Unveiled. Courtney Milan
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curl of gray hair and twisted it around her finger. “Go on with you.” Her words said, stop this nonsense, but she was smiling. She didn’t really mean it.
The footsteps he’d heard traversing the gallery earlier began to descend the stairs. He felt her arrival, a prickle of awareness settling against his skin. He wouldn’t turn. He wouldn’t look at her.
“So,” Ash continued, looking straight at Mrs. Benedict, “it would help me and my brother immensely if you would sit at the dinner table and eat with us. You’ll rescue us from countless male arguments. By your simple presence, you’ll help teach me what I need to know in order to uphold my dignity as Duke of Parford.”
While he had no doubt that Mrs. Benedict would be a fine addition to the table, the woman he’d been waiting for was descending the stairs right now.
An appeal to Mrs. Benedict’s pride, her sensibilities and her service to the title. Was anything left to offer? Ah, yes. One last thing.
“And I can already tell that you know this neighborhood intimately. You know its people. You know who they are and what they need. If I’m to be duke—and I intend to be a good one—I need to know what you know. Please say you’ll do me the very great honor of dining with me.”
She stared up at him, her cap sliding askew once more, as if she were trying to decide what to think. “For a man who claims to need someone to teach him finesse,” she said dryly, “you are far too agreeable. Are you this talkative with all the servants?”
Miss Lowell came to stand behind them with that last word. He could feel the draft of air that presaged her arrival, could smell that faint, sweet scent that clung to her. He imagined her placing her hands on her hips in disapproval. He stifled a grin and pitched his voice to carry.
“No, Mrs. Benedict,” Ash said. “Only the pretty ones.”
“Go on with you!” Mrs. Benedict wagged her finger at him, as if he were a wayward child. “I’m fifty-five, if I’m a day, and I’ve watched every last hair on my head turn to gray.”
Ash frowned at her and peered at the unruly curls peeking out from under her cap. “Silver,” he said. “Like moonlight, I think.”
She burst into laughter then, and Ash knew he’d won. It wasn’t flirtation—no sense of awareness had passed between him and the housekeeper. It was something sweeter and friendlier. He’d seen her as a person, rather than as a servant, and she knew it.
“There,” Ash said. “It’s settled. You’ll dine with me.”
Mrs. Benedict acquiesced to Ash’s upsetting of a social order older than William the Conqueror with a nod.
Ash turned casually. As he did, he saw Miss Lowell. He started and consciously widened his eyes, pretending he’d been unaware of her standing two feet off. Her head was turned to regard him, her eyebrows drawn down, as if she were uncertain what he and Mrs. Benedict might have to laugh about. She didn’t know he’d already identified her by the faint hint of roses that trailed around her, filling the entryway with her subtle perfume. That, and he’d known no other house servant would have dared to come down the main staircase with the housekeeper watching.
“Ah,” Ash said, “and this solves the other half of our dilemma, Mrs. Benedict. Our numbers are still uneven. My brother and I couldn’t possibly sit down to table with just you. We’d overwhelm you with our idiotic masculinity.”
“Oh?”
“Oh,” Ash said, with great finality. And then he let out a great sigh. “There’s only one possible solution. I suppose Miss Lowell will have to join us, as well.”
CHAPTER THREE
MR. TURNER’S ILL-FATED supper invitation actually went a long way towards easing Margaret’s fears. He had seemed so persuasive, so glib, that she had begun to worry he would soon lead all the servants astray. But he could, after all, make mistakes. This one would prove enlightening.
There was a reason servants did not sit with their masters at table, and it had nothing to do with pride or condescension. Margaret folded her hands primly in her lap, as the footmen served the soup course. She was in for what promised to be an evening of very awkward conversation.
What was Mr. Turner to do, after all? He couldn’t very well ask Mrs. Benedict about the course of her day. What could the woman possibly say in answer? “Well, I pressed your laundry, polished your silver and then oversaw the preparation of your meals.” No doubt Mr. Turner thought this meal would be a perfect opportunity to impose upon Margaret. She suppressed a grim smile.
The classes didn’t mix.
At one time, she might have thought that with haughty self-assurance, content in her own superiority. Now, she understood it as a bleak truth. Every lady of her acquaintance had stopped answering her letters—even Elaine who had once clung shyly to her side.
The walls of the dining hall were decorated with the portraits of dukes from ages past. Even her own ancestors would look down their noses at her, if they could see her through their painted eyes.
But she hardly fit with the servants. She was both mistress and supplicant, nurse and daughter of the house. She was isolated from everyone. It might have been petty of her, but she was glad that Mr. Turner was about to taste some of that same bitter solitude.
There was not the slightest indication on Mr. Turner’s face that he knew the tangle that awaited him. His valet had arrived in the servants’ coach and had turned him out splendidly. Those broad shoulders were only emphasized by his navy blue coat. His dark hair was rumpled almost perfectly, and the crisp lines of his cravat formed the perfect contrast with his easy manner. He was far too handsome for his own good.
Handsome or not, he’d soon discover that the boundaries of rank and privilege could not be superseded by decree, no matter how warm the accompanying smile. It didn’t matter where anyone ate. Servants were still servants. Bastards were still bastards.
But nobody had informed Mr. Turner of this incontrovertible fact. As the footmen placed wide bowls of celery soup before them, he turned towards Mrs. Benedict. The housekeeper was seated at his honored right. When Margaret had dined with her family, they’d used the entire expanse of their long dining room table. Mr. Turner, apparently, had asked for other arrangements. This table had been procured, and it felt small and close and uncomfortable, as if they were attending a crowded dinner party. Without the party.
“Mrs. Benedict,” Mr. Turner said as the footmen whisked the covers off the green soup, “I was thinking of investing in cotton, and I wished to ask you a few things.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Benedict’s face turned red. “Mr. Turner, I know how to dose a goose with castor oil, and I have a secret formula to get the shine back into silver. Investment—” she pronounced the word gingerly, as if holding up a dirty handkerchief “—that’s not for the likes of me.”
Inwardly, Margaret nodded.
“You want to talk to one of your peers, or a solicitor. I’m just a simple housekeeper.”
Mr. Turner picked up a spoon. “Nonsense. It is precisely your opinion I want. Men of my station would simply sniff and tell me nobody of good breeding wears cotton, and not to bother with it. But there’s money to be made if I ignore the gentry’s prejudice. I could sell five hundred times the amount to people like you. You are important.”
As Mr. Turner spoke, Margaret could see a change pass over Mrs. Benedict. She unfolded her arms. Her eyes widened. By the time Mr. Turner favored her with his final, brilliant smile, the woman had a soft, foolish grin in place.
“Well.” She fiddled with the cutlery and looked up. “There’s rags to start. Cotton—it absorbs water, and so I’ve used it for dishcloths.”
Mr. Turner nodded. “Go on.” He tasted his soup and looked back at Mrs. Benedict, focusing on her as if she were the only person in the universe. She continued, tentatively at