Her decorating was not yet complete. And if the duke thought he could be rid of her so easily, he was about to realize he was wrong.
CHAPTER 2
Quint returned from his ride sore, muddy, sodden, and cold.
Also, starving. He had ridden for longer than usual, needing the air and the chance to collect his thoughts after the clash with his unwanted housekeeper.
He brushed lingering snowflakes from his coat in the entry hall and handed it off, along with his hat, to the sole footman he employed. Only to belatedly realize the footman wasn’t the same footman. He had red hair instead of brown, and he was taller than Peter.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Your Grace,” the young man said, looking as nervous as he sounded. “I’m Joseph Poole, Your Grace.”
“And where did you come from, Joseph Poole?”
Quint had a suspicion he already knew the answer.
“Mrs. Yorke sent for me, sir. On account of needing help with the Christmas trees, sir. Your Grace. Sir.”
A village lad, and one unaccustomed to service. Not that it mattered if he had ever been a footman before. Quint didn’t stand on ceremony. He had no guests, no expectations, save a warm, reasonably clean house and prompt meals. Enough toexist, nothing more. What did matter, however, was thatshehad hired the boy.
His eyebrows snapped together. “When did Mrs. Yorke send for you?”
“This morning, Your Grace.”
This morning. By God, had the woman possessed the temerity to meddle with his domestics after he had told her to leave?
“I see.” With a nod to the footman, Quint strode into the great hall.
“Dunreave!” he hollered.
The strange scent was still lingering in the air. The vibrant aroma of freshly cut holly boughs. Only, it was stronger. Disbelief coursing through his veins, Quint stormed toward the drawing room. Gas lamps blazed within. And somehow, impossibly, there was even more greenery. It was everywhere.
“Dunreave!”
Where was the blasted man? More importantly, where was the bloody housekeeper? He had told her to remove the greenery, not to adorn the drawing room with more of it.
Frantic footfalls sounded just before a harried-looking Dunreave arrived, out of breath, his face grim. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“What is the meaning of this?” Quint demanded.
Dunreave winced. “I warned her not to continue with her decorating. I told her that you would be terribly displeased.”
“Displeased doesn’tbeginto describe what I’m feeling at the moment.” He flexed his gloved hands at his sides, boiling with impotent fury, the scarred skin on his fingers tingling. “Why would she decorate the drawing room before she left for the train station? I should think that packing her valise would have proven a better use of her time.”
Dunreave cleared his throat. “I’m afraid Mrs. Yorke refused to go to the train station as you requested. She insisted that she remain.”
Quint thought it possible that his head might explode. He might have known that the cunning baggage wouldn’t have obeyed him. She had been far too bold. Bolder than a housekeeper ought to be. And far more beautiful than any domestic he’d ever seen. But that hardly signified.
“After I sacked her?” he demanded.
“Unfortunately, yes, Your Grace.”
“Why?” he growled, annoyed.
His body’s instinctive reaction to the news that she was still beneath his roof was a hated reminder that there remained certain portions of his anatomy that had not been ruined by flames.
Dunreave grimaced. “She said that since she is in the employ of the dowager duchess and not you, Your Grace cannot dismiss her from her post.”
