Maid Under The Mistletoe (The Mapleton Family Saga #1) - Annabelle Anders Page 0,22

in the first place. She’d likely told the vicar she’d hire the girl before seeing her in person. In his experience, ladies didn’t favor having their servants outshine their offspring.

And damn his eyes, he’d referred to her as Charlotte.

Miss Fairchild and Charlotte rejoined them a few minutes later. He was not surprised when Lady Denton immediately sent Charlotte away.

Again, he’d put her position in jeopardy.

Doing his best to redirect the Viscountess’ suspicions, he made the proper comments and sounds of appreciation as Miss Fairchild explained her drawings. Even as he did this, he thoughts were never far from Charlotte.

“And this is a new style of dress I’ve designed that a lady can wear in the afternoons.” He focused his eyes on the portrayal of a woman with sleeves the size of watermelons and nodded vaguely.

“Lovely.” He murmured noncommittally.

The few moments he’d spent talking with Charlotte had been the most pleasant in recent memory. Her eyes had sparkled as she’d argued how romance involved politics. And by god, she’d had a point. Was it possible that he might be as attracted to her intelligence as he was to her countenance?

Or did his emotions go beyond that? Was it possible that two people were created for one another at the onset of their existence? The woman had quite thrown him for a loop. He’d never believed in such folly.

To be honest with himself, he’d never believed in love—the romantic kind, that was. He believed in familial love, which developed over years, cultivated with loyalty and responsibility.

“Would you care to take a stroll to the orangery?” Miss Fairchild touched his arm.

He’d barely been aware that she had set her artwork aside.

He glanced out to see the storm had increased in its intensity. Damned if he wasn’t trapped here for the day, and likely the night. He scrubbed one hand down his face.

Anything would be better than spending his time looking at fashion drawings. “I’d be delighted.”

And so, he spent the next hour strolling through Viscount Denton’s manor, all the while, enduring conversation as stilted as it had been before Charlotte joined them earlier.

In truth, worse.

When the sound of male laughter echoed into the foyer from the direction of the billiards room, Anthony sensed a chance for escape.

“Your cousins?” He flicked a glance in the direction the voices were coming from.

“And uncles. Do you play billiards, my lord? Do you enjoy it?” If he was not mistaken, she wished to escape him as well.

“Indeed.” And then a hesitant step away from her. “Do you mind?”

A sound that resembled something in-between a choke and a laugh gurgled from her. He was right. Any attempt she made to hide her own relief right now would be quite futile. “I’m certain Mama has had a chamber prepared for you. Simply ask any of the servants when you’re ready to retire.” She walked backwards as she spoke.

And she was to be his wife.

No small amount of relief swept through him when he stepped into the all-male domain, decorated in rich heavy wooden tones. He was greeted heartily.

And scotch? Ah, yes. He’d love one.

And another. Ah yes, why not another?

Three hours later, he’d completely forgotten the reason he’d come. Something to do with a marriage contract? He struggled to maintain his balance when finally going in search of a servant to show him to his room.

Not just any servant.

Charlotte.

Chapter 8

Music of the Heart

Miraculously left alone for the afternoon, Charlotte searched out some lemon oil and a soft cloth. Ever since spying the gleaming piano in the seldom used music room, her first day as a member of the staff, she’d felt compelled to… polish it.

And it did, in fact, require dusting. Such a shame to ignore such a beautiful instrument for days on end. She sat down at the pianoforte and discovered her task for the afternoon.

The ivory keys were a dull, yellowish color. Taking a moment to fetch milk and a cleaning paste, time ceased to exist when she returned and set herself to scrubbing at each key individually. Occasionally, she’d set the cloth aside and allow her fingers to dance across them in one of her favorite runs. So caught up in the task was she that she didn’t hear the door open. She only knew she was no longer alone, until an achingly familiar voice startled her.

“Charlotte.”

She hadn’t known him for even a week. Yet, in some ironic twist of fate, he’d come to mean the world to her.

Her fingers stilled. She glanced over her shoulder,