“My maid has been in my service since girlhood, and I’ve no intention of retiring her.”
“Yes, well, perhaps you will reconside—”
“I won’t.”
“But what of this personal footman, Thomas?” he tried again.
An elderly footman limped forward, making a slight bow and wincing in pain.
Helena smiled at the old footman and turned on Girdleston. “I couldn’t possibly accept the responsibility of a personal footman. I am wholly self-sufficient, as you may remember. Any passing footman will do. I am unsettled by fussing servants.”
A flash of anger pinched Girdleston’s face, and he forged ahead, gesturing to a large man in an apron. “But surely you cannot object to a personal cook...”
“I am not particular about what I eat,” Helena said.
“Well, perhaps a brief trial with the cook,” Girdleston countered.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Girdleston’s wide, furious eyes reminded her that she was not in control, not really. The angrier he was, the harder he was to evade. If her ultimate goal was to defeat him, she must show some cooperation and choose her battles.
She added, “I have always enjoyed the meals at Lusk House. Your existing chef is so talented.”
She was just about to reiterate that she felt uncomfortable with private servants, but Girdleston continued, “But surely you will not reject this private groom...” He swept out his hand. “The duke will insist upon a personal groom to squire you around London, to look after your safety and comfort in and out of carriages, busy streets, and balls late at night.”
His voice had taken on a simmering urgency, a pot about to boil over. “Surely you cannot deny a personal groom, my lady?” he said.
Helena was formulating another way to convey the wordnowhen a broad man, dressed from shoulder to ankle in straining yellow velvet, stepped forward and bowed his head.
Helena’s denial froze on her lips.
She blinked at the vast expanse of eye-popping yellow. Her first thought was that he did notwearthe livery so much as stretch the lemony fabric over his muscled body. It did not fit, not even a little. His hands were huge, his boots were huge, and his very posture—still and substantial—seemedless like a servant and more like the castle guard.
He wasn’t a giant, but he looked stronger than anyone in the room; he looked stronger than anyone Helena could ever remember meeting. So much muscle straining against so much... yellow.
He did not appear chagrined or bashful. His eyes were soft brown, and he glanced at Helena with a passive detachment that she struggled to decipher. Not supplication, not hopefulness, not boredom—
He looked at her like he was gauging the height and weight of a chair that someone had asked him to move across the room.
When he met her eyes, he humbly lowered his head in a half bow.
He looks... useful.
There was something about the combination of his vagueness and brawn. He had muscled arms, significant shoulders, powerful thighs. She would not ordinarily consider the thighs of a servant (or any man), but the impossible tautness of his golden britches made every part of him impossiblenotto see.
His face remained averted, but she could see his profile: strong jaw, reasonable nose, dark eyelashes.
Eyelashes?
She scolded herself for noticing (first) thighs and (now) eyelashes, especially when her very future was at stake. His eyes made no difference, but taken as a whole, she could not deny that he might come in handy.
She glanced at Girdleston and speculated aboutthe loyalties of this “private groom.” The man had certainly fallen into line when Uncle Titus beckoned, but he’d moved in a rote, just-following-orders sort of way. He’d seemed more compliant than complicit and he lacked the slow, knowing bearing or the shared looks of a collaborator. He seemed . . .biddable.
Perhaps hewasjust a groom. Perhaps he was a big, strong groom with more muscle than brain.
Perhaps he was exactly what she needed.
“This groom is meant to be for my private use alone?” Helena heard herself ask.
