Tempting the Footman: The House of Devon Book 5 Read online

  Do not panic, she reminded herself. But it was hard to convince her heart to listen. It was beating too fast, and an unwelcome heat flushed her cheeks as she soon became flustered. She tried to picture Gran marshaling the servants to pack faster, and a feeling of hope briefly distracted her from her rising panic.

  “Will you be in London this fall?” Bernard asked her.

  “Yes, of course.” Another lie, but she carried it off beautifully. If she and Gran were successful, perhaps they could even purchase a place in the country for a year and avoid Patrick entirely.

  “That is excellent news indeed. I have high hopes that you and I will see more of each other.” Bernard offered her what she supposed was meant to be a charming grin. However, it was so clearly a performance that Venetia nearly cringed. She masked her reaction by fiddling with her reins.

  “Would it not be lovely, cousin?” Patrick urged with a lift of his dark brows.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  After Patrick’s show of temper earlier, Venetia was quite sure he could do her and Gran a measure of harm if they were not careful. It was best to play along. For now.

  “I heard that Lord and Lady Helmsley are hosting a ball in two days,” Bernard said casually. But the measured pace of his announcement hinted that he had practiced it. “I would be honored to claim your first dance.”

  Venetia had been raised a lady and nearly every moment of her life had acted like one, but right then she had no desire at all to dance with him or anyone else. So she did the sensible—but unladylike—thing and promised she would when she had no intention of keeping that promise.

  “See? What a lovely day this has been.” Patrick leaned in closer to her to whisper with a smug smile. “I told you, Venetia, that I would see you married, and it will be soon.” Despite his smile, his words dripped with poison.

  Men truly did believe women were dolls to be moved about, dressed, played with, and put away until the mood suited them. Well, Venetia wouldn’t allow it. She nearly growled in frustration but swallowed the urge. There was too much at stake.

  As much as she didn’t wish to agree with Patrick, she’d come to the sad conclusion that Gran was right. The only way to be safe from Patrick’s schemes was to marry, but someone of her choosing. Someone who would not threaten her, cage her, or strangle the life out of her by degrees over the decades.

  But did such a man even exist? Someone who was kind, compassionate, and passionate, who believed in an equal partner in a marriage? If he did, she would do everything in her power to find him and marry him.

  She smiled at Patrick, the expression laden with sugary sweetness. “Yes, I believe I will be married soon enough.”

  He thought he could browbeat her into submission? He was even more a fool than Gran had thought.

  She kept the two men at the park for nearly an hour and a half, and while they were content to enjoy the ride further, she was not. She suddenly winced and bent over on her sidesaddle.

  “Oh heavens,” she exclaimed dramatically, calling the attention of both men.

  “I say, are you all right, Lady Venetia?” Bernard inquired.

  “I . . . Yes. That is to say . . . Oh, this is most distressing, but the matter is one of a feminine nature, and even telling you this much has caused me quite a bit of distress.”

  “A feminine nature?” Patrick said, then his eyes widened with horror. “You must wish to return home at once.”

  “Yes, but please go on with your ride. It would only pain me further to make you witness my embarrassment by having you escort me home. It might become . . . unsightly.”

  Both men turned ruddy cheeked and looked bashfully away like schoolboys. Venetia held back a giggle. Leave it to men to run away at the first mention of anything connected to the feminine body that did not immediately lead to their own pleasure.

  “By all means, go. We’ll be fine, won’t we, Bernard?”

  “We certainly will.” Bernard offered her a congenial smile. Venetia had to remind herself to act disappointed before she turned her horse in the opposite direction.

  When she reached home, she found that her grandmother had managed much in such a short time. A large wagon was out front, loaded with at least a dozen trunks. Footmen were piling more small boxes upon it. Their coach sat behind the wagon, already prepared for them.

  “Heavens, Gran has been busy,” Venetia murmured as she rushed into the house. “Gran?” she called out.

  “Up here, my dear.” Gwen peered at her from the top of the stairs, cane in hand, but she was looking livelier than ever. Phoebe was ready to assist her down.

  “I’ve already secured a townhouse to accommodate everything we don’t need for the house party. Half the staff will move in to set up the house for us, it will be ready when we return from Hartland Abbey.”

  “How on earth did you find a townhouse so quickly?”

  Gwen’s eyes glinted with mischief. “When you are my age, you learn to plan. I secured the townhouse a week ago in case of such an emergency. I didn’t tell you, my dear, because I didn’t wish to worry you.”

  Gwen reached the bottom of the stairs, and Venetia caught her free hand, gently holding it. “No more secrets, Gran. Please. If we are to survive this, we need truth between us.”

  “No secrets? Child, half the fun in life lies in secrets. But yes, I’ll agree to the spirit of those terms. Now come along. Phoebe and I were preparing the coach when you arrived. It’s time we left for Hartland.”

  “Isn’t the party two days away? Surely we cannot arrive earlier than expected.”

  “Yes, but we will need to stay at an inn on the way. We can extend our stay at the inn another day and then finish the journey to Hartland.”

  It seemed that Gran had planned for everything. Venetia should have been relieved, but she wasn’t. Her grandmother intended to see her good and married.

  She just hoped Gran didn’t intend for her to put expedience ahead of happiness.

  2

  Adrian Montague groaned as he was shaken awake by a gentle hand.

  “It’s half past five,” a sleepy voice murmured, trailing off into a yawn.

  Adrian sat up. “Christ.” He raked his hands through his hair before glancing at Benjamin, one of the other footmen employed at Hartland Abbey. Their shared room had a pair of tiny wood-framed beds, one washstand, and a chest of drawers they split between them. Life in service meant everything was shared, right down to the livery clothes on his back.

  He had been a footman at Hartland for ten years. Now nine and twenty, he was coming into the age where men like him would either move on or advance into an underbutler position. But he doubted that Hartland’s butler, Mr. Reeves, would consider him for the position. Not given his family history.

  It was one thing to allow the bastard son of a duke to stand as a pretty decoration in livery, but it was quite another to let him move into a more prominent position within such a noble household. Mr. Reeves, while an affable and fatherly man to all employed at the Abbey, was not quite so free and forward as to propose such an idea to Lord Devon and his duchess, Lady Devon.

  “Come on, Adrian. I smell breakfast. We’d better get a move on.” Benjamin lit a candle in the dark interior of the basement room, giving them enough light to change into their uniforms of black breeches and gold-striped waistcoats.

  When Adrian was dressed, he joined a few of the other lower staff as they ate a quick breakfast of toast and poached eggs. Then he accepted a tray for Mr. Reeves from the cook, Marion Webster.

  “Best to wake up a bit, dear,” Mrs. Webster teased and pinched his cheek, winning her a rare smile. Adrian had a soft spot for the old girl. She was the mother of Phillip Webster, the valet for the Duke of Devon’s second-oldest son, William Hampton, or Lord William.

  Adrian climbed the winding stairs to the ground floor to wake Mr. Reeves and to deliver his breakfast. It was going to be a long day for everyone belowstairs. The Abbey was to play host to a house party for th
e next week. Coaches would be arriving throughout the day. Everyone would need tending to, luggage carried, tea and food brought up, and new servants settled. He and the rest of the staff would not go to bed until well after midnight tonight.

  He knocked lightly on Mr. Reeves’s door, and the butler called for him to enter. He set the tray down on the small table beside the butler’s bed.

  “Morning, Adrian. Is everyone else up?”

  “Yes, Mr. Reeves.”

  “Good. See that everyone is on schedule. I will confirm with Mrs. Miller as to the guest list. Make sure you and Benjamin watch the bells for coaches arriving.”

  “Yes, Mr. Reeves.”

  Adrian descended back down into the kitchens and dodged around sleepy-eyed upstairs maids, grooms, and a few of the upstairs servants, who were all starting their day.

  Adrian knew all of them well, but he usually kept to himself, even though he counted many of them as friends. It was easier that way. The scandal of his birth could damage many of those around him. He was the bastard son of a duke, but not the Duke of Devon. No, the honor of his parentage was that of the Duke of Stratford, who had seduced his children’s young governess after his wife had died. When society had discovered the affair, Stratford had been forced to send her north to bear the child in secret.

  Adrian had lived with his mother in Northumberland until he was nineteen, doing his best to earn a living working in a local tavern. When his mother had died of a fever, he’d been left to make his way in the world alone.

  He had gone to Stratford’s home only once, bearing the letter his mother had written in her final hours. The duke had refused to see him. Instead, he’d been given a letter that he was not allowed to read and an address of where he was to go. That was how he had shown up on Lord Devon’s doorstep, weary, hungry, in threadbare clothes, and desperate for work. Mr. Reeves had been skeptical of him, like any good butler would be, yet he still had delivered the letter from Lord Stratford to his master.

  Adrian remembered how he’d wanted so desperately to be let inside and to rest. Half an hour later, Mr. Reeves had let him enter through the infamous green baize doorway that marked the servants’ domain at Hartland Abbey. From that day to this, he had been welcomed by the other staff and had become a favorite of the house.

  He was of an age close to the children of the house, and his attractive features, ones he had inherited from his mother, made him a talking piece of any visiting ladies and even a few men. His height, well over six feet, and his dark hair and amber eyes put him in a unique position—both intensely desirable and completely untouchable.

  It was one thing for houseguests to partake in physical pleasures with one another, but servants could not engage with each other, let alone the guests. Adrian had only had a handful of lovers in the last few years, and all of those had been young women who lived and worked in the nearby village. Some had called him a heartbreaker, but he’d done his best to let each young woman down gently when it had been time to part ways.

  A life in service was a lonely one, and Adrian felt that now more than ever as the coaches began to arrive. He stared almost forlornly at the first coach rattling down the road toward him. How many times had he stood there waiting for coaches like this? How many years would he continue to live here at the Abbey, answering the calls of the highborn gentry?

  He and half a dozen other footmen, along with Mr. Reeves, stood ready to greet the first coach as it made a slow arc in front of the house and stopped before the door.

  The coach was a lovely dark blue with bright yellow accents. Four horses pulled it, all matching bays of exquisite health and form. The stable master, Mr. Fredrickson, would be delighted to house such handsome beasts. Adrian had listened to him wax on about horses for hours at the servants’ table on more than one night. The man knew good horseflesh when he saw it.

  At a nod from Mr. Reeves, Adrian approached the coach door. He unfolded the step and turned the handle, ready to assist whoever came out.

  A silver cane jutted out, followed by the silver hair of an older woman. She wore a dark-blue gown, much like the coach she rode in. She accepted Adrian’s outstretched hand, and he was careful to assist her down once he realized that she was a rather delicate lady. The woman turned a pair of dark-brown eyes on him.

  “Lord, I sometimes forget how handsome you devils are. Lady Devon has rather good taste in footmen, don’t you agree?” This last comment was directed at whoever was inside the coach behind her.

  Adrian remained impassive as the older woman released his hand and headed toward the house. He turned his attention to whoever was still inside and froze at the sight of a lovely blonde-haired creature with dark-brown eyes. Her face was flushed as she placed her gloved hand in his.

  “Please forgive my grandmother. She is forthright at the best of times and can be quite impertinent when she knows she can get away with it.” The young lady, for she was indeed younger than him, had a soft, sweet voice—neither too girlish nor too deep.

  Adrian almost forgot to release her hand after she stepped down onto the ground. He wasn’t used to guests speaking directly to him unless they were giving an order, and he certainly wasn’t used to a pretty young lady talking to him.

  “It is no trouble, my lady,” Adrian replied quickly as he realized he had been staring at her and hadn’t responded.

  The young woman walked past him into the house, leaving him with visions of wildflowers and stolen kisses in the gardens at twilight. Lord, what would it be like to kiss a woman like her? He sighed softly, his gaze still on her as she vanished from view.

  “Adrian, it would be best to put your eyes back inside your head,” Mr. Reeves warned, but there was no real bite to the butler’s tone. He knew Adrian had never broken his code of conduct as a servant of the house of Devon, and no matter how lovely that young lady was, he wouldn’t start now.

  But that didn’t stop a man from indulging in a few wicked daydreams.

  * * *

  Gwen greeted a lovely woman in her midforties as she and Venetia were shown into the drawing room. “Marrian!”

  “Gwen!” The Duchess of Devon met Venetia and her grandmother at the door with a warm hug. Lady Devon’s blue eyes were warm as she held Venetia’s hands. “You look so much like your mother. Heavens, I miss her dearly.”

  “As do I, Your Grace.” Venetia had met Lady Devon only once as a child. Her mother and the duchess had spent much time together socially over the years, but Venetia had been too young to participate in such activities herself.

  “You are such a dear to invite us,” Gwen replied. “And if I am honest, you rather saved us.”

  Venetia blanched at her grandmother’s open admission.

  “What’s all this now?” Lady Devon gestured for them to sit on the settee near the fireplace.

  “Gran, Lady Devon doesn’t need to hear about our—”

  Gwen tapped her cane on the floor. “Nonsense. She certainly does need to hear it. She’s the one woman in all of England I trust to help us find you a suitable husband.”

  Venetia was ready to perish on the spot with mortification.

  “Oh? Are we husband hunting?” Lady Devon grinned. “This is delightful. Venetia, my dear, your mother had such wonderful hopes for you to make a brilliant match. It was such a tragedy that she did not live long enough to see you wed.”

  “Thank you, Lady Devon, but I am afraid that the notion of my marrying is a point of contention between myself and my grandmother at the moment. I would prefer to take my time in choosing a husband.”

  “It certainly is not a point of contention,” Gwen grumbled. “Marrian, tell her that I am right. My scheming grandson wishes to gain access to Venetia’s assets by marrying her off to one of his friends. I won’t allow it.”

  Lady Devon gasped and turned to Venetia. “Is this true?”

  “Well, yes, but I told Gran that no one can force me to marry.”

  At this Lady Devon and Gwen exchanged looks, then
turned back to her. “If the world were a just place, you would be right. But this is a world made for men. A determined man can force you to marry, and should you claim foul afterward, such a man might have you declared mad and send you away. Unfortunately, your safest course of action is to marry someone of your choosing, someone you like and trust.”

  Gwen harrumphed in agreement. “Exactly. We need to find a strapping, handsome young buck who can throw Patrick out on his ear if he even breathes disrespectfully around Venetia.”

  Lady Devon chuckled. “I’m not sure who would fit that description, but the night is young.” She rang a bell for tea, and a footman entered, placing the tea tray on the table beside Lady Devon.

  Normally Venetia would not look at servants. It wasn’t out of a sense of superiority, but rather deference to their need to be unseen. But she couldn’t help but notice that he was the same dark-haired footman who had assisted her down from the coach. She had apologized to him for her grandmother’s conduct, and he had held her hand a moment too long.

  His eyes were a delightful shade of brown and hazel that reminded her of amber. He was devastatingly handsome, with a strong chin, and his lashes, too long for a man, made him seem almost pretty. He was broad-shouldered and impossibly tall, at least a foot and a half above her. Gran would have called him an Adonis.

  His eyes were downcast as he set the tray on the table. He was so close that she could smell leather and something softer upon him, a bit of sandalwood perhaps. His proximity sent her blood humming.

  The footman straightened and backed away. For a brief moment, his eyes flicked toward her, as though he wanted to steal a glance and didn’t expect her to be watching him. The flare of heat in his eyes answered the call of her own.