recognized Mr. and Mrs. Smythe, one of Miss Fairchild’s married cousins and her husband, and Lord and Lady Pritchard. His own younger brother and sister walked with them as well. Likely, Daphne was doing her best to allow him some privacy with Miss Fairchild. His younger sister was all too aware of his responsibilities and whenever possible, did what she could to assist him in meeting them. She could be as annoying at times, as she could be sweet.
Michael was all of seven and twenty, still enjoying the exploits of young bachelorhood, and Daphne was only five years younger than Michael. Their mother remained at home, abed. She’d not come out of her bedchamber since their father’s passing.
Miss Fairchild released his arm in order to join them, leaving Anthony standing alone with her maid.
Was this what marriage to her would be like?
“More like lapis, after it has dried and been ground up.” The small woman beside him offered with a smirk.
“Excuse me?” Maids did not have discussions with their mistress’s escorts.
“A more apt description for her eyes.” She grinned. “Although the flower is a brilliant color while alive, the vivid hue is lost shorty after it’s picked.” At his frown, she elaborated. “Not at all like a bright winter sky.”
Again, that sensation that he would like to reprimand this defiant servant… if only he did not find a part of himself agreeing with her. She was correct about both, he conceded, recalling the plant to which she referred, and how disappointed one became as it dried out.
“You oughtn’t.” He uttered instead.
She sighed heavily and he could not help to notice how the rise and fall of her breasts topped off what he guessed must be a perfect hourglass figure.
He pulled his gaze back to her face quickly. A gentleman did not ogle his intended’s maid.
“Oh, believe me, I know.” She sighed again and watched Miss Fairchild fawn over the other guests. “It’s just too easy sometimes.”
He studied her skeptically. He did not remember seeing her with Miss Fairchild before. In fact, he remembered quite distinctly that a heavy-set woman had accompanied them on their last outing.
“Have you only recently entered service?” Oddly enough, he didn’t want the girl to bring trouble upon herself. But for the luck of birth, his own sister might have fallen into such a position.
She grimaced as she met his stare. “This is my fourth position.”
He raised his brows.
“In three months.”
Ahh…
Well, he could not feign surprise.
Charlotte Drake knew she was treading on thin ice again. Not only by pointing out that her mistress’s eyes resembled a faded flower, but by addressing Lord Mapleton in the first place.
Oliver would throttle her if she got sacked again. As it was, her brother and his wife, Betsy, barely had enough room to accommodate their own family. They certainly didn’t have additional provisions to care for her.
She would never forget her brother’s horrified expression when she’d shown up on his doorstep thirteen weeks ago. They’d expected she would dwell with father for another decade or two, possibly three, at the vicarage. Not one person could have predicted his untimely death. He’d only been fifty-three, for heaven’s sake! It was circumstances such as these that had Charlotte questioning God’s judgment at times.
Especially his taking her mother’s life upon her own birth.
Dismissing the painful thought, her mind wandered.
She should have married Jonathan Birch when he’d offered four years ago. Surely being a wife could not have been worse than catering to the demands of Miss Susan Fairchild.
She shrugged off her musings, all too aware that Lord Mapleton watched her warily.
“Are you going to make and offer then?” Charlotte could not help but ask. It was all Lady Denton and Miss Fairchild had been talking about since Charlotte took up her post this week.
Again, Lord Mapleton raised his brows at her words. She eyed their fullness, the dark brown color, and their finely shaped appearance. Just beneath the tall hat perched atop his person, dark blond hairs framed his perfectly sized head. As far as gentlemen went, he really was one of the finer looking ones. Miss Fairchild could do much worse, that was for certain.
Any of the husbands of her former employers caused Lord Mapleton to shine in comparison. And not just in looks, either.
In character… She had a sense about such things.
She’d sensed that Mr. Merkle was trouble at the onset of that particular post.
A tremor of disgust ran through her at the memory of her last employer’s hands ‘accidentally’ brushing