Chapter Three
“Still working, I see. Such a diligent creature,” a deep voice came from behind her. “Sodelicate.”
Imogen was kneeling in the damp earth, her fingers stiff as she pruned the hydrangeas so they would grow hearty and healthy next year. It was a task Julia had assigned her at sunset of all times. It was spiteful, busy work intended to break her spirit. Little did Julia realize that the outdoors was the only place Imogen felt she could breathe. Her back ached, and her palms were raw, but she kept her head down and savored the quiet.
Until that voice emerged.
Imogen tensed as she looked over her shoulder. The moon hung like a cold silver coin over the gardens of Presholm House. Lord Presholm stood on the gravel path, the scent of expensive brandy and stale tobacco clinging to him. While Julia had been married to him for the better part of the year, Imogen couldnot get used to his brazenness. His presence always made her stomach turn.
“The Countess wished the flowers to be pruned by me personally at sunset, My Lord,” Imogen said, her voice a practiced shield of neutrality.
She didn’t look up, focusing on a stubborn stem.
“Julia is a hard woman,” Presholm said, stepping off the path and onto the grass. He was too close. “I often think she doesn’t appreciate the… finer assets of her household. I do, though. I do very, very much.”
“I am merely a maid, My Lord. If you will excuse me?—”
She tried to stand, to go back to the house, but he blocked her path, his shadow looming over her. “You have a remarkably educated way of speaking. A smart tongue, Imogen. It’s quite provocative.” He reached out, his hand clamping firmly onto hers. “Surely you know what you do to a man, even dressed as simply as you are.”
Imogen recoiled, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Please, My Lord. Let me go. This is not seemly. I will not say a word, but please just let me go about my work.”
“Who is here to see?” he murmured, his grip tightening as he leaned in closer. “You’re a ward of this house, aren’t you? Youowe us your gratitude for all that we do for you. Aren’t you starving for the touch of a man?”
“I am a servant who only does her duty, and I am asking you to release me!” She cried. “This is abhorrent!”
Imogen struggled, her boots slipping on the wet grass as she tried to wrench her arm free.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Miss LaPointe said, clutching her carpetbag as if it were a shield. “I cannot stay another moment in this household. Not after today’s escape… and of course, earlier, there was the incident with the grease on the stairs. I nearly broke my neck!”
“Miss LaPointe, please,” Ambrose said, his voice thick with desperation. “They are children. They have lost everything. I will double your salary. I’ll have your room completely renovated, a new wardrobe made for you, and a wing in the library filled with your favorite tomes. Whatever you wish, you only need to say it.”
“No amount of gold can buy peace of mind, Your Grace. They don’t need a governess. They need a priest!” She bobbed a quick, terrified curtsey and vanished into the hall and out the door with a loud thud.
Ambrose collapsed into his leather chair, rubbing his temples to no avail. “Jones!” he roared.
When the butler appeared, Ambrose didn’t look up.
“Find more,” he ordered. “Interview every governess in London if you must. And make sure to tell them a higher salary this time.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler sighed wearily. “I will see to it at once,” he said as he left the room.
Needing air, Ambrose took a tumbler of scotch and stepped out onto his terrace. He had not yet acclimated to his new home, but the terrace was different. He enjoyed the brisk, fresh air and the quiet of the night. Yet that evening, it did little to calm him.
He felt like a failure. He was a Duke who could finish a contract but could not manage two small seven-year-olds.
Then, a sound drifted over the high stone wall.
“No! Let me go!”
Ambrose froze.
It was Miss Lewis’ voice, stripped of its composure and replaced with raw terror.
He didn’t think. He dropped his glass. The crystal shattered on the stone as he threw himself over the railing and onto the soft grass like a Samurai. He sprinted around the block, and when hereached the Presholm House’s front door, he hammered his fist against the wood vigorously.
When the bewildered butler finally opened it, Ambrose didn’t wait. He shoved past the man, his eyes wild.
“Your Grac?—”
