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Anne hesitated. Miss Barrow was clearly of the gentry, and though she wasn’t a guest, she also wasn’t a servant. She was a businesswoman, and her purpose here was to work. And yet…it felt rather rude to discuss refreshment and to offer nothing.
For a moment she felt most unlike a duchess, here in the housekeeper’s parlor with a framed catechism on the wall and a vase with dried flowers on the crocheted doily by the door. All she wanted was to sit at the narrow table andtalk. The very idea should be appalling to her sensibilities. When did a duchess ever socialize in the servant’s quarters?
But hadn’t she told herself last night that she was going to start taking what she wanted? Was this not some small rebellion that she could have for herself?
Anne smiled. “Miss Barrow, may we offer you refreshment?”
Mrs. MacInnes drew herself up. “We were indeed planning on refreshing ourselves.Afterour meeting.” Anne knew her well enough to recognize those injured tones, however faint they may be.
“Of course you were,” she soothed. “I know I am acting out of place, interrupting your meeting for such a frivolous reason as cake.”
“Cake is never frivolous,” Miss Barrow said with an easy smile that made Anne want to sink into a chair and gaze at her full lips forever. “Lemon is my favorite, Your Grace.”
“Shall we all have a slice and a cup of tea, then?”
Mrs. MacInnes looked even more affronted. This was unusual indeed, but, oh—how she wanted to stay.
Miss Barrow seemed to know what she was thinking, for she had that look in her eye again that Anne remembered from the house tour—a twinkle of merriment that creased the skin around her eyes, a little half-smile which spoke of repressed laughter. She didn’t seem the type of woman to repress herself in general. Anne liked that about her. Miss Barrow picked up a chair and placed it at the table beside her own.
“Please join us, Your Grace.”
Thatvoice. Low, smooth. Seductive. No, it would never do to think of Miss Barrow this way. Anne stepped in front of the chair, and Miss Barrow slid it under her as she sat. The hair on her neck rose as Anne felt the heat from her hands on the chair, inches from her waist.
“Thank you, Miss Barrow. I am intrigued by your ideas for Hawthorne House.”
Miss Barrow gathered up her sketches to clear the table. “Still early days yet, Your Grace. Mrs. MacInnes was kind enough to give me another tour of the house yesterday, and I was scribbling some loose ideas last night. I was showing her potential concepts so we could discuss how many additional workmen we may need, as even your impressively large staff will not be able to handle certain tasks.”
“You work fast,” she said. “Those drawings don’t look loose in the least.” She spied the columns of the grand hall on the top sketch, with furniture drawn in intricate detail.
“I have a knack for drawing,” Miss Barrow said with a shrug. “It is useful in such a trade. But my etchings must pale in comparison to what you could accomplish with brush and canvas. I assume you had the best of painting masters when you were younger?”
“I can accomplish a pretty enough watercolor,” Anne admitted. “I have a certain fondness for pastoral scenes and have one or two of my paintings hanging in my dressing room.”
“I should very much love to see them in their natural element someday, Your Grace.”
Anne blinked at the thought of Miss Barrow in her dressing room, where she disrobed every night and spritzed perfume on her naked skin and…Oh, this was going too far. That half smile was back, and Anne couldn’t be confident that she knew what it was meant to convey. The words from anyone else could be interpreted as disrespectful.
But instead of insolence, could that warm look in her eyes be meant to imply something intimate?
To flirt with a duchess was risky business. She wouldn’tdare. Would she?
And yet, what was the harm in a little light conversation, or a covert glance or two? They were in the privacy of her own home. They weren’t moon-eyed misses gazing at each other across a ballroom in full view of thehaut tonand their sharp tongues. There was no danger of discovery here except from Mrs. MacInnes, but Anne could handle a housekeeper’s ire. She relaxed in her chair.
Anne stared down at the slice of poppyseed lemon cake in front of her, its white icing piped in intricate flowers. She had a weakness for sweets, which her cook indulged in. Her slice had a few extra pink icing roses tucked into the corner, which she knew had been added specially for her. Cook often put such embellishments on her plate, believing that a duchess deserved the best.
Miss Barrow took a bite and sighed. “This is delicious.”
“It’s an old recipe. The dowager duchess had a taste for lemon when she was with child, and we served this cake many times during that joyous occasion.” Mrs. MacInnes smiled. “Nothing could be sour enough for her, so Cook would serve it with a little lemon glaze for her.”
Miss Barrow laughed. “I had less refined tastes when I was in an interesting condition. I’m afraid to admit that I wanted nothing but pickles.”
“How many children do you have?” Anne asked.
“Only one. Robert. He has become a fine young man.” Her voice was bursting with pride.
“And what does Mr. Barrow do?” Mrs. MacInnes asked. “Is your son following in his footsteps?”
Miss Barrow’s smile held, but her body tensed. “There was never a Mr. Barrow,” she said and took another bite of cake.
