Chapter Eight
Henry was certain something was addled in his head. Two days had passed since his afternoon in the gamekeeper’s cottage with Rose Sinclair, and still he could not go more than five minutes without thinking of her. He was nearing the end of his morning ride and he pushed his mount, urging the stallion up a steep incline, but he could not outrun his mind. His thoughts flashed continually through their conversation, which had bounded between topics like a hound on the hunt. Rose never allowed an uncomfortable silence, continually asking him questions.
They’d been confined to the cottage for nearly three hours as the rain fell steadily around them, yet Henry would have sworn it was not a half hour. When the wind finally calmed and the rain slowed to a drizzle, he accompanied her back to the road and watched her depart again for town with a feeling akin to disappointment. Rose’s openness and sincerity awakened something inside him, a remnant of the man he’d been before his parents’ accident. Once, he had been charming and witty. Once, he would never have thought twice about speaking to a beautiful woman.
That must be it, he decided as he slowed his horse to a walk, approaching Norcliffe House. It had simply been too long since he had conversed with a woman, save for his own tenants and household.
Except she was a part of his household. Why could he not remember that? Why was it that every time he came across Rose, he forgot who she was and what her father had done? He only saw her smile, bright and kind, and her arresting brown eyes that danced with an amused glimmer.
He shook his head, as if the motion might free him from his memories. He focused his gaze ahead as they approached his home. His eyes were drawn immediately to a figure standing at a second-floor window—Rose. She was holding the parlor draperies away from the window, inspecting them with such concentration that she did not notice him watching her from below.
Henry’s stomach gave a strange lurch as she turned and left his view. She was likely alone in the parlor, amidst the mountain of chores given her by Mrs. Morton. He really ought to talk to his housekeeper about Rose’s workload. Her dislike for Rose was obvious, probably stemming from their differences in background. Mrs. Morton had come to Norcliffe House from the Ramsbury household four years ago after having spent her entire life in service there, whereas Rose had lived a more privileged life. But he needed to ensure his housekeeper did not treat Rose unfairly.
He left his horse at the stables and walked up to the house, handing his hat and gloves to a footman at the front entrance. He went to his study, but paused with his hand on the knob. The knowledge that Rose was above him in the parlor set him on edge. He hadn’t so much as seen her since the rainstorm.
Perhaps if he simply checked on her, made certain she hadn’t caught a cold from being wet, then his mind could settle and he could get on with his day.
He climbed the stairs and walked down the hall, where the parlor door stood open. He stopped in the doorway and peered inside. Rose had dragged a tall stool to the window and balanced precariously on the top step. She was fiddling with the tops of the curtains, trying to release them from their holdings. A soft sound reached his ears, low and melodious.
Rose was humming.
He swallowed. Even as she worked to pay a debt she did not incur, to save the man who had, she was humming. He moved forward, entranced by not just the music, but by the way her dark hair escaped her bun, teasing the base of her neck, and how her figure curved beneath her dress as she bent her head to look under the curtains.
She stopped humming as he came up behind the stool. Instead, she placed her hands on her hips with a noise of frustration.
“How have the curtains earned your ire?” he asked without thinking.
She jolted, tipping the stool off balance. She threw out her arms with a yelp, but it was too late. Blood surged in Henry’s head, and he sprang forward as she toppled off the stool, catching her in his arms with a soft thump.
Her eyes met his, wide with shock, and her lips parted as she stared at him, their faces inches apart. He stared back; he could not stop himself. Her smooth skin was flushed with pink, dark hair loose about her face, her slender frame pressed against his chest.
“My lord,” she stammered. She scrambled to find her feet, moving away from him. She brushed her skirts and touched her hair, breathing fast. His own breaths were coming quicker than they ought.
She met his eyes. “My lord,” she said again, but this time in a scolding voice. “What were you thinking, frightening me like that?”
When was the last time he had been scolded? Likely by his sisters for not visiting enough. And certainly not by his own servant. He ought to be irritated, but instead he found himself fighting the twitching in his lips.
“I am sorry,” he said. “But I am not completely to blame. You are surprisingly unobservant, Miss Sinclair.”
“Rose,” she corrected. “And it is not among my duties to be observant. I am only charged with washing these drapes, which is proving more challenging than I thought.”
“Might I offer my help?” What was his tongue doing? He did not have time to help maids with their work; he had enough paperwork piled on his desk to occupy his time for a solid week.
She shook her head and turned back to the stool. “I have things well in hand, my lord.”
“Clearly,” he said, amused. “And call me Henry.”
Her head jolted to look at him again, her surprise nearly matching his own. How had those words escaped his mouth?
“You know I cannot call you that,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “If I can call you Rose, then you may certainly call me Henry.” He moved forward to the stool and she backed away as he climbed.
“It is different,” she protested. “You are the master of the house. If anyone were to hear me—”
“Then do not let anyone hear you.” He was pleased to see pink spread across her cheeks. He turned back to the window, tugging the rod loose from the carved supports and lowering the curtains to the floor.
“Thank you.” He could tell she tried to speak grudgingly, but a smile teased at the corner of her lips.
“You are welcome,” he said as he stepped off the stool. “It is my house, after all. Am I to be excluded entirely from its running?”
“Most would think it strange that you would want to be involved.”
“And what would you think?”
Her dark eyes traveled across his face. “I daresay it is a unique quality in a baron. But certainly admirable.”
Her gaze did not leave his, and Henry suddenly felt vulnerable, as if she might look too deep into his mind and see what he was thinking about her. Because he should certainly not be thinking about how she was of the perfect height for him to kiss her. No, he should not be thinking that at all.
She saved him from his internal struggle. “Did you come to speak to me about something?”
He cleared his throat. “I came to see if you were recovered from our bout in the rain.”
She smiled, that fascinating smile that made him wish to brush his thumb along her cheek. “It would take more than a bit of rain to dampen my spirits, sir.”
“Sir” was better than “my lord” but he found himself wondering what his name would sound like from her lips.
“Good,” he said, and then could think of nothing else to say. They had spoken easily before, trapped by the rain, with no constraints on their time or worries they might be overheard. With the house looming around them, and the knowledge that any number of servants might come upon them, he found his voice quite disappeared.
Rose did not allow for any gaps in their conversation. “It’s a bit odd to talk in the house, isn’t it?” She spoke in a low voice, her eyes crinkled at the corners. “After …”
“Yes,” he said quickly. “I can’t say I’ve ever conversed so freely with anyone in my household. I am not quite sure how to go about it.”
“Well, I do not generally converse with barons, but I seem to be managing nicely.”
He gave a short laugh, surprising himself. He could not remember the last time he had truly laughed. She was just so unexpected; he could never guess what she might say or do. In his life of order and regularity, she was like a sudden breeze, a wind of change that whispered of possibilities. For the briefest of moments, he imagined he saw something in her eyes, a flicker of something much deeper than amusement. But she turned away, brushing her hands on her apron.
“Unfortunately,” she said, “despite my friendship with nobility, I still must wash these curtains and dust the room and polish the silver.”
The spell was broken, the remembrance of their situation crashing down. She was a maid, and he was a peer of the realm. He could not allow his mind to imagine anything beyond that.
But was friendship beyond his capabilities? Could he not see this as a chance to become more like his father, who had known everything about his staff and house? In fact, now that he knew Rose better, he was quite convinced that her skills were being entirely wasted on menial chores. An idea flashed through his mind, one that felt perfect from conception.
“It just so happens,” he said slowly, “that I have a different task for you, if you are willing to abandon your hard-won victory against the curtains.”
She looked up at him in curiosity. “And what would that be?”
“You may have noticed that my library is horribly unorganized,” he said. “It would be a perfect match of your talents if you would take the project on.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly?”
“Truly,” he said. “I should like you to start immediately. I’ll speak to Mrs. Morton, and have another servant come and finish your tasks here.”
Rose bit her lip and looked away. “I am not sure this is the best idea. I would hate to receive any special treatment. I do not think Mrs. Morton will like it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “As this is my house, I hardly care what Mrs. Morton will think.” In fact, it irked him that his servants might be more afraid of Mrs. Morton than of him. Though Rose was certainly not the average servant.
Still she hesitated, staring down at her shoes. “It is not just Mrs. Morton. I am an undermaid. I ought to be scrubbing floors, not organizing books. The other servants dislike me as it is, and I should not like to deepen their loathing of me.”
For the first time, Henry realized how lonely she must be. Her only family, her father, was locked away for years, and she was isolated from the rest of the staff. She likely hadn’t had much more conversation in the past fortnight than he had. He had little doubt that in time she would win over the other servants, but not if he elevated her, treated her differently. They would not forgive that of her.
He frowned. “I understand.”
She nodded and began to turn away. But he could not give up so easily.
“Perhaps,” he started, and she paused, “we might find a compromise.”
She raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “The fact is, I need my library organized, and I should like for you to do it. I will tell Mrs. Morton that you will take charge of the project, but that I understand I cannot take you from all your usual duties. Perhaps the mornings for the library, and the rest of the day relegated to your other tasks.”
Rose pressed her lips together, her eyes impossible to read. They were normally wide, displaying her every emotion. But now they searched his face, intent and discerning.
“Are you certain?” she asked. “I would hate to be a problem.”
Of course she would. Because she was far too kind for her own good.
“I am certain,” he said firmly.
She nodded. “Then I would be glad to.” She smiled, lighting her face and eyes, her lips curved into a tempting arc.
And Henry knew he was in very real trouble.