She pulled off his coat and dropped it on her bed with a little shiver of loss and longing.
It would not do.
She fumbled with the fastenings of her wet pelisse. She did not think she had misinterpreted the gleam in Lucien’s eyes or the kiss on her knuckles. Quite possibly he desired her. Most certainly he felt sorry for her.
But he was not for her. Not only was he her cousin’s suitor, but he had openly admitted he intended to marry for money.
All of which made him more dangerous to her peace of mind than Howard Basing could ever be.
Standing in her damp chemise, she pulled her second-best gown from the wardrobe. The door to her room opened. She had forgotten to prop the chair under the knob.
Aimée whirled, her heart in her throat.
But it was only Finch carrying towels and a pitcher.
“Sorry, Miss Amy,” the lady’s maid said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Aimée swallowed her rapidly beating heart. “You surprised me, that is all.”
Stupid, stupid to let her guard down with Howard in the house. Had he rejoined the other guests? Or was he upstairs, changing?
Finch set the towels on the bed. She was a personable young woman, with coal black hair and a round, usually cheerful face. “I couldn’t manage a hot bath, like Mr. Hartfell asked for you. But I brought up some warm water.”
“That was kind of him. And you.” No one lugged hot water up four flights of stairs to the servants’ quarters. Aimée had grown accustomed to breaking through a film of ice in her pitcher every morning.
“It’s no problem, miss.” Finch poured water into the basin, holding the pitcher at an awkward angle, as if its weight was too much for her.
“They don’t require you downstairs?”
Finch shook her head. “Miss Julia and them’s all still in the drawing room. Taking tea.”
“Are the children all right? Harriet?”
“Seem to be. I hear Mrs. Netherby visited the nursery, which is more than she’s done since they got here.”
So poor little Harriet had gotten her wish.
“And Mr. Basing?”
Water splashed. The heavy ironstone cracked against the floorboards. Aimée jumped backward as the pitcher rolled under the bed.
“Oh, miss, I’m sorry.” The maid looked close to tears.
“It’s all right, Finch.” Aimée stooped to retrieve the pitcher. “See, it’s not really broken. Just a chip.”
Finch reached out a shaky hand to take the pitcher.
Aimée sucked in her breath. “Why, you have hurt your wrist.”
A mottled bruise circled the maid’s arm like a bracelet.
Finch colored and tugged on her sleeve. “It’s nothing, miss.”
Aimée drew in a slow breath, taking in the maid’s red eyes and nervous manner. Something wasn’t right. “You can tell me.” she said gently.
“I can’t tell anyone. He said.”
“Who said?”