The Valet Who Loved Me - Valerie Bowman Page 0,33
write his letters?”
Mr. Wilson glowered at Nicholas from beneath bushy brows. “At times.” That was apparently all the man intended to say on the subject.
“I once worked for a man who could barely write his name. How is Lord Cunningham when it comes to his letters?” Nicholas continued.
Marianne watched him closely. This was clearly more than a simple inquiry as to Lord Cunningham’s habit. Nicholas was interested for a reason. She could tell.
“Lord Copperpot writes his own letters from wot I understand,” she interjected.
Nicholas inclined his head toward her, but looked slightly bothered that she’d kept Wilson from answering. “He’s yet to ask me to write anything for him, but I can’t speak to his behavior with Mr. Broughton.”
“I doubt Mr. Broughton was asked ta write anythin’, either,” she replied with a tight smile.
Nicholas ignored her comment and returned his attention to Wilson. “Does Lord Cunningham pay you extra to write his letters?”
“Why ye so interested in what I write for me master?” Wilson said in a gruff voice, eyeing Nicholas with a scowl on his face.
“Just interested in what sort of work we’re each asked to do,” Nicholas said. He turned his attention to Mr. Broomsley, Lord Hightower’s valet, who sat at the far end of the table. “What about you, Mr. Broomsley, do you write letters for Hightower?”
“No,” Mr. Broomsley replied jovially. “His lordship prefers to write himself. Can’t say I’ve ever written a letter for him, now that I think upon it.”
“Well, I say the more they do for themselves, the better,” Mrs. Wimbley interjected. The woman had rallied herself from her bed to attend the dinner.
“Come now,” Mrs. Cotswold scolded. “That’s hardly any way ta talk. If they did things fer themselves, we’d be out o’ jobs, now wouldn’t we?”
Marianne didn’t miss the glance the older woman exchanged with Nicholas. Did Mrs. Cotswold know that Nicholas was only ‘playacting’ at being a valet? That was interesting.
The dinner soon ended, and the servants trailed back to their rooms. Due to the copious amount of wine she’d consumed, Marianne fell asleep nearly immediately upon hitting the mattress. She awoke in what felt like the middle of the night to a soft knocking on her door.
She sat up and put her hand to her forehead. She was no longer bottle-nipped but she certainly shouldn’t have had so much wine. Ugh.
She pushed off her blanket, stood, padded over to the door, and opened it.
Nicholas stood there in his form-fitting breeches, bare feet, and a white shirt opened to the waist.
She peered out in the hall to ensure no one else was looking, then waved her hand rapidly to beckon him inside immediately. “Come in.”
Nicholas stepped inside and she shut the door behind him quickly.
“Thank you for letting me in,” he said as soon as the door was closed.
She hurried over to the desk and lit the candle. She was wearing her night rail and hadn’t even bothered to put on a dressing gown. Not to mention her hair was streaming past her shoulders and no doubt looked a mess.
“Did I have a choice? I couldn’t let anyone see you knocking on my door at this hour.” She’d already decided to give up the pretense of the lower-class accent in his presence. He’d already discovered it was false and it felt silly to continue to pretend.
“Everyone is asleep. They all drank too much at dinner,” Nicholas continued.
“Except you.”
“I told you. I don’t drink.”
The candle sprang to life and illuminated the small room. “Yes. Why is that?” She turned toward him and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I didn’t come here to discuss my distaste for alcohol,” he bit out.
She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him warily. “Then why did you come here?”
He arched a brow. “You don’t think we need to talk?”
“About?” She let the word trail off as if she didn’t remember what had transpired between them last night.
He gave her a long-suffering stare. “Really?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Go ahead.”
Nicholas cleared his throat. “It seems we both know something about each other that we’d rather no one else find out about. Would you agree?”
She tilted he head to the side as she contemplated the matter. “Yes. Agreed.”
He nodded and continued. “Then it’s in both of our best interests if neither of us says anything about the other. Agreed?”
She nodded too. “Yes. Agreed.”
“Very well. I’ll leave you to your evening.” He turned back toward the door.
“Wait a minute. That’s all you have to say?” The outrage in