When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,9
to any bother,” Matilda said.
“Tea’s no bother. Himself rings for trays at all hours, and now, when a proper body ought to be inside before a roaring fire, where is he? Mucking about in the garden. The Quality is daft, though you didn’t hear that from me.”
“What is your name?” The question was hard to ask, because Matilda had learned that parting with a name was an act of trust.
“Molly Danvers, ma’am. I’m the upstairs maid, now that we have a guest, and you mustn’t think anything of me. I’m a chatterbox.”
The girl was friendly, as contented staff could be in the homes of gentry.
“A tea tray in another hour or so would be appreciated.” Small, frequent meals were easier on a recovering belly than feasts. That wisdom had come from the laundresses at the tavern where Matilda had tried to work. She’d been let go for falling asleep on the job one too many times.
The other women at the inn had done what they could for her. One had gifted her with a pair of wool stockings, a few had pressed hard-earned pennies into her hand, but they’d all known that turning an inept maid out with winter coming on was tantamount to a death sentence.
And still, Matilda had not turned her steps in the direction of home.
She closed the door behind Danvers and went to the window. Down in the garden, a man in a floppy felt hat used a long-handled scythe to hack away at the overgrown shrubbery. With each sweep of his blade, more of the unkempt hedge fell to the cold ground. Mr. Wentworth worked with the unhurried, efficient rhythm of a countryman, and gradually fashioned a border where rioting bushes had been.
“That is not the physique of a scholar,” Matilda murmured, for he wore no coat. Soldiers had that lean, tough build. Coachmen had the same ability to ignore the elements, even as isolated flakes of snow drifted down from a pewter sky.
The swing of Mr. Wentworth’s scythe was entrancing, like the cadenced narrative of a skilled storyteller. Why had he offered her sanctuary? She was a damsel at death’s door, and he’d conjured a pretext for adding her to his household.
If the past months had taught Matilda anything, it was that good luck always came at a price, while bad luck was free. Beggars could be choosers, though, and despite every instinct telling her to take her buttered rolls and her pilfered tea cake and run, she’d stay at least the night.
In the morning, after a sound sleep in a warm bed, she’d find the fortitude to leave this place and never come back.
* * *
“So you’ve banished Duncan to the shires?” Stephen Wentworth asked.
Quinn gave no sign he’d heard the question, but then, Quinn was holding the baby, a fat little cherub by the name of Artemis Ann Wentworth. Wee Artie had two older sisters to lead her astray, though Stephen intended to shoulder a doting uncle’s portion of that effort as well.
“I haven’t banished anybody anywhere,” Quinn replied. “Take the baby.”
Stephen found two stone of grinning, drooling, Wentworth female deposited upon his lap.
“Greetings, niece. Be kind to me now, and in fifteen years, I’ll teach you how to tipple brandy.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Quinn growled, prowling off across the playroom. “How long can it take one duchess to change her dress?”
“You’re my only begotten brother,” Stephen replied, bouncing the baby on his good knee. Actually, both of his knees were good. The problem that consigned him to a wheeled chair for much of the day was lower, halfway between his left knee and ankle. “Jane is giving you time to deliver your homily about the perils of young manhood.”
“Which sound advice you regularly ignore. Will you visit Duncan on this trip?”
The instant Stephen paused in his bouncing, the baby waved her arms. Typical Wentworth, always instigating.
“I haven’t been invited to Brightwell, probably because Duncan got a bellyful of my company on the Continent and has only had six months to recover from years of travel. What is Duncan doing out in Berkshire, anyway?” Stephen lifted the baby overhead—not so high, when a man was seated—and the little beast grinned uproariously.
“Drop that baby,” Quinn said, extracting a rubber ball from the toy chest, “and I won’t get a chance to kill you because Jane and the aunties will see to the job before the child has ceased squalling. The nursery maids will feed your carcass to the dogs, and Ned will