A Mistletoe Masquerade. Louise Allen

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СКАЧАТЬ she remembered to use the back stairs, emerging slightly dizzy from its tight twists into organised chaos below. After being comprehensively ignored for several minutes, Rowan stepped firmly in front of a footman, his arms clasped around two filled flower vases. ‘Where will I find the boot boy?’ she asked crisply.

      ‘Back there—first on the left past the pantry,’ he replied, blowing ferns away from his mouth.

      After some false turns she located the pantry, then the boot boy in his cubbyhole, panting slightly as he leathered a pair of tall boots on a jack. ‘These are for Miss Maylin, the Pink Suite. And where is the brushing room?’

      This time she found her way more easily, having spotted some of the landmarks already. It was thankfully empty, so Rowan was able to turn up the lamps against the winter gloom and explore the racks of mystifying brushes and leathers until she found something that looked stiff enough to remove mud without damaging the nap of the cloth.

      The tables were padded and covered with baize, so she selected one, laid out the pelisse and began to attack the hem. With all this equipment it was surely going to be the work of minutes.

      Lucas strolled through the passageways, Will’s buckskin breeches draped over his arm, receiving a gratifying amount of attention from the resident domestics. Below stairs, as above, status was everything, and he was an earl by association. It amused him that as a servant he’d acquired a higher rank than his own, and he allowed an amiable condescension to creep into his manner. If he were to engage his fellow staff in gossip about their employers, and specifically Miss Maylin, he needed to make a good impression: top lofty enough to demand answers to questions, pleasant enough so as not to cause resentment.

      A housemaid with a pert manner and a dimple showed him to the brushing room, then bustled off with a swing of her hips and a backward glance over her shoulder. He was smiling faintly from the encounter as he stepped inside and saw the room was already occupied.

      The young woman had her back to him, bent over the garment on a long table and presenting a vision which drove the memory of the housemaid right out of his mind. Slender, curvaceous, and clad in a dull black that served only to focus all attention on her figure, she had not heard him come in.

      She was muttering under her breath as she brushed. Lucas suspected her words were curses, for she seemed to be more than a little hot and bothered. Her honey-brown hair had been braided and strained back into an elaborate knot but had begun to come down. Little wisps clung to the damp skin of her neck. He moved closer, his feet silent on the oilskin floorcloth.

      ‘Damn and blast and botheration …’

      It was a very pretty neck. He found himself transfixed by the nape, the tender white skin, the faint sheen of perspiration. What would it be like to bite? Just very, very, gently.

      ‘Oh, drat!’ She banged down the brush and straightened up so fast that she had to take a balancing step backwards—straight into Lucas. ‘Oh! What on earth do you think you are doing?’

      ‘Ow!’ The cry of anguish was wrung out of him. She might be slender, but the top of her head banging back into his nose packed a powerful force. Lucas was fond of his nose. In his opinion it was one of his more distinguished features, and having it broken by an irritable dresser would be distressing.

      ‘Don’t blame me,’ she continued, with no sympathy for his pain. She turned round and glared at him. ‘It is entirely your fault, creeping up on me.’ Her eyes were an intriguing hazel colour, her brows arched, her nose small and straight. Right now she was glowering down it. He lowered his hand, reassured that his own nose was still intact. As she saw his face properly her expression became even more severe. ‘It is you again! I should have known. You libertine.’

      Libertine? ‘Are you a dresser?’ But of course she was. He remembered her now—the striking girl with the scowl, surrounded by shabby bags. He had winked at her. Obviously a mistake.

      ‘Of course I am!’

      ‘Well, you do not sound like it,’ he retorted frankly, dumping the breeches on another table and reaching for a brush. Her accent was crisp, assured and educated, even if her language when he had entered had been decidedly unladylike.

      ‘I was raised in a gentleman’s house,’ she informed him, picking up the garment she had been dealing with and giving it a vigorous shake. ‘And educated with the young ladies. Not that it is any business of yours. A dresser is expected to be genteel.’

      ‘You aren’t genteel.’ Lucas scrubbed at one muddy knee. ‘You sound like a dowager duchess at Almack’s.’

      ‘It was a very superior household.’ She pushed back the damp hair from her forehead and held a hem up to the lamp. The garment appeared to be a drab pelisse of unfashionable cut. ‘I do not believe this is mud at all. I think it must be glue.’

      ‘Let me see.’ Lucas reached for the pelisse. He had no clue how to remove stubborn stains from ladies’ garments—instinctively he was attacking Will’s breeches with the same method he’d have used on a muddy horse—but he wanted to keep her there talking. ‘Try this fine one, with the thin stiff bristles.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She accepted it warily and retreated behind her table, apparently the better to keep an eye on him. ‘Why were you creeping up on me?’

      ‘I wasn’t,’ he denied, attempting to look innocent. He did not have the face for it, he knew. The dresser simply slanted him a look that spoke volumes for her opinion of men, and of him in particular, and bent over the hem again.

      ‘Whose dresser are you?’

      ‘Miss Penelope Maylin’s.’

      Lucas dropped the brush and dived under the table to retrieve it and get his face under control. The gods were on his side, obviously—not only had he found his quarry without any effort whatsoever, but she was going to be a delight to extract information from.

      Not, of course, that this could go any further than a little light flirtation—if that was what it took to win her confidence. In Lucas’s code of honour servants were as out of bounds as virgin gentlewomen. On the other hand, she could have been a sour-faced abigail or an old dragon.

      ‘What is your name?’ He straightened up and bent over his work again.

      ‘Lawrence. Daisy Lawrence.’

      Daisy. It did not suit her. This girl was no open-faced meadow flower. She was something altogether more subtle and cultivated. A honey-coloured rose, perhaps: scented, velvety, but with sharp thorns.

      ‘I am—’

      ‘I know who you are. You are Lord Danescroft’s valet.’ His surprise must have been evident, for she added, ‘You need not be flattered. Miss Maylin remarked upon the time his lordship arrived. But you may tell me your name.’

      ‘Lucas.’ She had spirit this one. Will outranked every other guest and his host. That made Lucas the top dog amongst the servants, yet she did not appear to be awed by that fact. ‘You may call me Mr Lucas,’ he added, more to see her reaction than anything.

      ‘Yes, Mr Lucas,’ she replied meekly, confounding him by finally recognising her place. ‘And thank you for showing me this brush; it has done the job perfectly.’ She folded the garment over her arm and moved towards him and the door beyond. Lucas shifted round his work table as though to find a СКАЧАТЬ