William knew he had just made a huge mistake.

He should have quickly and efficiently sent her packing and out of his sight. Because he wanted her—God, how he wanted her.

His attraction had been the only reason he’d been in time to help her earlier in the village. Had he not been staring shamelessly from his vantage point across the street, he might never have seen her stray off course and into the path of the carriage.

A carriage, for God’s sake.

William closed his eyes in an effort to shut out the memories that threatened, ever near the surface, to encroach upon his sanity. Images that haunted every last one of his days and nights. He scrubbed a hand over his face and opened his eyes, his gaze immediately landing on the glittering decanter of brandy. He resisted the urge to pour a drink.

A frown creased his brow as he wondered what the odds had been of finding the woman from the village waiting for him in his own home. Not good, still there he had found her among his other servants, blushing and tongue-tied and painfully lovely. In an instant the feel of her, wrapped tightly in his arms, came roaring back. The pressure of her back as she leaned breathlessly against his chest, the dark tendrils of hair that swept like silk across his cheek, the soft curve of her waist beneath his hands . . .

In the end, he’d been forced to walk away, knowing that allowing himself to be held captive by those almond-shaped eyes for too long was an exceedingly bad idea.

And still, many times on his way back to the house, he had considered turning around to see her once more . . . to ask her a question that burned with a suddenness inside him, poised silently on his lips.

Who are you?

Regardless of her answer, he wanted her with a fiery need that he was not convinced would dampen in time, and this girl felt like the first thing that had mattered in months. There had been so much grief after the accident. He’d nearly drowned in it, and then he had just gone numb. Even if these feelings were simply the result of an inconvenient lust, at least they were something. A peculiar aliveness rushed through him now, and all it had taken was a chance meeting with this housemaid.

William rose from his chair and paced restlessly. Now she was living and working under his roof, and in some sort of hellish irony, he would have to endure each day as if none of it mattered. As if each time he saw her he wasn’t imagining how she would react if he just hauled her up against him and kissed her.

Crossing to the windows, he let out a scoff. Who was he trying to fool? He was a broken man. Unable to even attend a ball without fear of making a scene, or behave as a proper earl should. He found himself often held prisoner by a kind of madness that seemed to come and go as it pleased, with little provocation or none at all. The only thing left for him to do was to retreat back to his country house to deal with the mortifying affliction without the prying eyes of the ton. Setting himself to rights and doing the job that had passed to him needed to be the priorities now. Too many people had died for them not to be.

William hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Fantasizing about this maid would be his undoing, and he had certainly placed himself in one hell of a situation. He sighed.

I am an idiot.

In a flash of clarity, he decided that it wasn’t too late. He would march back downstairs to tell Mrs. Malone that he had changed his mind and he needed Helen to leave. He would make up a reason, or give no reason at all. After all, it was his house and he could do as he wished. With a sense of relief, he realized he could boot her off the estate and things would continue normally, the way they had continued for the last year and a half.

He strode to the door, his hand hovering over the handle. Then his hand dropped and he walked back and leaned, defeated, against the worn edge of his desk. The idea didn’t have as much appeal as he’d thought it would.

Since the accident, he had allowed himself very little in the way of enjoyment. Staying busy was easy when you were learning how to run an estate, so he had kept his head down and thrown himself into the work. Instead of attempting to persuade the ton that his earldom was well managed and he was moving past his grief, he simply chose to omit himself from their presence. Calling cards went unanswered, invitations were cast aside. He dealt with business matters efficiently but impersonally. This had served him well, until his failed attempt in London.

But there were long stretches of time where he found himself alone with his dark thoughts and remembrances, feeling as though he might go entirely crazy. Thinking about something else—even a blasted housemaid—would be a welcome change.

The earl rubbed the back of his neck, then pushed off his desk and exited the study. A walk outside in fresh air would do a good deal to clear his head, he told himself. He entered the sunroom and left the house through the open doors there. A chill washed over him as the night air came into contact with his skin, and it produced a welcome cooling effect on his overheated body. Slowly, he regained some of his usual clarity of mind.

Everything would be fine. He would avoid her presence, do his best to forget she even worked there. When forced to be near her, which shouldn’t be often, he would ignore her entirely.

He was certain that with enough practice, he would no longer recognize the attraction he felt for her at all.

Clara’s first evening at Lawton Park was going about as well as could be expected. Mrs. Malone had supplied her with the necessary uniform before showing her to her room. Servants’ quarters were on the top floor of the house, men on the east side and women on the west, and her chamber was in the west garret. While small in size, the space wasn’t altogether unpleasant, and contained a small bed, plain chest of drawers and a table with a pitcher and basin. A tiny mirror adorned the wall, and her window overlooked the front of the expansive grounds. Looking out, she noticed that the landscape was still primarily green. Only a handful of leaves had started turning their varying shades of gold and rust to signal the approaching change of season.

Once her belongings had been carefully stowed in the drawers, she sat down on her bed. For a moment, all was quiet, and then the stress of the day seemed to wash over her all at once. In the unfamiliar room, away from her family, the reality of her position sinking in, she started to cry. Sobs and gasps came unbidden and uncontrollable. She buried her face in her hands, helpless to do anything but surrender to the overwhelming tide of emotion.

After a few minutes, she gave herself a shake, her sobs giving way to sniffles. “There is no use in crying,” she said aloud, pretending for a moment that she was talking with Lucy, trying to think what advice her practical older sister would offer. She swiped her tears away. “I must make the best of this situation, and I will.”

She would’ve believed her own words more if her interview with the earl hadn’t been such a disaster. But of course, having to be saved from the path of a speeding carriage, then turning up with no real means to recommend herself didn’t exactly make for a strong first impression. It didn’t help that she couldn’t stop thinking about the way his body had felt wrapped protectively around hers, or the heroics he had taken to knock her out of harm’s way. Truthfully, any male attention came as a surprise after being roundly ignored throughout the season—she only wished he hadn’t retreated back into icy skepticism once they’d seen each other again at his estate.

Clara stood and stripped out of Abigail’s worn dress. The room was stiflingly hot, but she shivered anyway as she slipped her new black servant’s garb over her head and settled it over her hips. She fumbled over fastening the tiny buttons, a task she was not accustomed to, then she picked up her white apron and secured the strings around her waist. Finally, she gathered her heavy dark hair up into a simple bun, pinning it severely into confinement. As usual, it refused to cooperate and be tamed, stray wisps and curls springing free of pins. Even under Abigail’s skilled hands, taming her hair had been challenging. Now it was impossible. With a sigh, she affixed her servant’s cap over the bun.

It would simply have to do, she decided, as she quietly opened her door and crossed over to the servants’ staircase. This set of stairs ran along the west side of the house, hidden from everyday view. Subtle doorways had been built into the structure of many of the rooms, allowing staff to slip in and out discreetly, so as to not disturb the residents. Mrs. Malone had given her a brief tour before delivering her to her bedroom, but Clara was sure she would get lost many times before the week was done. Lawton Park was massive, to say the least.

The candlelit sconces on the walls surrounding the staircase barely gave off enough dim light to help her navigate her way, and the windows were useless as night had now descended. The stairs were squeaky and old, and Clara wondered morosely if anyone had ever fallen down them before. Surely, at some point in this estate’s history, they had claimed a victim. If not, she would probably be the one to take the honor.

She descended past the third floor, the second floor, the first, then came to a stop by the door leading to the servants’ hall. It was getting late, and she didn’t want to miss supper. She hadn’t had a chance to eat since earlier that morning, but found herself lingering anyway. She supposed she was apprehensive about meeting the rest of the servants. Especially if Amelia’s reaction to her was an indication of how she could expect them to receive her . . .

She could hear the muffled noises of people socializing and laughing through the thick wooden door. Gently, she turned the cold brass knob and pushed it open. Yellow light spilled into the stairwell, the sounds of conversation drifting more loudly now, from a room some ways down.

Clara stepped into the hallway and closed the door firmly behind her, being certain the noise alerted the staff to her arrival so as not to surprise them. The boisterous discussion stopped at once and she froze in place, only to be startled by a head popping comically into view from the dining area.

“It’s about time!” exclaimed the young man. His bright blue eyes twinkled at her, and he had a pleasant, crooked smile.

Clara smiled back, grateful to see a friendly face. “Hello. Have I missed supper?” she asked.

“Almost,” he said cheerfully, stepping fully into the hall. “But I talked them into keeping it out for a bit longer in case you were hungry.” He held out his hand. “The name’s Matthew. I’m a footman.”

She stared at his hand, and after the briefest pause, she shook it. Matthew’s grip was firm, his skin warm beneath hers. Clara tried to look as though this was something quite normal for her. It wasn’t, of course. She was used to wearing gloves, for one, and certainly gentleman never shook hands so frankly with a lady. But there was something comforting about the rough hand clasped around her own.

“My name is Helen,” she said, cursing the waver in her voice.

“Oh, we know what your name is,” he replied with a laugh. “Word travels fast down here.”

She followed him into the dining hall. Seated at a long, rough-planked wooden table were the servants of Lawton Park. She had heard Mrs. Malone’s entreaty that the place was understaffed, of course, but even still she was shocked to see how few people the earl actually employed. There was no butler, which was unheard of for a country house this grand, and there was no lady’s maid. Then again, she supposed, there was no lady.

“Are you settled in?” asked Mrs. Malone in a kindly way as she gestured for her to take an empty seat at the table.

“Yes, thank you,” Clara replied as she hungrily surveyed the food that was laid out. It looked to be an assortment of leftovers from that day’s meals. Cold sliced beef, cooked vegetables and pieces of rhubarb tart had never looked so good to her. Clara gladly piled up a plate and began eating, hunger overcoming her hesitation and shyness handily. Matthew grinned at her voracity and filled a glass with ale, jokingly sliding it over the table at her with one finger, as if afraid she might bite him if he got too close. She grinned in return, feeling suddenly more at ease, and applied herself to her meal.

Introductions were made around the table. There was Mrs. Malone, of course. The ill-tempered Amelia did not disappoint and scowled at Clara with only the briefest of nods.

Charles was the other footman, and Matthew’s counterpart. His silvery blond hair was in contrast to Matthew’s brown, but their height was the same which was, of course, the most important distinguishing feature for footmen—aside from shapely calves, or so she had heard. The kitchen maid, Gilly, was seated next to Mrs. Humboldt, the cook, whom Clara had met earlier. Now that Clara was a member of the staff, the elderly woman had relaxed, nodding at her with a pleasantly curious expression.

The other housemaid, Stella, had a serious face with a kind smile, but when Clara’s eyes landed on the scullery maid, Tess, she blanched. The girl was far too young. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old. Whereas the rest of the staff looked comfortable and at ease, Tess looked out of place and scared. She had almost certainly left her family recently to go into service here. Clara empathized more than the girl could ever know.

She nodded greetings to the staff gathered at the table, but one role was curiously missing from the entourage. She had to ask; her curiosity demanded it.

“Where is Lord Ashworth’s valet?”

Mrs. Malone sighed and rolled her eyes to the heavens. “The earl prides himself on his independence. That is one thing you will learn quickly. He has refused the services of a valet. I have begged him to conform since he is in charge of an earldom and has more important things to worry about, but he resists. He is quite self-sufficient, much to our dismay.” She huffed in frustration.

Clara nearly laughed. The idea of an earl performing his own daily grooming was astonishing. Who set out his clothes each night, and brushed his jackets? Did he truly bathe, shave, and dress on his own, with no help at all? Suddenly, she had an image of Lord Ashworth in his bedchamber shrugging out of his jacket, with cravat untied at his tan throat, his white shirt unbuttoned down the front. She nearly choked on her ale, a spiral of heat swirling through her.

She thought of the pompous, preening lords she had met in London. She doubted most of them even knew how to brush their own teeth, let alone shave or dress. It was one of the many reasons, she was sure, she had been unable to attract one as a suitor before the scandal: they could detect her disdain. It was difficult for her to abide the strong opinions of men who were so completely dependent upon others to sustain their very existence.

Of course, peers required servants to keep their estate running smoothly, but Clara would never forget Lord Wexley, and how he had demanded his valet be allowed to stand near him at the dinner table so he could gently dab his mouth with a napkin when necessary. Which was often, as it turned out, since Lord Wexley was a rather sloppy eater. His poor valet had gone through many napkins that evening. She shuddered with the remembrance.

Clara glanced curiously at the group. “Is he not concerned with maintaining a conventional reputation?”

“It is of the utmost importance to him. Never forget that,” answered the housekeeper sternly, her gray eyes flashing at Clara in the candlelight. “He may not follow every rule, but as the sole remaining heir to the earldom, his family’s image concerns him a great deal.”

The table became quiet, and Clara absorbed the magnitude of what had been said, and how she might feel, were she in Ashworth’s position. She had seen her family endure painful circumstances, certainly. But having to watch them die, and then be forced to carry on in their name afterwards? A chill chased across her skin.

“We were just so glad Lord Ashworth survived, although it wasn’t clear that he would at first,” added the housekeeper solemnly. “How he suffered for that title.”

Mrs. Malone’s eyes shone with the force of suppressed emotion. Briefly turning her head to the side, she sniffed. Thankfully, Matthew broke the somber mood with a friendly pat on Clara’s arm.

“Well, his lordship is much improved now, healed as he is, and his sister is nearly out of mourning. I say it’s about time for things to finally start looking up.”

“His lordship came downstairs earlier,” Clara started, then paused. “Is that normal behavior for him? I haven’t seen it before in other households.”

She saw many of them nodding, then Matthew laughed.

“It happens more than you’d think it would. He’s caught me by surprise many a time. Why this one day, Charles and I were playing cards and . . .”

“He will ring the bell if he needs us,” interjected Mrs. Malone dryly, casting a sideways glance at Matthew. “But often he prefers to be present among his staff, and the most efficient way for him to do that is to come belowstairs.”

Clara was confused. “Why do you think he wishes to interact with staff so personally, when most peers refuse to even acknowledge the existence of servants at all?”

“He’s lonely,” said Amelia, who had been silent until now. She peered over at Clara with contempt. “Perhaps you should keep him company.”

Clara’s mouth fell open at the unexpected retort. Well, it seemed that catty women could be easily found in both London ballrooms and servants’ quarters. But she couldn’t deny the sting of receiving such a comment from Abigail’s own sister.

Matthew said, “Oy! What’s that for, Amy?”

Mrs. Malone stood abruptly.

“Amelia, in my office, now.” The surly maid rose and stalked out of the dining room. The housekeeper examined the rest of the faces at the table. “Everyone, tidy this place up. Charles,” she said to the blond footman, “ensure the earl requires nothing else this evening. Then off to bed with the lot of you.” She turned on her heel and walked briskly away.

Charles left immediately to go upstairs, and the group fell silent. Clara focused on the scarred surface of the table in the uncomfortable silence that followed. This was not precisely how she’d hoped her first meal with the household staff would end. Mrs. Humboldt clucked her tongue sympathetically.

“Just ignore her, dear. She can be a bloody grouse when she wants to be,” she said.

“That was very unkind,” added Stella, the other housemaid. “Don’t worry, you can partner with me tomorrow for your first day.”

Clara nodded, and a small, cool hand slid lightly over her own. She raised her eyes to see Tess, the young scullery maid, standing next to her. A small glimmer of a smile touched one corner of her mouth.

“It’ll be okay, miss,” she said softly. “You’ll see.”

The journey back to her bedroom was long, and the stairwell black as night but for the candle in a candlestick holder that Stella carried, which helped immeasurably. Their shadows bounced and bobbed on the walls as they slowly trudged upstairs, appearing mysterious somehow, as if they were sneaking off to a clandestine meeting instead of just heading off to their respective beds. Amelia brought up the rear, keeping at least half a flight of stairs behind the rest of them. She had been prodded by Mrs. Malone into apologizing to Clara, which was awkward for everybody involved.

Clara wondered what it would take for Amelia to like her. Maybe that wasn’t possible, but could she at least find a way to get Amelia to hate her a little less? She had no notion what she’d done that the maid had found so offensive. That was really the most upsetting part, especially given what Abigail had told her. She had always spoken warmly of her sister.

Unable to make any sense of the situation, she was glad when a loud creak of hinges announced their entry into the uppermost hallway.

They whispered good nights as Stella escorted each girl to her room—the one benefit of being understaffed was that they each had their own—lighted her candle, and moved on to the next. She performed this task according to hierarchy, beginning with Amelia, since Mrs. Malone lived in her own quarters in the servants’ hall, and working down through the other girls.

“Don’t forget,” Stella whispered when she finally reached Clara’s room. “Five o’clock tomorrow morning . . . I’ll rap on your door when it’s time to go.”

“I’ll be ready,” said Clara, trying to seem cheerful. She was not a late riser by any means, but five o’clock was early for her.

The maid smiled. “You look nervous, but you’ll do fine. I’ll be with you the entire time!”

And with a small wave of her fingers, Stella floated away into the darkness.

With weary legs, Clara stepped inside her room and softly closed the door behind her. She placed the candle in a holder on the bureau and turned to survey her new lodgings, now dimly flickering by candlelight. She was suddenly utterly exhausted, and she knew five o’clock would arrive in the blink of an eye.

Clara again struggled with the row of tiny buttons on her dress, an exercise in precision she hoped would get easier with practice. Not even her time spent on needlework had prepared her for this tedious task. With a quiet cheer, she was finally able to shed the garment. She unhooked her corset, untied her skirts and drawers and slid them off, until all that remained was a crumpled chemise that hung to her thighs. Not having packed a nightgown, she supposed it would have to suffice.

Her first night in Lawton Park. Clara could hardly believe she was here. She removed her servant’s cap and freed her thick hair, then glanced down at her new bed, which was thin and a fraction of the size of her old bed at home. The mattress appeared old but clean, and the light blanket provided would give plenty of coverage given the heat of late summer. The cooler weather might be something to worry about, though.

Crossing to the window, she opened it, admitting some much needed refreshing night air, when out of the corner of her eye she saw something moving in the shadows between the strips of moonlight on the lawn below. It was a figure. A man.

Who would be outside at this time of night? She stared unblinkingly into the darkness. The figure moved quickly and confidently out of the shadows, the light turning his blond hair silver. The pure white shirt and broad shoulders confirmed that it was the Earl of Ashworth crossing the gravel drive. She watched him, stepping slightly back from the window even though she knew he couldn’t possibly see her, until he rounded the side of the house and disappeared out of sight.

Clara felt an unexpected pang of longing, swift and sharp. How ironic her life had become! In order to flee the baron, she had sacrificed everything that would have made her an eligible match for this particular man. He, with his tragic past and heated glances, would have made the London season an infinitely more fascinating experience. If only they could have met each other in Mayfair . . .

Her body warmed at the thought of dancing with him. Clara could imagine the clasp of his fingers upon her waist, and the incendiary feel of him pulling her close for a spinning turn. Or meeting outside in the gardens beneath a softly glowing moon, kissing wildly amidst the faint sounds of the orchestra drifting outside . . .

With a jerk of her head, she sternly checked her thoughts as they had no place in this tiny garret room.

Turning away from the window, she climbed into her bed.