Page 10 of Only a Mistress Will Do

Carefully, he climbed the dark stairs, praying he did not waken her. His face brushed against her hair and her womanly scent, sweet and clean, furthered his agony. He wanted to bury himself in that smell, in her, so badly he almost shook. What was it about this woman that undid him so? He’d lusted after women from an early age, and had been gratified with their attentions most of his life. Yet his yearning for Miss Carlton surpassed anything he’d ever experienced before. Forbidden fruit, perhaps? That made about as much sense as anything. Not that the explanation would ease his need at all.

At last, he entered the bedchamber once again and laid his burden on the bare mattress. She touched the cold fabric, shivered, and drew her legs up, making herself into a compact ball, but did not wake. The room was chilled as well. She would be freezing until the servants arrived and made up the fire.

Tris untied his black wool cloak and spread it over his sleeping charge, tucking it around her as he had the carriage robe earlier.

She sighed in her sleep and her body relaxed further into the mattress.

The room’s cold proved a welcome damper to his hot blood and he backed away from the bed. He’d return to the parlor and await the servants. So much to be done.

He sped down the steps, making plans as he went. A call on Duncan was the first order of business tomorrow. If his normal cadre of servants wasn’t available, he’d have to find others, including a maid for Miss Carlton. And of course, he must begin inquiries about a position for her. He’d need to concoct a story to account for his relationship to her. The truth certainly wouldn’t do. A distant relation who had sought his help? It might serve. As long as his sister, Theodora, didn’t get wind of it.

As he rounded the doorway into the parlor, his foot hit a soft object and sent it flying. He reached over and snagged Miss Carlton’s satchel. It weighed almost nothing, and when he shook it, the muffled sound of small items rattling around in it suggested the woman truly had little to her name.

Tris smiled into the empty room. That, at least, he could remedy.

Chapter 4

Sunshine streaming into Violet’s face pulled her out of a delicious dream of having tea with her grandmother. She groaned and grabbed the pillow from under her head and dragged it across her face. The almost real dream-smell of fresh baked scones with clotted cream and hot, fragrant tea urged her to return to slumber.

“Good morning, miss.”

She bolted up, fully awake. A strange woman in an unfamiliar room held a tray containing a teapot and cup. Who was that? Where was she? What was she doing here? Her gaze came to rest on the black cloak covering her. Memory of the past night came flooding back and she clutched the material as her face burned. Dear Lord, had that really happened?

“Are you all right, miss?” The young maid, dressed soberly in gray, smiled tentatively, a small frown creasing her forehead.

“Yes, I’m fine thank you.” Violet rubbed her face, trying to remove the final cobwebs of sleep. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

“Susan.” She bustled forward, put the tray on the bedside table, and poured a cup. “Sugar and milk?”

“Yes, please.” The steam tickled Violet’s nose with the familiar, earthy smell. She sipped, and relaxed against the headboard.

“Lord Trevor asked for you to come breakfast with him downstairs, when you’re ready.”

Violet clutched the delicate teacup, then carefully released it. There seemed no need to be afraid of the viscount. He’d been kindness itself last night after finding out who she was. Still, he’d seen her naked and taken outrageous liberties. How could she talk to him, or even look at him, without dying of shame, wondering if he was remembering her that way? Nevertheless, she’d have to put it out of her mind, because as long as he assisted her, she would have to see him. She nodded, gulped another mouthful of tea, and threw off the cloak.

“Do you know where your clothes were put last night? This is all I could find this morning.” Susan produced Violet’s satchel.

“I’m afraid these are the only clothes I have at the moment.” Suddenly aware of her dishabille, Violet brushed at the sadly wrinkled petticoat. She certainly looked like a fugitive from a brothel this morning.

Susan frowned, then shrugged. “Then we will make you as presentable as possible, Miss Carlton.”

Violet jerked violently. Lord Trevor had given the servant her real name. She needed to remain anonymous, although what other name could he have given? “Thank you, but you don’t need to bother about the clothes. I’m really no one special.” Despite her words, she continued to fluff and straighten her outfit. Best look as presentable as possible.

“Somehow I doubt that, miss. Lord Trevor’s very particular.” The girl eyed the gown critically. “Let me pop down and fan it with some steaming water and see if that will take out the worst of the wrinkles. Here, I’ll help with that.” In seconds, Susan had expertly stripped off the rumpled garment, leaving Violet once again naked.

Her face heated, yet the maid didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

Instead, she laid the dress on the bed and opened the satchel. “Ah, good. These stays are a little worn but will do nicely for the time being. I’ll assist you when I return.” She nodded to a screen, painted with a huge peacock to which real feathers had been attached. “I brought water for washing there. When I get back, we’ll see how well I can turn you out for the day.” With a toss of her head, she snatched the gown off the bed and left.

Violet leaned back against the bed. Her life had become a whirlwind, ever since Lord Trevor had intervened in it. She’d best get used to his routine and expectations. Perhaps she could question Susan when she returned. In the meantime, a wash was well in order.

By the time she had finished and stood before the fire to stay warm, Susan had reappeared, the purple dress looking miraculously refreshed as well. Given the original state of the garment, the maid had done wonders.

Taking over completely, Susan cinched, fluffed, combed and curled Violet until she couldn’t believe the woman who stared back at her from the small mirror atop the dresser. Her hair had been swept up and pinned cleverly to allow little tendrils of chestnut to emerge from the knot at the back of her head. Her gown, second best and worn to begin with, had been transformed into a serviceable outfit. The width of the skirt had been reduced slightly, the frayed panel at the side gone. The already low neckline of the bodice had been lowered even more to disguise a tear in the fabric, but a fichu had been added to give a demurer look, fitting for a breakfast rather than a ball.

“You are pleased, miss?” Susan beamed with satisfaction.

“I cannot believe it is the same dress. The same me.” Violet couldn’t take her eyes off the image in the mirror.