nothing to rectify the situation. Which is why I’ve decided to send to London for some help.”
Anne felt her lips go numb at the thought of a horde of strangers traipsing about the manor, digging into things that were none of their concern. Things long buried that desperately needed to stay
that way. And other things that must only be unearthed by her and her staff.
“I can assure you that won’t be necessary,” she said, fighting to keep a note of hysteria from creeping into her voice. “I’m the one who allowed the other servants to grow lax in their duties when there was no master in residence. Once I explain what’s required of them, they’ll work harder. I swear it.”
“I might be able to believe that of the younger ones, but what about Hodges? And Nana? You’re supposed to be running a household here, Mrs. Spencer, not a home for the elderly and the mentally infirm.”
“Nana and Hodges would be devastated if deprived of their positions. Neither of them have any family left to look after them. They have nowhere else to go. Hodges has only recently started exhibiting signs of a mental decline,” she lied. “I fear it’s the result of an injury he suffered in the war.”
Dravenwood scowled suspiciously at her. “Which war?”
“The one with Napoléon,” Anne replied, hoping that would cover most wars of the past several decades. “It would hardly be sporting to shunt him aside after he so valiantly served his country and king.”
Dravenwood grunted. “And what of Nana? Was she a gunner in the Royal Navy?”
“Nana faithfully served a local family for most of her life,” Anne said, hoping a morsel of truth would placate him. “But when she started losing her hearing, they insisted she be replaced and gave her notice. Her only desire now is to live out the rest of her years here at Cadgwyck—in the place she has come to call home.” Anne drew close enough to lay her palms on the desk, willing to sacrifice her stiff-necked pride on the altar of his mercy. “Please, my lord. If the others agree to work harder to lighten my load, may Nana and Hodges stay?”
“Of course they may stay.” He frowned up at her, looking genuinely insulted. “What did you think I was going to do? Cast them into the hedgerows to fend for themselves?”
She straightened, sighing with relief since that was exactly what she had feared. “Thank you, my lord. Will there be anything else?”
“There is
one
more thing.” The lascivious glint in his eyes made Anne’s stomach tighten all over again.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I don’t care what other slop you feed me, but I want some of that bread you bake on my table. Every day. For breakfast.” After a moment of thought, he added, “And supper.”
Anne could feel a smile flirting with her lips. “I believe that can be arranged. Will
that
be all, my lord?”
“For now.” The innocent words sounded oddly provocative on his beautifully chiseled lips. Lips that had been a breath away from claiming hers just that morning.
She had almost reached the door when he said, “Mrs. Spencer?”
She turned, eyeing him warily.
“Has it ever occurred to you that I may not be the heartless ogre you believe me to be?”
“No, my lord,” she said solemnly. “I’m afraid it hasn’t.” But just before she slipped out the door, she flashed him a genuine smile, not her usual tight-lipped one.
“Impossible woman,” she heard him mutter beneath his breath as he returned to his ledgers.
“I DEMAND AN INCREASE
in my wages!” Pippa exclaimed as she and Dickon struggled to wrestle a rolled-up Turkish rug out of the drawing room and through the entrance hall the following afternoon.
“You don’t receive any wages,” Anne reminded her. Anne was perched on a rickety ladder in the middle of the hall, using a broom to swipe the thick veil of cobwebs from the tarnished brass arms of the chandelier. Every twinge and throb of her muscles only served to remind her that she was the one who put them there.
“All the more reason to demand an increase.” Heaving an exhausted sigh, Pippa dropped her end of the carpet and plopped down on it. She’d covered her dark curls with a linen kerchief to keep the dust out of them.
Dickon rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why
you’re
in such a foul temper.” The boy gave the open front door a longing glance. “I could be out on the moor right now hunting for supper or catching a wild pony to ride. Instead, I’m stuck in this miserable house doing women’s work with the likes of you.”
“Don’t grumble, dear,” Anne chided from her swaying perch. “You’ll get plenty of fresh air when you’re out in the courtyard beating a decade of dust from that rug.”
Muttering something beneath his breath that would doubtlessly have gotten his ears boxed if Anne could reach them, Dickon gave his end of the rug a hard yank, dumping Pippa in the floor. As she sprang to her feet, rubbing her rump and glaring after him, he dragged the rug the rest of the way out the door.
Anne tossed down the broom, then descended from the ladder. She dusted off her grimy hands, surveying the results of their handiwork with a satisfied smile.
She’d wasted no time in fulfilling her promise to Lord Dravenwood. A sneezing Beth and Bess had spent most of the morning dragging the moldering
draperies down from the tall, arched windows and were now diligently scrubbing years of grime from the wavy panes of glass. Betsy was slopping a mop around the floors, while Lisbeth dipped her rag in a container of linseed oil and beeswax to buff the mahogany of the banister to a rich luster. Lizzie was upstairs whisking old sheets off the furniture and stuffing handfuls of fresh feathers purchased from the local goose girl into all of the mattresses. Even Hodges and Nana had insisted on doing their part. Hodges was gleefully collecting every bit of tarnished silver in the house and dragging it to the kitchen so Nana could her set her gnarled hands to the task of polishing it.
With their limited resources, there was no way for them to restore the house to its former glory. All they could do was hold up a dim mirror to reflect what once had been. But even those modest efforts had stirred up more than just dust. If Anne tilted her head just right, she could almost hear the graceful notes of a waltz drifting out from the deserted ballroom, the merry clink of champagne flutes hefted in a teasing toast, the muted murmur of conversation, and laughter from voices long gone. Angelica gazed down upon them from her haughty perch at the top of the stairs. It was impossible to tell from her cryptic smile if she approved of their efforts or was mocking their foolishness.
Pippa followed the direction of Anne’s gaze. “Our White Lady hasn’t made an appearance in almost a fortnight. And now you’re making the manor so comfortable Lord Imperious won’t ever want to leave. I’m beginning to suspect you’re not in as great of a hurry to be rid of the man as you’d like us to believe.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Anne replied, her voice sounding oddly unconvincing even to her own ears. “Of course I am. But I thought we agreed it would be in all of our best interests to tread carefully with this one. He’s no fool like the rest.”
“I wasn’t implying
he
was a fool,” Pippa replied, giving Anne an arch look before heading out the side door to join Dickon in the courtyard.
“Saucy little baggage,” Anne muttered, knowing it was probably only a matter of time before Pippa and Dickon stopped using their paddles to whack the rug and started whacking each other.
Despite what Pippa believed, the last thing she wanted was for Dravenwood to linger at Cadgwyck. They were wasting precious time that could better be spent looking for the treasure. Plus, the longer he stayed, the harder it was going to be to dislodge him. All Anne was doing now was humoring the man, allaying his suspicions and waiting for him to relax his guard. Once he did, she would gladly step aside and let Angelica have her way with him.
She was assailed by a shocking image of Dravenwood sprawled on his freshly stuffed mattress beneath the canopy of his bed, wearing little more than a silk sheet draped low on his narrow hips and a come-hither smile.
“Mrs. Spencer!”
Had Anne still been atop the ladder when that deep, masculine voice interrupted her wicked little fantasy, she would probably have tumbled off and broken her neck. Drawing a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and dabbing at her flushed cheeks, she hastened toward the stairs. How had her wayward imagination produced such a ridiculous notion? She’d never seen the earl wear a genuine smile, much less a come-hither one.
She arrived at the corridor outside Lord Dravenwood’s chamber to find it deserted. She gave the door a tentative knock.
“Enter,” he commanded gruffly.
Anne cautiously eased open the door, half-expecting to find Piddles devouring another pair of boots or Sir Fluffytoes tangled up in the earl’s finest cravat. But the earl was all alone, sitting on a stool in front of his dressing table, glowering at his reflection in its beveled looking glass.
He shifted his gaze, his smoky gray eyes meeting hers in the looking glass. “I’m sorry to pull you away from your duties, but I have need of you.”
I have need of you.
That bold confession made Anne wonder what it would be like to be truly needed by such a man. To hear those same words whispered in her ear in the dark of night in a lover’s hoarse tones.
She stepped forward, deliberately sharpening the brisk edge of her voice. “How may I be of service, my lord?”
He swiveled on the stool, revealing the flash of the shears in his hands and the handful of glossy, dark locks littering the hardwood floor around him.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, unaccountably dismayed by the sight. “What have you done?”
“I was starting to look like a savage. Or an American. I’ve become much more adept at looking after myself since arriving at Cadgwyck, but I need you to help me trim my hair. As you can see, I’m making quite the muddle of it.”
Anne’s gaze flew back to his hair. She felt a ridiculous surge of relief. He hadn’t yet done irretrievable damage to it, although the right side was decidedly longer than the left.
She took another step into the room, then hesitated. An intimate task like cutting a man’s hair was far more suited to his valet or barber. Or his wife.
“Why don’t you let me summon Dickon, my lord?”
“If I’m not going to let the lad near my throat
with a straight razor, what makes you think I’d trust him with a pair of shears?”
Growing ever more desperate, she said, “Then Hodges perhaps . . .”
He cocked his head and gave her a reproachful look.
She huffed out a sigh. “Very well, then. If you insist . . .”
Donning her most imperturbable air, she marched across the room to his side. She brushed the fallen hair from his shoulders, that simple contact making her fingertips tingle with awareness. Her hands lingered of their own volition, measuring the impressive breadth of his shoulders until she realized what she was doing and jerked them out of harm’s way.
As she removed her apron and swept it around his shoulders to protect his coat from further insult, she could not resist asking, “Are you certain you should let
me
near your throat with a sharp instrument?”
“Not entirely. But convincing the local magistrate I tripped and fell directly onto the blades of a pair of shears would no doubt tax even your considerable resources.” Casting her a darkly amused look, he offered her the shears, handles first.
She accepted them, her lips compressed to a thin line. As she leaned over him to assess the damage he’d already done, the warm, masculine spice of
bayberry soap drifted to her nostrils. An answering warmth purled low in her belly.