Page 44 of Never a Duchess
“I know ye argued with her at Lord Kinver’s ball.” Callan gazed at the stars to avoid appearing accusatory, but found himself praying it stayed dry so he might lure Miss Ware into the garden. “Kinver gave her an excellent reference, yet I suspect she’s trouble.”
Major Rowlands’ snort sent a puff of smoke into the air. “If you want a sentimental, opinionated harpy in your household, by all means, employ her. My advice is send her on her way.”
“Sentimental? Did she become tooattached?” It was a covert way of asking if Anne Grimes had been more than the major’s maid. “I find it odd she left Kinver’s house once he married.”
The major’s vigorous wave said Callan had misunderstood the situation. “No. No. Anne was my late wife’s maid. She accosted me at the Kinver ball and accused me of betraying my wife’s memory.”
“Because ye didnae observe a sufficient mourning period?” Mrs Rowlands’ obituary appeared in the broadsheets less than a month ago, and the major was already courting his mistress.
“Because she caught me with Mrs Jarvis in the study.” The major’s salacious grin turned Callan’s stomach. “The wretched girl stood there like a wraith in the darkness, her gaze fixed on my bare buttocks, watching every damn thrust. It was terribly unnerving, terribly unnerving.”
Callan feigned amusement. Yet the comment roused a bitter memory, one that brought bile to his throat. That of a father—who should have been grieving—driving long and deep into a woman sprawled naked on his desk. Not just any woman. The friend of his dead wife.
It was perhaps the reason for Callan’s constancy.
For his patience in securing the only woman he wanted.
Why he had to know if Miss Ware felt this abiding attraction, too.
Why he looked to MacTavish as a father figure.
The accusations he’d wanted to scream as he watched his father rutting and grunting like a pig—ones he’d anchored so deep in his chest Poseidon couldn’t reach them—suddenly burst to the surface.
Ye killed her!
Ye poisoned her!
Dinnae deny it!
The major’s loud tut dragged Callan from his reverie. “Then the crazed lune grabbed books from the shelf and hurled them at me.” He took a long draw of his smoke. “Accused me of killing my wife with my wickedness. Damn cheek of the gal. Damn cheek. In my day, she’d have been whipped with a birch.”
Anne Grimes rose a notch in Callan’s estimation.
He assessed the former military man. Might the major be the villain in the garden that night? Had he sought to silence the maid for good?
No. The major lacked the strength to breathe, let alone kill his former maid. And surely the stable boy would have recognised Anne.
“I’ll nae have a mischief-maker in my house,” Callan said, drawing the conversation to a swift conclusion, for he needed to distance himself from this degenerate.
“One might make an exception were she pleasing on the eye,” the major grumbled. “Besides, I’m told she stole something belonging to my wife, though found no evidence of a crime.”
Interesting.
Kinver’s butler spoke of Anne’s light fingers, too.
Callan inclined his head while imagining throttling the major with his bare hands. “I thank ye for discussing personal matters. I shall leave ye to finish yer smoke.”
Callan was about to mount the steps to the upper terrace to seek Lord Sheridan, but unwelcome visions of his father had him turning on his heel and striding away into the garden.
When the nightmares came, he walked the castle grounds, wandered over hill and glen. Breathing clean air had a way of dispelling the ghosts, yet he couldn’t fill his lungs when in London.
Miss Ware made the visits bearable. And while his mother loved the metropolis, Callan always felt restless in town.
Bitter memories came and went as he marched past the topiary hedges and paced the gloomy path farthest from the house. It was colder out tonight, hence why the gardens were practically deserted. Once guests were merry on champagne, there would be movement in the shadows, every secret nook and cranny occupied by lustful libertines.
“Is something wrong, Your Grace?” Miss Ware said from somewhere in the darkness. “Are you unwell?”
Callan closed his eyes against the sultry voice, a siren song that called to him in his dreams. The lady was not safe with him. While in this devil of a mood, he might succumb to every temptation.
