Christ, Helen. You’re all I think about.

Clara couldn’t get his words out of her mind. Nor the memory of the warmth of his arms, the weight of his body, and the skilled press of his lips on hers.

Something had changed. She felt different. A hunger had taken root deep within her, a desperate yearning to be intimate with this man. She’d found herself tossing and turning all night long beneath the warmth of her extra blanket, tormented by thoughts of what might have happened had she not broken the kiss.

She felt reckless and wanton. She felt unhappy and guilty. No matter how she viewed it, whether she was Helen or Clara, there was no outcome in which an affair with the earl was anything but doomed.

She struggled with the overwhelming urge to climb back into bed and bury her head beneath her pillow. But with a sigh, she forced herself to leave, shutting the door behind her and crossing the hallway to enter the servants’ staircase. Dismal, gray vestiges of light shone through the polished windowpanes above her, and her steps were slow and heavy on the narrow wooden stairs.

She yearned for her sister, for her family and friends back in Essex. She missed having the luxury of confiding in Lucy or Abigail, and even, on occasion, her mother.

Was she falling in love with him?

Reaching the bottom floor, she pushed through the door and walked down the narrow hall, past the dining room to a small room with a square, cloth-covered table in the middle of it. On top of the table were a mass of servants’ shoes, lined up and ready to be polished. Matthew was already seated at the table, working on cleaning a pair of the earl’s boots. With a jolt, Clara realized they were the ones he had worn yesterday.

Matthew raised his dark blue eyes to meet Clara’s. “Oh, hello.” He lacked his usual lively energy.

“Hello, Matthew,” she replied, sitting on a stool to face him. Clara began sorting through the items on the table, finally settling on a pair of Mrs. Malone’s serviceable black shoes. She reached for some polish and a cloth. “How are you today?”

He scrubbed the boots vigorously once more, then set the brush aside to retrieve his own polishing cloth. “I’m fine,” he replied, applying himself to his work. Then, after a few more swipes with the cloth, he set it aside and shook his head. “No, I suppose I’m not fine.”

Clara’s eyes lifted and she, too, set down her polishing rag.

“Oh?”

“You’re probably not the right person to talk to about this,” he began nervously. “But, well, you’re a woman. You’ll have a good idea.”

Now her interest was truly piqued. “Go on,” she prompted.

Matthew sighed. “It’s about Amelia,” he said, lowering his voice so as to not be overheard. “I don’t know how to get her attention.”

Clara smiled as she remembered how he liked teasing the red-haired housemaid. “I’d say you have no trouble gaining her attention.”

“No, no. I mean, I fancy her,” he whispered fiercely. “How can I get her attention?”

She stared at him, then clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. He glared, clearly unimpressed by her reaction.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered.

“Matthew! I’m sorry . . . it’s just that she’s, well, so prickly,” she replied bluntly, mastering her amusement. “I wouldn’t have thought to match the pair of you together, but . . .”

“She’s not always that way. In fact, she’s usually only that way around you,” he added thoughtfully.

Clara beamed at Matthew fondly. “I may not understand your preference, but she would be lucky to have you.”

The footman stared sullenly at the boots before him. “I’m not sure she would share that sentiment.”

Clara couldn’t give two figs about Amelia’s happiness, but if it made Matthew happy, then she would put her personal feelings aside and give him her honest advice.

She reached across the table to take his hands in hers. “Matthew, the first thing you need to do is to treat her a bit differently. Less like a little sister, and more like . . . like a woman.”

“So, you think I should stop teasing her.”

“No, not altogether,” Clara replied. “I’d say that’s part of your charm. But know when to stop, and try treating her like a lady more often.” She smiled. “I don’t think it would take much to convince her of your affection.”

Matthew returned her smile and reached across with his other hand to give hers a gentle squeeze.

The sound of someone in the doorway made them jump, and they looked up to find Amelia staring at the two of them, her eyes focused on their clasped hands. Instantly, her face transformed into a scowl, and Matthew and Clara instinctively jerked away from each other, resuming normal postures on their respective sides of the table. The footman stood awkwardly to greet the fuming housemaid.

“Hi, Amy,” he managed to say.

Ignoring him with a haughty turn of her head, she tossed a sealed letter onto the table in front of Clara.

“Abigail asked that I deliver this to you directly, although I can’t understand why she wouldn’t just address it to you and send it to the house. It can’t be necessary for me to personally escort her letters into your hands. That is, unless there is something that bears investigation?”

Clara froze. She had written to her maid once since coming to Lawton Park, providing a hastily scribbled update and the false name she had adopted. But the fact that Abigail was sending a letter to her was a sign of some importance. She could not allow Amelia to indulge her suspicions. To do so could place Clara’s life and Abigail’s employment in jeopardy. She reached across the table to curl her fingers around the parchment, then drew it carefully into her lap, making an attempt at a genuine smile.

“I’m sure the letter itself is of no significance other than to inquire after my new situation. She may have assumed you wouldn’t mind bringing it to me since you are her sister and she trusts you. But I will tell her to send it to the house next time if you’d rather not.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. Then with a scoff, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

Matthew sighed and ran his fingers through his dark hair, sinking back down into his chair with a defeated look.

“Perfect. Now she thinks I’m pursuing you.”

Clara shook her head, wanting to empathize with Matthew but also wildly distracted by the letter now hidden deep inside her skirt pocket. “She’d be silly to think that. It might take a bit more convincing now, but it’s me she loathes. Stick to the plan, Matthew. I’m sure she will forgive you.”

He nodded despondently and resumed his task, but Clara found she could not wait a moment longer. Excusing herself with a friendly squeeze of his arm, she raced up to her room. Only with the door tightly shut behind her did she finally tear open the letter to read it by the light of her window. It would have to be burned immediately after, especially if Amelia was set on being nosy. The hastily scrawled lines written in Abigail’s hand did not reassure her in the slightest:

Clara’s hands shook as she crumpled the parchment, though in rage or fear, she wasn’t sure. She did know that the odds of Rutherford finding her—living belowstairs in a country estate—were laughably poor, but his tenacity was frightening. It was not unexpected, though, which was why she had taken such drastic measures in the first place. The fact that she’d had to at all inspired a fresh surge of hatred for the man.

Closing her eyes, she sent a silent thanks to Abigail for the warning, then she crossed over to the table and reached for a match.

The following day, Clara was summoned to breakfast in the morning room. She had managed to pass an entire day without encountering Lord Ashworth, but her luck had now come to an end at the personal behest of Lady Eliza Cartwick. Her fingers shook as she slipped her work apron over her head and removed her dirty gloves.

Stella, who had just finished the upstairs grates, eyed her with good-natured envy, a black smudge of soot marring her cheek. “It must be nice to be invited abovestairs with the earl’s family.”

Clara met the maid’s eyes with an insouciance she did not feel. “I’m sure it’s not nearly as exciting as one would expect.”

In truth, it was unheard of for a housemaid to be asked upstairs when the family was breaking their fast. But with no guests present at the estate, she supposed Eliza felt she could do what she wished.

With a small smile to her friend, she nervously smoothed her skirts and turned to climb the stairs up to the green baize door, deafened by the frenzied pounding of her heart.

She entered the morning room, and was greeted by a shocked glance from the earl. His sister rose and turned with a smile, looking considerably less surprised than her brother. Rosa leaped out of her chair and hurtled towards the doorway.

“Helen!”

Clara knelt down to gather the little girl in her arms, laughter rising in her throat.

“Good morning, Miss Rosa,” she replied, smoothing her golden curls with an affectionate stroke of her hand. Eliza had come to a stand beside them, and Clara rose, curtsying politely before her. “Good morning, my lady.” It was a surreal feeling, curtseying to a young woman who, under other circumstances, might’ve shared punch and gossip with her at any number of parties.

Eliza was beautiful as usual, even restricted as she was by half mourning. The somber gray of her dress somehow worked to bring out the uncommonly lovely shade of her eyes, whereas Clara suspected it might have an opposite effect on most women.

“Good morning, Helen. I’m glad you could join us,” Eliza said, glancing down fondly at her daughter. “Rosa was quite insistent that I invite you.”

“I made cakes with Mrs. Humboldt! Would you like to see?”

Eliza laughed softly and placed a calming hand on the girl’s shoulder. “There, there. Give Helen a chance to be settled, first.” She focused again on Clara. “Are you hungry? Be sure to help yourself to a plate if you are.”

Clara looked briefly over Eliza’s shoulder. The earl was now standing, staring warily at the group of females on the opposite side of the room. Attempting to ignore his scrutiny, Clara considered Eliza’s offer carefully. She was distracted by the sight of the sideboard loaded with coddled eggs, rashers of crispy bacon, and fragrant rolls fresh from Mrs. Humboldt’s oven.

Coffee perfumed the air, and Clara was hit with a feeling of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocked her over. She used to love beginning every morning at home in the breakfast room with her coffee. Her family was welcome to join her if they wished—she and Lucy often laughed together about the latest gossip from their friends’ letters—but even if they were busy she’d be in there regardless, savoring every second, and every last drop of her coffee. Now, her day started at five in the morning, and she was lucky if she had time enough to scald her tongue on some tea, let alone leisurely sip a cup of coffee.

Clara had already eaten earlier that morning, but the delicious scent of the food was making her stomach rumble—quietly, thankfully. She had to consider her fellow staff members, however. Coffee would be no cause for uproar, but an entire second morning meal, in the company of the earl and his family—that had the distinct potential for creating enemies.

“Thank you,” she replied with a curtsy to the earl and his sister, “but I ate earlier this morning.”

Eliza guided Rosa back to the breakfast table. “Please help yourself to a drink instead, then,” she insisted as they resumed their places.

Clara turned back to the sideboard. She had not had coffee in months. The estate generously provided servants with a supply of tea in addition to their ale, but coffee was reserved for the family of the house. She stared longingly at the gleaming silver pot, then jumped as the earl’s deep voice reached her from his place near the table.

“How do you take your coffee?”

She felt herself flush, and turned to face the table. Lord Ashworth’s burning green eyes caught hers before she could look away. All at once, she was back on the horse with him behind her, the silken heat of his mouth scorching her chilled skin. In a panic, she tore her gaze away.

Even still, she could feel his vital presence come to a stop next to her. Without hesitating, Ashworth retrieved a cup and saucer, filling the former with steaming coffee. She was mesmerized by the graceful strength of his fingers, the way they flexed and moved. She could easily recall the slide of them across her back . . .

“Would you like cream?” he asked, his polite expression betraying a hint of amusement. She brought herself back to the present and saw that he now held a tiny pitcher, tipping it ever so slightly over her cup. “You’d best tell me,” he added, sotto voce, “before I make a colossal mistake . . .”

She was intrigued to see the earl in such a playful mood, although it did nothing to settle her nerves. If anything, it only increased her sense of unease. Despite this, she couldn’t prevent a reluctant smile from rising to her lips.

“Yes, please, my lord.”

He expertly poured the cream then returned it to its station near the coffeepot. After a moment’s careful pause, Ashworth removed the lid to the sugar dish and grasped the small silver tongs, proceeding to add two glittering sugar cubes to her drink. Clara’s mouth parted and she looked up at him in wonder.

“How did you—”

“It just seemed right,” he replied succinctly, stirring the hot coffee with a spoon and passing it over to her. As she took hold of the saucer, his fingertips came into contact with hers, sending a searing wave of awareness through her body.

“How long does it take you to pour a cup of coffee, William?” Eliza teased.

Thankful for the interruption, Clara broke eye contact with Lord Ashworth and moved towards the table. She hovered uncertainly for a moment, wondering if she ought to stand against the wall as a footman might during dinnertime.

Luckily, Eliza noticed her uncertainty. “Please be seated, Helen.” She gestured across the table.

“Yes, my lady.” Clara walked around the table and sat across from his sister.

Ashworth resumed his seat at the head of the table and picked up his newspaper with practiced nonchalance. She tried not to notice how handsome he looked, or the way the morning light played through the variegated golden locks of his hair. Instead she focused on her coffee, blowing lightly before taking her first, luxurious sip. Her eyes fell closed in delight. The drink tasted rich and earthy, with the perfect touch of creamy sweetness she adored.

To her right, Ashworth cleared his throat, then turned a page.

Rosa retrieved a plate off the table and took great joy in showing Clara the tiny cakes she had crafted with the cook, while a conversation began between Lord Ashworth and Eliza, mostly about the everyday operations of the estate. The earl was focused on his sister, but occasionally Clara would catch him stealing small glimpses in her direction, which sent a rush of pleasure flooding through her.

“Can you walk with me later?” Rosa asked abruptly, crunching indelicately on a mouthful of bacon.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Malone will be keeping Helen busy today,” interjected the earl, who had clearly been listening. “My business associate will be arriving this week, and there are preparations to be made.”

Clara suddenly realized this must be the man he’d mentioned to her privately, that day when he’d seen her tidying Eliza’s room. She was happy he’d been able to send his invitation after all, considering the task had brought him an understandable amount of anxiety. His sister nodded in recollection.

“Ah, yes. Was this the man you were to meet when Rosa went missing? The one you met in Manchester with—”

“The very same,” he interrupted quickly. “He wishes to speak to me about investing in textile mills to the north.” Ashworth turned another page, then set the paper aside. “I’m not entirely sold on the idea, although it has its merits, to be sure.”

Eliza nodded, but her attention seemed caught by something in the abandoned newspaper, and she reached over to inspect it more closely. “My goodness. Did you see this article about the runaway bride? Oh, what’s her name . . . here it is. ‘Clara Mayfield, the daughter of prosperous banker, Robert Mayfield, has been missing nearly three months after leaving home on the eve of her wedding.’” She raised her brows and looked over at Clara with huge eyes. “Now that sounds like a sordid tale.”

Clara felt the blood drain from her face in a sudden rush.

She cleared her throat. “Perhaps there were objections to the groom,” she replied, as the room lurched sickeningly.

“Maybe he was old!” cried Rosa in horror.

Despite her emotional state, Clara had to laugh. If only that had been the singular issue, things could have turned out quite differently. She glanced over at Lord Ashworth to gauge his reaction to the story, and was met with a thoughtful gaze.

“Mayfield . . . why is that name familiar to me?”

Clara froze as she pondered the best course of action. While she wanted to avoid reminding the earl of any connections between her and her place of origin, the referral from Abigail had been provided from the Mayfield household. She could feign ignorance, but she quickly decided that was the riskier course of action.

Her fingers knotted together beneath the surface of the table. “My verbal reference came from a woman who serves under the Mayfields,” she stated quietly.

Lord Ashworth’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Did it, really?”

Clara hitched her shoulders in a small shrug. “It did, my lord, but I never worked in their house, myself,” she replied carefully.

“How fascinating,” said Eliza. Straightening in her chair, she gently dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin and turned to face her brother. “And speaking of dodging marriage, William, I think it is high time you held a ball.”

Ashworth’s cup halted near his lips. His eyes briefly darted to Clara over the rim of his cup, causing her heart to skip a beat.

“I detest balls, and I can’t abide the people who attend them,” Ashworth said, gazing with some annoyance at his sister as he set his cup down.

“Oh, come now,” Eliza admonished. “That can’t be completely true. Besides, how else do you propose to continue the Halstead line?” She huffed in frustration. “At the very least, you would spend an evening dancing with some pretty young ladies. You might actually enjoy yourself.”

Clara sank backwards in her chair, wishing she were anywhere but at this table, listening to a discussion on how the earl could meet a proper wife. Ironically, she was reminded of that last day in her family’s drawing room, listening to her parents discuss her wedding with Baron Rutherford.

“I am uncertain why you would choose to discuss this at the breakfast table, in mixed company, no less,” growled Lord Ashworth.

Eliza was unruffled by her brother’s anger. “The newspaper article happened to remind me of it. I’d been meaning to speak to you about it sooner or later.”

“Let’s make it later, then,” said the earl with glowing eyes. He rose, tossed his napkin on the table and stalked out of the room.

Clara stared down at the tablecloth wishing she could disappear, but also thrilled at the possibility that the earl had resisted discussing marriage on her account. After a moment, Eliza broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Oh, dear. I didn’t think he’d be quite so sensitive.”

Clara smiled awkwardly. “He will likely warm up to the idea, my lady.”

“Indeed,” rejoined Eliza, but not before shooting Clara a thoughtful glance that was far more observant than she would’ve liked.

The afternoon light waned and Clara’s back ached tremendously. She reached around to massage the aching muscles, then untied the apron strings from around her waist. Startled, she looked up to find Mrs. Malone standing before her, a grave look upon her already severe features.

“Helen, I need to speak with you in my office.”

Wide-eyed, she nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Malone.”

Confusion, followed by fear, shot through her. What could she have done that would warrant a private meeting with the housekeeper? Was it possible someone had seen her with the earl? She shivered at the thought. It would mean her immediate dismissal.

She followed Mrs. Malone into her office, and the woman closed the door securely behind her before taking a seat at her desk. Clara remained standing in the center of the room.

The housekeeper stared at her with gray eyes that were dark as stone. “You have been accused of indecent activity by another member of the staff,” she stated flatly.

Clara broke into a cold sweat, nearly overcome by panic. Somebody had seen her together with the earl, and now she would have nowhere to go, no time to find another position elsewhere. She nearly choked on her next words. “Might I inquire as to the specifics of this accusation?” she asked hoarsely, dreading the response.

“You may. It was brought to my attention that you have been caught in a compromising position . . . with Paxton, the land steward.”

Clara’s mouth dropped open, first in relief, then in complete shock. She struggled to pinpoint the exact situation that could have motivated such a report. Then she recalled meeting Paxton near the dining room, after she had raced down the stairs, late to see Mrs. Malone. Her apron had snagged on her cap . . . her hair had been a mess . . . and Amelia . . .

Amelia.

So here it was, and she really should have expected no less from her, even if she was Abigail’s sister. Rage churned as she faced the stoic housekeeper.

“I truly hope you don’t place such value on Amelia’s stories, especially the ones that concern my character,” she fumed. “Have you interviewed Paxton yet?”

The housekeeper hesitated, taken aback by the magnitude of Clara’s fury. “Not yet,” she replied. “Since he resides in the village, it would take some time to arrange that.”

Clara closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her temper. “Had you already spoken to him, his version of events would surely echo mine. I was working upstairs that day; it was the day of the servants’ dance. I was in a rush to come downstairs, my apron got tangled in my hair, and I encountered Paxton on my way.” She opened her eyes and met the woman’s gaze directly. “That was when Amelia came upon us, near the dining room.”

Mrs. Malone’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “Thank you, Helen, that will be all. I will notify you if anything else is required.”

Clara walked to the door, attempting to master her emotions before twisting the knob and exiting into the hallway. She needed to get out, to breathe some cool fresh air and clear her head. She walked briskly towards the kitchen and instantly spied Amelia. The infernal housemaid was near the stove, talking to Gilly, and she looked up at Clara’s entrance, a tiny smile curving her lips. The smile vanished quickly, though, when Clara stormed right up to her.

“How dare you,” she seethed. “I’m not certain what your grievance is, but I no longer care. I am done with you, Amelia.”

She spun on her heel, leaving the kitchen staff in shocked bafflement as she pulled the servants’ door open and walked out, slamming the heavy door shut behind her.