“You do not want the post,” the countess blurted.
Eve cocked her head. She’d no right to the post, but wanted, nay needed it, anyway. It proved with her self-serving presence here, how very much of her blood she shared with her dead father. “I—”
“I more than understand,” the older woman interrupted. “I can offer you greater wages,” she continued, wringing her hands together. “Or mayhap—”
“My lady,” Eve said, blending gentleness with that slight command, in a tone she’d heard her late father use with countless soldiers. “I am not a young miss. I’m a woman of nearly thirty. I’ve...seen war.” Memories trickled in of picking her way around a battlefield slick with blood, helping those men who could be helped. Their cries and shouts of agony pealed around her mind.
“Mrs. Nelson?” the duchess’ query, laced with concern, wrenched her back to the moment.
Eve’s neck heated at that revealing weakness. “I’ve heard things no lady ought to hear.” Sounds of dying a death far darker than any curse words strewn together could be. “I’ve no intention of abandoning my post,” she said with a firm resolve. She’d no choice.
A slow smile wreathed the lady’s gaunt cheeks and she came to her feet. “Come, then, allow me to show you to my son’s chambers and introduce you.”
She fell into step behind the Duchess of Devlin and Countess of Lavery. By the employment agency and Captain Raynes’ family’s own admission, he’d run off numerous servants before her. Eve, however, had faced angry men, bitter soldiers, and ruthless warriors. How difficult could one gentleman be?
Chapter 3
The infernal rapping resumed.
Bloody hell, would they not leave already? This staccato beating however, more cheerful and quick than all the previous knocks. Obviously that happy rhythm came in knowing whichever bloody kin stood on the opposite side of that door would soon be free of this place.
His mother. His father. Theo and her husband, the Duke of Devlin. He’d entered Lucas’ chambers two times. That was two times too many since his return nearly one year earlier.
“Lucas?” his mother’s voice more lively than he recalled, in the whole of his eleven months home cut through the wood panel. “I would like to introduce you to Mrs. Nelson.”
Lucas ran his scarred palms down his face. The servant was, in fact, a her. And the her was named, Mrs. Nelson. If he were capable of laughing, he’d have managed a sharp bark of amusement at being saddled with a maid named for one of the most honorable, triumphant military commanders. But laughter had died long ago.
“I am opening the door, Lucas,” his mother called more loudly.
Did she fear he’d be relieving himself in the chamber pot as he’d done the time she’d sent a young maid around? Alas, propriety and politeness, and all that had once made him a charming rogue, had been jaded by life; from darkness far worse than death and dying upon the battlefield.
The faint murmur of voices on the other side of that panel gave him the faint hope that, mayhap, they’d go off and leave him the hell alone. Alas, he should have known by the hell that was living the folly in hope.
“Lucas,” his sister greeted, moving forward, her steps more hesitant than they’d ever been. And that unease matched in her eyes. When he’d left, Theodosia had been a mischievous romantic believing in the lure of the Theodosia sword, an artifact she’d been named after. She now stood before him with those miserably sad, pitying eyes.
His gut clenched. How he despised that bloody emotion; he’d been subjected to it the moment he’d been set free from the French. Suffered through it when he’d been carried to his parents’ Kent estate. Shut away in his rooms was the only hint of freedom he’d know.
Deliberately averting his stare, he turned his head and took in the tall woman who stood alongside his mother in the doorway. This was the servant they’d turn his care over to now? So thin, a strong gust could knock her down, the woman had dull brown hair, drawn tight at her nape. That only accentuated her brown eyes, impossibly big in her pale face. His lip peeled. How vastly different the somber, severe woman was than the beauties he’d left behind in his wake.
Then, the lady wasn’t here to plead for his kisses or a spot in his bed, but rather to tidy his rooms and bring him meals he’d long ago ceased to taste. “Is this the woman here to empty my chamber pot?” he asked, his voice gravelly, when it once had been smooth and effortless. Lucas hung his arm over the side of the bed and picked up the chipped porcelain pot. “No need, yet,” he taunted.
His mother and Theo’s gasps blended in like horror.
Mrs. Nelson, however, angled her tall, willowy body dismissively. She flicked an assessing stare over him and then as though she’d found him wanting, looked around the room. Her gaze left no spot untouched; lingering on the drawn curtains and then returning to the chipped chamber pot. “There are far greater matters demanding my attention in these rooms than your chamber pot, Captain. Particularly an empty one.”
Lucas froze. Surely he’d imagined that insolence? Surely this stranger who’d entered his rooms hadn’t the courage, let alone the audacity to challenge him? People avoided his eyes, they walked, nay ran in the opposite direction. They did not stand with the proud, regal bearing better suited a battle-hardened warrior than an unattractive woman, certainly near her thirtieth year.
“Lucas,” his mother interjected, nervously shifting on her feet. She’d always been nervous. It was the only way he’d remembered her being. He often said that the first words she’d uttered upon his birth were “Is all well?”
“Mrs. Nelson is not solely here to keep your chambers tidied.”
He narrowed his eyes, fixing her with a glare that drained the color from her cheeks. She gulped audibly and sent an appealing look to Theo.
His sister had always been brave and bold where their mother never had been. She now stood silent.
“I am also here to provide companionship, as you desire.” It was hard to say who was more shocked by Mrs. Nelson’s cool deliverance—Lucas, or his gaping mother and sister.
Despite himself, despite this hungering to feel nothing, an appreciation for the fearless woman stirred. He continued to scrutinize her. A woman who spoke in the cultured tones, befitting no chambermaid, but a lady. “I do not,” he seethed.
She tipped her head.
“Desire your company,” he looked pointedly at his kin. “Or anyone else’s.” His parents, his siblings, the servants who stepped through these doors gawked with either pity or like they’d stumbled upon an Astley’s Circus oddity. Their presence served as a forever reminder of how he’d been indelibly changed and how he’d never again be the man he was. The sooner everyone allowed him his solitude, the sooner he could find some peace at last. “I want you gone,” he said flatly when the woman continued to watch him with an inscrutable expression. Did he imagine the panic that flared in her eyes? “I’ve no need of a stern-faced maid in my rooms. If I wanted female companionship, I’d hire a—”
“Lucas,” his mother cried, slapping her hands to flaming cheeks.
...You are my brave, honorable boy. Do not be a hero, Lucas. Promise me you’ll come home, just as you are...
Self-loathing filled every corner of his being. It spread to his mouth, leaving a bitter taste of regret and pain. “Your services are not required here,” he managed in deadened tones, hating himself. Hating the monster he’d become and the man he’d never again be. “Get out,” he whispered. “All of you.” He let the chamber pot slip from his fingers and it sailed to the floor.
His mother and sister cried out as it shattered, spraying splinters of glass.