Chapter Thirty-three
Metamorphosis.
The London ton squirmed like herrings in a net at Lord and Lady Rainham’s Michaelmas Ball, the newly acquired manor house in Richmond being a little on the small side.
No one, however, could fault the splendour. Green silk, the colour of holly, draped windows and tables whilst gold mirrors adorned the fresh white walls, reflecting an endless array of dancers.
Furtively, Jack removed his fob watch whilst lurking by the French doors. It would take an hour to return to his town house and what with his early start tomorrow, surely he’d not be missed if he departed before midnight?
Portmanteaus were packed, the Fortnum and Mason hamper ordered, a map procured for the coachman, business affairs dealt with and his promise to Rainham fulfilled by his presence tonight.
Earlier, he had witnessed his hosts seated on a chaise by the window, Rainham’s hand lingering on his wife’s shoulder as they’d gazed at each other and that odd sensation had twisted his gut.
But now Jack knew its name.
Love.
And nothing felt the same because it wasn’t.
He loved. He yearned, and he was leaving for Cornwall at first light.
“There you are, Winterbourne.”
“Rainham.” He swivelled on his heel, straightening his coquelicot waistcoat. “Congratulations on the ball. A splendid turnout.” In point of fact, Jack’s attendance was hardly required as the Prince Regent had made a brief appearance not one hour before, sealing the newly ennobled Rainham’s place in society.
“You’ve scarcely danced.” A hand clapped upon his shoulder. “I do hope you’ll not be leaving us till gone midnight at the earliest.”
“Of course not.”
And he would stay for Rainham: a loyal servant of the Crown who stood by his men, staunch and true, a friend who’d taught Jack control and given this former rogue purpose. The very finest of gentlemen.
So he headed towards the shy Miss Hill, a wallflower of small fortune, small standing and large heart, who he would introduce to Sir John, a widower of large fortune, large standing and searching heart.
But a nudge past midnight and Jack was leaving.
∞∞∞
Oliver reclined wearily in his favourite leather armchair, a cast-off from the Winterbourne townhouse study.
After attiring his master to the best of his ability, he’d ironed five cravats, packed the remaining trunks and laid out travel attire for tomorrow. Now, he intended to settle down for a quiet night browsing Pig Breeding in Somerset with cup of tea in hand.
More fortunate than most valets, he had spacious quarters within the household: a sitting room attached to a generous bedchamber. He could have more, if he accepted his brother’s offer of the estate, but…
It defied all he’d ever promised himself and his mother: that he’d work hard for reward, never accept charity and that only one person could be relied upon. Oneself.
As a boy of five years, he’d understood his status in life from the taunts and beatings: a bastard. At seven years, he’d vowed to one day be in a position to free his mother from the Winterbourne estate. By ten, he was scrubbing the vicar’s boots in return for school lessons, and at fourteen, he’d apprenticed as fifth valet to a baronet. Come his seventeenth year, he’d rented a tiny cottage for his mother just outside London. A larger one at nineteen.
It would be so easy to accept the estate and then, as landowner, ask Miss Treherne for her hand afresh, but if she refused a lowly valet, what would follow when she discovered his ignoble birth and humble family?
A knock on the door and he bade them enter as Mrs Shepherd often popped in for a chat.
Pig Breeding crashed to the floor as he stood.
Lowdy swore her heart would be heard in five counties as she approached Oliver.
His stature crowded the room, green eyes piercing, lips parted. At some stage, he’d cast off his neckcloth and a bare throat swallowed. Handsome and strong, he could court any girl he chose.
In Cornwall, she’d acted so very horrible, been so very untruthful and so very, very afraid.
Tears smarted as she remembered his ashen face – implacable and hurt. Had she lost his regard for good?
“I feel so…inadequate sometimes, Oliver, and…” She paused. Her little speech hadn’t included a greeting or pleasantries. “Hello, Oliver.”
He took a step forward. “Lowdy?” But she held out a palm.
“No, please, stay there.”
She forced her gaze from his fine form, dressed in simply a linen shirt, unbuttoned waistcoat and breeches.
“I’ve never been good at anything,” she stuttered. “So, when the Earl of Fowlmere granted me attention, I lapped it up like a kitten does cream.”
“Lowd–”
“No, let me say this.” She fiddled with her pelisse, noticed she’d unravelled a hem. “I-I thought he loved me. I thought I would be a wife. I thought at last I’d found something I could be good at, even though the old countess would make me walk with books on my head and cackle when they fell…” A sob caught, and she stilled her trembling lip with a palm. “But then Fowlmere told me of his impending marriage to that debutante whilst the old countess sneered I’d the grace of a drunk chicken and…he laughed.”
“Lowd–”
“I-I always liked you, Oliver, but you were so attentive to everyone that I thought I was just one of many who liked you. And then…I was so horrible to you in Cornwall.” She straightened her shoulders. “I claimed I couldn’t marry you because I was a lady and you a valet, but that is not the truth… It is I who does not deserve you, Oliver. I was so afraid you would realise how useless I am if I accepted your suit. You deserve more, a girl who can cook–”
“I can prepare my own supper, Lowdy, and you are not–”
“Or stitch your stockings straight or bring in a useful wage.”
“Lowd–”
“And that is what I thought in Cornwall, but when you left… It hurt so without you. And I-I realised I would do anything to be with you. So…” She patted her lemon dress. “I love you, Oliver Miggens, and I’m proud you’re a valet. You’re a wonderful valet, and if you still want me, I’ll find work doing…something.”
He strode over, ignoring her protest, but she hadn’t reached the final part of her speech yet, leaving the worst until last, so she held a hand to his chest. His heart thumped a pace.
“No, Oli, there is more.” She drew a deep breath. “I also must tell you, and you will hate me, but the earl, we…he…”
Firm lips swooped, broad palms held, and he kissed her, resolute yet gentle, before those lips streaked to her wet cheeks.
“Oh, Lowdy, my love, I know,” he mumbled against her hair. “A valet knows everything.” He drew back, stared into her eyes, unwavering. “I heard you crying afterwards and wanted to rip Fowlmere’s head off, but at that time, I was unsure of his intentions. The most I could do was put rancid milk in his tea.”
She gasped. “I remember him ill for two days; I thought it was me!” It shouldn’t be funny but a giggle emerged nevertheless. “Oli, you poisoned an earl.”
“He hurt you, and I…I wanted you, Lowdy, despite our stations in life. That blaggard never deserved you.”
They kissed and kissed and kissed some more and Lowdy thought maybe there was something she was good at, because Oliver moaned and pressed her close, closer still, hands roaming as though he’d never get enough.
“But I’m so useless at–”
Fingers caught her words. “Don’t you dare, Lowdy Treherne,” he commanded with fire. “I saw you with that old bat of a countess, catering to her every whim. I watched you with Miss Penrose, how you support and encourage her. I noticed you with Mrs Pencally, rushing around with sherry and cushions. A person’s worth should not be determined by tea or stitches but caring words and thoughtful deeds and that is what I fell in love with. You always think of others. So unselfish. Tending and toiling until your own exhaustion.”
Oh.
He brushed her cheek and she realised tears were tumbling.
“Be my wife, Lowdy?” he whispered. “I am yours, will always be yours. We will be loyal, devoted, loving. I can feel it. We belong, Lowdy, and when we are together it is as though I’m a king not a valet.”
And she didn’t feel worthless or useless or ruined. She didn’t care if her status was that of a lady or valet’s wife or companion or milkmaid. There was only one thing she wanted to be.
“Yes. Yes, I will. I want to be Mrs Oliver Miggens.” And she reached up on tiptoes for a kiss.
∞∞∞
“Jack, are you listening?”
No, he wasn’t. He was gazing at a moth flittering by the candelabra, wondering if it was a Euplexia lucipara. “Forgive me, Aideen, could you repeat that? The orchestra is rather loud.”
The Duchess of Rakecombe huffed as only an Irish duchess could. “I was pointing out suitable ladies. You need someone with–”
“Wild passion, quiet strength and indomitable spirit?”
“Why, yes.” She inspected him closely, twirling an ebony lock. “There’s something different about you, Jack, since Cornwall. Have you been drinking absinthe again?”
He rocked on his heels, stared unseeingly at the dancers, wondered if he could consult his fob watch again. “Never again, lovey. I was mazed as a wagon of lost sheep the last time.”
“You were what? I’ll take that,” she stated, hastily snatching the glass of champagne from his hand. “You must be ailing.”
Yes, he really must explain, but where to begin? “Aideen, I have something to tell you…”
But her attention waned as the black-clad duke strode up, face softening to a scowl. “My sweet cherry love,” he snarled, handing back Jack’s glass and raising her fingers to his lips to nibble the ends.
Must they do that in front of a pining rogue, his own love some three hundred miles away?
“Winterbourne, I require you at Tattersalls tomorrow. Come by at ten.”
“Apologies, my upright friend,” Jack replied. “I’m for Cornwall at first light.”
“Saint Ninnidh’s bones,” interrupted the duchess, “you’ve only just been there.”
The duke grinned and began nibbling the back of her hand. “I believe, my honied nymph, that he’s left something behind.”
Now was his moment. “I have met–”
“But surely it’s too far to bother with a forgotten shoe or somesuch,” she imposed again, flicking her scarlet fan upon her husband’s chest. “Can’t they send it by post?”
An agreeable image of Tamsyn arriving in a box presented itself – tied with emerald ribbon. Anyway…
“Aideen, Rakecombe. Let me finish. I have news. In Cornwall, I met–”
“Oh!” cried the duchess, angling her head to stare past his black silk jacket. “She’s beautiful. How I wish I could wear such a gown.”
Hell and damnation, could he not bare his new-found heart to anyone?
“Hmm, take note, Winterbourne,” drawled the duke, “that is how one wears coquelicot.”
Rolling his eyes, he peered over one shoulder.