Page 18 of Maid for the Marquess

“Nor do I, my lord.” She sighed as I handed her the pretty scraps. “Sometimes I wish it were not so. Sometimes…” She trailed off.

“Sometimes?”

Her voice was so low I had to strain to hear it. “There were moments I hated my father. I wished him gone. I prayed he wasn’t my real father, and I would be taken elsewhere to live a different life. I wanted to run, but I had nowhere to go. There were times I wished to spit in his tea. Infest his study with mice, which he loathed, so he would return to the city until they were gone. Add salt peter to his food. My thoughts were wicked, and my father often told me I was wicked as well. As if he knew my thoughts.”

I withheld my laughter at her supposed wickedness.

“My thoughts would have been far darker,” I assured her. “Nor do I believe you to be wicked.”

She shook her head in disbelief, settled her bag back under her skirts, and stared out the window.

The afternoon light accentuated her profile. She would be a great beauty once she was stronger. Healthier. I suspected she had many hidden depths which needed to be encouraged. I imagined her smile would be a wondrous sight.

I was surprised to realize I would like to see that smile.

To have it directed toward me.

I was also astounded to discover that she was quite fascinating.

“Do you have other interests?” I asked.

She frowned. “At one time, I did, my lord. Many.”

“Such as?”

“I played the piano, did needlepoint, had dance lessons, and studied French. My mother taught me to sew and how to garden. She was a different sort of lady, and she loved to cook. She taught me several dishes. I used to love to read and to stroll in the garden. I loved to swim. To play cards. Do figures.”

I gaped at her list of accomplishments. She had been raised as a lady with some interesting twists to her personality.

“Figures?” I asked, curious.

“My grandmother was a little eccentric. When her husband died, she eschewed society. She taught my mother everything she needed, but also many things ladies are not shown. I can use a sword rather well too.”

“How remarkable.”

“My father didn’t think so. He thought I was vapid and useless.”

“Frankly, my sweet, your father is an arse.”

She laughed, the sound honeyed and high, making me want to laugh with her. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth as if afraid to hear herself enjoying a light-filled moment. She was beautiful in her levity, and I found myself even more drawn to her.

“Do you ride?” I asked, needing to distance myself from my thoughts.

The light on her face dimmed. “Yes. But not since my mother passed.” She swallowed and looked away. “I had a horse I loved. She was a gift from my mother, and we would ride together. When she died, Father sold Star, making me watch as she was taken away.” She lifted my eyes. “I begged him not to, but he gave me a choice—sell her or he would shoot her.”

I shut my eyes at the cruelty she had endured. Reaching for her hands, I held them in mine.

“How old were you?”

“Four and ten.”

“May I ask how she died?”

“She was ill. One day, she seemed fine. The next, she was not. She died a few days later.”

“You must have been devastated.”

“I was. I still miss her. My entire life changed after she died.”