Chapter Four

L awrence pushed the lump of cheese around the plate, but no matter from which angle he looked, it was still as unappealing as a cowpat. The least the cook could have done was scrape the green bits off. The bread wasn’t any better, with a texture guaranteed to dislodge a tooth.

Lawrence pushed the plate aside, and the cook sighed while the butler watched him from the head of the table, a glass of ale in his hand.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Broom. I’m not that hungry.”

“I believe it’s I who should be asking your forgiveness, Mr. Baxter,” she said. “You’ve worked ever so hard these past days, and we can’t give you a decent meal. What must you be thinking?”

“That you’re a good woman seeking to do her best under trying circumstances,” he replied. “Doubtless the master of the house enjoys finer fare.”

The cook let out a laugh. “Mrs. Green’s so mean with her housekeeping that we all have to make do with scrapings.”

“ Lady Smith-Green to you, Mrs. Broom,” the butler said.

“Oh, stow it, Mr. Head!” the cook cried. “She might have airs and graces, but she’s as common as the likes of you and I, for all that she’s Lady Arabella’s aunt.”

“Lady Arabella?” Lawrence asked. “Her aunt’s the housekeeper?”

The cook let out an explosive noise of contempt.

“She’s not the sort to sully her hands with anything remotely akin to work . But she holds the purse strings, and we must make do with what we’re given.”

“Mrs. Broom, it’s not our place to gossip about our betters,” the butler said, pushing his ale aside. He pulled out his pocket watch. “I can’t sit here idling. His Grace is due back for dinner.”

The butler stood, and the cook followed suit. Then he gave Lawrence a pointed look.

Cursing the hierarchy that existed even below stairs, Lawrence rose to his feet. After the butler left, he resumed his seat, and the cook relaxed into hers.

“Mr. Head means well,” she said. “He takes his duties a little seriously, that’s all, especially seeing as the master’s a duke. A fine position, that is—butler to a duke’s household.”

Lawrence glanced around the kitchen, which was smaller than that at the King’s Head. Hardly indicative of a ducal palace.

“Is this the duke’s ancestral home?” he asked.

“Bless me, no!” The cook laughed. “That’ll be Middlewich Hall—near York. Sold to clear his debts, it was.”

“ Sold? ”

“By Millican’s Bank—do you know them? The master’s great-grandfather entailed the estate, but the entail only lasted three generations. All that’s left is the title—and this run-down place.”

“How do you know such things?” Lawrence asked.

“My nephew’s a clerk at Millican’s—he’s gone to London. A clever lad, Jonny is, though I say so myself. It’s him who’s shown me how to put a bit by each month to save for a little cottage of my own. Though whether that’ll happen now…” She hesitated, then tilted her head to one side, regarding Lawrence with a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “They paid you yet?”

Lawrence shook his head. “I’ll be paid on completion.”

“If you’ve any sense, get them to pay you something now, lest you find yourself out of pocket. The master’s only employing you to keep Lady Arabella sweet. He cares little for this place, and I suspect he’ll abandon it once he’s got his hands on her fortune.”

She folded her arms, then sighed. “I should feel sorry for her, seein’ as she’s a woman in a man’s world. I often see her running off to the stables to hide from the duke—and sometimes I see such misery in her eyes. But then she lets loose with that sharp tongue of hers, threatening to have us beaten or dismissed. A harpy like that deserves everything that’s comin’ to her. I’ve never met such an unpleasant creature in my life. Not even my sister, and she’s a right one, I can tell you. The way she speaks to poor Jonny sometimes makes me want to take my fry pan and—”

“The duke’s not a kind master, then?” Lawrence asked, unwilling to hear what the cook would do to her sister with a fry pan.

“Far be it for me to gossip, but there’s no young women in the household—excepting Lady Arabella’s maid. And do you know why?”

Lawrence shook his head.

“Because, for all his stuffiness, Mr. Head is kind enough to deter any women in danger of… unwanted attention from joining the staff here. His Grace doesn’t accept refusal from anyone—especially not a woman he takes a fancy to.” She shuddered. “We had to let a lass go when she was found to be…” She blushed and made a random gesture in the air.

“I understand,” Lawrence said, his gut twisting in revulsion.

“Luckily, Mr. Barnes at the King’s Head was in need of a scullery maid. He’s a right kind soul, is Mr. Barnes—and Mrs. Barnes, for I’m sure the idea was hers. Mr. Barnes might have his name over the door, but it’s Mrs. Barnes who rules that household. And why not, I say? It’s us women who do the work—except yourself, Mr. Baxter, of course. I’ve seen you work ever so hard in the garden. Yet poor Susie had to bear the consequences of the master’s actions. But she’s a parlor maid now, with the bonniest boy you could imagine. You may have seen her?”

Lawrence nodded, recalling the thin young woman toiling in the guest rooms with a baby in tow. How many other bastards had Dunton fathered?

“Susie’s not the first,” the cook continued. “There’s a rumor about some Society miss in London, a friend of Lady Arabella’s—if that haughty creature could secure any friends! Doubtless there’ll be others.” She paused, guilt in her expression. “I shouldn’t speak of the master so, but there’s no harm in warning decent folk, is there? I wouldn’t want no daughter of mine working here. Do you have a daughter, Mr. Baxter?”

“Yes.”

“And your wife?”

Lawrence drew in a sharp breath. “She died six years ago.”

The cook’s face creased in distress. “Oh, bless me, Mr. Baxter, I’m that sorry! You’re carrying grief and here’s me rattling on. You poor man—widowed with a child.”

“Three children.”

“ Three motherless mites! And they’re all alone while you’re here?”

“A friend’s taking care of them while I’m here.”

“Where might they be—if you don’t mind my asking?”

“At Brackens Hill,” Lawrence replied. “My friend’s finding us a house there.”

“Aye, I’ve heard of it,” she said. “That’s a long way to go to leave your children.”

Lawrence nodded, the familiar ball of guilt unfurling in his stomach. “I cannot bear to leave them, but I’m doing it for them. Everything I do is for them.”

“Of course,” the cook said, her voice softening—as did the voice of any woman of a certain age when faced with the notion of a man on his own with children to support. By the count of five, she’d be recommending candidates for a second wife.

One…two…

She leaned forward.

Three…

“You’re a good man, Mr. Baxter.”

Four…

“But children need a mother. A fine, hardworking man like yourself—there’s plenty sensible, practical women who’d do for you. My niece, for one—if she wasn’t already walking out with young Luke.”

“Luke?”

“The ostler at the King’s Head. Lovely lad, he is—dotes on my Sara. His sister is Lady Arabella’s maid, worse luck for her. There’s a young girl in the village—the baker’s daughter. Ever so polite, and uncommonly pretty. Tilly, her name is. Her pa sends the boy to deliver the bread, but I could ask him to send Tilly instead on Thursday.”

There it was—before he’d reached the count of five, she’d not only determined that Lawrence needed a wife, but she’d selected the most suitable candidate, and was on the brink of having the banns read.

Lawrence glanced at the stale slice of bread, and the cook blushed.

“That came last week,” she said. “The bread’s fine when fresh. Tilly bakes it herself, you know. A wife needs to cook, does she not?”

Heavens! This must be how the condemned man felt. The skin around Lawrence’s throat itched almost as if he could feel the vicar’s noose around his neck.

“I should be getting on, Mrs. Broom,” he said, rising.

“Won’t you stay a while longer?” she asked. “You’ve eaten hardly a thing. Or perhaps a glass of ale? We’re not supposed to give it to tradesmen, but what Mr. Head don’t know won’t hurt him. At least, unlike the bread, or the cheese, the ale won’t go off.”

“I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble on my account,” Lawrence replied. “I’ve a lot to get done if I’m to get those shrubs in before sundown. I prefer to take my ale in the evening, after work—not in the afternoon, instead of it.”

“Lord bless you!” She laughed. “You’re a fine man. I don’t doubt you’ll have all the young girls hereabouts clamoring at your door before you return home.”

Thanking the cook, Lawrence rose and exited the kitchen.

What had she said?

If you’ve any sense, get them to pay you something now, lest you find yourself out of pocket.

Surely Dunton would pay him? Though the man had a reputation for taking what he wanted from doxies without payment—perhaps he applied that principle to tradesmen as well, which explained the lack of edible food in the place.

It was almost enough to make Lawrence pity her. That haughty creature…

The woman with a body ripe for the taking, who’d yielded in his arms when he kissed her.

Did he invade her thoughts in a similar unwelcome manner to that by which she’d invaded his?

Was she, perhaps, waiting for him in the garden?

A wicked voice whispered of his desire to see her again—to see those blue eyes darken with need. But when he returned, she was nowhere to be seen.

Neither were his tools, or his notebook. He’d left them beside the pair of rosebushes that he’d set out for planting.

A thickset man in a footman’s livery appeared at the archway to the back garden, behind which the bonfire still crackled, sending a plume of smoke into the air.

That fire should have died down by now—that final pile of clippings wouldn’t have taken long to burn.

“You there!” he cried. “Have you seen my tools?”

A sneer crept across the footman’s lips.

“I left my shovel here—and a rake,” Lawrence added, gesturing toward the soft earth that showed the mark where he’d driven the shovel in. “They were here, together with my jacket.”

“Oh.”

Oh? Was that all he could say? Why did he look so damned pleased with himself?

“And my notebook,” Lawrence added, indicating the size with his hands. “It was so big—contains all my plans.”

“Oh.”

“ Oh? ” Lawrence repeated. “Are you indulging in some sort of game? Have you…”

His voice trailed away as his gut twisted with anticipation.

Surely he hasn’t…

“What were you doing in the back garden?” Lawrence asked.

The man folded his arms.

“Tell me!”

“I was followin’ orders.”

Lawrence caught the man’s sleeve. “What orders?”

“I obey orders, I do. Which is more than I can say for others.”

The footman glanced toward the bonfire.

Shit!

Pushing him aside, Lawrence sprinted toward the archway, beyond which the bonfire still burned, crackling and spitting in the afternoon air, the rising heat distorting the air, which rippled and danced.

Protruding from the base of the flames was the head of his rake. Of the handle, there was no sign—it must have long since turned to ash.

“No!” Lawrence ran toward the fire, the heat searing his skin.

“Stay back!” the man cried. “You’ll burn yourself!”

“You should have thought of that before you threw my belongings onto the fire!” Lawrence replied.

He reached for the rake, and a spike of agony tore through his hands as he touched the metal, which was already distorting with the heat of the fire.

“Fuck!”

“There’s no call for that kind of language, mister.”

“Pompous arse!” Lawrence retorted. “You’ll pay for this!”

He circled the bonfire in search of the rest of his belongings. The head of the shovel lay charred at the base, on top of which he caught sight of wisps of charred fabric—all that remained of his jacket.

Then his gut twisted with a ripple of nausea as he caught sight of his precious notebook containing years of work—or what remained of it.

“Dear God— no! ” he cried. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? That’s my life’s work you’ve tossed onto the fire! My drawings—my research. All my plans! What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to leave,” the footman said. “I’ve been told to escort you off the estate.”

“What about my fee?”

“You’re not to be paid. Them’s the orders.”

Orders…

Fighting the swell of despair, Lawrence fisted his hands, focusing on the pain in his right hand to fuel a new emotion—dissipating the hot despair until only one emotion remained.

Pure, ice-cold fury.

Her orders…

Bitch.

“Where is she ?” he asked.

There was no need to ask who she was. The footman’s eyes widened in recognition.

“I-I don’t rightly know, mister.”

“Never mind—I’ll find her myself.”

“Now, don’t you go and…” the footman began, but, in a swift, smooth movement, Lawrence swung his arm down and back, then drove it forward, smashing his fist into the underside of the man’s chin. The footman made no sound, except for a small sigh, then he crumpled to the ground.

Through the crackling of the fire, Lawrence could swear he heard a sharp intake of breath.

“I know you’re there!” he cried. “Come out where I can see you!”

Silence.

“The least you can do is face me after what you’ve done—or should I say, instructed another to do!”

He lowered his gaze to inspect the blistered skin of his fingers where he’d tried to retrieve the rake. Then he turned it over to see the broken skin of his knuckles where they’d connected with the footman’s jaw—an infinitely more satisfying injury.

Then he heard a rustling of foliage, and he glanced up to see a flash of pink silk disappearing behind a hedge.

Not content with getting a servant to carry out the deed, she chose to relish the sight of his despair on seeing his life—and hopes—turn to ash.

A bitch, and a coward.

No doubt she’d lived her spoiled, indulged life dealing out her particular style of cruelty on those she considered beneath her, and believing she could escape unpunished. But not this time.

What had the cook said?

I’ve often seen her running off to the stables to hide from the duke.

He gritted his teeth in a grim smile.

This time, Miss Haughty, you’ll not be able to hide.

*

As the stables came into view—a building that looked in a worse state of repair than the house—Lawrence slowed his pace, taking care not to make a sound. His quarry would be easier to catch if she believed she’d eluded him.

Where was she?

Let the prey reveal itself.

That was what his da had said when they’d gone hunting rabbit. Lawrence smiled to himself at the notion of that haughty creature skinning a freshly killed cony. It would serve her right to have her hair mussed up, hands deep in guts and gore—faced with the choice of starvation or survival.

A man can but dream.

He settled himself in a secluded position at the corner of the building and waited.

At length, she appeared. Like a rabbit—albeit a particularly spiteful rabbit—she emerged, tentatively at first. A delicate slippered foot appeared from behind the stable door, followed by pink silk skirts—then the rest of her.

She was close enough for him to discern her expression. But rather than vindictive triumph, he saw only sorrow in her eyes. A horse’s head appeared at a stable door, and she curved her mouth into a smile.

A tender enough smile to breach his heart and break his resolve.

“Hello, boy,” she said softly, lifting her hand to rub the animal’s nose.

Lawrence’s chance had come. He strode forward and caught her arm, and she let out a shriek, her eyes bright with fear.

“How dare you touch me!”

“How dare I ?” Lawrence let out a harsh laugh. “After what you’ve done? Were you a man, I’d horsewhip you in the village square.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” she spat. “You’re nothing but a common laborer.”

“And what are you ?” he sneered. “Nothing but a spoiled wench who vents her spite on those she considers beneath her, so she can feel better about her pathetic life!”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, he thought he saw moisture in them, before they flashed with fury.

“You’re nothing!” she cried. “ Nothing —do you hear me?”

“Is that why you burned my belongings?”

“I never touched them.”

“Spiteful mare! Your servant may have destroyed my things—my tools and my papers. But it was at your direction—just what I’d expect from your sort.”

“My sort ?”

“Yes, Lady Arabella,” he said, thrusting his face close to hers. “A pampered miss with no knowledge of the world, nor understanding of hard work or kindness.”

“I see,” she said coldly, only a slight tremor in her voice betraying her fear. “You hate me because I’m better than you.”

He let out a laugh. “I don’t hate you, madam,” he said. “You don’t matter enough to hate. You’re nothing—a woman who seeks gratification from inflicting misery on others merely to satisfy your own joyless existence. If I feel anything for you—it’s pity .”

Her eyes widened in horror, then she blinked and they flashed with defiance. A little pulse of need threaded through his body. What might it be like to take such a woman as his own—to tame that spirit in his bed?

But she was not for him.

Or was she?

He pulled her close and caught the faint scent of smoke—evidence of her crime—together with the sweet, sharp undercurrent of the most delicious scent known to man.

The raw scent of female desire—a scent that not even the most accomplished harlot could fake, nor could the haughtiest lady disguise.

He pushed her against the stable door, and a fire of need ignited inside him at the expression in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated until her eyes were almost black—yet, deep within, sparks of desire flashed like stars, beckoning to him.

Sweet heaven! All that passion imprisoned by years of decorum and poise—most likely beaten into her by a governess, or that aunt of hers. And now, before him, her passion swelled, bursting to be let loose from her stays.

Then she arched her back in an almost imperceptible gesture—but nevertheless, an unmistakable gesture of pure need.

She wanted him.

He caressed her neck, relishing the feel of her smooth porcelain skin against his work-roughened fingers. Her lips parted and she let out a small whimper—her body’s cry of need.

Then he dipped his fingers beneath her neckline, running the tips across the top of her breast, which seemed to swell at his touch. He slipped his hand in and cupped her breast. Her eyes closed, and she leaned toward him, as if in offering.

“Oh…” She let out a soft whisper filled with wonder.

Bloody hell —he’d never witnessed such pure need. Of her innocence, there could be no doubt—the surprise in her voice told him she’d yet to experience pleasure at a man’s hands. But the little pip beading against his palm spoke of a passion waiting to be unleashed.

Oh, to be the one to unleash it! Would that lecherous duke to whom she was about to shackle herself know how to elicit her pleasure? Would he even care?

He gave her breast a gentle squeeze, and she let out a little mewl as her nipple hardened further.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered. “Your need?”

She nodded, closing her eyes, as if she feared being overwhelmed by sensation.

Then he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers. She parted them almost immediately, and he smiled to himself at her offering.

“I shall only kiss you if you ask,” he whispered.

She tilted her face, seeking his lips, but he withdrew, and she let out a cry of frustration.

“No, my lady. You must ask .”

“I-I can’t…”

“Then you shan’t have your reward.”

She opened her eyes, and he drew in a sharp breath to temper the surge in his cock. She was ready. Were he to toss up her skirts and bury himself inside her against the stable door, she’d be screaming his name within a heartbeat.

But a man should never take—no matter how much the woman desired it.

“Ask,” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Her eyes flared once more, then she shifted her legs, a small gasp escaping her lips as she pressed her body against his hardness.

“Do you want me?” he asked.

He held his breath in anticipation. Then she nodded, slowly.

“Yes.”

Her whispered word was so quiet he could almost have imagined it. But it was enough. He claimed her mouth, sliding his lips over hers, and his manhood surged as she responded. She reached up and fisted her hands in his hair. Little whimpers of need resonated in her throat, as if she had endured a desert and was now desperate to quench her thirst.

He ought to have relished her surrender—the victory he’d secured. But the desperation in her kiss elicited only guilt.

To think, this might be the only passion she’d experience in her life.

The kiss grew more desperate, her whimpers of need increasing, and he shushed her like he would a fevered child, caressing her face with soft sweeps of his fingers, to reassure her. His anger had all but gone as he recognized her anger and spite for what it was. Desperation—and a deeply rooted need.

A need to be free.

“Let me free you,” he whispered.

Almost at once, she stiffened. Snapping her head back, she withdrew, and her eyes, once unfocused with passion, cleared into bright, hard contempt. She reached up, bending her fingers into claws, and raked her fingernails across his face.

Thick, sharp pain sliced across his cheek, and he jerked back with a cry.

Bloody hell!

His stomach churned at the metallic stench of blood, and he lifted his hand to his cheek, where his fingers slipped against thick, warm liquid.

“Sweet heaven, woman—what was that for?”

She stood before him, hair in disarray, a feral expression in her eyes, and—curse his body—his cock rose at the sight of such wild abandon. Then she lowered her gaze to her hand, where he caught sight of the red smear on her fingernails.

“You— animal! ” she cried. “Violator of women! You’ve lusted after me from the beginning.”

“I did nothing that you didn’t beg for, woman—and you know it,” he growled, pressing his hand against his cheek.

Fuck —that hurt!

“First you destroy my possessions, then you assault me. I shan’t leave here until I have satisfaction.”

“You’ll never have satisfaction from me, you, you… peasant! ” she cried. “I could have you hanged!”

“Don’t be a fool, woman.”

“Fool, am I?” She lifted her head and screamed. “Help me!” she cried. “For God’s sake, help me! Save me from him!”

“Stop that!” he said. “I’ll not harm you—it was you that begged me.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” she said. “You—you’re a debaucher of women, a violator of maidens.”

“I’ve violated no one.”

“Who do you think they’d believe?” She spoke more calmly now, the coldness returning to her tone. “A stranger, a nobody? Or the future Duchess of Dunton?”

She lifted her head once more and cried out, filling her voice with terror.

“Help me, someone! He’s after me— please! ”

Lawrence’s heart sank as he heard footsteps.

“Where are you, miss?” a voice cried.

“The stables!” she replied. “Be quick! I’m so frightened!”

Then she turned to face him, a cold smile on her lips. “What say you, you uncouth peasant ?” she sneered. “Care to pit your word against mine? Leave, now, and you can save your thick neck.”

She’d bested him— curse her —and she knew it.

But he’d be damned if he let her see her victory come to completion. Mirroring her cold smile, he stepped toward her, tempering the flare of guilt as the fear returned to her eyes.

“I’ll go,” he said, “but I curse you for the harm you’ve done me. We mayn’t live in a fair world, but I pray, one day, you will reap the rewards of the choices you made today.”

She stepped back. “Choices—what choices?”

“Do you think your fiancé will relish hearing about your supposed violation?” he asked. “He’ll view you as sullied goods and punish you for it.”

“H-he’ll punish you —not me.”

“You sound unsure of yourself, madam,” he said. “We live in a man’s world. You might exert your power over me by virtue of our difference in rank, but never forget the power your betrothed can exert over you by virtue of your difference in sex.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean, madam, that you will never own me. But your fiancé—from the moment you submit to him at the altar—will own every part of you, until death do you part .”

Her fear thickened the air, but Lawrence was beyond reason.

“Do you know what, Lady Arabella?” he said, smiling coldly.

“Wh-what?” she whimpered.

“I wish you joy of him. So, tell the footman what you wish—tell and be damned , Lady Arabella.”

She glanced about as if she feared Dunton’s arrival. Then the footman came into view, running toward them.

“Your ladyship!” he panted. “Are you in danger?”

She glanced at Lawrence, moisture shining in her eyes, and his resolve almost melted as a tear splashed onto her cheek.

“I-I’m quite well, Thomas,” she said. “I…” She glanced around, as if in desperation.

“You said save me from him ,” the footman said. “Has this fellow harmed you?”

“N-no. I was frightened by”—she glanced toward the stables—“the horse. Yes—the horse.”

“The horse?” The footman glanced toward the animal, which stared placidly out from its stall.

“I went inside the stables and was almost crushed by one of the horses. This”—she gestured toward Lawrence—“this… man pulled me free.”

The footman narrowed his eyes. “Is that true, sir?”

Lawrence nodded.

“Very well—but I’ll have to tell the master.”

“There’s no need for that, Thomas,” Lady Arabella said. “I only want you to get rid of him .”

“I’m going nowhere until you’ve paid me,” Lawrence said.

“I thought you’d say as much,” the footman replied. Then he reached into his jacket and drew out a pistol. “Get yerself gone, or I’ll shoot.”

Damn it, Lawrence needed that money. But there was little point arguing the matter if all it earned him was a bullet in the head. He had no wish to leave his children fatherless as well as motherless.

He’d have to rely on Fate to exact vengeance upon her—by having her live out her days as Dunton’s wife.

“Then I’ll take my leave of you, your ladyship,” he said, “and I wish you all the happiness that you deserve in your impending nuptials.”

He gave a bow, exaggerating the gesture in mockery, before taking his leave.

How the devil would he be able to settle his account at the King’s Head?

But the lack of payment was the least of his concerns. Without his tools, and his notes, what the bloody hell was he going to do to survive?