Clara jerked her cloak roughly around her shoulders and lowered her head against the biting wind. The season’s early snowfall had vanished almost as suddenly as it had arrived, but the chill from the north continued unabated. She didn’t mind. The nasty weather suited her mood. It would have seemed wrong to feel so hopeless beneath the golden rays of an azure summer sky. This relentless gray ambience was certainly a more fitting backdrop for the current state of her life, such as it was.

She navigated through the people on the village street, who were swathed tightly in their own winter clothing. It was the day before the earl’s ball, and Mrs. Humboldt and her kitchen maid, Gilly, were up to their elbows in cakes, biscuits, and sandwiches—all intended for the grand evening’s refreshment tables. Mrs. Humboldt, her culinary abilities not having been put to good use for a number of years now, was the outward picture of confidence and expertise. Clara knew, however, that her inward composure was an entirely different situation. The cook’s increasingly rosy complexion, accompanied by a noticeable surge in her use of profanity, reinforced this notion, although it also could have meant she’d resorted to taking nips off the cooking sherry.

Mrs. Humboldt had been surprised when they had run out of lemon curd before half the day’s batches of cakes had finished, but not nearly as surprised as Mrs. Malone. The somber housekeeper and the raucous cook were normally good friends, but Clara had feared a great row would erupt over the miscalculation. Since Gilly was busy baking, Clara had offered to go into town instead to find the required ingredients, and since she’d already finished her morning chores, Mrs. Malone had grumpily given her assent.

The silvery tinkle of the bell suspended over the shop’s door brought back memories of her mother and sister. Many times they had gone shopping together in Silvercreek. They’d shopped in London as well, but there was something Clara had treasured about the smaller, cozier shops of the country. Perhaps it was that they lacked the rigorous attention to poise and etiquette that London shops often demanded, instead treating their clients with warm, personalized familiarity. Time spent perusing lavish dress fabrics or satin ribbons for their bonnets had been a common way to pass an afternoon and, of course, money had been no object to her family. Itching to shake off his family’s undesirable nouveau riche reputation, her father had insisted Lucy and Clara be clothed in all the latest fashions when attending the most exclusive soirees.

Clara traced her fingers along the smooth glass jars the shopkeeper placed carefully in front of her. She passed her coins across the counter and made her way back out of the shop, unable to keep from feeling a pang of regret at her father’s hopes, now disappointed on all fronts. There was no way for him to know how eager to please him she’d actually been, how much she had wanted to attract a man he would deem worthy.

But then, she thought her brother-in-law, Douglas Thompson, was a good and worthy man. A kind man. He loved Lucy with a reverence she’d never seen. And yet her parents shunned him for his lack of status. For his want of lofty connections.

If only the earl had just decided to go to the ball that night in Mayfair. If only Clara had managed to secure him as her husband. If only she could have brought her family back together . . . and avoided this entire mess.

Clara swallowed against the lump in her throat. She supposed she should be thanking him for exiling her to the Dower House, and really, it was for the best. She had no desire to watch this new chapter of his life unfold before her very eyes.

The tiny bell rang once more upon her exit from the shop. Remembering her earlier mishap in the village on that day when she’d first met the earl, she glanced both ways before stepping into the street, narrowly avoiding a pile of fresh horse manure as she did. She lowered her brow. Stepping in dung would certainly be appropriate given the way things were going for her right now.

“Helen!” called a man.

She froze momentarily as her brain processed the voice, then turned reluctantly towards Paxton, who greeted her kindly. He steered his horse in her direction, dismounted, and tipped his hat.

“Hello, Paxton,” she said with a feeble attempt at a smile. “What brings you to this side of town?”

He returned her smile, glancing out across the busy street while he spoke. “I’ve just received word from one of the earl’s tenant farmers. The recent snowmelt flowed over our drainage ditches and flooded the farmland below.”

“How unfortunate,” Clara replied, deep in thought. “Of course, the ground will be cold and hard until the spring. Further ditches cannot be dug until then.” She paused. “Do these farms have windmills?”

Paxton’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well, yes. Currently they are used to grind grain into flour. But his lordship has previously suggested they be converted to pump water as well . . .”

“Yes,” answered Clara. “I’ve seen this performed successfully on other farms. It may be too late for this season, but perhaps it could be accomplished in time to alleviate heavy rains next year.”

He stared at her, nonplussed, and his expression forced Clara to remember herself. She still had an identity to conceal, not that anyone would believe that a gently bred, wealthy young lady had made it her business to follow her father’s land steward on his rounds, then ended up in hiding as a housemaid.

A housemaid currently late in returning to Mrs. Humboldt’s kitchen with her lemon curd.

Clara glanced at her basket and turned towards the estate. “I’m afraid I must get this back to the cook. Are you going there as well?”

“Why, yes. I’m on my way to discuss the farmsteads with Lord Ashworth.” He smiled. “And I thank you for your input on the matter. I’m not exactly sure how you’ve come by your knowledge, but I appreciate it all the same.”

She forced her face to remain neutral, but inside, her stomach was churning. “You are quite welcome,” Clara replied nervously. A frigid gust of wind caused her to tug up the hood of her cloak.

“Perhaps winter is already here to stay,” he observed, dropping the subject and pulling at his cloak as well.

“I believe it is,” she answered, moodily reflecting that the icy claws that had come to settle around her had nothing to do with the change of season.

William shook Paxton’s hand firmly before seating himself behind his desk. It was a cold day, made warmer, thankfully, by the fire that crackled and popped nearby.

“Would you like a drink before we begin?” he offered affably.

The land steward declined with a small shake of his head. “No thank you, my lord. I’m only happy we were able to meet considering your hectic schedule and the ongoing preparations for the ball.”

He grimaced at the unwelcome reminder of tomorrow evening’s event. “Yes, well I apologize for the lateness of our meeting, and the abruptness with which I called it off last time. Your flexibility is appreciated.”

“I am at your service, of course,” replied Paxton amiably. “Now on to the matter of the flooding at the farmsteads, which has unfortunately returned. I have just been at the village to meet with the tenants.”

William traced a fingertip absently over the edge of his desk. “Glad to hear it. I wanted to meet with you before renewing talks with them, myself. Are they open to the idea of converting some of the existing windmills to pump water?”

“Yes. Conversion, or even building additional structures for that purpose. And I have recently had confirmation that this type of operation has been performed successfully, which alleviates some of my concerns about the process.”

“And where did you receive such confirmation?”

Paxton shifted in his seat. “Well, it was from an unexpected source. I ran into Helen in the village, who told me she had seen this procedure work elsewhere.”

William’s head snapped up. A faint echo of her words to him that day in the study passed fleetingly through his mind.

My father had experience in such matters.

His brow furrowed. “Do you happen to know how Helen acquired this knowledge?”

“No,” replied Paxton uncertainly. “It was a bit surprising. But I suppose perhaps it was something she simply noticed happening in her village.”

William leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “She told me once that her father had dealt with flooded lands before.”

“She—she discussed this with you?”

“In passing, yes,” he said with an imperial air meant to discourage further questions. No doubt Paxton was wondering when an earl and his housemaid would have occasion to speak about such things. Little did the steward know how much William and Helen had actually shared between them these past months, much to his regret. His jaw clenched. “It was nothing more than an errant conversation, but the comment did catch my attention at the time.”

“I see,” Paxton murmured thoughtfully. “It is possible her father was a land steward, like myself. Although why she wouldn’t mention something so pertinent during the natural course of our conversation is a bit odd.”

That was an excellent point. Why on earth would she be evasive regarding her family? What could an ordinary servant girl possibly have to hide?

No. He refused to care any longer. Helen had already moved on, and he would move on in similar fashion. But God, what he wouldn’t give to just hold her once more—feel the rough fabric of her dress sliding beneath his palm as he stroked her back, or marvel at how effectively the hot press of her mouth could absorb his most painful confessions. What a fantasy it had been to be cared for and listened to by the little slip of a maid. And even though things had ended badly, she had still done him a world of good. He guessed it was why losing her felt more and more like he was losing a part of himself.

He forced himself to shrug indifferently while his chest felt like it was caving in.

“Perhaps she values her privacy, and it really shouldn’t be any of our concern,” he said quickly, glancing down at his desk to shuffle through his papers. “Now let’s talk about when we can begin construction on these windmills in time to be ready come spring—”

The two men continued to discuss logistics, but William found his thoughts were rooted elsewhere . . . upon the only thing that he, personally, needed to accomplish with some urgency.

And that was getting Helen moved into the Dower House, and away from him.

The evening of the ball arrived, and after attending a hundred balls herself, now Clara finally knew what it was like to prepare the house for one.

This time, instead of arriving rested and at ease in her most luxurious gown with jewels at her throat, she would be working in the cloakroom, already sore from scrubbing the ballroom floor and dressed in her plain maid’s uniform. Her time at a dance would usually be spent socializing beneath the soft glow of candlelight, but tonight she had been the one to strain her back while lighting the candles. Whereas normally she would be ready to dance with any number of gentlemen, now she could only stew belowstairs with her aching feet, restless in the knowledge that every lady here tonight had the eligible Earl of Ashworth in their sights.

The female servants gathered together in their upstairs hallway for a brief examination before Mrs. Malone subjected them to her unflinching inspection belowstairs. Since Lawton Park lacked the staff for an estate of its size, every servant was required to assist in some capacity with the festivities. Matthew and Charles would be performing the lion’s share of the work nearest the guests, but it was regrettably necessary for some of the housemaids to show themselves as well. As it was not typically the norm, this did not please the earl’s sister or the housekeeper, who had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince the earl that hiring more male help from town would be in his best interest. Lord Ashworth, true to form, had scoffed at the notion of hiring more people simply to make an impressive display, and Eliza had been forced to be content that he was permitting the ball to be held at all.

Clara peered down at the women in their pressed black dresses and white aprons, hair neatly pinned beneath their caps. They appeared no different than they had on a thousand other evenings, but there was an excitement behind their eyes that was new. How she wished she could share in their enthusiasm, but all she felt was morose anticipation. She would not be able to avoid seeing the lovely girls in their ballroom finery, smiling and flirting with Lord Ashworth in an attempt to gain his interest. That would be bad enough. But to see him perhaps return their attentions would destroy her.

Amelia ensured everyone looked their very best, dismissing each maid as she passed them. As the housemaid with the most seniority, and having convinced Mrs. Malone of her aptitude for both attention to housework and her ability to work well with others, she had finally achieved her promotion to head housemaid. A month prior, this would have been a catastrophe, with Amelia abusing her authority purposefully to harass Clara. Now, however, there was no undue malice.

When she reached Clara, they were last two servants remaining in the hallway. The redheaded maid stared at her in the flickering light of the wall sconces, and her voice rang softly in the gloom.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had the chance to thank you, Helen, or to admit that I was wrong.” Amelia’s glance sank down to the patterned carpet. “Abigail sent her letter . . . she insisted you were one of us, but when you arrived I didn’t believe her. You were too pretty, too perfect, too willing to break the rules. And I hated you for it all, until you broke the rules to help me.”

Clara didn’t know what to say. Amelia had proven herself to be, quite possibly, the most observant and astute member of the household staff. Stella had picked up on Clara’s unconventional relationship with the earl, but Amelia had been the only person belowstairs to detect that something was amiss, with both her story and her character, from the very beginning. She could not fault her for this. She hadn’t enjoyed Amelia’s ill treatment, but Clara was indeed every bit as duplicitous as Amelia initially claimed her to be. Heaven help her if the maid ever discovered the truth.

She shuffled uncomfortably, eager to leave the hallway. “Thanks are not necessary, Amelia. I’m just happy we could finally come to a mutual understanding.”

“No, this is necessary, Helen,” Amelia insisted. “After the way I treated you, I’m not sure I deserved to be helped.” She shook her head, chagrined. “Anyway, I needed to say that to you. Also, Matthew was quite insistent about our having an honest conversation to clear the air.”

“Was he?” Clara beamed, her dark eyes turning thoughtful. “I always thought it was strange that you could ever think Matthew preferred me, when it was so terribly obvious that you were the only woman he was even remotely interested in.”

Amelia’s eyebrow rose in a mischievous arch, and she smiled. “Perhaps I mistook his affection for you as something other than friendship,” she stated, her color rising to nearly match the vivid shade of her hair.

Well, Amelia hadn’t been the only person to mistake her friendship with Matthew.

They proceeded down to the bottom floor to join the rest of the awaiting staff in the servants’ hall. The clattering of dishes and a subsequent litany of curse words could be heard from down the corridor in the direction of the kitchen. For once, Mrs. Malone didn’t appear to hear any of it. Her face was taut and her eyes were sharp. Clara knew she had longed for the day when Lawton Park would again host a grand event. Now that day had come, and despite the shortage of staff, she was determined to have things off and running without a hitch.

The housekeeper walked their line, surveying her staff closely. She came to a halt near Clara to issue a quiet edict to fasten her hair more securely. Clara reached up to find her rebellious locks were already slipping from position beneath her cap, and pinned them aggressively until Mrs. Malone nodded her approval.

“Good,” she said, then addressed the staff in clipped tones. “Listen, everyone. Matthew and Charles will be circulating throughout the ballroom and hallways with drinks. Since they will be quite busy, occasionally you may be called upon to replenish the food on the tables in the refreshment room.” The housekeeper again paced up and down the line. “Amelia will station housemaids in various places—the ladies’ dressing room, the cloakroom and the refreshment rooms will require constant staffing.” Mrs. Malone puffed her chest out with pride. “As a servant of the Earl of Ashworth, tonight you will be representing both him and this estate. Do keep this in mind at all times.” Her eyes darted over to Clara. “You are not to meet a guest’s eyes, nor will you interact with them in any way other than to assist them as necessary, speaking only if called on to speak. Is this clear?”

The servants acquiesced in unison. In spite of her wretched disposition, Clara still found it amusing that Mrs. Malone had singled her out for that particular part of the lecture.

Mrs. Malone nodded crisply. “Excellent. I know you will all work to make his lordship proud.” She targeted them with one last granite stare before excusing them.

The staff had gone in different directions, each heading off to finish their own last-minute tasks, when the earl strode unexpectedly into the servants’ hall. Clara froze, taken aback at his sudden appearance.

Lord Ashworth was always the epitome of masculine perfection to her, regardless of his state of dress, or undress, as the situation may be. But tonight, the sight of him caused her mouth to fall open, and she had to hastily shut her jaw with a snap before anyone could glimpse her inelegant display.

Everything about him . . . from the black breeches clinging to his muscled legs, to his white waistcoat exquisitely framing the broad expanse of his chest, was flawless. A simple white cravat was tied with precision at the base of his throat, and his formal black coat accentuated the width of his shoulders, draping down to end in two graceful tails. The earl’s boots gleamed in the light. He was nothing if not imposing, and she forced herself to breathe while his eyes scanned over everything. Everything but her.

Clara gazed at him intently while he conversed quietly with the housekeeper. He looked resolute at the prospect of tonight’s ball, rather than joyous. Still, this did not comfort her. Did he fear losing control in front of his guests? It made sense to think he might be struggling with some of his old anxieties tonight, perhaps made even worse by having found her in Matthew’s arms.

How she wanted to comfort him somehow. At the very least, she wished she could convince him of her true feelings. Apologize through some gesture or expression. Even if it served no other purpose than to spare him some of the hurt he obviously felt, close the chapter on their romance in an amicable manner, it would be worthwhile. But he refused to look her way.

He raised his arms as he spoke, his fingers working to adjust his gold cufflinks. Clara unwittingly recalled a time when those arms had been wrapped around her—when those long fingers had traveled over her body, trailing fire. The mere thought of those heated moments in her cramped attic bedroom was enough to cause her to flush.

Say my name . . .

Clara glanced away in remorse and was surprised to see Stella staring in her direction. Stella had not been friendly since the evening Lord Ashworth had visited Clara’s room, but right now she was gazing at her with something similar to pity.

He uttered some last instructions to Mrs. Malone, then turned and left the hall as quickly as he’d come. A jolt of panic shot through Clara’s chest. He was going upstairs to, perhaps, meet a woman who would become his countess. She just couldn’t let that happen without some sort of attempt to resolve the conflict between them, and inside herself.

Clara lunged forward, narrowly dodging Tess and Charles on her way out of the room. She prayed Mrs. Malone was too distracted to notice her following the earl. It would be a long evening for her if the housekeeper saw her already abandoning her promise to behave as a good servant should.

She caught him at the base of the staircase, the same place where he’d misunderstood her encounter with Matthew. Clara reached out desperately to touch the fine material of his sleeve.

“My lord, please . . . may I speak with you?”

He swung around and jerked in surprise. His eyes traveled from her hand to her face. She noticed with a sinking heart that he did not look pleased.

“What can you possibly have to say to me, Helen?” he asked stiffly.

Oh, he smelled good. It was irritating how easy it was for him to drive her mad with longing. She knew there wasn’t much time, so she leaned in closer, knowing it would cost her a bit of sanity to do so.

“I need you to know that what you saw with Matthew was not what it seemed. And that . . .” Here she faltered, her accumulated guilt and sorrow suffocating her under their weight. “. . . I wish you good fortune in your search for a bride.”

At this, his brow rose and he stepped backwards to place more space between them. A flicker of regret flared to life in his amber-green gaze, and the muscle in his jaw worked as he glowered down at her, busily formulating his thoughts.

“Even were it so . . . if you and Matthew are simply friends . . . do you really think it makes a difference?”

“No, of course not, my lord. I only wanted you to know,” she whispered, biting her lip to keep her tears in check.

Clara left before he could say anything else, could feel his eyes burning into her back. Her hurried footfalls echoed down the long hallway, and in her haste she ran headlong into Stella, who was exiting the servants’ hall.

“Excuse me,” she choked out, swiping at her face with her sleeve. When she tried to step around, Stella gently took hold of her arms and guided her into Mrs. Malone’s office, which was empty. The maid closed the door and turned to face Clara, her severe features softened with sympathy.

“You are not the first woman to love a man above her own station, Helen. But it’s foolish to believe you were anything but a distraction for him.”

Clara’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock. “Stella, I don’t know what you . . .”

“I think you do,” she replied with a confident tilt of her white-capped head. “And I think it was dreadful of him to take advantage of you in your weakened state, after the fight with Scanlan.”

“No,” Clara managed in barely more than a whisper. “It wasn’t like that.”

The maid looked doubtful. “Perhaps not, but think about that tonight while he courts the loveliest debutantes in the county. See if it still rings true then.” She stepped closer to wrap Clara in a friendly embrace. “Falling for men like him will never end well for women like us,” she said softly.

A truer statement had never been spoken, and not just for the reasons Stella was referring to.

The office door swung open abruptly, and Clara and Stella turned to find Amelia staring at them, looking dismayed.

“There you two are! Is there a problem?” she asked, a crease between her brows.

Stella squeezed Clara’s arm and gazed expectantly at her. She had lied so much already, what could one more possibly cost her?

“Not at all,” Clara said with a sniff. “We’ll be right out.”