Samantha James (4 page)

Emily sniffed. “You’re right, of course. You’re always right.”

Olivia smoothed a golden strand of hair from Emily’s brow. “Now. Would you like some warm milk before bed?”

Emily nodded. Her lips formed a tremulous smile. “That would be lovely, Olivia.”

“Good. You go change, and I’ll bring it to you in bed.”

Olivia went into the kitchen to prepare it. Before long, she heard a loud thump in the bedroom they shared. Already clad in a long white night rail, Emily was bent over rubbing her shin. She must have heard the rustle of skirts for she glanced up.

“Sorry. I ran into something. I’m ever so clumsy these days.”

Olivia’s heart went out to her. “It was the chair,” she said gently. “Remember, love, it’s to the left of the bureau, not the right.” It had taken some while for another vicar to be appointed after Papa’s death; during that time they’d been allowed to stay in the quaint little house next to the church.

Emily had just learned to comfortably find her way around the house when a new vicar had been appointed—they’d been forced to leave the only home they’d ever known, for it was now occupied by Reverend Holden, the new vicar. Olivia knew it wouldn’t have been so bad had Emily not lost her sight. But the move to the cottage where they now dwelled had been extremely traumatic for Emily; she’d cried and cried and spent many a day in her bed. That was yet another reason Olivia had decided to remain in Stonebridge. No doubt there would have been far more opportunity for a post in London, but Emily’s state of well-being was far too fragile for her even to consider it. Perhaps later it would be possible…

She shivered a little, for even though the day had been warm, here in the cottage it was decidedly cool. She must have made some small sound, for Emily’s head turned toward her.

“What, Olivia? What is it?”

“’Tis nothing,” she said cheerfully. “I’m just a bit chilled, that’s all. This cottage is rather drafty, don’t you think, even in summer?” She gave a little laugh. “Why, I fear in winter, should anyone come to call, we’ll likely be so bundled up no one will recognize us.”

To her relief, Emily smiled faintly.

While Emily drank her milk, Olivia changed into her night rail. Together the sisters slipped into bed. It wasn’t long before Emily’s breathing grew deep and even. She slept.

Not so with Olivia, who lay wide awake. Perhaps it was inevitable…her mind traveled to him. The Gypsy.

How on earth was she to face him again? Faith, but she’d made a fool of herself, being so frightened of his dog, Lucifer. Why, she had practically suffered a fit of the vapors, a feminine weakness she’d often denounced as silly!

But it was not entirely her fault. If his coach hadn’t been traveling so fast, and at such an ungodly hour…The corners of her mouth turned down. Lucifer. What kind of name was that for an animal? But her problem remained…What if she should see
him
again? She reminded herself that she was but a maid, a lowly one at that. With luck, their paths would never cross…Even if they did, no doubt he would not recognize her.

Or so she hoped.

The black coach bounced along the narrow roadway, sleek and highly polished, its well-oiled springs such that the man within barely felt the bumps and potholes. The interior was richly sumptuous, the windows covered by the finest damask,
the crimson velvet cushions soft and deep.

But of course, the man reflected with more than a touch of cynicism, it could have been nothing else, for it had belonged to his father.

After all, James St. Bride had settled for no less than the very best, the most costly and beautiful.

His mind no longer taken with the girl he’d left behind, he crossed his arms and stared out into the encroaching darkness. Odd, the man within the coach reflected, that James St. Bride had ever taken up with his mother. But then, his mother had been a beauty…No, it wasn’t just a son’s adoration that deemed her so, for Dominic had known at a very young age that his mother stood out above the ordinary, a jewel that shone bright and dazzling. From a very early age, he’d seen the way men gazed at the dark, exotic beauty, their eyes glittering and covetous.
Gadjo
eyes. Gypsy eyes as well.

But Madeleine had paid no heed, for though she spoke of it but seldom, her heart was forever chained by one man. The man Dominic had hated since the day he had first learned he was an earl’s bastard.

He did not understand it, the love she held deep in her heart. Though seldom had she spoken of it, he knew she felt it to her core, so he had learned to accept it. Just as she had accepted his father’s demand that he must live the life of a
gadjo…

Their life is much easier, my son. There are far more comforts to be found
.

He’d been so angry at her for allowing his father to take him from her—from the Gypsies. Yet in time, he had found himself swayed…as she had once found herself swayed. By riches. By pleasure.

Often he had posed the question to himself…
What was it that had drawn his father to his mother? Her beauty? Or because she was a Gypsy—a touch of the forbidden…?

Whatever the reason, he was the result.

It had taken him years to begin to reconcile that fact.

In truth, reminded an insidious little voice within him, he still had yet to come to terms with it. Was he Gypsy? Or was he
gadjo?

No matter. He was no longer a bastard—and yet he would always be one.

He was…who he was.
What
he was…and that was something that would never change.

When his father had died, it had been tempting…so very tempting to turn his back, to shun his father’s title and fortune, to show the same disdain his father had always shown him. “
Little Gypsy rat
,” his father had often sneered.

His father had thought him wild and heathen.

His father had been convinced he could not change.

There were things his father had never known, that no one knew. They thought he was a wild, uneducated Gypsy…

But he could be…what his father had thought he could never be. A gentleman. Welcome upon society’s most privileged doorsteps. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed to accomplish it. He’d waltzed at Almack’s. Gambled at White’s. Placed bets at the Jockey Club while sitting elbow-to-elbow with the Duke of Worthington.

But deep inside was a longing for something else. A longing for something more. Something…he didn’t fully understand.

It was his solicitor’s innocent inquiry that had
spurred him on. Less than a month ago, Renfrews had asked, “
Will you be seeing personally to your interests at Ravenwood, my lord?
”

Ravenwood
. Dominic had often sworn he would never set foot there, for it was his father’s birthplace, his ancestral home…and the place where his mother had lived with James St. Bride.

James St. Bride had never taken him to Ravenwood.
Never
. Dominic was under no illusions as to the reason why. It was his home, his father’s—to take him there would have been to accept him, and in truth, though his father had acknowledged Dominic as his offspring, he had never accepted him as his son.

But the seed had taken hold, and now it flowered and grew.

He had claimed his inheritance, and now he would claim Ravenwood as well…He would make his father’s home
his
home.

Oh, but it was the sweetest revenge on the man who had fathered him…

Moments later the tall, powerful figure alighted from the carriage. Several footmen scrambled to assist him. They were waved aside, for Dominic St. Bride was not a man who stood on formality.

The butler Franklin was notably nervous. He ran down the wide stone steps, his nightshirt rumpled. “Forgive me, my lord, but if we’d known you would arrive tonight, I’d have had the staff assembled and all in readiness—”

“I did not send word of the exact time of my arrival, Franklin. Rest assured, I expected no ceremonial greeting. You may introduce the staff in the morning.”

Franklin’s jaw dropped, clearly anticipating an outburst.

Dominic had given the brick-fronted manse but a cursory glance.

Instead he stood on the last step, eyeing the storm clouds brewing on the horizon. Where before the moon had cast its gilded veil of light, a dark haze all but obscured it. The air had grown heavy and damp. Dominic was not surprised, for the countryside they had passed was wild, the weather unpredictable. He’d felt stifled in London. Here there was room to breathe.

This would suit, he thought. Ah, yes, this would suit quite well.

“There was a terrible storm last night,” said Charlotte
. “The thunder was so fierce, why, it nearly shook me from my bed!”

Olivia smiled slightly. “We’re often given to such storms in summer, I’m afraid. My father used to say it was the angels clapping in time to the Lord’s music.”

“Angels clapping in time to the Lord’s music,” Charlotte repeated. Her eyes lit up. “Why, I think I’ll tell that to Colin, so he won’t be so frightened again!”

“Charlotte! Olivia!” The whisper came from Fanny, another of the maids. “Hurry! We’re all to assemble in the entrance hall to greet the new master.”

Olivia’s heart sank like a weighted stone. The moment she had dreaded had arrived.

As luck would have it, she and Charlotte were among the last to fall in line. Under Mrs. Templeton’s watchful eye, she stood smartly alert.

From the corner of her eye she saw him. Faith, but he was tall! He towered over Franklin, who was certainly not small in stature. Her stomach churning, she waited, praying this would all be
over as quickly as possible. But Providence was not smiling on her today, for he stopped before each and every servant, calling each by name and exchanging some pleasantry.

Her nerves were screaming as he came near. She longed to sink through the floor to the depths below. At last he stood before her, his hands behind his back, looking so relaxed and at ease she longed to scream.

“My lord, Olivia Sherwood, one of the maids.”

Olivia searched deep for the courage to meet his gaze—oh, a mistake, surely! His regard, though ever so brief, was intensely penetrating. No sign of a smile broke the plane of his lips. No hint of recognition flickered in his eyes, which she was stunned to discover were not dark at all, but a piercing shade of blue.

He inclined his head. “Miss Sherwood, I’m exceedingly pleased to have you here at Ravenwood.”

He moved on to Fanny.

Olivia blinked. ’Twould seem he didn’t remember her! Was she insulted…or relieved? She decided most heartily in favor of the latter.

At last it was over. They were dismissed, free to go back to their duties.

The other maids were all atwitter.

“Did ye see him? No wonder all the fine ladies of London were fallin’ all over ’im!”

“He has his father’s eyes. Blue as sapphires, I tell ye!”

“He deigned to smile at me. Did ye see it? He smiled at me!”

“He took my hand. Why, it nearly made me swoon!”

Meeting Charlotte’s gaze, Olivia smiled and shook her head.

Charlotte leaned over and whispered, “Oh, come now, luv. Well, ye have to admit it, ’e is a handsome devil!”

All of a sudden a hush fell over the group. Olivia soon saw the reason.

Mrs. Templeton had appeared—and she was marching straight toward her!

Olivia’s heart sank. What had she done that the housekeeper looked so disapproving?

Mrs. Templeton stopped before her. But first her biting gaze swept toward the others. “Do none of you have duties to attend?” she snapped.

The group dispersed in a heartbeat. Olivia started to leave as well, but the housekeeper’s hand on her arm forestalled her.

“He’s asked for you,” the woman said tersely.

Olivia was confused. “Ma’am? I beg your pardon?”

“He’s asked for you. The master.” Mrs. Templeton’s lips were thin. “He wishes to see you in the library.”

Olivia swallowed. She didn’t like the sound of that, nay, not at all! “Very well,” she murmured.

Olivia turned to leave. Mrs. Templeton’s voice stopped her. “One more thing, Miss Sherwood.”

She glanced back.

“A good servant is neither seen nor heard, young woman. In future, you’d do well to bear that in mind.”

Her stomach felt as if it were tied up in knots.

But so was his.

He stood near the marble fireplace, his hands behind his back, his mind still reeling. Never had he
thought to find her at Ravenwood. He’d thought of her last night—and again this morning when he woke. He’d been faintly irritated that their encounter had taken place in the dead of night; he’d wanted to see her in the full, stark light of day, to see if she was as fair as she’d appeared in the moonlight.

Now he knew.

She was exquisite, as exquisite as he’d somehow known she would be.

Her face was oval, her skin smooth and the color of Devonshire cream. Her eyes were the color of jade, wide and thickly lashed; the arch of her brows was slightly piquant. The sun streamed through the window, gleaming on her hair—it was part gold, part russet. Oh, she’d not have been considered a beauty by London standards—her hair was not pale and blonde, and she was far too slender.

“You wished to see me, my lord?”

Direct and to the point. Dominic liked that, just as he liked her quiet dignity. She stood with her hands folded primly before her, her narrow shoulders squarely set. She was nervous, he decided, but determined not to show it. That made her rather brave…

“Mrs. Templeton tells me you have been employed here only a short time, Miss Sherwood.”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Much of the staff has been employed but a short time. The house has been closed up since the earl—I mean the old earl…I mean, your father—”

“I take your meaning quite well, Miss Sherwood.”

A faint coolness had crept into his tone. Olivia fell silent; she couldn’t help but take note of it. Her
fingers curled into her palms. She couldn’t have taken her eyes from him, even if she’d wanted to.

She would not have called him swarthy, for his hair was not black—but rather like darkest chocolate—and a trifle longer than was the fashion. And his skin looked as if it had been kissed golden brown by the sun.

It struck her anew…he did not look like a Gypsy. Yet neither did he look like any gentleman she’d ever seen. He was dressed in a snowy-white shirt and cravat, tight doeskin breeches and shining knee-high boots. Yet he possessed a curious roughness that was almost at odds with his elegant clothing. But there was no denying it…

He was almost sinfully handsome.

It was he who broke the silence. “Finished?” he said quietly.

The thoroughness of her perusal had not gone unnoticed. Never in her life had she been so embarrassed!

She shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, I—”

“Look as long as you like. I’m sure you find me quite the oddity.”

His tone was ever so pleasant. Olivia flushed. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

He hadn’t; there was an edge in his tone that told her so.

She clasped her hands before her. “Sir,” she began, her voice very low, “if you’ve no further need of me—”

“I would like for you to show me about the house.”

Her lips parted. “But…I’ve only been here a
scant week. May I suggest that someone else—”

“No. I want you, Miss Sherwood.”

I want you
. She had an uneasy feeling he meant something else entirely.

She inclined her head. “Very well then.” She gestured toward the door. “Shall we proceed?”

“Indeed we may.”

Olivia stiffened. Was he making light of her? She could have sworn a faint mockery dwelled in his voice.

It didn’t make the next half hour any easier. As they moved through the house, she prayed he would not discern her nervousness.

In the study, she dared to breathe a little easier. They were almost done. There was a portrait of his father there, hanging over the mantel. He stood before it for the longest time, his hands behind his back, the set of his shoulders rigidly square. Though James St. Bride had hair of mahogany brown, there was a marked resemblance between father and son. Both possessed the same square chin, the same high cheekbones…the same intense blue eyes.

Dominic St. Bride had yet to move. He stood as if frozen in place, his gaze locked on the portrait of his father.

There was a protracted silence. “You favor him,” she said awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

“I have his eyes, but I should like to think I am
not
like him.” His voice was clipped and abrupt.

He had yet to look away from the portrait. An odd prickle crept down her spine. He hated him, she realized. He hated his father. Olivia sensed it with every ounce of her being. Yet when at last he turned toward her, his manner was as easy as ever.

“Pray let us continue, Miss Sherwood.”

All that was left was the conservatory. To her surprise, Olivia was curiously reluctant to rush, for in her mind, the conservatory was the loveliest room in the house. It was immense, with an extraordinary sense of light and grandeur. On the far wall, double doors opened onto a stone verandah. Just beyond was a little garden crammed full of roses.

A feeling of wistfulness welled up inside her. She sighed, for it reminded her of the house she’d grown up in, the house that the new vicar, Reverend Holden, now lived in. She and Mama had spent many a happy hour tending the tiny rose garden outside the back door. Lord, but she missed it!

“Do you live alone, Miss Sherwood?”

A deep male voice jarred her from her reverie. It gave her a start to realize Dominic St. Bride stood directly behind her.

She turned that she might see him—and retreated a step in the bargain. “No,” she murmured.

“I see. You’ve a husband then?”

“No. I—I live with my sister Emily.”

He continued. “You are extremely well-spoken, Miss Sherwood.”

Her chin came up a notch. “Thank you, my lord.”

“And I assume well-bred.”

“My mother, God rest her soul, would like to think so.”

“And well-educated, I presume?”

“My father saw to it that I was well-schooled, yes.” Olivia was uneasy. What was he about?

“Then I must say, I find it odd that a woman
such as you would take a position in my household.”

Olivia stiffened. She knew what he meant now—that she was out of place. Taking a deep breath, she chose her words carefully. “My father always said that hard work was good for a man’s soul, and, I daresay, a woman’s as well. But if you must know, ’tis a case of needs must. I have no family other than my sister, so ’tis up to me to care for her.”

His eyes flickered. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Sherwood.”

Only then did she realize she’d been a trifle defensive. “You did not, my lord.”

For the longest time, he said nothing. His gaze roved over her face, making her pulse quicken. Then, before she had a chance to think, he raised a hand and brushed his knuckles across the scratch on her cheek. “It’s scarcely noticeable,” he murmured.

Her heart lurched. She felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “’Tis hardly serious.”

But he was not finished. He took her hands within his and turned them palm up. With his thumb he traced the blisters that had risen there. Olivia flushed. Her heart stood still. What was he thinking? she wondered frantically. That she was unsuited for the work here? Nay. She couldn’t even contemplate such a thing. If she were without employment, how would she and Emily survive?

Their eyes met. A lazy half-smile curled his mouth. “I thank you for your time, Miss Sherwood,” he murmured, “and I trust we’ll meet again soon.”

With that he carried one small hand to his lips. To her utter shock, he kissed the back of each hand in turn, a fleeting brush of his mouth upon her flesh.

He turned and strode away. Olivia was left standing there, her pulse hammering wildly.

It was quite improper, the way he’d touched her cheek. The way he’d kissed her hands…

But he was no gentleman.

And she was no lady—not a
proper
lady, like those in London…

If Charlotte was to be believed, he was a rake of the highest order—a profligate rogue, no doubt! She could not approve. She
did
not approve.

Yet all she could think was that Charlotte was right. He
was
a handsome devil.

It was earlier tonight when Olivia prepared to leave Ravenwood. She was just departing when Charlotte caught up with her.

“Do ye mind if I walk with ye, Olivia?”

Olivia smiled at her. “Of course not. I’m glad of the company.”

They hadn’t gone far before Charlotte cleared her throat. Olivia glanced at her. A frown marred the smoothness of Charlotte’s brow. She opened her mouth, then looked away, only to glance back once more.

Olivia took her elbow and came to a halt. “Come now, Charlotte. You’ve something to say, so out with it.”

Charlotte’s manner was unusually reticent. “All right then, Olivia. But feel free to refuse, for I’ve no wish to be a bother—”

“Charlotte!” Olivia chuckled. “Out with it!”

“All right then.” Charlotte took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. “Ye know how ye said if I wanted anything, I had only to ask?”

“Indeed I do. I meant it, too, Charlotte.”

Charlotte was wringing her hands. “I’ve heard that ye’ve been teaching some of the village children to read and write.”

“I do,” Olivia said promptly. “Sunday afternoons in the village square, and evenings when I’m able.”

“I don’t mean to burden ye, but I’d like for ye to teach my boy, Colin, to read and write, too. I never learned, and I—I want him to be clever and learned—like you.”

Olivia started to protest.

“Oh, but ye are,” Charlotte said earnestly. “Ye shouldn’t be here slaving away with the rest of us. Ye’re a lady—a truer lady than them wot calls themselves ladies.”

Olivia was touched beyond words. “That’s all you want? For me to teach Colin to read and write?”

Charlotte’s head bobbed up and down.

Olivia had a lump in her throat. After her mother had died, she’d taken on the task of teaching the village children as her mother had done. Now that she was employed, of course, the time spent with them was less, but she’d vowed to continue.

“Of course I will, Charlotte. I’d be happy to. And don’t worry about it being a burden. I’ve only a dozen or so that come regularly, so one more won’t be a problem.”

Charlotte searched her face. “Ye’re sure?”

Olivia reached out and hugged Charlotte warmly. “Of course I am. Besides, that way Colin
will have a chance to get to know some of the other children.”