"A social nicety to impress your peers." He ventured. "Easier for you to find a husband, mayhap." And his stance morphed from casual to stony in a matter of milliseconds. The veritable disgusted look he threw at her dispensed description.

  His last words caused the blood to drain from Millicent’s skin. To such an extent she felt dizzy. The last thing she wanted was a match, especially one forged by her father. No man would ever be in her life. Ever! She wouldn't abide it. All she envisioned was her freedom, her escape, the life she planned in a future she built on her own. The sense of disgust, of repellence, nearly made her sick. She must have swayed because Martin gave a large step towards her and held her upper arms.

  “Duchess?” he called in a quizzical tone.

  Millicent couldn't tell if he pulled her or she drifted to him, but the fact remained that they were closer, so close their bodies almost touched. So close, she discerned the pinpricks of his stubble and his scent of the coarse soap he used to wash after work. Her head fell back as her wide eyes found him; her lips fell open to gulp air in desperate intakes. In the name of balance, her fingers grabbed his biceps. From waxen and clammy, her skin registered the flood of heat. If she felt faint with his news, now a state of alertness took over, her senses all centred on his nearness. A shiver cut through her, the memory of their kisses in the library and the need the moment arose interwove in one hazy starvation.

  Long minutes elapsed with their eyes meshed. His attention roamed over every inch of her face in the dim light of the lantern. He loomed; skin stretched over his harsh features. They devoured each other with their stares. Each fibre in her body waged war. The irrational hunger and the sensible drive clashing so fierce she could hear the clanging, as though metal swords struck against one another. This drawing power he incited in her almost won. Her arms even moved to lace his neck and pull him to her. To end this agony once and for all.

  She couldn’t give in to whatever this was. Couldn’t! She wouldn’t allow anyone to breach the defences she erected with painstaking effort. It seemed alright to have friends. But they didn’t threaten her sense of safety, of detachment. Not like this man did. No matter where he came from, who he was, or what he represented. The only thing that mattered should be her self-protection.

  Remember Lord Derby, she admonished herself. Don't forget the monster her father was. She had to keep her wits about her, keep her eye on her goal. Her lungs filled and she mustered enough strength to give a step back and regain her self-possession.

  “It must have been something I ate.” She diverted. “Thank you for your help.” Her hands smoothed her skirts to disguise their unsteady condition. Steeling herself, she lifted her head to his fixed scrutiny. “Good night.” Without waiting for an answer, she pivoted and fairly jaunted to the house. All in the name of her dilapidated dignity.

  “I require your service,” the very voice that had been haunting his humiliating wet dreams said a few evenings later. Yes, because how could he hunger for the daughter of that man with such fierceness that she wormed her way into his unconscious mind?

  At the folie where he lodged these nights, he sat in the act of folding a few pieces of clothing he'd brought from home. The servants ate dinner after their employers and Martin would join them then. He'd been to visit Aine and Bertha on his free day to bring his weekly wages, pick extra clothes, and tell his mother he'd be overnighting at his work. He spared her from the news that the duke had returned to his residence. After all, Bertha might sense Aine's distress and become agitated again.

  For the first time in his pointless existence, he was experiencing staying with his own company at night. And mostly during the days too as he spent hours working here alone. Even when he’d left his mother’s home at eighteen to undertake life away from his family, he’d shared shabby rooms with other mates all of them unable to do it individually.

  The sense of peace and rest that resulted came as a novelty for him. Not that he regretted having returned to live with his mother and sister, they were his priority. A few days of a reprieve though proved to be invigorating.

  His head craned to her and he stood up in the same movement. "Duchess," he greeted. And witnessed the flare of her grey-brown eyes. She stated she didn't like him calling her that, but her rosy cheeks and dilated gaze told another story. Needless to say, she still deported in her usual regal manner. Which only inflicted him with the fantasy of dismantling her queenly posture with his hands. And mouth. Until she screamed his name with relish.

  An unashamed look inspected her from the elaborate twist on the top of her head to the burgundy dress to slippers and back. She appeared especially striking today. His gaze clasped to hers, and although she didn’t move a single muscle, he noticed the brightness of her eyes and the colour on her cheeks in the fading daylight. He waited for her to complete her request.

  “I am invited to a dinner,” she started. That was why she dressed with that care. “And someone must accompany me.”

  He eyed her with more intensity. “You mean you need a companion.”

  Her hands laced in front of her. “Not exactly. Someone who’ll stand as a footman.”

  Ah, a man to sit on the carriage bench ready to protect her if need be. He just crossed his arms at the unusual request.

  “All the footmen are busy with my father’s dinner,” she explained.

  “I see,” he answered in a slow drawl.

  “I’ll pay for your extra work, naturally.”

  To simply accompany her to some toff's function. Well, he could use the added income. In reality, it'd be a welcome addition to his wages. "I wouldn't say no to that," he replied. "Shall I wear a livery?" One of those ridiculous wigs and the colourful uniform following the vulgarised fashion of fifty years past. He'd feel like a buffoon but what could he do about it?

  “It’s not necessary.” She studied him as though measuring his height, but with a pinch of eagerness in the grey-brown depths. “I don’t think there would be one of your size, moreover.”

  “I’ll take my coat.” He said as his feet moved.

  “Yes, but first,” she interjected. “Here.” And extended him a pouch she’d retrieved from her reticule.

  With a long stare at her, he took the tied lather heavy with coins and opened it. To the content of at least a year's wage in his trade. His brows crumpled. "It's too much," he contested. That the transaction happened in advance surprised him.

  Her hands had gone back to join each other over her midriff, ladylike as you please. "It's the usual one for a footman here."

  Perhaps Martin should apply for the position, in that case, he thought sourly. Or not. He didn't believe he could stomach the duke day in and day out. Nonetheless, the extra earnings would provide for his family for weeks or even months, if managed with wisdom. He'd give it to Aine tomorrow when he visited.

  With a nod of thanks, he ducked inside the folie.

  He'd placed the mattress and his personal belongings in a corner that wouldn't need repair. During the day he covered it with the canvas and uncovered it for the night. As he kept the pouch in his things, his arms stabbed the coarse coat over his shirt, faded neckcloth and worn-out breeches. His wrinkled boots were already on his feet. Then he exited and closed the door.

  Martin and Millicent neared the readied carriage at the front of the house. He didn’t have any experience with this position but he’d seen footmen helping ladies in and out of vehicles enough times to follow suit.

  With that in mind, he stood by the door and offered his hand to her. She put her gloved fingers on his. Even the contact with her wrapped in the fabric was cause for his blood to move faster in the wrong direction. They looked at each other, and Martin didn’t miss the tip of her tongue moistening those morsels of perdition. And didn’t miss his own throat swallowing on grit.

  Hell, and damnation!

  The lady held her skirts and put slippers to step as he saw her up safely. Too soon he had to let go of her delicate hand. He climbed up the carriage with the coachman he’d already met at meals and greeted him with a touch on his hat. Harry pulled the reigns and the carriage lurched ahead.

  “Lady Millicent is having dinner with Mrs Gresham and other friends.” Harry informed. “She was The Countess of Bradford before she married again.” The input meant to warn Baker to behave with the necessary deference, he understood.

  The short trip led them to another luxurious townhouse. By the brightly lit entrance, Martin recognised the people he met at Haddington House. As they halted, he jumped from the bench to do his duty for the night.

  Lady Millicent’s dainty feet had barely touched the ground when someone spoke behind him. “Baker, is that you?”

  When she’d been standing safely outside the carriage, Martin turned. “Mr Lynch,” he greeted with the required formality.

  “For heaven’s sake man, you know my given name!” Edgard vented as he neared them. “My lady.” He addressed Millicent with a bow.

  Mr and Mrs Gresham chose that moment to emerge from the house upon being called by the butler. Edgard turned to the couple and introduced Baker as though they were lifelong friends.

  The couple greeted him and he addressed them with formality as befitting a footman. "Come on in," the lady of the house invited.

  He was aware that a footman should round the house to wait in the kitchen, and grab a bite if luck stood on his side.

  Uncomfortable, Martin slid a glance to Millicent but she was distracted talking to Mrs Lynch and Mrs Hill. Then Daniel Hill waved at him.

  Walter looked at him with a pleasant smile. “Lady Millicent’s friend is our friend, too.”

  Expression crumpled; Martin spoke. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Don’t be shy, Mr Baker,” Mrs Gresham chided with a frank smile.

  This time, Millicent looked at him and they froze for several seconds. “Mr Baker is accompanying me tonight.” She turned to Mrs Gresham with the faintest shadow of a grin.

  “As her foot—” Martin tried.

  “We don’t stand on ceremony,” Amelia Hill interrupted.

  At a loss what to do, Martin directed a look at Harry. The coachman produced a shrug as if saying that the hostess had the last word.

  "Drinks await in the drawing-room," warned Eleanor Gresham.

  The husbands offered their arms to their wives and moved to enter the house. Trapped in this strange situation, Martin mimed the others and did the same.

  “You should enlighten them on their mistake, my lady,” he murmured to her as her hand closed on the coarse wool on his arm.

  “And embarrass them needlessly?” she questioned in that cut-glass tone of hers. “Besides, it’ll be a positive experience for you to see there are open-minded people in this world.”

  And what he would do with that, he possessed no idea. But he was here and he would have to tackle it.

  As though walking on eggshells, he conducted the lady to where the hosts headed, remembering having heard once a proverb about Rome and Romans. And it set the pattern for the unexpected situation he found himself in.

  In the impeccable drawing-room, the footmen served a delicate glass with an amber drink in it. Observing the others, he tried the beverage. It tasted like strong ale only a little sweeter. "What's this called?" he asked Millicent.

  “Madeira wine,” she clarified. “It comes from Portugal.”

  Careful not to embarrass her, he took another sip. “Not bad for a dignified beer,” he gave his verdict as he lifted the glass and looked at it.

  Her grey-brown eyes acquired a gleam of mirth even if her delicious mouth didn’t move. “You could say. It’s fermented too.”

  The butler announced dinner and the most remarkable thing happened. The husbands didn’t pair with their wives. Mr Gresham offered to accompany Millicent and they led the procession into the dining room.

  “I hope you don’t mind accompanying me, Mr Baker,” Eleanor inquired nearing him.

  “Not at all, my lady.” Then did as the other men and offered her his arm, self-conscious about his low-quality clothes.

  “Millicent gets to go first because she’s the highest rank tonight,” the lady explained. “Then, Emma, the sister of an earl.” At the moment, walking on Mr Hill’s arm.

  That seemed odd, to say the least. As far as he remembered, Mrs Lynch mentioned her husband had been a mill worker, paired with Mrs Hill ahead of them. He'd never imagined a noblewoman willing to marry a commoner.

  “But you’re a countess, I hear,” he wondered.

  “The title fell when I married again,” she declared. “Though many still treat me as if I was.” She delivered it without a hint of vanity, just a statement of a fact.

  They reached the room brightened by the crystal chandeliers and the lady halted by a chair on one end. Again, the gentlemen provided the cue and Martin held the chair for her. The butler showed him his seat, no doubt set after he’d arrived.

  “It’s a kind of farewell dinner here,” Amelia said after a sip of wine. “We’re heading back to Alne in a few days.”

  “But it’s too soon.” Eleanor’s voice expressed her unacceptance.

  “A good deal of work awaits us at home,” defended Emma.

  The Hills owned a coal mine in Northumberland. The Lynchs led a cotton mill in Hull.

  “Be sure not to take too long to visit again,” demanded Eleanor.

  A brief silence fell as the guests enjoyed their fare.

  "Martin is doing an excellent job with Lady Millicent's folie restoration," Daniel revealed.

  "The folie is already a work of art," Martin defended as he made it a point to hold the spoon as everyone else did.

  “It’s difficult to find exacting craftsmen these days,” Walter noted without the least bit of arrogance.

  “Indeed,” Millicent agreed. “And Martin is very familiar with architectural concepts.” The matter-of-fact tinge in her voice contrasted with her approval.

  He snapped his gaze to her. That she praised him even with her discerning tastes defied all odds. Their eyes meshed and held until he remembered himself and looked away. And didn’t see Amelia, Emma, and Eleanor exchanging meaningful glances.

  When the ladies moved to retire, Martin also stood together with the husbands. But stared quizzically at the ladies disappearing while the men stayed.

  “Are they leaving without you?” There was no avoiding the note of weirdness.

  “This is the part we gents stay and talk about our interests,” Walter explained.

  “And enjoy a cigar and brandy.” Even coming from a humble background, Lynch seemed at ease with this way toffs did dinner.

  Martin glanced at the door with unease. If he meant to stand as her footman, he should leave with her.

  "Don't worry." Daniel must have read his mind. "They are in the drawing-room with tea and their chat."

  A glass containing an amber liquid materialized in front of him. His fingers wrapped on the delicate crystal to bring it to inhale the rich aroma then tried it. Not bad either. Along with the wine, it tasted tolerable enough. The cigar, he refused, its distinctive odour not so pleasant.

  “You’re not messing up with her, are you?” Lynch demanded.

  Martin grimaced. "Mess—?" And scoffed. "I'm here as her footman if you must know." Now he felt more comfortable to slouch on his seat, like the others. But wouldn't deign to reveal his mixed feelings on the whole entanglement his life had become.

  “Footman?” Walter exclaimed.

  “All the ones in her house were busy with the duke’s dinner.” He shrugged in his worn-out shirt.

  The three other men looked at one another. "Indeed," Daniel said, his seriousness tinged with a knowing trace.

  “Regardless, this has been an… enlightening evening,” Martin admitted, showing gratefulness for the men’s acceptance of him.

  Later, as the carriage halted by Haddington House, Martin leapt from the bench and did his duty of helping the lady alight. And recoiled his hand as soon as she touched the ground, or he might get in trouble in earnest. Not wise with Harry close by.

  “Good night, Martin.” The haughty parting held a drop of thankfulness.

  He bowed and rotated to walk away before he changed his mind about the parting, the messing-up, and everything in between.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Millicent sat in the morning room with her tea remembering how curious last night had been. As the duke would have dinner at home, she'd not wanted to spare any footman lest a maid would be requested to stand in for him. The idea of asking Baker had seemed only natural. But upon arriving, the Greshams had taken him for her guest. She had marked on Martin's effort to fit in and behave accordingly. The perception had filled her with a foreign pride. Not only had he fit in, but also been accepted by her friends as though it happened every day. It didn't. Millicent didn't invite guests to accompany her to any social function. She stood on a countdown here. Towards her independence. And had no wish to further anything remotely connected with a match.

  Around her, the footmen moved and she lifted her head to see her father entering the room as though he didn’t own the house, but the entire continent. He sat without so much as looking at her. And waited to be served to his exacting tastes.

  “After the folie is ready this house will go back to its former glory,” he declared.

  “How so?” There was no hiding her lack of interest.

  “It’s been a long time we don’t entertain.” A footman broke his boiled egg for him.

  Before her mother died, there had been a few social functions during the season though Millicent didn’t take part being still too young for that. The ton sparingly accepted invitations. As her mother passed, any socialising fell away.

  “Indeed.” Millicent couldn’t care less for it.

  "This egg is too cold. Bring me another," he demanded from Jacobs. And to her, "I'll arrange a match before it's too late."

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24