He’d sent the coachman home and walked under the rain all night, shivering and thinking, sometimes just shivering.
As a grey dawn rose behind the storm, a blushing light sneaked through the angry clouds.
He stopped at Effie’s house. The warm yellow lights glowing from the ground floor were like a beacon. What he feared the most had happened. He’d dragged her bright light into his twisted world, and she’d put him in his place with her honesty. The least he could do was to apologise to her and hope she wouldn’t tell him to rot in hell.
Not feeling very lord-like, he walked to the rear of the house and knocked on the back door.
A scullery maid opened it. “You can drop the—my lord!” She gasped and curtsied.
“I must see Lady Effie.” He stepped under the door canopy to get a break from the pounding rain.
The maid twisted her apron. “My lord…this is…” She shouted over her shoulder, “Mrs. Young! Mrs. Young!”
“What is the meaning of this?” A tall woman with greying hair came into view. She fell silent upon seeing him. Her chatelaine stopped clinking. “Lord Montcrest. You’re drenched.”
He was growing tired of waiting, and shivering with cold didn’t make him less irritable. “It’s pissing down.”
The maid and the housekeeper gasped at his oath.
“My apologies, but I need to see Lady Effie,” he said again in a gentler tone.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but this is most inappropriate,” Mrs. Young said, seemingly petrified.
The maid nodded.
“Can we let Lady Effie decide?” He craned his neck to see past the housekeeper.
“Yes, of course. I was surprised…” Mrs. Young stepped back and forth. “Is Lady Effie up?” she asked the maid.
“She was served her breakfast in her bedroom a while ago. She didn’t feel well enough to go down to the dining room.”
“Send Rose to tell Her Ladyship that Lord Montcrest insists on seeing her now.” Mrs. Young gave him a concerned look. “Would you like to wait here? Or perhaps you want to go to the drawing room?” She held the door open.
“Here is fine.” He stepped into the anteroom to the kitchen, inhaling the scent of apples, tea, and fresh butter.
“Would you like a cup of tea, my lord?”
“No, thank you.”
“Very well, my lord. If you’ll excuse me.” Mrs. Young hurried to the kitchen, leaving him alone.
Water pooled at his feet as he waited.
Voices came from the kitchen. Footsteps pounded, and then Effie appeared in a lovely light pink morning gown as beautiful as a fresh summer day.
“Tristan.” She raked an assessing gaze over him as if searching for a bleeding wound. “Are you all right?”
“No.” He brushed his wet hair from his face.
“What happened to you?”
A small crowd of servants gathered behind her, murmuring. His idea of knocking on the rear door had been a stupid one, but that wouldn’t be the first or last stupid thing he’d ever done.
She cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should have a cup of tea in the drawing room. Please come through, so we can let the servants do their work.”
He followed her across the kitchen, amongst the scandalised glances of the maids, footmen, and kitchen workers.
“You’ll catch a cold in those wet clothes,” she said, entering a warm room with large windows overlooking the glorious sunrise.
