A Lady of Notoriety. Diane Gaston
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will be my pleasure,’ she said.
As they climbed the stairs, he asked, ‘What time is breakfast served?’
Goodness. She did not care. ‘Whenever you wish.’
‘Name a time.’
She ought to check with Mrs Pitts before making a decision. The woman had toiled very hard this day. The new maids had caused her more work and the prospect of hiring more workers had created more anxiety in the poor woman.
What thoughts were these? When had she ever considered the feelings of servants?
‘I will send Carter in the morning to help you dress. We will have breakfast ready soon after.’
She left him at his doorway. ‘Goodnight, Mr Westleigh. Carter will be up to tend to your needs soon.’
His hand slid down her arm to clasp hers. ‘Thank you for a very enjoyable evening.’
Her heart fluttered with pleasure. Appreciation from a gentleman had always gratified her, but did not usually excite such emotion. Not from her husband, certainly. From only one man, the man who’d married Westleigh’s sister.
It must merely be the novelty, she thought. She’d been secluded from men for a long time when at the convent. Certainly Hugh Westleigh was the last man on earth who should excite her sensibilities.
She crossed the hallway to the bedchamber opposite Westleigh’s. It was smaller than the one she’d given Westleigh, but there was another, even smaller room next to it that was perfect for Monette.
Besides, she’d become used to sleeping in a room in the Abbey even smaller than a maid’s room. A cot. A side table. A chest for her clothing. It had been all she needed.
Inside the room, Monette was laying out her nightdress.
She looked up at Daphne, her brows raised. ‘Was that Mr Westleigh I heard with you? Carter said he came down on his own for dinner.’
‘Yes. I walked with him upstairs.’
‘Is he to be up and about, then?’ Monette asked.
‘Yes. He has no wish to spend time in his room.’ Unfortunately.
‘That makes you unhappy,’ Monette guessed.
Monette was not in Daphne’s confidence. In fact, Daphne had told the younger woman very little about her life. She was the widow of a viscount, that was it. Daphne had not told anyone, even the abbess, any more than that. While in the convent, she wore her unhappiness as plainly as the sisters wore their habits, but she’d never explained.
She needed to give some answer, though. ‘It makes matters more complicated. No matter what he thinks, he cannot get about on his own.’
Monette folded down the coverlet and bed linens. ‘It is good, then, that you have hired more help. There are more of us to tend to him.’
Yes, but Westleigh was her guest, and a hostess did not leave a guest to be entertained by the servants.
‘That is so,’ she said, there being no reason why Monette should know precisely how difficult it would be for her to spend time with Westleigh.
Spending time with him was like a constant reminder of her lie and of what she was most ashamed.
And now she was also too much aware of him as a man.
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