The Footman and I - Valerie Bowman Page 0,75

Regent dabbed at his nose with an ornate handkerchief. “I was wondering earlier why the Earl of Kendall was serving us all soup,” he drawled.

Frances covered her mouth with her bent fingers. If the entire thing hadn’t been so horrifying, she might have burst out laughing. Of all the people in the room, the only one who’d recognized Kendall was the prince? The prince who never appeared to notice anything beyond his own nose? Now that was humorous indeed.

“That’s right,” Lucas continued. “I’ve been serving you, all of you, for days now. I’ve filled your wine glasses, I’ve ladled your soup, and I’ve placed your napkins on your laps.”

“The devil you say,” another gentleman added.

Lucas put his fists on his hips. “I’ve done all of this with no other change to my appearance than some livery and a powdered wig. And do you know what I’ve learned?”

The entire table was silent, staring up at him in rapt fascination.

“I’ve learned that our class is the most self-centered, vapid, inattentive, uncaring lot of horses’ arses there ever was. Not one of you recognized me, because not one of you took the time to look at my face.”

The table remained silent. Frances glanced around. There was a mixture of guilt and confusion on nearly every countenance. The tiniest hint of a smile tugged at her lips. Her anger at Kendall had not abated, but even she had to admit it was delightful to gaze around the room as the entitled diners each realized he was right. The man was a horse’s arse, but this speech was precisely what these people needed to hear and she couldn’t have said it better herself.

“That’s all fine and good, Kendall,” Sir Reginald snapped, anger and impatience etched on his features, “but you interrupted me in quite an important moment. I was about to announce my engagement to Miss Wharton.”

“I interrupted you on purpose,” Lucas shot back, “because I haven’t had a chance to ask for Miss Wharton’s hand first.”

Another gasp went up around the room and all of the dining table’s occupants swiveled their collective heads to stare at Frances. She took a deep breath. She could happily strangle the blackguard for making such a scene.

“Well, then,” the Prince Regent prodded, addressing his remarks to Lucas. “Go ahead, man, ask for her hand.”

Sir Reginald shot the prince a positively wounded look.

Apparently, Lucas needed no other encouragement. He jumped to the floor and swiftly made his way to Frances’s seat. When he got there, he dropped to one knee.

Her throat was closing. She could not breathe. The walls of the dining room seemed to be closing in on her.

“Frances Regina Thurgood Wharton,” he said, grasping her gloved hand in his. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Chapter Thirty-One

Lucas felt Frances’s hand trembling. Indeed, upon closer inspection, he realized her entire body was shaking. Her teeth were chattering, and she looked as if she might cast up her accounts.

“Are you all right?” he whispered to her, suddenly alarmed.

“I cannot breathe,” she gasped.

“Get her some water!” Sir Reginald called to no one in particular.

Frances ripped her hand from Lucas’s grasp and ran from the room.

Lucas jumped to his feet and made to follow her, but Sir Reginald lunged in front of him, blocking his path.

“Would you please shut up and leave?” Sir Reginald demanded, stamping his foot.

“No,” Lucas retorted. “I won’t.”

Yet another collective gasp went up around the room as the diners watched the back and forth between the two men as if it were a game of battledore and shuttlecock.

Sir Reginald lowered his voice so only Lucas could hear him and spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m warning you, Kendall. If you don’t shut your mouth and go away now, you will not get the votes you want on your precious Employment Bill. I can promise you that.”

Lucas took pleasure in allowing a slow smile to spread across his lips. “I don’t give a toss about the bleeding Employment Bill, Sir Reginald, and you can go straight to hell.”

Lucas pushed the knight aside and strode from the room, grinning to himself. The look of pure shock on Sir Reginald’s face would remain in his memory forever.

She was not in the foyer. She was not in the blue salon. Lucas doubted she’d made it up the stairs already. Instead, he took a chance and made his way to the library.

He pushed open the door, the familiar creak making his heart thump harder. He stepped inside and shut the