Passion and Pride (A Historical Romance) Page 3

  “Yes, m’lord. No, m’lord. Right away, m’lord,” he answered with perfect equanimity.

  Evan was glad that Marian had not been put right to work. He hoped she would be able to avoid Evan’s father as long as humanly possible.

  Unfortunately, Marian appeared to be on Andrew’s mind, as well.

  “The new servant girl arrived today, father. She’s quite charming,” Andrew remarked.

  “What?! What do I care for charming? She’s a servant – she best be industrious and nothing more.” Then the old man seemed to register the entire comment. “What new servant girl?”

  “Marian Willows, I believe her name was,” Andrew said. “Mr. and Mrs. Chapman are her uncle and aunt.”

  The old man sputtered. “New servant girl?! Whittaker – what the devil is this about a new servant girl?!”

  “Your son is correct, m’lord. We need a replacement for the chambermaid who ran off with her beau two months ago.”

  “Need?! Need?! You need nothing but a good stiff boot up your ass, Whittaker! How dare you hire another mouth to feed without asking me first!”

  Evan almost laughed – not at the insult, but at the suggestion that Whittaker would have ever done anything involving an outlay of more than a crown without the old man’s approval.

  In writing.

  For future incidents such as this.

  “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but I brought up the matter three weeks ago and received your consent, after which I advised Mr. and Mrs. Chapman to notify their niece.”

  “Consent?! I gave no such consent!”

  “I can retrieve the written document with my lordship’s signature, if he so desires,” Whittaker said as he poured more wine into the curmudgeon’s glass.

  “You may lie all you want, Whittaker, but I gave no such consent,” the old man grumbled. Of course he knew that Whittaker had proof – Whittaker always had proof – so now he changed tack. “I see no need for another servant! I have not noticed any difference in the quality of work around here, which is to say, dreadful!”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Whittaker agreed mildly. “But Miss Morland has been at her wits’ end keeping up with the extra work.”

  Miss Morland was the head maid, and directly under the Housekeeper’s supervision.

  “What do I care for Miss Morland and her wits, or rather, her lack thereof? How can I give a damn about something that does not exist?”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Whittaker said.

  “Evan saved her from a rather spectacular death, father,” Andrew announced cheerily.

  “What? Who, Miss Morland?”

  “No, the new girl. Her carriage was out of control. Evan rode up alongside it and stopped the horse.”

  Evan gave his brother an annoyed look for dragging him into the conversation.

  “Why did you do that, you idiot?” Lord Blake snapped at Evan. “Could have saved me a good deal of money if you had just let her die! Whittaker!”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “How much is this fool girl costing me?”

  “Ten pounds a year, m’lord.”

  “That’s too much! Far too much!”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Tell her she’ll have to accept half!”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Whittaker, of course, would do no such thing. He was parsimonious, but his word was his bond.

  And Evan would never have let him go back on it, anyway.

  “No – tell her she’s fired! We don’t need another chambermaid!”

  “It would greatly help Miss Morland, m’lord.”

  “What the devil do I care about Miss Morland!”

  Evan let his mind drift back to Marian, and as he did so, his father’s barking voice subsided in the distance. He recalled her wind-tossed hair, the sparkle in her eyes, the dazzling smile…

  And he recalled her slim waist… the shapely turn of her ankle… the modest but firm swell of her breasts beneath her blouse and jacket…

  “Evan,” Andrew called, shaking him from his daydream.

  Evan looked around in a daze.

  “You fool!” Lord Blake roared. “You endangered yourself and a damn good horse to save a hired trap? And a useless servant girl who’s costing me ten pounds a year?”

  Around and around the old man went for the next twenty minutes, until Evan devoutly wished he had his pistol at hand so he could shoot himself in the head and so excuse himself from the remainder of the meal.

  6

  Marian had been at the house for two weeks when the confrontation occurred.

  Her life at Blakewood was hard, but not unbearable. She had heard tales of servants in London whose very existence was misery. Though Lord Blake was known to be a tyrant, the old man rarely saw or spoke to any staff beside those who served meals. And while Whittaker the butler/steward was a tight-fisted miser, he was unusually lenient. As long as the work was done, he did not bother any of the staff with overbearing comments or unreasonable demands.

  Not so her Aunt Sally. She berated Marian constantly, as though she had been waiting and praying for someone to lord over. She would tell Marian to stand up straight, then five minutes later command her to stop putting on airs. After all, she was only a lowly chambermaid. She would tell Marian to fix her hair and smooth out her clothes – “You are an ungodly mess” –and not half an hour later would snipe at her for her vanity. “Smile, child, you are unpleasant to look at.” “Wipe that foolish grin off your face, you look a fool.”

  Marian held her tongue the entire time – though just barely. If she had been back home she would have told Aunt Sally she could go to the devil (and what she could do with him), but Marian knew that Mama and Papa had washed their hands of her. If Aunt Sally had her thrown out, there was nowhere else left to go.

  So she bided her time and endured the petty torments.

  She rose early at six thirty in the morning. At seven she ate breakfast with the other servants, who mostly ignored her. At seven thirty she started her day. She had never been trained as a servant, so she followed one of the other chambermaids around for several days in order to learn her duties. The particulars of the job were not hard – it was the sheer volume of the work and the soul-crushing boredom of it all. But at least she ended her duties at eight o’clock, whereupon she would go up to her room and write until midnight, when she went to bed in order to get up and do it all over again.

  At least she was still able to write. That was one of the few benefits of the situation.

  The other was that she occasionally saw Evan Blake.

  Since her duties meant that she was supposed to stay out of sight of the Blake family, she did not interact with Lord Blake or his sons much at all. She was not to be seen, much less heard. But she would see him riding off in the morning on his black steed – going to practice shooting or fencing, according to the grounds servants. Or she would see him in the parlor as she walked past the door.

  Every time she saw him, the rest of her day was lightened. As she changed sheets and dusted and cleaned, the next few hours would slip by as she thought about his sensual lips, those marvelous hands, and what they might do to her in the privacy of a locked room.

  As the newest addition to the staff, she was not given any chores of real importance, which meant she did not ever clean the bedrooms of the three men of the house.

  Not until the day Sarah got sick, anyway.

  The other chambermaid had come down with a fever, so Marian was given the task of attending the Blake mens’ chambers. She sped through her regular morning duties, then mounted the stairs to the second floor, where she decided to attend to Evan’s room first.

  Her heart beat wildly as she entered the room for the first time. It was a beautiful space, with the same masculine touches that she associated with its occupant. Dark wood paneling gave the walls a beauty and refined appearance. The furniture was well-made but not ornate; the decorations were muted and slightly austere. No frippery or feminine
touches here.

  A brace of pistols sat in an open case on a table, and a dueling sword hung on the wall. She wondered at first if they were for show, then decided against it. They were relatively new – definitely not family relics – yet they lacked the luster of unused objects, as though they been handled and used.

  With a twinge of jealousy, she wondered what fine lady’s honor he might have used them to defend.

  There was a wardrobe in the room, and a handsome desk, and a couple of small tables with lamps.

  The bed… the bed was very large.

  There were a great many things two bodies could do in a bed of that size.

  It was monumental compared to the narrow virgin’s bed in her servant’s chambers.

  Not that she was a virgin, though.

  She traced her fingers along the tousled sheets, looked at the depression in the pillow where his head had lain. His woodsy, masculine scent hung in the air, the slight hint of musk and clean sweat she had smelled that day she first arrived – and the smell made her weak. She felt an aching warmth spread into her most intimate parts, and she wished that she could have stripped naked and lain in those sheets where his own muscular body had been just hours before.

  The thought of it made her skin flush and her breathing quicken, and she had to turn away for a moment to compose herself.

  She turned to the wardrobe, which she opened and peered inside. His various jackets and clothes hung inside, and she pulled the sleeve of one shirt up to her nose and breathed deeply. The scent of him on the cloth was even more powerful – and intoxicating. She closed her eyes and imagined herself lying naked beneath him, breathing in his scent as he slowly parted her legs and slowly eased himself into her aching wetness –

  “I must say, that is an odd way to clean a chamber.”

  She dropped the shirt and whipped around, her heart thudding and her face burning red.

  Andrew Blake stood in the doorway, an insouciant grin on his face.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, and performed a little curtsy.

  He walked into the room slowly, like a cat taking its time with a cornered mouse.

  “Do you always perform your duties by sniffing out the laundry?”

  “No, sir,” she said. Her heart was beginning to slow and the flush in her cheeks to subside.

  Thank God it’s this one and not his brother, she thought.

  “Were you gathering the laundry, perhaps? Thinking of branching out?”

  His tone was mocking, and it irked her. When she answered him, her tone was bold rather than subservient.

  “I thought I detected a hint of a perfume that reminded me of one I had quite liked in London.”

  “Really. I should be quite fascinated to know how Evan might have picked up traces of perfume. Are you suggesting he might have… I don’t know, come into contact with a female?”

  “I was mistaken. It was not perfume.”

  “Would you have thought it amiss if it were?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And why not?”

  “It is not my business what your brother does.”

  “But, would it offend your sensibilities if he had… enjoyed a certain relationship, let us say… with one of the ladies on the staff?”

  The thought actually caused a needle of jealousy to prick her heart – but of course she would not admit it.

  The jealousy was followed by fear, because she could see quite clearly where the boy was steering the conversation.

  Andrew was a little too close now. It was unsettling her, and she took a step back. “As I said, it is no business of mine what your brother does.”

  He took another step towards her, bringing him even closer. “I didn’t ask you that. I asked if it would offend your sensibilities for the master of the house and a servant to enjoy each other’s… company.”

  “I would not enter into such an arrangement, no.”

  He was almost in her face now. He was several inches taller than her, and he blotted out the rest of the room from her view.

  “But, what if there were certain benefits to do so? Not only the… physical pleasure of the relationship, but presents… necklaces, or jewelry, or clothes… whatever you desire…”

  She glared at him. “If I give my affections to a gentlemen, it is because I care for him. I am not a whore to be bought and sold.”

  He laughed – not a mocking laugh, nor cruel, but good-natured, and perhaps a little embarrassed.

  It surprised her. She had been steeling herself for anger, perhaps even violence – in which case she could have cried out. With a mark on her cheek and other members of the staff to witness it, she could perhaps have shamed him into leaving her alone.

  Instead he took her fingers firmly but gently in his.

  She pulled her hand away immediately.

  He let her, and smiled. “You mistake me. I only meant – ”

  “GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER.”

  A deep, enraged voice filled the room.

  Andrew turned around in shock. As he did so, Marian could see the figure filling the doorway.

  Evan Blake.

  Her heart leapt into her throat.

  His face was flushed, and the scowl in his features was chilling to behold. Marian had seen other men as angry as him twice before – and both times, blows had followed.

  “E-Evan,” Andrew stuttered. “I was only talking to Miss Willows – ”

  “Get out of my room,” Evan said, his voice cold as forged steel.

  Andrew blushed a deep scarlet. “There was nothing untoward – ”

  “GET OUT OF MY ROOM.”

  Andrew walked stiffly past his brother, his head down, looking for all the world like a whipped dog.

  Marian’s heart was thudding in her chest. Panic rose inside her, though she had done nothing wrong. She realized that the one thing that frightened her most was that not that he might be angry with her – if that were the case, she was not sure she would be able to stop her own anger in return – but that he would think she cared anything at all for Andrew.

  Evan watched him go and waited until the creak of his footsteps receded in the distance. Then he turned to Marian and his face immediately softened. “I’m sorry about that. Are you all right?”

  The gentleness in his voice confounded her. “I – sir, I promise you, I did not – I did not mean – ”

  “I heard the entire exchange. Or enough of it, anyway.” He suddenly looked embarrassed. “I am sorry, I am not in the habit of eavesdropping, but I was coming back here to retrieve something, and I… I heard…”

  Relief washed through her. “Then you know I was not inviting his advances.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “And you know I did not welcome… his advances.”

  She quite deliberately stressed the word ‘his.’

  She could not say what she really wanted to… but she hoped that he might read between the lines.

  She wondered if she ought to do it – and after she said it, she worried that he would think her a shameless hussy. If he reacted badly to the comment, though, she could always laugh it off and pretend she had misspoken, or that he had misread her intent.

  A strange expression came over his face, like a man undergoing a violent internal struggle. A desperate longing filled his eyes, the way a man lost for days in a desert might stare at a glass of water he was forbidden to touch.

  After a few seconds, though, his eyes cleared and he merely answered, “I know.”

  It confused her. If he had responded coldly, then she would have known his mind completely. If he had answered with a seductive reply, she would have welcomed that – the dance might have continued. If he had bounded across the room and passionately ripped her clothes off, that would have been the most wonderful reaction of all – though perhaps one realistic only in the novels she read.

  But his evenness and lack of reaction confused her. She did not know where she stood in his eyes, whether favorable or
unfavorable.

  “Well… I should get back to my duties, sir,” she said, lowering her eyes, and curtsied.

  “No! Wait… stay a moment,” he said, his voice thick. “Please.”

  She looked up into his eyes, and nearly drowned in their soft, liquid depths.

  “I haven’t had any opportunity to speak with you since your arrival,” he added quickly.

  She nodded, though she never moved her eyes from his.

  “Have you… has your time here…” he tried and faltered. His tone was formal, but he sounded like a nervous little boy.

  She smiled warmly and joyously. Not only was his difficulty amusing, but it told her what she wanted to know – or, at least, it gave her hope – and her heart soared.

  He laughed with relief and sheepishness mixed. “Let’s try this again: how are you?”

  “I’m doing well, thank you.”

  “Whittaker and the others haven’t being too hard on you?”

  “No, it’s been… well, not easy, but not bad, either. I have plenty of time to write in the evening, so – ”

  His eyes lit up. “You write?”

  She blushed slightly. “Just trifles, sir.”

  “What do you write?”

  Now it was her turn to be shy. “…novels, mostly.”

  He looked impressed. “Speaking as someone who has never written anything longer than a two-page letter, I am quite in awe. How long have you been writing?”

  “Five years.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “At that rate, you’ll soon be giving Defoe and Voltaire a run for their money. You mentioned Voltaire before – do you read him in the original French, or in translation?”

  “In French.”

  “Do you speak it, as well?”

  “Un peu, mais pas bien. J’écris et lis mieux que je parle.”

  “I beg to differ, your accent is beautiful.”

  “And how would you know that, sir?” she asked coquettishly.

  “I went abroad for two years. You are extraordinarily well-educated for a servant girl.”

  “I never aspired to be a servant, sir. It just… happened.”

  He nodded as though he understood the implied unhappiness behind the turn of events. “Do you intend to publish?”

  She looked shyly at the floor. “It would be wonderful, but I… I don’t know. Perhaps one day.”