“Y-yes, Morton. I will be out,” she stammered, scrambling to get off the carriage. “Thank you.”
More uncertainty gripped her. She wondered why she, an earl’s daughter, would find herself in such a situation.
Why am I here, about to knock on the door of a man who does—who is paid to… Oh no.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Lucy, but don’t linger too long. It may be a quiet street, but we can never truly tell. If you change your mind and want to go home, I can drive you back to Marsleigh House as fast as you want me to,” the kind driver said.
Her name, uttered aloud, reminded her once more of who she was. She had never acted like this before. Her brother might have sheltered her all her life, but her desire was for something more than fleeting physical pleasure. Still, the idea of her keeping things safe and wondering what she’d missed made her want to proceed.
“I’m going in,” she said, in a voice that was meant to persuade herself and not Morton. “Please wait for me down the road. I should not take too long.”
But what did she know about such things? How long would it take?
Lucy’s body trembled as she watched the carriage pull away. Morton was right. It might be a quiet street, but someone might be watching. Someone malicious. Someone who could even harm her.
Yet she was already here. She took a few more steps toward St. Clair’s back entrance…
But she froze.
“This is no place for someone like you, My Lady.”
Lucy gasped. The deep baritone did not come from inside the house, but from behind her.
Chapter Three
“You might have lost your way,” the man added, as he approached her with confidence. After all, he was a fine specimen of masculinity: tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly handsome. “This alley is dark and potentially dangerous.”
It wasn’t a threat at all. At least, Lucy didn’t feel threatened by him. She had never met him before, but she already felt safe, albeit embarrassed, with him being so close. Her hood had come loose and fallen to her shoulders.
She could not help but inspect him further, this man with the sharp jaw and well-trimmed beard and eyes a blue so deep they popped even in the darkness.
The man was dangerously handsome. She had never encountered anyone like him in the ballrooms, but she was certain he was a peer. His clothes, accent, and overall demeanor revealed him to be.
“I am not lost, sir,” she said, trying to sound like a servant. She thought of how her maid Ethel spoke. “I am Mr. St. Clair’s maid, headed home from an errand.”
The man did not move. Instead, he smirked at her as he assessed her with a lazy sweep of his gaze.
“You? A maid,” he repeated incredulously. He took one more step forward. It was deliberate and imposing. “Mr. St. Clair must be particularly generous to purchase French silk gowns for his maids and to hire private carriages for them, too, when they are out on errands.”
“He, uh, is a kind and generous master.” She fumbled for anything to tell this knowing man. This infuriatingly handsome man who saw too much. Her face heated up. She was afraid that he could see that, too, and how she often blushed from her neck upward. “T-this was a gift. A-and he knew I had to visit my family and that it would be a long journey.”
“Mhm,” the man hummed. “What exactly are your duties? Do you dust the chandeliers? Polish the silver? Bathe Mr. St. Clair?”
Lucy gasped, shocked by his impertinence. She caught herself just in time when she remembered what she was about to do at St. Clair’s.
“I, uh, manage certain affairs for Mr. St. Clair,” she blurted, feeling like an idiot.
“Certain affairs,” he repeated, looking like he was thoroughly enjoying the conversation. “Is that what you call it? So, these affairs require you to enter through the back entrance. That does sound consistent. However, a private carriage still seems like something a peer would ride.”
“I insist,” Lucy said, even though her throat felt tight. “I was running an errand for Mr. St. Clair.”
The man leaned in. Was he—was hesmellingher?
His eyes darkened, and what looked like concern flashed across his face. Lucy did not know if she preferred this or the arrogant line of questioning from earlier.
“You do not smell like a maid. Your perfume is too expensive, unless the affairs you manage for Mr. St. Clair are far darker than I initially thought. You don’t have the skin and eyes of a woman who does hard labor.”
“But I am telling you the truth, sir,” Lucy persisted breathlessly.
