Brave New Earl Read online

  “I’m very fond of them, miss.” Sarah held out a hand. Tab went closer, sniffed, and accepted a pat on the head.

  “Why do I have so many things?” Jean asked. The trunks took up a large portion of the bedchamber’s floor. Their contents would never fit into the wardrobe. This was a disadvantage of having no settled home. She carried much of her life with her.

  “I’ll unpack what you’re likely to need here in the country,” said Sarah. “They’ll store the rest in the box room, as usual. But first, if you wouldn’t mind.” She eyed Jean. “May I do something about your hair, miss?”

  “Oh yes, please.” Jean sighed with sheepish relief. “It’s gone quite…feral without you.”

  Her curls set to rights by Sarah’s skillful fingers, Jean put on her bonnet and shawl and headed outside. Geoffrey could be found at the stables every afternoon at this time. Probably other times as well, given his delight in his pony, but his official riding lesson would be in progress now. Jean had felt on a poor footing with the boy since his stilted apology. She wanted to be… Reconciled seemed an odd word, but it was the one that occurred to her. She was determined to show him she wasn’t an ogre.

  Also, Lord Furness might be observing the lesson, and she wanted to speak to him. She could still hear him asking if she had nowhere to go. There might, perhaps, have been pity in his voice, which she would not have. Her departure also gave Sarah room to arrange things as she liked. Her bedchamber was a small space for two people, two trunks, and a lively kitten.

  Sarah managed the unpacking with practiced ease. When she finished, she went downstairs to find someone to take the trunks away, which was more difficult than one might have expected in a nobleman’s country residence. It seemed there were no footmen at all.

  She introduced herself to the housekeeper and the cook and was offered a cup of tea and a chat at the servants’ dining table. Mrs. McGinnis presented various lower servants as they came in and out in the course of their work, and Sarah busily gathered impressions. She was interested to find that there was no butler at Furness Hall, and that Lord Furness kept no valet. The latter omission was the subject of some mild levity. Sarah gathered that Lord Macklin’s valet was attempting to set the master of the house to rights, against his inclination, if not his will. Lord Furness’s evasive actions amused his staff, particularly over the matter of an unwanted haircut. There was no malice in the laughter, however. What servants there were seemed to like the place well enough.

  By the time Sarah headed back upstairs, she’d concluded that although Mrs. McGinnis was competent, this was a haphazard house with a master who paid no heed to the necessaries. It needed attention, a mistress who cared about everyone’s welfare as well as the state of the carpets. Sarah gave no sign of this opinion, of course.

  Due to her employer’s style of living, Sarah was adept at creating a place for herself in different kinds of households. The process had its disadvantages. Unlike some other lady’s maids of her acquaintance, she had no settled community, with friends made over years and a settled hierarchy. However, there were advantages to being a guest. She had no stake in long-standing rivalries, and she offered the allure of new stories to tell, a fresh voice in a group that might be bored with one another.

  Fortunately, Sarah enjoyed seeing new places and meeting new people. She wouldn’t have stayed on in her position if she didn’t. Her efforts to please added to her own comfort and that of her employer, which gratified Sarah. Over the five years of their association she’d come to admire Miss Saunders’s determination to make a life on her own terms. She’d also observed a deeply hidden vulnerability in the younger woman—some legacy of her early history, Sarah concluded. She’d learned, from snippets of talk gleaned here and there, that Miss Saunders’s parents had lived apart. Some said they’d hated each other. These hints had brought out what Sarah supposed were her maternal instincts. She enjoyed smoothing the way for her charge—a step beyond keeping her luxuriant hair in check. Walking along the corridor on the upper floor, Sarah allowed herself a small smile.

  At a turn in the hall, she encountered a stocky, black-haired man carrying a small pile of laundry.

  “Good day,” he said. “I’m Henry Clayton, Lord Macklin’s valet.”

  Of the disputed haircut, Sarah thought. But she said only, “How do you do, Mr. Clayton. My name is Sarah Dennison. Miss Saunders’s lady’s maid.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dennison.”

  He paused to look her over, and Sarah returned the favor. Mr. Clayton seemed about her own age, so he probably had more than twenty years of service under his belt, as she did. He had a round face, with wide cheeks and a snub nose. His brown eyes were as sharp as Sarah knew her blue ones to be.

  He would be finding her angular and buttoned up, Sarah knew, an impression she’d cultivated for years. Since her youth, when she’d been middling attractive and noticed that a beautiful lady’s maid was not a long-lived creature. Mr. Clayton was very well turned out, as he should be. Nobody wanted a slipshod valet. Except for one small oddity beside his left lapel. “Do you always carry a pair of scissors?” she asked.

  Mr. Clayton so far forgot himself as to glance down at the pointed blades peeking out of his upper pocket. He looked up at once, meeting her gaze. A wealth of information silently passed between them. “Have you heard about that already?” he asked.

  “There’s talk of a haircut in the kitchen. Or rather, of a haircut that never happens.”

  “I’m well aware.” He sounded rueful. “So perhaps you understand why I keep scissors at the ready, in case I should ever be allowed to use them.”

  “His lordship would benefit from your skill, I’m sure.”

  “Did you see him? He looks positively shaggy!”

  Sarah didn’t reply to this intemperate comment, which Mr. Clayton appeared to regret as soon as it was made. Instead she offered a sort of admission of her own. “Hair can be a challenge.”

  They indulged in another wordless exchange.

  “Your young lady must be very glad to have you here,” said Mr. Clayton.

  He was her counterpart, a personal servant who was not part of the household, making a place within it. They were rather like two foreign agents coming face-to-face on the same mission, Sarah thought, amusing herself. Mr. Clayton would add interest to this visit. She gave him a small smile. He returned it with a little bow and went on his way.

  • • •

  It was impossible to sleep with an important task undone, Jean thought some hours later, sitting up in bed and lighting her candle. On the other side of the bed, Tab raised his head and gave her an inquiring look.

  The thing preyed on one’s mind, Jean thought, and loomed larger—larger than it should, perhaps. If she’d just been able to speak to Lord Furness for a few minutes. But his uncle had come out to watch Geoffrey ride and then walked back to the house with them. He’d been present at dinner, of course, and afterward had challenged Lord Furness to a game of billiards. With no interest in being a passive observer, Jean had left them to it and gone to bed early. Lord Macklin was an admirable gentleman, she thought. His presence lent an air of propriety to her visit, but it also put a damper on private conversation.

  And so she was left with a distasteful idea growing in her mind—that Lord Furness now saw her as some pitiable poor relation. A sad spinster-auntish sort of female. A woman no one wanted, pushed along from house to house. What man would want to kiss such a person? Again.

  Jean wrapped her arms around her ribs. Those kisses had gone through her like a flame through tinder, like an unexpected introduction to desire. Her body had sprung to attention as if to say, “Ah, so this is the thing I’ve heard so much about. How do you do?” She wanted to further that acquaintance. She wanted to see her host’s blue-gray eyes burning just for her once again. To imagine pity there instead—the idea was unbearable. She had t
o set him right!

  The house had grown quiet. It was nearly midnight, but Jean knew that Lord Furness stayed up late. She threw back the coverlet and rose, putting on her dressing gown and covering it with a lacy cashmere shawl. Ignoring Tab’s interrogative mew, she picked up her candlestick and slipped into the corridor.

  Like last time, the house was dim and silent. Jean kept a sharp eye out for Geoffrey, said to wander the halls at night. But she saw no one as she made her way down to the library.

  Lord Furness was there, sitting on the sofa beneath his dead wife’s likeness and sipping a brandy. He rose when Jean came in, startled. “Is something wrong?”

  “I have plenty of places to go,” Jean blurted out. “In London and the country. I’m welcome in great houses all over England. Indeed, I’ve been told I grace any occasion. By some high sticklers, I might add.”

  Benjamin had had more than one brandy, as he occasionally did when the night deepened and regrets rose, and he didn’t expect to see anyone until the following day. He wasn’t drunk. Not nearly. But his mind was somewhat…slowed. Its first response to these remarks concerned how delicious she looked in her dressing gown and shawl. “Who could doubt it?” he managed.

  “I wanted to make that clear. It would be…distressing if you had the wrong impression. And thought me some half-tolerated hanger-on.”

  “I would hate to distress you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She gathered the shawl closer. The frothy fabric clung to the lines of her body. She looked soft and lithe and delectably embraceable. Benjamin decided to sit down. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he added.

  She sank onto the other end of the sofa. “You asked me. If I had nowhere to go. When Sarah arrived.”

  Who was Sarah? Ah, must be her maid. “I didn’t mean anything distressing.”

  “If you imagine that I’m to be pitied, you couldn’t be more wrong,” she declared.

  She leaned toward him, a creature of earth and fire, with that coppery spark in her dark eyes. He’d been alone a long time, Benjamin acknowledged. Shut in his morose little world. Until she’d burst in, shaking him up, trailing desire in her wake. “I don’t pity you,” he said. “I’m grateful.” Her lips parted in surprise. “You mustn’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Look irresistible. I’m less able than usual to resist tonight.”

  She leaned closer and kissed him. Softly, with exploratory sweetness. Benjamin simply responded at first. Then he caught the kiss like a tossed cricket ball and took it deeper. His arms reached for her, drew her close. She embraced him. Her body, unlaced under the wool of her dressing gown, fitted against him as her shawl fell to the floor. One of his hands found the fastening of the braid down her back and pulled it off, freeing her matchless curls. The other hand drifted up her side, caressing.

  Here was delight, Jean thought. Here was amazement. She’d swum in the sea once, long ago—pushing at the waves and being swept along by them. These kisses were like that. Give and take, offer and float away. She wanted more. He pressed her against the sofa back, becoming more urgent. One of his knees slipped between hers.

  And her mother’s shrill voice went off like a claxon in her mind—feeling, as it had always been, an inch from her ear. “Lose your virtue, lose everything. Do you hear me!” As if Jean could have helped hearing. “One slip, and you’re stuck alone in the middle of nowhere with the results.” Her mother had spit that final word with such venom. For as long as she could remember, Jean had known it meant her. She was the perpetrator of disaster, the rightful target of reproach. And after that came the stifling darkness. Jean jerked away from that old mental lash.

  Benjamin released her at once. What the hell was he doing, seducing a young lady, a guest under his roof, on the library sofa? The door wasn’t even locked. Which was irrelevant because he was going to stop right now. Breathless and aching, he drew back. Miss Saunders looked as if she might cry, which filled him with remorse. Then her expression hardened into…anger? “I’m sorry,” he said to cover both.

  “It isn’t your fault,” she replied.

  Her emphasis confused him. Did she mean it was hers? There was no one else here. She did sound angry. He considered taking her hand, but when she looked up, he understood she was furious.

  “No,” she said.

  “I stepped over the line,” Benjamin replied. “It won’t happen again.”

  She put her hands over her ears. “Stop!”

  This was a bit much, particularly when his body was trying to take the reins from his slightly befuddled mind. She’d kissed him, after all. “I have,” he said. “I did.”

  Miss Saunders retrieved her shawl and stood up, so Benjamin did, too. He wished he hadn’t had the brandy. She pulled the wrap on and held it close around her neck. Her dark hair foamed about her shoulders. “I must go,” she said.

  “You’re not going to walk out of here without telling me what’s wrong.”

  “It’s obvious. I behaved too freely. I came down to correct a wrong impression, and now I have given you another. I hope you will forget it.”

  There was something wrong with her tone. She spoke like a student repeating a rote lesson. “It’s more than that,” he said.

  “I don’t owe you explanations.”

  “I think you do, after what has passed between us.”

  He’d put some righteous indignation into his voice and managed to surprise her, which brought life back into her eyes. She seemed truly aware of him again. She hesitated, then said, “I won’t be ruled by the past.”

  Feeling out of his depth, Benjamin settled for “That seems sensible.”

  “How would you know?” she snapped back. “You’ve been wallowing in your grief for years.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The words came out cold, but Benjamin couldn’t care. Did she want to offend him?

  Oddly, Miss Saunders nodded. He had no idea what the gesture signified. “This has nothing to do with you,” she said. “Now and then, the past rears up and tries to…squash me. And I refuse.” She looked grim.

  “Nothing to do with me.” That phrase had outweighed the others for him. “You were in my arms. Happily, as I judged. Do you say I was mistaken?”

  “No,” she answered quietly.

  “Whatever I did wrong—”

  “Not you.”

  “There’s no one else present, Miss…Jean. Just you and me.” Benjamin was suddenly conscious of Alice’s portrait above them. But she wasn’t here. She was gone forever.

  “If only that were true.” She had to go. Her mother’s remembered voice was still shrieking in her mind. Once those memories rose, they had to be fought down. She knew how to do that—all the necessary steps. First, banish the crushing disappointment that they hadn’t gone for good.

  Before Lord Furness could speak again, Jean hurried from the library. She almost ran to her room, locking the door behind her. She added fuel to the coals of the fire and sat before it, hands folded, staring into the flames.

  After her mother’s death, Jean had vowed to live the life she wanted, free of all sorts of prisons. Even the one her mother had tried to leave lurking inside her. And she’d managed to do just that. The struggle grew easier with time. Tonight though, the past had roared back with a vengeance. Literally vengeance, Jean thought. Her mother always wanted to see someone pay.

  Why tonight?

  She’d never let herself go so far before, Jean thought. She’d never opened herself to pleasure, embraced desire. She’d never encountered a man like Benjamin, or felt that heady combination of tenderness and passion. It was as if her mother had set a trap, and Jean had sprung it.

  She pushed back her hair, which fell around her shoulders and curled over her cheeks. Her father’s hair, as had been continually pointed out to her through her childhood. Proflig
ate, stubborn, uncaring hair. Jean had been blamed for things she couldn’t help before she understood what the words meant.

  Her hands tightened. “Lies,” she whispered. Finally, painfully, after long struggles, she’d understood that her mother lied. That the shrieking and the darkness weren’t her fault. She’d vowed that the past wouldn’t rule her future. And so it hadn’t, and wouldn’t. Tonight was not a setback, simply another step.

  At a touch on her leg, she jumped. But it was only Tab, pawing at the end of her shawl, wondering why she was awake in the middle of the night. Jean picked up the kitten and put him on her lap. His soft purr began, remarkably soothing. Her cat, Jean thought fiercely. She was allowed comfort now. She would take it. Along with any other pleasures she might desire. She wouldn’t be oppressed again! But other parts of her were only too aware that it wasn’t that easy.

  Ten

  When Benjamin at last fell asleep that night, very late, he dreamed about Alice. She stood beside him, looking just as she did in her portrait—more perfect than life, red-gold hair gleaming, blue eyes gazing out at nothing. He held her hand, but she didn’t seem to notice. He knew it was no good speaking to her. She wouldn’t answer. He tried anyway, and was proved right.

  Then, with a dream’s sudden shift, he saw a mail coach bearing down on them—sixteen pounding hooves, a shouting, gesticulating driver. The big vehicle was going so fast that it careened from side to side. There was no chance it could stop before running them down. They had to move, to dive out of the way. But Alice was immovable. He tried to pull her, lift her, but her slender form might have been made of stone. She was rooted to the road. Benjamin pushed with all his strength, shouted in her ear. No response. The coach came closer and closer, until he could feel the thunder of its passage in his bones. He could escape if he abandoned her where she stood, but of course there was no question of that. And then the vehicle hit them with an apocalyptic slam.

  Benjamin jerked awake. His pulse was pounding, his head thick. He panted, and the roar of the dream lingered in his ears. He put his hands over them. “Could I do no better than that?” he said aloud. The significance of the scene was ridiculously obvious. He had to leave the past behind or risk disaster. “Oversimplified,” he told whatever part of him composed dreams.