The Footman and I - Valerie Bowman Page 0,73

to them now? It made no—

Frances sucked in her breath. Wait a moment.

If he was the Earl of Kendall, why hadn’t any of them recognized him all the other nights he’d been serving dinner?

Disbelief and disgust swirled in her middle. But the truth was right in front of her. The people he was serving were so oblivious to servants they hadn’t even noticed him. They still didn’t.

Had that been part of the bet?

She glanced at him. He looked tired. Good. Oh, botheration. She shouldn’t have looked. He looked at her, too, which meant he saw her look at him. She immediately dropped her gaze to her plate, cursing softly under her breath.

Frances continued to ignore her food and give monosyllabic replies to the people sitting next to her until Lucas came around with the fourth course, a roasted duck.

“My lady?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she intoned again, staring directly ahead. This was some sort of torture and she’d no idea what she’d done to deserve it. She kept hoping she would wake up from the nightmare, but it was only too real.

Lucas dropped a napkin onto the floor next to her chair and bent to retrieve it. The scent of his soap hit her nostrils. She froze and pressed her lips together. Why was he here? Why was he tormenting her like this? Why did his cologne still make her pulse quicken?

As he stood up, his mouth brushed past her ear. “Meet me in the blue salon after dinner. I must speak with you.”

She kept her gaze fastened on her plate. “Never,” she replied in a sweet whisper.

He’d made his point. As a servant, he was completely unseen by the same people who would fall at his feet if he were sitting next to them dressed in his regular clothing. But if that were the point he was trying to make, why was he in favor of the Employment Bill, for heaven’s sake. The entire thing was confusing, but she refused to play into his game.

The fifth course seemed to arrive much more quickly, and Frances was beginning to feel as if she had an imminent appointment with the hangman’s noose. Her betrothal announcement was impending and the blackguard who’d tricked her into falling in love with him under false pretenses was making her life hell.

Fine. She could admit it to herself. She had fallen in love with Lucas. That’s why he’d been able to hurt her as much as he had. She’d even admitted it to him, which made her ill to think about now. What an ignorant emotion love was. She’d thought she’d found someone she could talk to, someone with whom she could share her thoughts, someone who respected her. Instead she’d found a charlatan who’d used her feelings as an archery target.

The sweetmeats Lucas brought around next didn’t tempt her. And when he lowered his head to fill her wine glass and said, “Please meet me,” she couldn’t help the seething anger in her reply, “Go to hell.”

Nearly an hour later, Frances had long ago given up the hope that any of the others at the dining table were going to notice that the Earl of Kendall had been serving them all night. She steadily drank from her wine glass and pointedly glared at the one person she knew was in on this ludicrous game. Lord Clayton met her gaze every so often before hastily glancing away and gulping more wine from his own glass. The man was obviously guilty over his part in Lord Kendall’s ruse. Good. No doubt Clayton was in on the bet, too. He had to be.

At least Lucas had stopped asking her to meet him after his third failed attempt. Though he continued to serve the table inconspicuously.

The dessert plates were being cleared when Sir Reginald finally stood and clinked his fork against his wine glass.

“I would like to call for a toast,” the knight intoned as the table quieted down. Sir Reginald was wearing a bright-blue jacket and matching pantaloons. His white shirt boasted a riot of lace around the throat and a similar amount of lace flopped at his wrist as he lifted his glass aloft. Frances couldn’t help but think he looked exactly like a peacock.

Frances forced herself to swallow the dread and panic that rose in her throat, threatening to strangle her. She met her mother’s gaze. Mama’s gray eyes were wide and feverish. She smiled encouragingly. Frances couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother