Oh, dear.
“None of that now,” she said in a no-nonsense manner. “Babette, I noticed you made some rather pleasing changes to my gown.”
The change of topic worked like a tonic. A shy smile curved the maid’s mouth. “Pretty. Like milady.”
Satisfaction welled up inside her. So much for Lord Randall’s dire warnings concerning Annabelle’s ability to manage the temperamental maid.
“Would you like to help me into it, and then aid me with my toilette?”
Her eyes gleamed. “I shall make milady’s hair shine like gold.”
***
An hour later, feeling much more like herself, Annabelle descended the spiral staircase, shivering against the too-regular icy drafts that rushed over whatever there was of her exposed skin. How could anyone wish to live in this frozen wasteland? She prayed a hardy fire burned in the dining hall’s hearth.
She also looked forward to informing Lord Randall of how unnecessary his dire warnings concerning her dealings with Babette had been. Annabelle had merely allowed the girl to do what came naturally to her.
Despite her apparent youth and intellectual deficiencies, Babette had ample skills as a lady’s maid. With no more than a brush, a few hairpins, and deft fingers, she’d fashioned Annabelle’s golden locks into an intricate weave atop her crown, leaving a good portion to cascade over one shoulder in the Grecian style.
Concerning her gown, Babette had rendered more changes than the trim work which Annabelle had first noticed. She’d thought the travel dress fit her well before. Somehow, the maid had gauged both where the garment could do with taking in and letting out, then managed the alterations. The end result was that it hugged Annabelle’s frame, emphasizing her ample bosom and slender waist in a subtle, yet tantalizing manner.
After fastening Annabelle’s gown, the maid had regarded her, cupping her own cheeks in evident awe. “Very pretty.” Then she’d done the oddest thing, tapping her chest above her heart while saying, “Inside.”
For no reason Annabelle could think of, she had replayed that moment in her mind several times.
She reached the landing and sauntered toward the dining hall, prepared to make an entrance. At a glance, she saw no one else occupied the chamber.
She made for the sideboard, disappointment coursing through her. Not because Lord Randall was absent, she told herself. She had need of neither his company nor his approbation. It was only that the grate was not merrily burning. Indeed, if left unattended much longer, the fire would die completely.
Without much enthusiasm, she plucked up a piece of toast, dropping it onto her plate, added a helping of smoked fish, pickled onion, and creme, and turned for the table only to find Lord Randall in the arched entrance.
He stood stock-still, his expression frozen, as if the sight of her flummoxed him.“Apologies, Lady Annabelle. I intended to stoke the fire before you breakfasted.”
“It must be a monumental task keeping the castle heated,” she said in lieu of acknowledging his meager attempt at civility.
She noted then that his thick, dark hair was mussed as if from a blustery wind, his cheeks glowed with vitality, and he helda stack of firewood in his arms, as if he’d come directly from outdoors where he’d chopped the logs, himself.
For no reason she could conceive,her mouth quivered with the mad urge to grin. Staunching the inane impulse, she sashayed toward the table, plate in hand.
With an indeterminate grunt, he lowered his gaze and strode past her for the hearth, leaving in his wake the scent of warm male skin.
Seating herself, she watched as he crouched before the grate, loaded the firewood in the wood box, then set about adding wood to the coals.
“And have you…er…eaten?” Before she’d fully posed the question, she cursed whatever had inspired her to ask. It almost sounded as if she wanted him to join her. Which she didn’t.
He took his time answering, drawing out her discomfort, his attention seemingly on his task of kindling the flame.
Then he rose, graceful as a cat. “I have, yes.”
“I see,” she said, eyeing him in helpless fascination.
He wore no waistcoat, as if he’d braved the frigid conditions in his shirtsleeves, which were currently rolled up to reveal thick, muscular, hair-dusted forearms.
A funny little flutter tickled her chest. “Were you…er…chopping wood?”
Rolling down his sleeves, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Yes. As I told you, the castle has limited household staff.”
“I had no notion your family coffers were so taxed, my lord.” A blatant untruth, as they both knew.
