The Footman and I - Valerie Bowman Page 0,26

lips? “Indeed, my lady.”

She rubbed a hand across her eyes. Oh, dear. She must sound like the biggest ninny in the world complaining about her privileged life to a man who was in service. What had she been thinking when she said all of that? Clearly, she was an awful, thoughtless person. She wouldn’t blame him if Mr. Lucas turned his back and never spoke to her again.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she added, casting her gaze to the expensive rug that covered the floor. “I know I must sound daft.” She shook her head. “The fact is that my mother’s choice of a suitable husband for me and mine are not aligned. Regardless, I’m certain you don’t wish to hear about it. No doubt you’re quite busy today.”

Mr. Lucas walked back over to where he’d left his coat. He bent over and scooped it from the floor and, heaven help her, she watched the seat of his breeches the entire way. He turned back to face her. “On the contrary, my lady. I’ve never seen anyone go to such lengths to avoid another person.” He pulled the coat over his broad shoulders. “If you don’t mind my asking, why don’t you wish to marry Sir Reginald? The gossip in the servant’s hall is that he’s quite wealthy.”

Frances nodded so vigorously a few curls came loose from her chignon. “Oh, he’s wealthy,” she said with a sigh. “But, unfortunately, I don’t love him.”

Chapter Eight

One of the large doors to the library creaked open and Lucas and Frances scattered apart like dice thrown on the deck of a ship. Lady Winfield soon stepped into the room, scanning the space until her gaze alighted upon her daughter.

“How did I know I would find you here?” she said to Frances, an exasperated tone in her voice.

Lucas turned back toward the fireplace. The older woman may not have recognized him at dinner last night, but he’d met Lady Winfield before, and he didn’t dare do anything to call attention to himself. He was already jabbing at the fire with a poker by the time the lady reached her daughter’s side.

“Do you need something, Mama?” he heard Frances ask.

“Yes, come with me. The gentlemen will return from their ride soon and we may be able to catch Sir Reginald’s attention if we go for a walk through the garden.”

Lucas turned his head to see Lady Winfield already marching toward the door, obviously expecting her daughter to fall into step behind her.

“Sounds delightful,” Frances said in an exaggerated voice, which indicated it sounded anything but. She glanced back at Lucas who gave her a quick wink.

Frances rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Cannot wait,” to Lucas’s amusement, before following her mother from the room.

Lucas watched Frances go, blinking as if she were a figment of his imagination. Had he heard her correctly? He could have sworn the lady had mentioned love. In fact, it sounded as if she prized it over a marriage of convenience. Truly? Or was she only opposed to the match because she didn’t happen to fancy Sir Reginald?

Setting the poker aside, Lucas glanced at the settee near where she’d been standing. A pink shawl lay atop the piece of furniture. He jogged over to it and picked it up carefully, rubbing the fine fabric between his fingers. He lifted it to his nose. It smelled like her. He closed his eyes. He’d been affected by that flowery scent from the first moment he’d been in the bedchamber with her yesterday morning. Peonies.

He’d have to find her and return the shawl. He wasn’t certain how or when, but he’d figure out a way. Carrying the shawl back over to the fireplace, he stared into the increasing flames. He’d already decided that he was beginning to like Miss Wharton. She was funny, she was intelligent, and she obviously didn’t fancy herself above speaking kindly to servants. She’d apologized to him not once but twice.

For the first time since all this had begun, guilt began to creep into his conscience. If he did come to have feelings for this particular young lady, what would he do? Show up at the events of the ton this autumn and introduce himself to her as the Earl of Kendall? That would go over like a rowboat in a hurricane. He could hardly expect that she would fall into his arms. No. She’d be angry with him for lying to her, and she would have every right to be.

The Footmen’s Club experiment