If it was, she wanted none of it.Then move,whispered a sensible voice inside her head.
But she didn’t.
A floorboard creaked.
Neil’s hand dropped away as though burned, and he stepped sharply back.
Moving as if in a dream, Maggie turned.
Crawford stood in the doorway, expression impassive. His eyes flicked once toward her, then fixed on the duke.
“Your Grace,” he said evenly, “I have been looking for you.”
“What is it, Crawford?” Neil’s tone was clipped, a little strained. He did not look at Maggie again.
“Lady Westbrook wishes you to meet them all in the drawing room, as is customary after dinner,” Crawford replied. “She was most insistent—at once, your Grace.”
Chapter Seventeen
The rain came minutes after Neil left the terrace, as if it had been waiting for him to go. Maggie stood there for a moment, face turned up to the dark sky, until the rain got too heavy and she was obliged to retreat inside.
Once inside, she took the servants’ staircase down to the kitchen. There was always a lull after dinner—once the diners had gone to the drawing room and the worst of the washing-up had begun. The air below stairs was easier then, unhurried for a brief hour. Supper would be laid out for the servants, and Maggie realised, suddenly, that she was hungry.
She had begun to feel at ease below stairs now. The servants no longer looked at her with suspicion or fell silent when she passed. She wasn’t quiteone of them, but she was tolerated, and that was enough. Tonight, the talk would be of the storm and whether it would ruin the village fair set for tomorrow.
Warmth rose up to meet her as she descended the final flight of steps. The kitchen smelled as it always did—a jumble of comforting scents: bread and roast meat,eggs—even though the duke hated them—pastries and herbs and more smells that Maggie had ever been able to identify.
A few servants lingered at the table, talking or reading. One footman was playing cards. Maggie sat down, meaning to enjoy an hour of quiet before relieving Jenny in the nursery. Emma had slept fitfully since the shock of the afternoon.
“Miss Winter, might I have a word?”
Maggie flinched. Mrs Thornton stood in the doorway, her face calm and unreadable.
It was not a question, of course, so Maggie only nodded silently and followed Mrs Thornton through the kitchen to a small alcove in the hallway outside. The servants’ hallways werenarrow and bare, and there was only just room for Maggie and Mrs Thornton to stand elbow to elbow.
“Crawford informed me that he found you and the duke speaking on the terrace,” Mrs Thornton said at once, without preamble. “Alone.”
Maggie felt colour creep into her face. Had Crawford seen the duke’s hand on her shoulder? Had he seen the look on her face, the way she had flushed?
More importantly, had he told Mrs Thornton?
“We were discussing Emma,” Maggie said quickly.
Mrs Thornton’s brow arched faintly.
“Let me be clear,” the housekeeper said carefully. “I am not accusing you of anything, Miss Winter. You are the finest governess we have had so far—Miss Emma adores you, and you clearly love her in return. You’ve earned a fine reputation in this house, and your friendship with Jenny will do you good.”
“And yet I’m in trouble,” Maggie murmured.
Mrs Thornton sighed. “Not in trouble. But you’re clever enough to know that any involvement with your master will only bring it.”
“I have no involvement with—” she was cut off by Mrs Thornton, lifting a hand palm out.
“I makenoaccusations,” the housekeeper stated firmly. “But I know how these things begin. Your predecessors came here expecting to find the Gambling Devil—a hard, careless man who thought of nothing but cards and coin. You, however, have seen something different.”
She paused, studying Maggie’s face.
“You’ve seen the man beneath the name,” she went on softly. “That isn’t an easy thing to do. And once one sees his Grace as he truly is, it’s very hard to look away. Yousee, Miss Winter—and you are drawn to what you see.”
