“You must have been furious.” An undercurrent of amusement threaded through his voice.
“I was, rather. To your credit, you did wheel around, but I was cold and filthy and so angry I could hardly see straight. So I scraped up a handful of mud straight from the bottom of the pond and lobbed it at you as soon as you were close enough to hit.” She remembered the satisfaction of the strike, the glee she had felt in that moment.
“How true was your aim?” he inquired.
“Very. You were splattered from here”—she reached out, and in the darkness her fingers caressed his cheek—“to here.” And he did not protest when her fingers landed on his chest, over his heart. For just a moment she felt his fingers trace her own before they fell away.
“How ladylike of you.” A note of coolness had entered his voice once again.
She drew her hand away, stung. “You laughed,” she said, feebly. “And you were kind enough to help me from the pond, and to walk me to the boundary of your father’s estate.” Locking her arms about her knees again, she pressed her back to the headboard and continued on. “You offered me your coat. You said it was splattered with mud, but so was the rest of me, so at least it wouldn’t clash with my gown.”
“That’s enough.” Whatever amiability to which he might have temporarily fallen prey had vanished. “That’senough.”
“You kissed my hand when we parted,” she persisted. “Even though I was filthy from head to toe. And I knew I should have let it end there, that nothing good could come of a dalliance with you. But I came back the next evening anyway.”
“For God’s sake.” He shoved himself off the mattress, and his boots hit the floor with a jarring thump. In a space of seconds he had crossed the small room and slipped out the door without another word, abandoning her to her cold and lonely bed.
∞∞∞
Gabriel tossed himself onto his bed and pressed his hands over his eyes, furious with himself. He’d expected a bland recounting of their shared past from her, but somehow he had let himself become wrapped up in her voice, in the story she’d woven for him.
As much as he’d wanted the knowledge she’d hoarded, he hadnotwanted the sense of camaraderie that had drifted between them like a fragile silk thread. One he’d snipped with the coldness of his voice the moment he’d recognized it for what it was.
He had wanted so badly, for one brief moment, to turn his face into her gentle fingers. For an instant it had felt as though he could have turned back time, fallen straight into her memories, and lived them all over again. As if he had only to stretch out his fingers to recapture what he’d been missing…recaptureher.
He would not weaken to such ploys. He would not let her manipulate him into forgiveness. She had deceived him for so long already; who was to say she was not deceiving him still? She might well be concocting a fabrication of their past, designed to lure him in, amuse him, entrance him.
But when he finally succumbed to sleep, he dreamed the memory she’d given him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Betsy,” Claire said as she measured out ingredients for the gingerbread. “I shall need to you to go to market today. We’re nearly out of molasses.”
The girl scrubbing down the counters gave no indication she’d heard, her face carefully averted. Sukey, who had been sweeping the kitchen floor free of scraps, watched with rapt interest.
“Betsy,” Claire prompted, in a sterner tone. “I shall need—”
Betsy made a rough sound in the back of her throat. “Don’t see why I should be taking orders from you,” she said, casting her rag into the sink, where it landed with a wet, unpleasant plop.
Taken aback, Claire forgot the salt she had been measuring and a thin stream of grains scattered across the countertop. With a muffled curse she scraped it into her hands and tossed it into the sink. Thus far, though none of the servants she managed could have been calledfriendly, neither had they been outright hostile. “I am the housekeeper,” she stressed, “and your orders come from me. If you have an issue with that—”
“’Course I do,” Betsy snapped. “Wealldo. Who wants to take their orders from a harlot?”
And all at once, Claire’s already thin patience snapped like a spring wound too tightly. “Then you may collect your things. I won’t be spoken to with such a disrespect. You’re dismissed.” She cast her gaze around the kitchen, her eyes finding Sukey, the broom motionless in the girl’s hands. “Sukey. Are you of the same mind?”
“No, ma’am.” The words emerged as little more than a thin whisper, and the girl wouldn’t meet her eyes, but at least her head was bowed in a deferential manner.
“Liar,” Betsy accused, and Sukey flinched from the sharp retort. “Just last evening you said—”
“I have no interest in what you’ve said in private, Sukey,” Claire said, softening her voice. “God knows no one has the power to stop gossip, and it would be futile to try. But I do insist on proper decorum, and in good work. I’m asking for your respect and obedience, not your friendship.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”
Claire cleared her throat. “I would be grateful if you would communicate this to the rest of the staff. Anyone who wants to leave is welcome to do so. I will even provide a letter of reference. But I will not tolerate idleness and disrespect.” She dusted her hands on a clean rag. “Betsy, you may pack your things. I will pay you your wages and give you a letter of reference when you’re through.”
Mulishly, Betsy cast up her chin. “His lordship won’t let you sack me. Not for callin’ you what you are.”
“You are welcome to take your complaint to him. But so long as I am housekeeper here, I retain the right to hire and dismiss as I see fit.” And with that she turned her back on Betsy once more and considered the matter settled.
