Page 53 of The Duke's Dream
Helene removed the kerchief from her head. “I am Miss Beaumont,”
“I’m sorry." He blushed fiercely. "I never witnessed one of His Grace’s mistresses doing housework.”
Mistresses in the plural? How many women did the tyrant have? “I don’t count myself as a dweller of his seraglio. Thank heavens for that.”
“I meant no disrespect. His Grace’s mistresses enjoy several privileges. He is generous and doesn’t spare resources to show his affection.”
“I don’t think affections can be quantified. All you see here, no matter how humble, was earned by my work.”
“Shall we start over?” the man said with a bow that nearly brushed the floor. “Baines, valet to the Duke of Albemarle, at your service. I brought you breakfast, and I’ll get that lock fixed in no time.”
Helene eyed the basket warily. Her stomach, however, betrayed her with a loud growl. She accepted a warm croissant, golden and flaking at the edges.
“These are delicious. How did you know I was starving?”
“His Grace instructed the chef to bake them for you, Miss Beaumont. He also said to tell you that you are too thin, and you must eat them all. I’m inclined to agree, if I may be so bold.”
Heat flared in her cheeks. Too thin? How dare he.
There he was again—His Majesty King Leontes—issuing royal decrees about her waistline.
She shoved the basket aside and attacked the floor with renewed vigor.
The valet looked at her inquisitively.
Helene brushed her hair out of her forehead. “Is there something wrong?”
He shook himself. “I beg your pardon, Miss Beaumont. I will get to work right away.”
Helene watched Baines as he crouched beside the door, tools clicking softly as he worked on the lock. What manner of employer was the duke? She could picture him now, a martinet of the highest order.
“How long have you served His Grace?” she asked, sweeping in slow arcs around the rug’s edge.
“I served the late duke first,” Baines replied without looking up. “When he passed, the son returned from the Navy a war hero—and kept me on.”
“A war hero?” Her broom faltered midstroke.
“He rescued a ship of prisoners and saved an entire village from bombardment. His bravery and loyalty were legion.”
Helene sighed, the sound barely more than breath as she caressed the rug with the broom. The duke in uniform... red coat setting off those storm-cloud eyes, brass buttons gleaming on his broad chest. But then she stiffened. No doubt those medals had been earned fighting her own countrymen.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, she said, “He must keep you quite busy. Does he give you any time to rest, or are you always running about at his bidding?”
Baines chuckled. “He’s demanding, that’s true. But I’ve no reason to complain.”
“He must’ve been spoiled as a boy.”
“Quite the opposite.” Baines’s tone dipped. “His father was... rigid, if you’ll pardon the understatement. And the duchess left when he was just a lad—” He cut himself off with a sharp breath. “Forgive me. I’ve said too much. I shouldn’t speak of his family.”
His mother left by her own free will? Against her better judgment, Helene pictured a younger version of His Grace alone in a vast estate. No wonder he was always brooding.
Helene rested her chin atop the broom’s handle. “He must be hard to please.”
“Not at all, Miss Beaumont.” Baines winked. “You have no reason to be worried.”
Heat invaded her chest, making her cheeks burn. “So, this is what you do, then? You visit women His Grace is interested in? Does he have plenty of them?”
He laughed, his belly shaking with mirth. “This is the first time I come to a young lady’s house to fix her lock. I’m all set here.” He cleaned his hands in his trousers and stood, dropping a sheet on the floor.
