Ashworth sighed in relief as he heard the door close behind Helen. He had just come perilously close to violating the same sacred contract between employer and staff that he had invoked in her punishment. What hypocrisy it would have been to reprimand her for her defiance of the rules, only to disregard every rule in the book by backing her against the wall and kissing her until she responded to him, pliable and willing in his arms?

Although he had an idea that, were it to happen, she would not just passively submit. He’d seen the flame flicker to life behind her eyes when he’d caught her wrist, even in the throes of his tortured state. The horror of nearly losing Rosa had only just resolved—a possibility that was all too real for him—and rather than being able to concentrate on the seriousness of the issue, he was busy contemplating Helen’s reaction if he should tear her dress open once again.

William groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. This would not do. It was why he should have sent her away. The danger was in her proximity. In the sparks that shot through his body when she was near, her hesitation at his presence. He was already aware of the attraction between them and that was problematic enough. But the concern she had shown him had not just roused him from his traumatized stupor, it had made him achingly aware of the beautiful woman in front of him as a possible source of comfort. This was not good, for comfort could take many forms, but none so tempting as the defiant housemaid.

Ashworth blinked. How long had it been since he had lain with a woman? Too long, apparently. Then again, he couldn’t remember ever reacting to a woman this strongly, even women he had desired and bedded. It all seemed tame when compared to the need within him now for this . . . this odd, charming maid who was completely inappropriate for him.

As the solitary male left of his line, he could not afford to compromise his principles, nor would he. To do so would be a discredit to them both. To do so would be an absolute violation of his responsibility to his family, including those who’d been lost. A proper, highborn wife with a noble bloodline was what his earldom required, and he would deliver it. Eventually.

The earl crossed to the window, his view obscured by the darkness, tracks of falling raindrops on the glass the only visible indication of the weather outside. Sighing, he leaned his head against the cool pane and closed his eyes. There was no way for her to know how difficult it had been for him to discipline her. Especially when his thoughts on punishment strayed dangerously close to having Helen in his bed . . . where he could tease her mercilessly until she writhed beneath him, begging for release. And only when he’d decided she had finally suffered enough would he finally take pity on them both by burying himself inside of her . . .

With another groan, the earl pulled away from the window and glanced at the door. He needed to leave, to find Evanston. Remaining here with the current turn of his thoughts was not an option.

He straightened his cravat and crossed to the door. His hand had just grasped the cool metal of the knob when it flew out of his fingers. Evanston stood before him, a look Ashworth didn’t quite care for on his face.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “How was your meeting with the housemaid? I passed her on the way here,” he added. “She seemed upset.”

Ashworth frowned. “It went poorly. I had to punish her for doing the right thing tonight.”

Evanston arched an eyebrow. “Wrong,” he countered evenly. “You punished her for breaking the rules, which she did, regardless of whether it was the right thing to do or not.” He lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. “You had no choice. Besides, it’s not as if you sent her packing.”

Ashworth nodded in dispirited agreement. The viscount’s eyebrow rose higher and he stepped backwards into the hallway to better examine his friend.

“You look like hell. What’s been going on?” he asked.

The earl glanced at him in irritation. “My niece was in grave danger, I had to punish the one person who took it upon herself to help her, and you think I need another reason to be upset?”

Evanston said nothing at first, then a grin spread slowly across his face. “I know what this is about,” he said slyly, raising his open palms up at Lord Ashworth in assent. “She is a pretty little thing, and fiery, to boot.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “You should take her to bed and be done with it.”

The earl glared sharply at Evanston. “Is that how you handle complications in your household?” he asked acidly.

“Whenever possible,” said the viscount, his grin wider still. “If you think it would help, I’ll take her to bed for you. Maybe that would quell your interest . . .”

Ashworth suddenly lunged forward, shoving his friend against the far side of the hallway. A small gasp of surprise alerted him to another presence, and he released Evanston’s shirt, turning to find Amelia standing a few feet away with a fresh pot of tea in her hands. William let out a low curse and dropped his hand, furious at himself for being discovered in such a way.

The maid bobbed into a quick curtsy.

“M-my lords,” she stuttered. “I was instructed to bring some tea up to Miss Rosa, and thought perhaps . . .” she trailed off awkwardly.

“Yes,” said the earl, cutting her off. “Allow me to bring her the tea in your stead. I was heading up there anyway.”

Lord Evanston reached forward to grab his arm, his expression concerned.

“Christ, William, I said it in jest . . .”

Ashworth shook off the man’s hand. “Then you’ll know better than to make that mistake again,” he snapped over his shoulder, as he took the tray from the flustered maid and stalked towards the staircase.

It was Sunday, and Lord Ashworth had taken his much-recovered niece out for a short trip to the village, while Clara was rushing to complete her chores before the rest of the staff left for their day off. She, of course, would not be leaving the estate due to her punishment. Instead, she was to report to Mrs. Malone in the library at noon to receive her extra tasks for the day.

With a weary sigh, she finished dusting the antiques in the drawing room. Noting that she still had five minutes until her meeting with Mrs. Malone, she gathered her tools and hurried downstairs, passing a grumpy-looking Amelia on the staircase. She was clad in a dark green walking dress that complimented her shining red hair, and a cream-colored bonnet dangled from her fingers.

Not for the first time, Clara thought it was unfortunate that Amelia wore such unhappy expressions. She could have been a beautiful girl but for her dour disposition. Clara had just rounded the corner when she heard the housemaid call after her.

“Helen! Did Mrs. Malone find you yet?” she asked.

Stopping in her tracks, Clara turned, narrowly dodging the stable boy, who avoided meeting her eyes, and craned her neck to gaze around the bannister at Amelia.

“No, I haven’t seen her,” said Clara slowly. “Why?”

The housemaid placed the bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons neatly below her chin. “She cancelled her meeting with you in the library today.”

Clara stared at her in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes. In fact, she had to leave the house earlier this morning, so she’s not even here.”

“Should I wait for her in my room upstairs?” asked Clara, worried.

“That’s probably fine,” said Amelia, briskly crossing the kitchen to leave out the service door, effectively ending their conversation.

Clara returned her supplies to the storeroom, thinking that might have been the first nice thing Amelia had done for her. She’d certainly saved her the hassle of waiting unnecessarily for Mrs. Malone to arrive. She climbed up the servants’ staircase, coming to a stop at the entrance to the second floor. Rather than continuing up to the third, she pressed her fingertips on the wooden door and hesitated, then turned the knob to swing it open.

Lawton Park’s immense art gallery loomed in front of her. Throughout the course of her day, she did not have much opportunity to come through here, as it was primarily Amelia’s duty to maintain the hall where the Halstead family’s treasures were kept. But she had longed for an opportunity to appreciate the priceless oil paintings, busts, and sculptures that made up the impressive exhibit. It was an opportunity she could no longer partake of in her new, meager existence.

Walking slowly along the south wall, she gazed at generations of patriarchs in their decorative regalia, staring with authority through the invisible lens of their artist. She knew the current earl was the fifth Earl of Ashworth, his older brother, Lucas, never having had the chance to fulfill his title. His father, Robert, would have been the fourth. She was awestruck seeing them here for the first time.

Robert’s pose was elegant and austere, and where William’s hair was a sandy blond and his eyes an intoxicating shade of hazel mixed with green, his father had possessed a wealth of brown hair and matching brown eyes. Despite the difference in coloring, Clara could still see physical similarities between the two men, and smiled at the ones she spotted—the same masculine build, the same appealing curve to the lips, the same intense gaze.

She continued further, to a painting of his brother. The brass nameplate beneath the portrait described him as Lucas Halstead, seventh Baron of Stratham. He appeared stockier than Ashworth, who was all lean muscle and athletic grace. Lucas’s hair was also darker, like his father’s, in contrast to William’s head of burnished blond locks. But there was frankness to his gaze she found appealing. He was less shuttered than his brother. Less haunted.

Her eyes searched and alighted on the portrait of a beautiful woman, indicated to be Maria Halstead, Countess of Ashworth—William’s mother, who had died giving birth to his sister, Eliza. She had been a true English beauty, fair-haired with large blue eyes and a sweet, secretive smile that Clara found enchanting. How devastating to have lost so many beloved family members. Tragedy had made its home here in Lawton Park for many years.

At the next painting, she heard herself gasp in surprise. Rosa, as a lovely young woman, stared at her from the precise brushstrokes of blended color, her wavy blonde hair and clear green eyes gazing outward with sincerity. Clara realized this must be Elizabeth, Rosa’s mother. Each of the Halstead children had been blessed with dazzling green eyes somehow, a quirk of bequeathed traits since neither parent possessed them.

The earl’s sister was beautiful. She would be arriving at Lawton Park soon, and Clara wished she could greet her as an equal, as a friend. There was something about the woman’s expression that made her feel that they would have gotten along easily, had they met under normal circumstances.

She glanced at the rest of the gallery in confusion and cocked her head. Where was the current earl’s portrait? Looking up higher along the wall, she thought she spotted a representation of him as a young boy, but it was unusual not to have his likeness displayed, especially now that he was the Earl of Ashworth.

The slam of a door jarred her from her thoughts, and she jumped, turning to see Mrs. Malone storm into the hall wearing an overcoat, an incredulous look on her face. Clara was shocked to see she had returned from her outing so quickly. She lowered into a hasty curtsy.

“Were you going to make me wait all afternoon as you whiled away your time here in the gallery?” she demanded. “Curious actions from one being punished for breaking the rules, I must say.”

Clara opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She tried again.

“But I—Amelia . . .” she stopped suddenly, arriving at the truth before speaking it out loud.

Amelia wouldn’t have done her a favor, and she should’ve realized that at once. But it was no use kicking herself now. As infuriated as she was at Abigail’s sister, she had to consider whether she had more to gain by pointing the finger in her direction, or keeping her mouth shut. Her chances of finally winning the girl’s friendship might rely on Clara’s judicious handling of the situation, even after being provoked.

Mrs. Malone’s glance turned hooded at the brief mention of Amelia, and perhaps she could guess at the truth. But Clara would not give the housemaid one ounce of satisfaction. She met the housekeeper’s gaze.

“My apologies, Mrs. Malone. I lost track of the time,” she lied.

The woman stared at her. Clara wasn’t sure if she believed her or not, but regardless, she turned and headed towards the servants’ door.

“I am meeting a friend in the village at one o’clock,” she said brusquely. “I have just enough time to hand off your tasks, so let’s be quick about it.”

Clara surveyed the library with a wistful sigh. How she wished she could take the afternoon to sink into a soft armchair and read one of the hundreds of books that made up Lord Ashworth’s collection.

Instead, she would be rearranging them, first by language, then by last name. This involved the tiring task of emptying the shelves, sorting them, and returning them to their proper place. Many servants were not literate, or at least could not read very well, which was why this chore had been assigned to her.

The scent of ancient paper perfumed the air. She surveyed the piles of books that surrounded her on the floor. The stacks mostly comprised German and French texts, but there were also a few Russian and Italian books included, as well as some more exotic choices that were most likely collected for their eclectic value rather than anything else. She would be sorting through these heavy tomes until well after dark.

Setting the books aside, she leaned back on her hands and rolled her neck in a circle to loosen the tight muscles. Her back straightened as she heard Rosa’s childish voice echoing down the hallway to disappear down the stairs beyond the green baize door. She and the earl had likely just arrived back from their trip to the village, and Mrs. Humboldt, having spent the morning at her leisure, would be downstairs working on dinner. Rosa would be eager to find out what she was cooking.

A man’s footsteps echoed through the hallway, coming nearer to the library door. Clara smoothed the front of her apron and attempted to tuck several wayward locks of hair back underneath her cap just as the door flew open. The earl strode in, then paused to survey the messy piles of books, his eyes finally settling upon her with a glint of amusement.

“I suppose this is a case of things getting worse before they get better?”

He had the nerve to look incredibly attractive, as usual. She sniffed, and turned back to her work.

“If that is how you wish to see it, then yes,” Clara muttered, placing another book into the Italian stack. “I see it as a necessary step in the sorting of many titles in various languages.”

“A highly sensible approach,” he said with an amused lightness in his voice. He retrieved a book from the French pile, then lowered himself into a plush velvet wingback chair. “Rosa and I just returned from the village.”

“You didn’t walk there, did you?” asked Clara, thinking of the injury to Rosa’s leg. Immediately, she berated herself for offhandedly chastising the earl, but her question did not appear to upset him. He merely glanced in her direction, his wry gaze causing her heart to beat a little faster.

“What kind of person do you take me for?”

“I don’t believe it’s my place to have an opinion on that,” she replied matter-of-factly, leafing through a book of Latin.

His mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He flipped over the thick book in his hands to absently examine the binding. “And yet I believe you would tell me anyway, if the mood suited you.”

Clara laughed. “Now what kind of a person do you take me for?”

“Hmm, good question,” he answered. “I am still trying to work that out.”

His answer sobered her instantly. Although it was impossible, she returned to her work, trying to behave as if he wasn’t seated near her, although she could smell the fragrance of his shaving soap from her place on the floor. She also tried to act as if he wasn’t watching her, but she knew he was. For a minute, the only sounds she could hear over the pounding of her heart were the shuffling of books and the turning of pages.

“Are you enjoying your task?” he finally inquired, breaking the quiet between them. “I’d thought you might.”

Clara eyed him distrustfully. Had he deliberately assigned her a task he believed she would find amenable, or was he teasing her?

“Did you really?”

Ashworth leaned back in the chair. “What do you think?”

She shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. Although if you’re taking requests, I’d probably like a walk through the garden better.”

His laugh rang out, and she felt herself blush in sudden pleasure. There was a freedom in that sound, and something that seemed very foreign to the man who was making it. Strange as it was, part of her felt humbled at having been the cause.

“That could probably be arranged, but it wouldn’t really be much of a punishment.”

Her head lowered and she smiled. “Ah, that’s right. You wish to punish me.”

The silence that followed was her only indication that her comment had missed the mark somehow. She glanced up to find the earl contemplating her with an unfathomable gleam in his eye.

Clara’s breathing paused while fire kindled in her belly, its luscious heat invading every cell in her body.

He cleared his throat.

“Can you tell me what that book is about?”

She’d almost forgotten about the heavy volume in her hands. Taking a breath to calm herself, Clara tilted her head to the side and flipped through the pages, piecing together enough words to determine the book was about the Battle of Waterloo, comparing the military strategies of both Napoleon and the victorious Duke of Wellington.

“Hmm,” said Clara, feigning a lack of knowledge. “I don’t read French,” she lied. She snapped the book shut and held it out to the earl expectantly. “Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

Ashworth’s fingers brushed against hers as she relinquished the book, and that same thrill she’d felt a moment before shot through her again. She could feel his eyes linger on her for a moment before he lowered his head to focus on the text.

“This is a book about the Napoleonic Wars. The Battle of Waterloo, to be specific,” he replied accurately, closing the book to return it to her. Clara only shook her head.

“Would you read me a line?”

He looked down at her, then back at the book in his hands. “Very well,” he said, opening it once again.

Scanning for a suitable passage, he ran his forefinger down the delicate pages of the book. Something about the small gesture excited Clara, and her temperature seemed to rise to an unbearable degree. Perhaps it was because she could envision the earl running that same fingertip along her skin. The nape of her neck, between her shoulder blades, the small of her back . . .

She closed her eyes, trying to reign in her thoughts. Finally, she heard him clear his throat.

“J’aime le façon dont vous souriez,” he recited in flawless French, his voice deep and sultry.

Clara’s eyes snapped open in shock, and found he was staring right at her. She worried for one terrible second that she might faint again in his presence. Surely she couldn’t have heard him correctly . . .

She realized she was about to reveal herself to him. Damnation! He couldn’t possibly guess she spoke French, could he? She plastered a false smile on her face and laughed weakly, doing her best to act unaware of his scandalous words.

“What did you say?” she forced out, doing her best to appear ignorant.

At this question, Lord Ashworth had the decency to look a bit guilty. “I said, ‘The army withstood repeated advances,’” he replied blandly. His eyes betrayed the real tone of his message.

Clara coughed. She knew if the earl were to linger here much longer, she would find herself in terrible trouble. “My lord, I’m afraid if I continue at my current pace, I won’t complete my work before tomorrow morning.” She gazed up at him, willing him to go.

Lord Ashworth seemed to understand the source of her urgency. Perhaps he felt it too.

“You are right, of course. I will take my leave.”

With a small nod, he turned and exited the library, stealing one last glance before the door closed quietly behind him.

The Earl of Ashworth had just flirted with her. Albeit, in a different language, one he hadn’t thought she’d known, but he’d flirted just the same. And now, how was she to concentrate at all with the remembrance of his perfect French declaration ringing softly in her ears?

J’aime le façon dont vous souriez.

“I love the way you smile.”

Frustrated beyond measure, she tossed another book into the French pile, then leaned forward, covering her face with her hands.

Stiff and aching from her hours spent on the library floor, Clara took her lighted candle and trudged up the narrow staircase to her room. It was late and she was tired, emotionally spent, and wished for nothing more than a few hours of peaceful sleep in her tiny bed.

Her room was cold, the warmth of summer but a memory, fallen prey to the persistent chill outside. She quickly stripped down to her chemise, then unpinned her hair and kept it loose so its thick layers would help to keep her neck warm. Diving under the covers, she struggled to get comfortable, but the light blanket was not nearly sufficient to warm her. She missed the warm, soft weight of her thick blankets back home, and with a shivering sigh, curled her legs up against her stomach.

The sound of the hallway door clicking open raised her head from her pillow. If it was Stella, perhaps she could point her to any spare blankets they might have. Scrambling out of bed, she hurried across the cold floor and opened the door to peer into the dark. Amelia’s face, illuminated by candlelight, glared up at her in the murky hallway. Of course it was Amelia.

Clara smiled at her, making sure it appeared genuine. She would not give her an ounce of satisfaction for setting her up the way she had.

“Oh, hello,” she voiced pleasantly. “Did you have a nice day out?”

The girl flinched and looked at Clara in confusion. “I, er, well yes, I did,” she replied hesitantly.

Clara beamed at her. “It was a beautiful day outside, wasn’t it?”

Again, Amelia faltered, gauging the authenticity of Clara’s goodwill. “Yes, but it’s cold now,” she said slowly.

“It certainly is,” Clara agreed, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. “Well, I’d better get to bed. Good night, Amelia.” And she softly shut the door, excessively enjoying the girl’s bewilderment.

She opened her drawer and removed both her morning and evening dresses from within. Laying them out on top of her meager blanket for more insulation, she huddled down in her bed, a pleased smile on her face.

Despite everything, it had been a good day.