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As soon as she says those words, my nerves start thrumming like a car engine. It’d been easy to sit with Madeline. Even though she might be better born, she’s no different than any other kid I’ve taken care of.
Oh, except for her manners. She’s got better manners than most adults I know, let alone children.
Despite those manners, she pouts a little as I get up off the floor. We’re surrounded by books we’ve picked to read.
“I’ll be back soon, and we’ll have more stories then.”
“I’ll read to you, my lady,” the maid says, getting down on her knees and picking up a book as I slip from the room.
Each step I take down the big stairs to the main floor has my heart sinking further in my chest. What will he be like? I don’t know anything about American dukes. The man and woman I Au Pair’d for in Paris were... well... better not to think about them.
This day from the beginning to now had my poor mind on overdrive with adrenaline and hormones flooding into it, and now…
My shoes land solidly on the bottom floor, the marble floor quiet under them. If I remember right, his office is off to the left—
I take a few turns, get lost for a moment by a large statue, and a helpful footman (not Clark) points me in the right direction. I stop outside of the duke’s office, hovering, unsure if I should knock or not.
Mrs. Harris comes out of the room, the tall doors open behind her.
“He’ll see you,” she says, giving me one last once over. “Remember to curtsey and address him as ‘your Grace’. And Miss Bell—” She pauses as I try to swallow down the storm of angry bees that have taken up residence in my abdomen. I look at her with anticipation, hoping for some final words of encouragement. I’ve never met anyone this high up the food chain in my life. Sure I’ve read my fair share of romance novels where the average girl working in a coffee shop ends up being swept off her feet by a handsome prince and made a princess of America. But that doesn’t give me any illusions about what’s happening here. This is real life. I’m a nanny for his daughter, a ladybug underfoot of a lion. All I can do is hope not to be stepped on and crushed.
Mrs. Harris sighs.
“Just be your own true self. You got on well with Lady Madeline today, and that speaks well for your future here. The duke is firm and can seem unkind, but remember your place.”
I swallow, my throat tight and scratchy, then nod.
She gestures to the door, and I walk through it. If I thought Lady Madeline’s bedroom was well-appointed, I’m looking at a wealth in books, furniture, and technology in here. Large windows, nearly floor to ceiling at the far end with window seats sunk into them show off the gardens and the vineyard beyond on a sloping hill. A TV, flat-screen and embedded into the wall opposite the desk has the news playing with no sound, a fireplace below it crackling with real logs. Real logs means a person to clean it, and someone to go to the bother of sourcing the wood and splitting it. A luxury most people and households cannot afford.
Hand-scraped wood floors glint in the light from the windows, the other walls lined with books, Eames chairs arranged near the fire on a rug that looks about two hundred years old but still plush.
And across from the fire is the desk, and behind it, the man himself. He’s busy at his computer, a stack of paper at his right hand, his left on the keyboard as he frowns at the screen.
I get a good look at him. My breath stalls out. It feels like time stops as I stare at my new employer. My jaw tightens. Staring at him is like looking into the sun.
He’s…
They say that high-born men are more attractive than low, that there’s something about them you cannot define. And watching him now, I know it’s true. I’ve seen models in magazines that didn’t come close to his own features, but it’s more than that. He seems to take up space in this huge room and makes it small just by his presence.
Even sat behind a desk. Focused on what I think is a spreadsheet. His jacket is off, his shirt and tie immaculate, hishair neatly trimmed, like his every moment is ruled by precise calculations.
I know I can’t put a foot wrong with him. He’ll notice something an inch out of place from across a ballroom.
He glances at me, a cursory look.
“Come in,” he says, waving to the middle of the room in front of his desk.
Feeling like I’m going to trip at any second, I walk, forcing my legs to move even though they suddenly feel like rubber. I can’t do this. I’m much too small, stupid, and the shadows from the last year are creeping up on me—
“It’s good to meet you, your Grace,” I say, my mouth feeling like it’s full of sawdust. The air is different in here, the scent like paper and leather. The whole of it is overwhelming and I remember, with a start, that I’m supposed to—
My knees bend, and I wish I’d paid more attention in school.
I look up from my curtsey, hoping it’s deep enough, hoping I’m steady enough, but the duke isn’t even looking at me.
“Mmm,” he says, avoiding meeting my eyes as he taps on his keyboard. “I don’t want her spoiled,” he says to the screen, even as he talks to me.
“Of course, your Grace,” I reply instantly.
