Tempting the Footman (House of Devon #5) - Lauren Smith Page 0,16

is doing? I worry when I cannot see her.”

“My lady, I do not think I should leave you alone.”

“Please, Phoebe. I will be fine.”

Phoebe gave Adrian an I am watching your every move scowl and left the bedchamber.

“Please forgive her. Phoebe is most protective of me. She has been my maid since I was fifteen.”

“I understand, my lady.”

“Venetia. Won’t you please call me that? Since my grandmother has made you come to attend me, could we not have a friendship during this week? It would do much to alleviate my guilt about taking you away from your other duties.”

She shifted beneath the bed’s counterpane, and Adrian became all too aware that this beautiful lady lying in bed in her underclothes was only a few feet from him. The thought made every muscle in his body tense.

“Would you please sit?” She sounded almost like she was begging.

Adrian relaxed, but only a little. He took a seat in the chair by the bed, completely unsure of himself in this situation.

“Heavens, this is terribly awkward, isn’t it? Perhaps you could tell me a joke?”

“A joke?”

“Yes, something amusing. Laughter is good medicine for awkward moments.”

Adrian was able to admire her tousled blonde hair, a rich honey gold, as she sat up. Whoever had the good fortune to marry this woman would be gifted with such a sight every day. A flash of sudden and almost violent jealousy filled him toward this husband who did not yet even exist.

“I’m afraid I don’t know any jokes,” he replied. “I’m a rather serious type.”

“Oh dear, I see that you are.” She giggled, and the delightful sound made him smile. “There. You can smile at least. My maid, Phoebe, says you are like Lord Byron. I rather agree.”

“Should I be complimented or insulted by the comparison?”

“I’m sure Phoebe meant it as an insult. But from me, it is a compliment to be sure.”

Adrian relaxed a little more. Conversation with the lady was not as hard as he’d imagined. With the other servants, conversation was easy. They all had the same sort of lives: endless work, the need to be quiet, respectful, and, as much as they could, invisible. But a lady like Venetia was born to be on display. Her every look, action, and piece of clothing was a carefully constructed visual statement.

He could not help but continue the mental comparison between them. He lived in the basement of a grand country house, held only a few personal possessions to his name, and his life was dedicated to the comfort and pleasure of others. But her life was a happy balance of country leisure and the cultivation of her mind. The house she lived in would be filled with fine furniture and lovely portraits, her library would be well stocked, and classical sculptures no doubt graced the corridors of her townhouse. Her life was enviable.

“If we have no jokes to tell, perhaps we could become better acquainted?” Venetia suggested. “Would you tell me about yourself?”

“What do you wish to know?” He did not see this line of inquiry lasting very long. His life was completely uninteresting.

“Oh, start at the beginning, as all good stories must.” Her tone was teasing, but it was sweet rather than cruel.

“The beginning?” Adrian leaned back, rubbing his shoulders against the soft cushions of the wingback chair, and he stroked his chin as though deep in thought. This earned another giggle from his fair charge.

“I was born in Northumberland, in a town called Blanchard.”

“Oh, I believe I have heard of it. That is south of Hexam, is it not?”

“Yes, about nine miles. Are you familiar with the town?”

“No, not really, only that it is close to Hexam.”

“Very well, then—I shall treat you to a history of the town.”

She grew quiet, and he chuckled, sensing her disappointment. “I promise to make it mildly interesting.”

“Only mildly? Dear me.” She was smiling again. Lord, he adored her smile. It made him feel like he was out in the gardens on a spring day, the sun warming his face.

“Minx,” he teased, then stopped short. He had crossed a line. That was an endearment meant for a teasing town wench. She chucked a pillow at him, and he caught it, grinning again.

“Well, go on,” she urged, not at all bothered by him calling her a minx.

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat. “Blanchard is a rather neatly arranged town. It’s square, like the barracks of a foreign army instead of a meandering set of streets. The cottages are all made