Page 14 of The Confessions of a Lady
‘Leave it, Miss Smith.’ But if she didn’t pick up the crumbs now, she would just have to come back and complete the task later. It was her job, after all. To clean up after the marquess.
Liam clenched his jaw, thoroughly disgusted with himself. This was all so ridiculous.
She threw the crumbs into the fire and stood, folding her hands in front of her, hiding the pocket he found so offensive.
‘I apologise, Miss Smith. I shouldn’t have…’ Liam cursed, wishing for the right words but they didn’t come.
Miss Smith bit her beautiful lip, causing Liam’s focus to hitch. Her confusion was understandable. A marquess did not apologise to his servant. Ever. Even when he was obviously wrong.
‘You shouldn’t have what? Accused me of thieving, my lord?’ She blinked, then shrugged. Apparently, she’d recovered her aplomb more quickly than he was able to reclaim his composure. ‘Well, I accused you of being too inept to toast bread. I suppose I can forgive you your suspicions if you can forgive me my sharp tongue.’ Miss Smith seemed intent on glaring at the rug’s pattern. He desperately wished she would challenge him again with her words, her spirit, her fey eyes sparking with fire.
‘Mercy from such a fierce creature?’ He couldn’t stop himself. A desperate attempt to rouse her from the meekness expected of servants but so at odds with her innate nature.
‘More self-preservation, my lord. I shouldn’t have spoken so freely before. So, now I’ve blistered your ears and you’ve determined I have nothing in my pockets belonging to you, perhaps we can be even.’
Liam stepped forward, drawing in her scent, lifting her chin with his finger, forcing her to face him. ‘I’m not sure we’ll ever be even, Miss Smith.’ The words should have solidified his superiority, but as he fell into her unwavering gaze, he wasn’t sure who held sway in this unexpected game of wits. Something deep in his chest rumbled like the purring of a jungle cat. Such secrets swam in her eyes. Dark confessions. Would they match the depths of his own? Could the mysteries hidden in hershadows be as bleak? Was it possible to find solace in the sins of another?
Very little inspired fear in Liam. But his growing need to understand Miss Smith terrified him. To know something as unfathomable as her soul? A frightening prospect indeed.
She is not for me.
It was a refrain that bore repeating until the confounding need pulsing within him, as compelling as the drums of war and just as dangerous, finally abated. He curled his hand into a fist, let it drop to his side, and stepped back. ‘Thank you for lighting the fire, Miss Smith.’
She cleared her throat and dipped into a curtsy. ‘Of course, my lord.’ Without another word, she swept past him, leaving a trail of vanilla and cloves in her wake.
What the bloody hell is wrong with me?
Penny thanked the fates for Mrs O’Brian’s scone. It likely saved her. She made her way to her room, looking for a hiding spot for the letter currently burning a hole in her apron.
Penny shared her small bedroom with a young girl just starting her time in service. She was a laundry maid, and ever so sweet, but it wouldn’t do for young Molly to find the Devil’s Sons’ missive sitting on the small side table between their beds or hastily thrown on Penny’s pillow. Unlike Penny, Molly knew her letters and would be able to read the damning note. Not something Penny could risk.
There were precious few hidey holes in such a spare room, so Penny lifted the mattress and shoved the thing underneath. Not exactly the false bottom of a locked drawer, but it would have to do. Constable Sweet wouldn’t be checking in with Penny foranother fortnight, so the letter could stay in its new hiding spot until then. Hopefully, the marquess wouldn’t notice its absence before she could rid herself of the parchment. Though if Lord Renquist did go searching, Penny doubted he would think to look under the mattress of an illiterate maid.
As she made her way through the servants’ hall to the linen cupboard to gather fresh sheets for the marquess’ bed, her thoughts were drawn irrevocably back to the study and her conversation with the troublesome man. Why did Renquist pull at her? Like the wind tangling her skirts around her legs, or a rogue wave threatening to drag her feet from beneath her. He was an evil man intent on awful deeds. She shouldn’t find such a devil attractive.
I do not find him the least attractive. He’s a despicable blackguard responsible for untold evil acts, not the least being my mother’s current imprisonment.
Penny shuddered at her own weakness. To let such a man infiltrate her numerous shields was completely unacceptable.
It’s his regard. The questions he asks. The notice he takes of me. A maid. Certainly not worthy of his time or consideration.
When she spoke with him, it was so easy to forget. Lord Renquist and men like him were the reason her childhood was full of such cruelty, and why her present circumstances were so desperate. But in their two interactions, he hadn’t treated her cruelly. Quite the opposite. While he fairly dripped of danger, he spoke to Penny as though her thoughts were valuable.
The Devil’s sin is pride, and he strokes mine so easily.
She would not be charmed by a man who kept her mother in a cell and was likely responsible for even worse crimes against innocent maids. Though it was becoming difficult to imagine Lord Renquist coercing young girls into his home only to drug them, nail them into coffins, ship them across the channel, and sell them into slavery. She had less trouble imagining himseducing young women into his private room and committing any manner of sins with them in his massive, feather-padded, silk-draped, pillow-festooned bed. A bed she would be making directly.
I will not let Renquist’s charms fool me.
Penny nodded at her own sage advice. It didn’t matter if the man’s amber eyes tempted her like warm honey. If his questions lingered like the sting of a bee. If the warmth of his hand as it almost grazed her leg made her skin hum like a buzzing hive. She would smoke him out, expose his sins, outsmart him at his own game. But first, she would make his bed, help set the dining room table for his “welcome home” feast, and serve the bastard his dinner of decidedly unspoiled beef.
As she made her way through the grand entryway on her way up the main staircase to the family wing with an armful of clean linen for his bed, a knock sounded on the door. Usually, Coggins would answer the front door, but he was still organising the dining room. Penny looked around for a footman, yet none lingered in the hall. She could hardly answer the door with an armful of sheets in her hand. Hastily thrusting them into a hall closet, she brushed her apron neatly over her skirt and made her way to the door. Opening it a crack, she peered out.
Dancing devils!
There was no mistaking the woman standing on the marble portico.
Penny took a stumbling step backward as she tried not to drown on air suddenly as thick as the Thames.
