One Night with an Earl (12 page)

Sarah blinked hard. The lady of the house was a duchess. One day, she'd dreamed about meeting a duchess.

There was no doubt in Sarah's mind. Though children surrounded this woman, and she even carried one on her hip, she was no nursemaid. No. She was far too elegant, far too regal. She had to be the Duchess of Trent.

And here Sarah was, finally face-to-face with a real duchess. But Sarah was bleeding and dirty, with torn stockings and a ripped dress, and her traitorous fingers itched to stroke that blue satin that clung to this beautiful lady's body.

If it were possible to die of mortification, Sarah would have dropped dead right then and there.

The duchess looked at her hand holding Simon's—her grip had tightened as she'd realized exactly who she was facing—then smiled. “What sort of creature have you brought us this time, darling? A forest nymph?”

Sarah's brows crept toward her hairline.
Darling?

Simon shrugged, a little chagrin seeping into his expression. “Not sure. I found her under attack from a blackberry bush by the stream.”

“Come closer, child.” Hitching the toddler higher on her hip, the duchess approached them. What a contradiction—such a fine lady doing something so common as adjusting a babe on her hip. Weren't such actions reserved for more lowly people, like Sarah herself?

Simon stepped forward to meet the duchess, pulling Sarah along with him.

“What's your name? Where do you come from?”

Sarah opened her mouth but no words would emerge.

“She said her name is Sarah, and she's from here,” Simon supplied.

The duchess cocked a dark brow. “Is that so?”

“Down, Mama!” the toddler complained, squirming. “Down, down, down.”

With a sigh, the duchess lowered the child, never taking her gaze from Sarah. The toddler stared at Sarah curiously for a moment, then ran toward the cluster of boys, but Sarah couldn't drag her eyes away from the duchess long enough to see what was happening on the other side of the room.

“I don't recall having any little girls in residence at Ironwood House,” the duchess mused. “Do you, Trent?”

“No, ma'am. But I've not been home. There have been no new arrivals this summer?”

“No, only the…” The duchess's brown eyes brightened. “The new gardener. Fredericks hired him. I had naught to do with it. I'd wager she belongs to him.”

Simon looked down at Sarah. “Are you the gardener's daughter?”

Biting her lip and looking down at the beautiful carpet her dirty feet had trod upon, Sarah knew she'd made a horrible mistake. She should have stopped Simon when they'd passed the gardener's cottage. She should never have come into the house. What on earth had she been thinking?

She hadn't been thinking.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Firm fingers grasped her chin, forcing her to look up into the stern face of the duchess. Tears sprang to Sarah's eyes. Now was her only chance.

“Please,” she whispered. Her throat opened just enough for her to speak in a croaking voice. “Please don't dismiss my papa.”

The woman's eyes narrowed, and Sarah's heart sank so low, she could feel it beating in her toes.

“What has your papa done?”

Sarah stiffened. “Nothing!”

“Then why should I dismiss him?”

Sarah's eyes darted toward Simon, pleading for help.

“Mother,” he said quietly, “you're scaring her.”

The duchess dropped her chin, leaving Sarah with blazing cheeks.
Mother?
Simon was one of the family, too, then. Oh, she was a royal idiot.

“I brought her here because she needs medical attention.” A touch of irritability had seeped into Simon's smooth voice. “Where is Mrs. Hope?”

“I've no idea.” The duchess turned away toward the group of boys. “Mark, my love, will you go find Mrs. Hope? Tell her to bring some of the salve she uses on you ragamuffins when you get a cut. Sam—run and fetch the new gardener, will you? Explain that his daughter has been injured, but do let him know it's not serious. Bring him back to the house if he wishes it.”

Sarah flinched. Her father had never beaten her before, but she had committed a severe enough infraction that she was entirely deserving of a whipping. Hopefully he would wait until they had some privacy. Nothing would be more disgraceful than being beaten in front of Simon.

“Can I go with Sam, Mama?”

“Yes, Luke, but stay with him and come straight back here. Understand?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Me too?” said the smallest of the boys. “I want to go with Sam, too, Mama.”

“All right, Theo, but do stay with your brothers.”

As the door swung silently shut behind the four boys, the toddler wandered back to the duchess—a girl, Sarah thought, deducing from the child's features rather than her dress. Taking her plump little hand, the duchess turned back to Sarah. “Really, child, there's no reason to be afraid. You've done nothing wrong.” A hint of a smile touched her lips. “The duke said the bush attacked
you
, after all. You probably didn't even encourage it.”

Slowly, as if through a bucket of thick syrup, Sarah turned to Simon. “The
duke
?” she whispered.

Not quite meeting her eyes, Simon gave a one-shouldered shrug, and Sarah's heart began to kick its way back up her body.

“I see he didn't introduce himself properly.” The duchess turned on her son. “Really, darling, must you always ignore the fact that you're the duke now? It has been almost three years.”

“We didn't exactly have a proper introduction. Trust me, Mother,” he added dryly, “whenever I am involved in a proper introduction, the title is
never
forgotten.”

The duchess stared at her son for a moment, then smiled. “Of course it is not.” She held her free hand out to Sarah. “Now, come, child, and sit down. Your leg is still bleeding. It must pain you to stand upon it.”

Sarah glanced at the pristine silk sofa that the duchess was gesturing to and shook her head. It was so beautiful, the deepest color of purple she had ever seen, and shining in the sunlight streaming in from the window. “Oh, no, ma'am. I can't. I'm too dirty.”

“If I was afraid of a bit of dirt and blood, I'd have never been able to countenance raising one child. But I am raising six, and I assure you, you are
not
too dirty to sit upon my sofa.”

Simon gave her an encouraging look. “I think you should sit.”

So she took the duchess's hand and allowed the great lady to guide her to the sofa. Simon helped Sarah to settle on the sleek silk upholstery before he sat beside her, and the duchess took an elegant armchair across from them while the toddler wandered toward a pile of shiny toys in the corner of the room. Sarah studied the duchess. She looked like a beautiful fairy-tale ice queen regally sitting upon her throne. That was, until she gave Sarah a smile that rivaled her son's in its kindness. “Do you like tea, Sarah? I'll ring for some.”

“Um…?” She glanced at Simon for guidance.

He nodded, then winked, making her feel like she'd just exchanged some communication with him that she hadn't yet deciphered, before turning to his mother. “Some warm milk?”

Sarah looked into her lap, smiling. That did sound nice.

“Of course.” The duchess rang a bell, and a dainty maid came in to take the order for a bit of warm milk from the kitchen. The maid didn't even slide a disparaging look toward Sarah, just hurried to do the duchess's bidding without comment.

When the door closed behind her, the duke and his mother looked at Sarah expectantly, and the absurdity of the situation washed over her.

She was lounging in the parlor of a duke. She'd just been offered tea, and now a duke and a duchess were gazing at her as if expecting her to begin some sort of important conversation. And here she sat, torn and bleeding, her legs dangling from the adult-sized sofa, smearing dirt and blood onto the fine silk.

Feeling a little desperate for a completely different kind of saving, Sarah glanced at the door.

“She's charming, isn't she, Simon? And lovely, too, I imagine, underneath all that grime. The best thing that's happened to us all day.” The duchess made a face as if reconsidering. “Well, aside from those wretched abrasions.”

Just then, the door opened, and an older woman with fluffy white hair bustled in. Simon rose to his feet. “Mrs. Hope. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

The woman curtsied. “Your Grace.”

Sarah should have curtsied and said, “Your Grace,” too, to both the duke and duchess, but it was too late now. She would have at least risen from the sofa, but the older lady came bustling toward her brandishing a bottle, and she shrank back against the cushions.

“Here now, little one, let's have a look at all those cuts.” Mrs. Hope crouched in front of the sofa, first taking each of Sarah's arms in her gentle hands, then carefully peeling her stockings away from the worst of the scratches on her knees. “We'll have to wash them first. Binnie, hand me a towel.”

Sarah hadn't noticed the young, dark-haired maid who had entered with Mrs. Hope before now. She stood at attention near the sofa holding a basin and several small white towels, one of which she handed to Mrs. Hope. Mrs. Hope finished removing Sarah's stockings and cleaned her knee, muttering about how the injuries looked horrible, but they were really quite minor, and once she'd cleaned them and applied a bit of salve, Sarah would feel as good as new. At one point, when Mrs. Hope had pulled Sarah's dress up over both her knees, she glanced up at Simon. “If she were any older, Your Grace, I'd have you leave the room.”

Simon's expression didn't falter. “I found her, so I am responsible for her. I'll stay until I'm certain she'll be all right.”

She gave him a shy smile. She was already all right, thanks to him. She wouldn't have ever imagined that a duke could be so kind. Or a duchess, for that matter.

Ever since she'd come to Ironwood Park with Papa and lived under the shadow of the enormous house and his dire warnings should she go anywhere near the family, she'd formed an image of the House of Trent as a group of cold, unkind aristocrats who would brush her aside like an annoying fly—if they'd even bother to look down their noses at her. But they were nothing like that. Beneath the great gabled roofs and beyond the marble and silk and gilt, they were a shockingly regular family.

One of the boys—Mark, Sarah remembered—stepped forward, cradling a steaming cup in his hands, which the duchess took and handed to Sarah after blowing a bit upon its surface. It was sweet and warm and soothing, and Sarah sipped at it and held her body as rigid as the statue of the Laocoön while Mrs. Hope applied the woodsy-smelling salve. If the Laocoön could be so still while being strangled by a gigantic serpent, then she could be still while her cuts stung and burned.

And if Simon had thought her brave, then she would be.

Just then, the door opened, and yet another servant stepped in, followed by her father. He rushed inside, then halted suddenly, drawing himself up and fumbling to remove his wide-brimmed gardener's hat as the boys tumbled in behind him.

“Your Graces.” He bowed low toward Simon and his mother. “Please forgive me. My daughter—”

“Ah, you must be Mr. Osborne.” The duchess rose from her chair to greet him. “Welcome to Ironwood Park. I do hope you have found its landscape to your liking.”

Papa's gaze flitted to Sarah, who gave him a fearful look, but she was still trapped behind Mrs. Hope's ministrations, her leg being held down, and she couldn't move to his side despite the fact that his expression summoned her.

“Ironwood Park is an idyllic setting, Your Grace. I am honored to be employed here. The landscape is nothing less than an artistic masterpiece, and I will do my best to maintain its glory.”

Sarah swallowed hard. She knew what Papa was doing. Trying to convince the duchess that despite his daughter's wayward behavior, he was determined to perform his duties well.

He was trying to keep his position. And it was Sarah's fault he had to do this.

“It
is
quite lovely, isn't it? Boys”—the duchess waved her hand toward the door as she addressed her sons—“you are excused. You may remain outdoors until dinner. Keep an eye on each other, and please try not to ruin your clothes today.”

“Yes, Mama!” The four boys tumbled back out of the room, but Simon didn't move from his mother's side. He stood quietly, his shoulders straight and hands clasped behind his back. He gazed at her father with solemn green eyes, his face a mask of politeness.

The duchess smiled at Sarah's father. “The duke rescued your daughter from the throes of a blackberry bush attack.” Her dark brows rose into perfect arches. “No one informed me when we took you on that you were in possession of a family, Mr. Osborne. Fredericks has been remiss. I have told him time and again that he must tell me everything about everyone who makes their home at Ironwood Park.”

Papa bowed his head. “It is only Sarah and I, Your Grace. My wife, she—died last year.” Papa still couldn't talk about Mama without a catch in his voice. “I gave my assurances to Mr. Fredericks that I would keep the child out of the family's way.”

The duchess waved her hand. “The more children frolicking happily about this cold and desolate place, the warmer and friendlier it becomes. And your daughter, despite her ruffian appearance, is quite the epitome of sweetness. Not to mention that this house lacks in female blood.”

Simon turned to his mother. “We do have Esme, Mama,” he pointed out.

The duchess laughed. “I tend to forget that my youngest is female sometimes. But that poor child—with five older brothers, she's more likely to turn into a ruffian like the rest of them than into a proper young lady.”