Page 9 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“The feeling is mutual, believe me.”

She marched past him into the passageway, but she couldn’t resist getting the last word. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.”

Strangely, this sneered riposte hardly disturbed her at all, because this time he was wrong.

She turned to go down and spied Elspeth hesitating at the foot of the stairs, carrying a jug of water. Gloriana glanced back, to see Lord Hythwick’s valet hovering in the doorway of his lordship’s bedchamber.

“Come on then, bring up the water,” she said testily. “He has already destroyed one carpet. I’d rather he didn’t ruin another.” She stomped down to the first landing and slipped into the water closet. Philippe couldn’t follow her there.

She shoved the bolt across, locking herself safely inside.

And locking him out of her heart forever.

~ ~ ~

Elspeth fought back tears—not for herself, but for Mr. Turner, Lord Hythwick’s valet. He was such a wonderful man, so big and strong, so polite and good-looking and stoic—stoicism being the prime requirement in a servant of the despicable earl.

It wasn’t enough when one’s master had almost committed rape. After meeting her eyes for a second when she reached the foot of the stairs, he had turned his face away.

Slowly, she mounted the stairs, wondering what to say. I’m so sorry seemed inadequate. How dreadful to be in service to such a man could be seen as either pitying or disapproving, she wasn’t sure which. What she really wanted to say was Mr. Turner, you are a delightful, hard-working, self-sacrificing man, and I shall love you forever.

She wouldn’t dare say any such thing. She’d met him before at a London tavern where she went from time to time with other servants, but they’d never spoken until this horrid house party. Then, he had actually confided in her last night!

This must mean he felt a degree of closeness to her—as she did to him.

It wasn’t just friendship, either. He had walked her back to Garrison House in the warm summer darkness, and as for that kiss goodnight . . .

By the time she’d gone to bed, she knew she’d fallen in love. But even if she were a forward sort of woman, which she wasn’t, this was not the moment for such a declaration. She knew nothing of his prospects, but they probably weren’t much better than hers. And although she hoped she would love him forever, she wasn’t about to make a holy vow or anything of the sort.

Elspeth passed the water closet with her stupidly stubborn Gloriana inside it, and nodded her thanks at the marquis, who leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, looking exhausted and sad.

At last she reached Mr. Turner. He was frowning down at the runner as if checking for bloodstains.

“Don’t worry about that old runner,” she said. “It needs replacing.”

He nodded but didn’t raise his eyes. Everything she would have liked to say deserted her. “Here’s some water and a couple of rags. I’ve to clean the carpet in my mistress’s bedchamber first, but I’ll come and help shortly.”

He looked up long enough to take the jug, but evaded her gaze. “Thank you kindly, but it’s not necessary, Miss Morrison.”

“Truly, I don’t mind. I’m sure you have enough to do concerning your master, and—”

He interrupted, his voice cold. “I’ll take care of it.”

Was that chagrin in his eyes? She understood all too well being mortified by one’s employer’s behavior. She hurried downstairs, intending to fetch another jug of water and more rags, hoping to encounter him again, but the door to the water closet opened as she passed by. “Forget the carpet,” Gloriana hissed. “I’ll have it burned.” The door slammed shut again.

Such folly, as the carpet in her bedchamber was a pretty little Axminster worth a small fortune. Still, she dared not disobey Gloriana in this mood. She would just have to scrub all the harder later and perhaps never succeed in removing all the blood.

She found she didn’t much care. For a man, Mr. Turner had very speaking eyes. She was certain he found her attractive. More important, he’d seemed to like her very much last night. His appreciative gaze, the warmth in his voice, the earnest way he spoke, that heady goodnight kiss . . .

None of which had prepared her for his stony expression just now.

Before long, Gloriana emerged from the water closet, and the marquis followed her down the stairs, keeping several steps behind. Elspeth accompanied her mistress to the kitchen, where the cook and housekeeper fussed over her and fed her tea with rock sugar. Elspeth served the marquis whisky in the drawing room, and then bustled back and forth, pretending to be busy, longing for a friendly word or a significant glance from the man she loved.

Mr. Turner, on the other hand, truly was busy, tending to his master, packing his belongings, and carrying them downstairs. He didn’t look her way, and he said not a word until he went out the door for the last time. “Farewell, Miss Morrison,” he said with a curt nod. He might as well have added the word forever.

Elspeth wasn’t the sort to cry herself to sleep, but she made an exception that night.