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Chapter One
All the deleterious effects Molly had feared about Lady Clara’s liaison-turned-marriage had come true. The scandal of an earl’s sister marrying James Robertson—a lowborn Scottish industrialist—had burned away all but the truest of her ladyship’s friends. Moving into Mr. Robertson’s massive Belgravia mansion had required great adjustments in their household routine. Last but not least, the couple’s constant lustful ways had landed the lady in the family way.
Molly had always thought that if—if—it were necessary for Lady Clara to marry, a bookish, quiet husband would suit her. A scholar who would appreciate her intellect on one hand, yet have his own preoccupations so the lady could continue her own grand pursuits in peace. Lady Clara was the kindest, most generous person Molly knew; the fiercest and most headstrong as well. A soft-spoken gentleman who could listen as needed, yield when convenient, might have been just the thing.
As the lady’s maid, Molly’s job was to know her employer as a shepherd knew his sheep. She could gauge when Lady Clara was out of sorts or falling ill. She divined and stocked the delicacies Lady Clara craved. Before her ladyship went anywhere, it was Molly who helped her look her best. She knew when she required the chamberpot or the special linens for her menses. She comforted her when she was upset. She knew what books she favored.
For all her experience in predicting Lady Clara’s needs and preferences, never could she have foreseen the likes of James Robertson.
Untitled. Obscenely muscled. Impulsive. Willful. Prideful.
As set as Molly had been against Mr. Robertson, however, his devotion to Lady Clara slowly won Molly over. Not only had Lady Clara’s radiance brightened since falling in love, Mr. Robertson had shown himself willing to sacrifice for her. He encouraged her passions, even those that others would consider indecent predilections, such as her tastes for performing ardent piano music and supporting a charity for fallen women.
Of course, he had his own oddities, perhaps owing to his embrace of his wife’s foibles.
“Clara!”
Mr. Robertson surprised both Clara and Molly by appearing in the lady’s dressing room in the late morning. After breakfast, he’d reported as usual to his countinghouse next door for a day of work leading his enterprise.
Molly melted to the side of the dressing table, her hand closing around the earbob she’d been about to fasten when her ladyship turned, beaming, to greet her husband.
“James!”
She discretely monitored the Robertsons, ready to depart should they require privacy. Being Tuesday, her ladyship’s day of commerce, they were due to depart imminently for an appointment with the modiste. Holding her breath, she knew that shortly, she would know whether they would cast aside the established household order—once again—in favor of ardor.
“I see I’ve caught you on the verge of departure.”
Eyes downcast, Molly didn’t need to see Mr. Robertson’s face to recognize his enchantment while he gazed upon his wife in her finery; his voice was rich with it. Skirts and petticoats swished as Lady Clara stood to greet her husband.
“Indeed, I’m afraid we are due at Madame Robillard’s soon. What’s brought you back to the house?”
Molly’s shoulders sank in relief at her employer’s words.
“Word just arrived—that damned ship has finally arrived from Australia. I’m going to see the wool unloaded with haste.”
Molly couldn’t hide her smile as Lady Clara laughed huskily, but they weren’t paying her any mind. They spoke in low tones, surely standing in an embrace.
“You meanyouare going to board the ship and help unload? Returning to me smelling like the docks and looking like a stevedore?”
“Quite. And you’ll welcome me home anyway, won’t you?”
“I’ll welcome you homeespecially.”
Oh, my.Knowing the time of their appointment and hearing her ladyship’s tone, Molly had to wonder if they would not miss their appointment after all.
“In that case, time for me to change. The sooner I depart, the sooner I shall return to you.”
“The sooner you depart, the sooner you shall get your hands on that filthy, glorious wool, you mean.” Their warm chuckles filled the room. “Go, my love, and see to your tasks, that we will both return from our respective duties and find each other again.”
“Very well—but I need your word that you’ll not overtax yourself today with your outings.”
Molly couldn’t help but nod in approval, grateful for Mr. Robertson’s attention to her ladyship. Six months into her increasing, the lady had returned yesterday from her visit to the charity home she funded, Violet House, quite worn out. Molly’s ears perked as she awaited the lady’s response, knowing that she might well take umbrage at being managed.
A daft fool the man was not; at his wife’s intake of breath, he employed some manner of his persuasions on her that caused fabric to rustle, and there were no further protestations.
“Molly,” said Mr. Robertson, causing her to look up at the couple. The Scot’s large hand lay unabashedly on the swell of his wife’s belly. “I’m charging you, if needed, with throwing Mrs. Robertson over your shoulder and carrying her to the carriage should she become fatigued or otherwise stubborn.”
She smiled and answered pertly. “Yes, sir! Need be, I will carry my lady.”
