Darrington 01 - Marriage Minded Lord (3 page)

The Frenchwoman nodded. She cast her gaze downward. “I understand, my lady. I do apologize for making my comments so loud that you overheard.”

Felix stifled a snicker at the last second. The chit was clever. He liked her even more.

Color blazed in Olivia’s cheeks. Her eyes glittered. “Be that as it may, I intend to hold back two days of pay from your salary this month for your insolent attitude. Perhaps that will teach you more than my words do.”

“Yes, my lady.” Though Miss Delacroix kept her gaze to the floor, Felix swore he felt the heat of anger
come off her even though the length of the table separated them.

Olivia nodded. “Very good. Now, let’s have a look at the trifle. And pray, tell me why Cook refused to join us.”

Miss Delacroix moved around the table until she stood at its head, pausing between him and Olivia, her gaze fixed on Felix. Mischief and slight annoyance warred for dominance in that bright gaze. “Cook is too shy so she requested I come in her stead.” A faint smile curved her lush rosy lips. “However, she’s pleased you enjoyed her meal, and I think you’ll enjoy the dessert as well.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” How would those lips feel against his? Would her voice sound as sultry whispering endearments in the dark? He banish
ed his wayward thoughts.

“For the love of God, put down the trifle, Clarice.”
Irritation clung to Olivia’s voice. “We’re all anxious to finish, and I’m certain you have other tasks to perform that don’t include bothering my guests.”

“I
do, thank you, Lady Drummond.” With a barely discernible wink, Miss Delacroix turned a slow, deliberate half-circle as fluid and seamless as her voice, then she upended the trifle dish directly into Olivia’s lap.

Chapter Two

Clarice Delacroix waited until she’d gained the privacy of the kitchen before she broke down into peals of giggles. “Oh, I will be in so much trouble, but it was worth it just to see the look on her ladyship’s face,” she told Cook as she stumbled over to a rectangular-shaped table where the cook and Mary—the scullery maid—enjoyed a cup of tea.

“You let your temper out, didn’t you, dear?” Cook poured a fresh cup of tea and slid it toward Clarice as she dropped into a chair. “I keep telling you it’ll do no good. One of these days her ladyship won’t be pleased. If she hates you enough, she’ll do something drastic.
Remember poor Jenny Vart.”

How could anyone forget the mousy little upstairs maid who had been in the Drummond employ until two months ago? She’d had the unfortunate luck to break one of the baubles in Lady Drummond’s dressing room, and after being dressed down quite severally, was fired on the spot.

“Don’t worry about me, duck. Lady Drummond already dislikes me, and she wouldn’t dare turn me out. I know a few secrets she’d be loath to have leaked. Besides, who will do the distasteful tasks her ladyship despises?” Clarice tapped her temple with a forefinger. She smiled at the cook. Her friend resembled a woman made of the dough she liked to knead into bread—all soft and pillowy and lumpy in the right places—but her eyes were kind, albeit tired. “You should have seen her look of outrage and shock. And the blackberry jam all over that ivory silk! I doubt the stain will come out.”

“I can imagine.” Mary
chuckled. “I heard through my cousin that Lady Drummond spent enough coin on that gown to provide food for this household for a year.”

Clarice rolled her eyes. Mary’s cousin was Lady Drummond’s
personal maid, and according to rumors, she was sent running hither and yon without time to breathe from the lady’s demands—some of them impossible to carry out. “Let’s just say, if her ladyship was a tad nicer to those around her, perhaps we wouldn’t sit here laughing at her.”

“Lady Drummond won’t be pleased.
I heard her dress you down.”

“She did.” The slow burn of anger climbed Clarice’s spine. She detested it when Olivia did that in front of guest
s.

“Not good.”
Cook shook her head. The lace on her cap fluttered yet a smile wreathed the plump woman’s face. “Impetuous girl. Why can you not keep your temper in check?”

“I’m half-French.” Clarice shrugged, knowing it was a copy of a gesture she’d seen her dear mother—gone two years now—do a thousand times. She loved how fluid and graceful her mother had been, adored how her French parent could convey feelings without saying a word.
If only I had had more time with her. If only I could be half as carefree and vital as she had seemed.
“It’s in my nature to be passionate and impetuous.”

“And a powder keg.” Cook sipped her tea. “You’re better’n us, girl.
I can see it in your eyes. You shouldn’t be down here. You should let her ladyship school you, help you snag a man and start your own life.”

Mary nodded. “Wouldn’t it be romantic if you could catch the eye of a high flyer? Secure his protection and get away from
here. A man such as that would set you up in your own townhouse or secure a cottage for you in the country.” Her eyes twinkled as if that sort of occupation were something to strive for.

“No!” Clarice shook her head for emphasis. “I will never be someone’s mistress. That was my mother’s lot in life.
She was under a powerful man’s protection for many years before he moved on. I refuse to be like her.” As much as she adored her mother—or perhaps the romantic idea her mother had managed to portray with all her pretty clothes and beautiful jewels and nights out at the theater—that sort of life wasn’t for her. Regardless of her circumstances, Clarice thought better of herself and dreamed of a day when a man would value her for more than the carnal pleasures her body could offer.

“There are worse things,” Mary chided with a sniff.

“So there are, but the life of a prostitute is not for me. Protection and a man’s interest aren’t guaranteed. Moving from man to man, practically begging for support in exchange for bed favors, does not appeal. I’ve known many a woman beaten then left in the street when her protector’s favor wavered.” She savored the warmth of her beverage as she swallowed. Both women stared at her with desperate interest, forcing Clarice to continue. “Why shouldn’t I dream of marriage? Am I not good enough for that?”

Mary snorted. “Not
to a high-flyer.”

“It’s doesn’t have to be with a
titled gentleman.” Clarice rolled her eyes. “I want to fall in love and to know that a man’s only wish is to see to my happiness.”

“Yet you’re working for a living with the devil’s own consort,” Cook admonished.

Clarice shrugged. “I work because I need the coin. I refuse to depend on a man to provide me with the basic necessities simply to live.

Cook patted her hand. “You keep dreaming, miss. One day your life will change.”

Warmth spread through her chest. Cook and Mary were the only family she knew, and Cook’s belief in her made everything better. “Still, I’d rather die than take advice from
her
.”

“I know, dear, but some things must be endured until the good things are ready.”

The tea Clarice sipped turned bitter in her mouth. Lady Drummond had everyone fooled. Money didn’t make anyone behave better or kinder, and not especially her. The Drummond fortune had dark roots, and ones Clarice had inadvertently stumbled onto while straightening up the lady’s correspondence one afternoon, but she’d made certain her employer knew that she knew. In a way, the power between them had become balanced. Lady Drummond had a companion who’d make her appear more respectable in the eyes of Society while Clarice had employment and a chance to mingle among folks who could possibly help her on her quest—to confirm her heritage and perhaps meet her father, even if from afar.

The clearing of a masculine throat at the door startled them all into shocked silence. “I trust I’m not interrupting anything of import.”

“
Zut alors!
” Clarice stared at the dark haired gentleman in the doorway. From the strong jut of his chin to the points on his starched collar to the toes of his shiny Hessian boots, his stance screamed authority and leadership. “Lord Swandon.” She scrambled to her feet. Both Cook and Mary fled the moment she spoke.

“Miss… Delacroix was it?” His well-modulated baritone voice sent goose flesh sailing over her skin. When she nodded, he continued, “You’ve put quite the abrupt end to Lady Drummond’s dinner party.”

Was he here to take her to task for her abominable manners? “From everything I’d seen, it was nearly dead to begin with, and besides, her guest list this evening didn’t exactly include the city’s best.” She glanced around but her greatest supporters had indeed run away. “Those people are the dullest of her acquaintances.”

“Is that so?” One of his dark eyebrows lifted. “Then am I to understand I’m dim, and is it in your estimation or hers?”

Heat stole into her cheeks.
This is what comes of speaking my mind.
“Who can say, Lord Swandon? I don’t know you. Does she?”

“That information is not for debate at this moment.”
He set his mouth into a tight line.

She cautioned herself to bite her tongue
. Her tenuous hold on society did not need the strain of upsetting a lord, but curiosity outweighed restraint. Perhaps if she continued to talk, so would he and thereby treat her to his wonderful voice that put her in mind of warm, melted chocolate. “Why Lady Drummond engages the harpist is beyond me. Everyone in London knows the woman cannot play past rudimentary skills. If she wasn’t vaguely related to Prinny himself, I doubt anyone would hire her.”

“How well you’ve summed up the situation.”

“I am merely observant.” At the last second she stifled anything else she wanted to say. He was a lord and not the sort of man she should carry on a conversation with—albeit
on dits
—especially in a kitchen and alone. Once again, her situation and its dire consequences swept through her mind.

“Be that as it may, the guests have departed.” No emotions reflected in his eyes. Did the man find anything about this night amusing or
even annoying?

“Most likely it was from her ladyship’s screaming about her gown instead of my antics.” Clarice backed away until the table was between her and him. There was something intensely compelling about him
. His presence filled every nook and cranny in the small kitchen, as if he were used to being obeyed or waited upon. She narrowed her eyes. That sort of man meant trouble, and she had no intention of suffering him or any other at the moment. “Lord Swandon, I implore you to return upstairs. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the parlor?”

“Will you come with me?”

“Of course not. It’s simply not done.”

“Yet tarrying here in the kitchens is?
Lady Drummond said you don’t belong here with the lower servants. Had you dined at her table tonight, it would have been with members of Society.”

The very position she needed to be in if she hoped to meet
her father one day. Clarice ignored his logic. “Lady Drummond will be livid to find you here—or anywhere—with me.”

“
She is otherwise occupied.” He rested his gaze on her—assessing and speculative. “Why did you refuse my friendship? You are Lady Drummond’s companion and therefore well able to converse with members of the aristocracy.”

Sweat trickled down her
spine. “I am, but that is beside the point.” Could he see the resemblance to her father in her face? Was he a contemporary of the man, and if so, could she further his acquaintance to complete her quest? “I shouldn’t talk to you. Lady Drummond would consider that competition. Things would be… difficult for me if that were so.”

“Competition? Is she chasing me then?” Amusement wove through his voice.

Clarice affected a tiny smile. “It’s been my experience Lady Drummond never stops chasing men—eligible or not. You have apparently interested her in a romantic way.” A vague twinge moved through her heart. A man such as Lord Swandon was much too good for the likes of her employer, yet they had Quality in common, which was more than she and Lord Swandon could claim. A match between him and Olivia would no doubt be imminent.

“I highly doubt Lady Drummond has romance on her mind. Regardless, it takes two to commit to a relationship. I have not.” His gaze was no less intense but now there was a hint of softness there.
“If you refuse to accompany me to a better location, I shall remain here since I’m not done conversing with you.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the door frame.

“Lady Drummond will not be pleased.”

“So you keep saying. It’s doubtful she will know. I certainly don’t plan to tell her. Now, what would please
you
—talking here or the parlor?”

Clarice blew out an exasperated breath
even as flutters tickled her belly. He was stubborn to a fault. No one had ever bothered to ask her what she preferred. It was rather pleasant. “My lord, it rubs her the wrong way when her guests acknowledge the existence of servants in her household.” She stole a glance at him and then wished she hadn’t as a tingle raced down her spine. Random strands of silver glinted in his dark hair. They lent an air of sophistication and power to him.