Maid to Match (11 page)

He approached her left side and removed the cover.

“No, no. You have to take care that you don’t dirty the cloth with drops of steam. Turn the cover up quickly. Try again.”

He did it again.

“Much better. Set it on the dinner tray until you have time to take it out of the room.”

He placed it on a tray behind them.

She frowned. “Next time we practice, you need to be wearing some tight shoes or thin pumps.”

“No.”

She lifted her gaze. “You can’t move quickly or lightly in those big boots, Mack.”

“No.”

Leaning back in the chair, she tilted her head. “Have you not realized why Mrs. Vanderbilt hired you?”

“She needed a useful man.”

Tillie shook her head. “You’re Earl’s twin. And Earl looks absolutely stunning in his livery. Mrs. Vanderbilt wants to, at some point, have you and Earl serving her guests. On the first floor. In the parlor. And eventually in the banquet hall. I can’t even imagine the sight the two of you would make side by side.”

He paled. “I figured all that, but I thought it took months and months, years even, to work your way up to footman.”

“Ordinarily it takes a great deal of time, experience, and references. But because of your height, your looks, and your twin brother, well . . .” She shrugged.

“What if I sabotage my chances? What if I dribble the gravy, drop a plate, knock over a glass?”

“They’ll send you packing.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, the white gloves completely out of place with his rolled-up sleeves and chambray shirt. “Why wasn’t I warned about this earlier?”

“Probably because it never occurred to anyone you wouldn’t want to be a footman. It’s more pay. More prestige. Less heavy lifting. For mercy’s sake, there’s a long line of men in town who’d jump at the chance you’re being given.”

He scowled. “Well, they can have it. I am not wearing those, those . . . fancy clothes.”

“Why not?”

“They look ridiculous!”

She lifted a corner of her mouth. “Not from where I’ve been standing.”

He paused a second, then headed toward the door. “I’m not doing it.”

Scrambling from the chair, she grabbed his arm. “If you walk out, it will be Allan who suffers.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“It is. You’re being stubborn and muleheaded and downright silly. It’s just a uniform.”

His eyes were dark. Fierce.

“Is it really worth your job, Mack? Worth Allan’s?”

He slammed his eyes shut.

She slowly released his arm, then returned to her seat. “Drinks are next.”

He stared at her for a long moment before returning to her side and all but slamming a glass down beside her.

“Be careful. That’s crystal. And you’re supposed to hand it to me.”

He picked it up and shoved it toward her.

“It’s improper to give anything with the naked hand.”

“I’m wearing gloves. Female-looking gloves. Which I hate and resent and – ”

“The tray, Mack. Go get the hand-waiter and put the crystal on it.”

Flexing a fist, he spun around, retrieved the cloth-covered hand-waiter, and placed the goblet on it.

After they’d covered countless procedures for the first course, he looked ready to explode.

“I think we’ll stop for now,” she said. “I really do have some things I need to attend to. Meet me here tomorrow, same time. We’ll review what you’ve learned, then start on the second course.”

Peeling off his gloves, he threw them on the table and slammed out of the room without so much as a word.

She stared at the door, trying to comprehend how he could get so upset about the possibility of a promotion simply because he didn’t care for the uniform.

Ridiculous. But truth be told, she preferred an angry Mack to the one who had swept her about the entry hall last week. Yes, an angry Mack was by far the safer.

She pushed back her chair. As long as she demanded perfection during these lessons, she should be all right.

CHAPTER
Ten

When Mack stepped into the storage room the next day, his eyes went straight to the pair of large but thin shoes in Tillie’s hands. She smiled to herself. Nothing like landing the first punch.

“Put these on, please.” She set them on a chair next to his gloves. “I’ll ready the dinnerware.”

He didn’t move.

She busied herself with the trays, gravy bowls, and tureens. “Step lively, now. We’ve a lot to cover and not much time to do it in.”

The door clicked shut. For a moment she thought he’d left. Then she heard him cross the floor and move the shoes and gloves to the table.

She peeked over her shoulder. The spindle chair faced away from her, creaking as he settled into it. Its back barely reached his shoulder blades and in no way spanned the breadth of his upper body.

For a moment he sat, blond head hanging, before finally dipping his right shoulder and grabbing the heel of his boot. His shirt stretched taut, outlining shoulders, back, and trim waist.

The boot thudded to the floor. He repeated the ritual, dipping his left shoulder and leaning back for leverage. Muscles bulged and rippled, drawing her eye over every ridge, every vale.

She stood frozen in place. She had no idea backs even had muscles.

The boot came away in his hands. He gripped it, his knuckles white, before carefully arranging it on the floor next to the other.

Grabbing a thin pump off the table, he bent over, chest to thigh, working the shoe onto his foot. Hooking his fingers into the strings and yanking them tight like those of a corset before tying them in a swift bow. She watched as he did the second, fascinated with every nuance of movement. Quick. Sure. Efficient. And so different from her own.

Straightening, he reached for the gloves, dropping one on his leg while pulling the other onto his hand. Finally, he slapped his knees, pushed up off the chair, and caught her ogling him.

Their eyes met and locked. His immediately darkened, the pupils dilating, obscuring all but a hint of brown.

Without ever breaking eye contact, he brought his right hand to his mouth, nipped the tip of each finger with his teeth, loosening the glove. Then, giving his head a shake like a dog with a dish towel, he tugged it off entirely.

Something leapt within her abdomen. Something not totally pleasant, but not totally unpleasant. Whatever it was, it began to spread from her stomach to every extremity to every nerve.

She needed to make him mad. Distract him. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t formulate a single sentence.

The glove hung limp from between his teeth. He drove a single burst of air from his lungs, sending the glove to the ground beside him. Then quickly removed the other one, crinkling it in those large hands before slinging it to the side.

She tried to back up, but the shelves were behind her. She had nowhere to go.

His attention moved to her lips. “Your mouth drives me crazy. Did you know that?”

Her throat closed. She tried to suck in air but couldn’t. The room began to fuzz. She felt a bit like she did when she rode in a carriage.

His gaze lifted. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the moment I saw you.”

She closed her eyes but could still picture his gentle expression. Hear the earnestness in his voice. Feel the spot on her palm he’d kissed last week.

He stepped close, hooking a finger beneath her chin, raising it. A quivery sensation raced along her neck and arms. Her hands fluttered to his chest in one last effort to stave him off. The thudding of his heart pounded against her fingers, transferring its rhythm from her hand, to her arm, then straight to her heart.
We cannot
.

But the thought never made it from her brain to her lips. He cupped her face, drawing her up, almost to her toes.

Voices just outside the door shattered her stupor. Snapping herself straight, she shoved him back, scrabbled away from the bookshelves, and flew to the opposite end of the table.

“Put on your gloves, please.” It was her voice. Calm. Collected. No one entering now would suspect every nerve in her body trembled with need.

And need it was. She wanted that kiss. She wanted it like nothing she’d ever wanted before . . . except for a position as lady’s maid.

The voices passed by, never knowing she and Mack were even in here. But they could have. Could have opened the door and caught the two of them, and that would have been the end of it. Just like that.

No lady’s maid position. No Biltmore position. No references. What would her mother say?

She gripped the chair in front of her. Her mother would be devastated.

Mack took a step toward her.

She scurried to the left, keeping the table between them. He reversed directions. So did she. He eyed the table.

Good heavens. He was going to vault over it.

“Don’t!” she cried. “You’ll take out everything on the table.”

“Then come back here.”

She shook her head. “I can’t, Mack. Don’t you see? I
can’t
.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“That too.”

“I don’t understand. Is it me?”

She crinkled her apron in her hand. “No. I already told you. It’s our jobs.”

“If it weren’t for our jobs, would you have kissed me just then?”

Yes. Oh, most definitely, yes
.

She didn’t answer out loud, but he must have read it in her expression. They both leapt toward the door. In his hurry, his leg rammed the table, sending several glasses and a tureen flying.

The crash of glassware and silver rang in her ears. Not staying to investigate the damage, she scurried into the hall.

“Tillie!” His swift, long strides caught up to her at once. “How much longer are you going to deny what’s happening?”

“Keep your voice down,” she whispered, her eye on the end of the corridor, where the servants’ stairs and elevator were. “And nothing’s happening.”

“It is.” He dropped his tone to match hers.

A second-floor chambermaid carrying a wad of soiled linens eyed them with interest. Tillie gave her a brief nod as they passed, then increased her pace.

Mack matched her step for step.

“I thought you wanted to keep your job,” she hissed.

“I do. But only for as long as it takes to earn what I need to secure Ora Lou a decent place to live.”

“Well, I intend to stay here the rest of my life.”

He grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him, halting all forward progress. She expected to see fury in his eyes, but what she saw was hurt. Confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Her stomach dropped. “I’m sorry, Mack, but I’m not leaving Biltmore. Not for anyone or anything.”

The servants’ elevator opened. Dixie opened the gate from inside, balancing a tray with a used teacup, teapot, and linen. Her eyes widened slightly as Tillie shook loose of Mack’s hold and stepped into the elevator while she stepped out.

He made no effort to follow, nor did he make an effort to mask his feelings.

She slid the gate shut and pushed a button. For several seconds they stood, a mere foot apart, yet miles away until the elevator doors cut him from view.

“How you managed to break the crystal and knock a handle off the tureen, I cannot conceive.” Mrs. Winter pinched her lips together in disapproval.

Mack stood before her desk, picturing Ora Lou and the bruise on her face and the lasciviousness of Forbus Sloop. Only that kept him from telling the housekeeper exactly what she could do with her crystal and tureen.

“Well?” Mrs. Winter looked him up and down. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Before he could answer, a tentative knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” she said.

Tillie stepped through, her glance skittering from him to Mrs. Winter. “They said you wanted to see me?”

“I most certainly do. Come here and explain to me just how you allowed this barbarian to make such a mess in the storage room.”

Head down, she approached. “It was an accident, ma’am.”

“Well, of course it was an accident,” she snapped. “What I’m trying to ascertain is how you could let it happen in the first place. You were the one training him. If you’d taught him proper technique when handling the crystal, it wouldn’t be in pieces, now would it?”

He tightened his jaw. “It was my – ”

She slammed her hand onto the desk. “Silence! I am speaking to Tillie.”

“There’s no excuse, ma’am.” Tillie kept her gaze glued to the floor.

“There certainly is not, and replacement costs will come out of your pay. Every last penny.”

Tillie jerked her head up.

Mack stiffened. “That hardly – ”

“Do
not
say one more word unless you have been specifically spoken to. Do I make myself clear?”

“I’m just trying to – ”

She surged to her feet, her face red with fury. But instead of pouring her wrath out onto him, she aimed it at Tillie. “I want him trained in the art of table waiting and I want it done before that house party gets here. I want him taught that he is not to speak until spoken to. I want him to wear his attire in the proper manner every moment of every day. If he does not, it will be your pay that’s docked and your position that’s jeopardized.”