Clara worked to breathe through her mouth while Stella patiently supervised her attempt at mixing furniture polish. It was a pungent concoction of linseed oil, beeswax, and turpentine, and the smell was causing her stomach to feel queasy. She was tired after having slept poorly, the air in her room cold, but her body somehow overheated as uninvited thoughts of Lord Ashworth invaded her dreams.

“Wait, not so much turpentine,” said Stella quickly. Clara jerked her hands back just in time to halt the flow of the pale liquid. “There, that’s better,” said the other housemaid with relief. She looked up at Clara curiously. “Were you chilled last night? You look tired,” she observed.

Clara set aside the bottle of turpentine and reached for the beeswax. “Oh,” she said dismally, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Although thinking of the long winter months to come, she couldn’t be certain. She was hesitant to inquire about extra blankets if none of the other servants required them, but was sure the position of her room in relation to the rest of the house was the problem. Her room was the farthest one from the bulk of the main house, closest to the west wing, which was not currently in use. Heat from the few lighted fireplaces would not reach her there.

They worked together carefully, adding ingredients and slowly stirring them together with a wooden spoon, adjusting amounts as needed. Finally, after the long process, Stella felt that the mixture had reached the proper consistency and she left the room to fetch Mrs. Malone for her approval. The noisy jingle of the massive keyring signaled the housekeeper’s initial location in the kitchen, as well as her musical progression down the hallway. Both women entered a moment later, Mrs. Malone’s hair pulled back severely and her black dress looking pressed and pristine. She glanced at Clara, then leaned over and peered down into the pail, raising the spoon into the air to examine the polish that clung to it.

“Very good for your first try,” said Mrs. Malone with a brisk nod. “Divide it up into these jars, and you two can use one of them to polish the furniture in the study.” She paused in thought, then frowned. “No, not the study. Lord Ashworth is meeting with his land steward. Work in the drawing room instead.”

Both maids dipped into a curtsy. “Yes, Mrs. Malone.”

Clara was curious about how the earl managed his estate and its affairs. Her father had owned numerous properties, some of them quite large, but he was far removed from the process of maintaining structures and gathering rent. Many times, her parents had despaired of her inclination to join the land steward on his rounds, but she had discovered firsthand that the best way to know what your tenants needed was to meet them yourself—not a popular concept among the landed gentry. She was interested to know if Ashworth, with all his idiosyncrasies, was of a similar mind.

Sharply, and seemingly for the millionth time, she reminded herself of her resolution to be indifferent to the man. Regardless of any memories of softly uttered French phrases.

The housekeeper departed. Clara focused her thoughts and started on her task, packing the mixture into the small glass jars with the spoon, then screwing the lids on tight, wiping the outside to ensure none had collected on the exterior. Stella returned the containers of turpentine, oil and wax to their respective places, and when finished, came to Clara’s side to lend her assistance with the polish. She took a deep breath through her nose, exhaling with satisfaction.

“It doesn’t smell nearly as bad when it’s been mixed up,” she commented.

Clara gave her a doubtful look, then tentatively inhaled through her nose. She was relieved to discover that it was true. The beeswax had done wonders to mute the repulsive acrid quality of the turpentine, but the scent was still quite intense. She knew that the dress she was wearing would smell like it for days, and she felt a twinge of displeasure. She missed the delicate floral scents of her past.

It was fascinating, though. Since she’d been employed at Lawton Park, many household smells she had taken for granted in the past now made sense to her. The furniture polish, the tea leaves used to sweep the carpets, the starch on the linens. All of these subtle scents mingled to create an atmosphere of crisp refinement. Despite her long-standing friendship with Abigail, she had not been fully aware of the hard work required to maintain such an impression.

Her chest clenched at the thought of her friend back at Silvercreek, and the family she had left behind. The familiar scents brought forth unbidden memories. Giggling with Abigail over tea in the kitchen belowstairs. Her mother plaiting her hair before bed. Chasing her sister through the orchard on a hot summer’s day. The stricken expression on her father’s face upon realizing Lucy had eloped . . .

Her eyes snapped shut. She must be Helen. And Helen’s memories encompassed this house, and the people in it. Period.

Clara sighed softly.

“Headache?” asked Stella. “I have some willow bark powder in my room if you have need of it.”

“No, thank you,” replied Clara, leaning back down over her chore. “I’m just tired, is all.”

Once she had finished packing the last jar, they were loaded onto a tray and placed in a cabinet in the storeroom, save one, which Stella put into a tool caddy loaded with polish, rags, and brushes. Clara took the caddy and they left the storeroom, encountering Amelia on the staircase. Her thick morning apron was dark with soot, and she was lugging her own caddy, which was heavy with blackened tools and brushes. Stella proceeded up the stairs while Clara paused, pressing her back to the wall to give the housemaid more room to pass.

“Morning,” she said with a pleasant nod.

Amelia glanced upwards at Clara in surprise, then rapidly averted her eyes and shuffled clumsily past her. It wasn’t a greeting, but it wasn’t a hateful scowl, either. Clara was glad she hadn’t risen to Amelia’s challenge the day before, and hoped that maybe someday the girl would thaw just enough that they might be friendly to one another. Not friends, per se, but friendly.

Stella shook her head in amusement.

“Why you are nice to Amelia, I’ll never know.”

The corner of Clara’s mouth tipped up in an ironic smile, thinking of Abigail and hoping her sister would come round soon. “Just giving her a chance to be nice back, I suppose.”

“That’s a fool’s errand, if you ask me,” Stella muttered.

They entered the servants’ staircase, which was cool and dim on the chilly autumn day. Creeping quietly up to the first-floor entry, both girls stopped at the door leading into the drawing room. Clara grasped the knob and pushed the door open slightly, peeking her head around to ensure the room was vacant before entering with her collection of polishing implements.

A pair of bright green eyes peeked back.

With a shocked cry, she fell back against Stella, just managing to regain her balance before she could drop her supplies. Rosa bounced around the door.

“I found you!” she laughed.

Stella eased Clara to an upright position. “I’m not sure you should be alone in the house, Miss Rosa,” she said.

The little girl released Clara and ran back into the drawing room to throw herself upon the settee. “Please don’t tell Uncah,” Rosa begged, her face muffled by a powder blue cushion. “His meeting was so boring!”

“Boring it may be, but imagine your uncle’s worry at finding you missing, especially after what happened last week,” said Clara with a pointed look. “Come. I’ll take you to the study myself.”

This mission was not entirely altruistic. The thought of seeing the earl set a spark of excitement racing throughout her body. Clara glanced at Stella, hoping her enthusiasm wasn’t too obvious. “I’ll return in just a moment.”

They had just reached the study door, and Clara’s heart was already pounding at the thought of seeing Lord Ashworth. So she nearly jumped out of her skin when the study door flew open with a bang and the earl rushed out, slamming bodily into her.

Ashworth made a noise of astonishment and reached out to steady Clara, preventing them from toppling over onto the floor. She felt one of his hands clutch her arm while the other squeezed the curve of her waist. The earl pulled her up against him for more stability, and they stood there for a second, staring at each other in shock.

In a ballroom, in another life, they could have been dancing.

No . . . she thought desperately. Sensual awareness flooded through her at the close contact. It was difficult enough to try to ignore her attraction to him under normal circumstances, but it was absolutely impossible when his hands were on her. Hands that were strongly constraining her against his solid chest. Attempting to right herself, increase the distance, do something, she only succeeded in feeling much more of him, her fingers skirting in panic over the hard planes of his arms, his abdomen, his back . . .

Suddenly aware of their inappropriate proximity, he pushed her away, nearly sending her tumbling yet again. His face was contrite as he steadied her . . . this time from a more appropriate distance. Behind his shoulder she could see another man, most likely his land steward, watching the events with some amusement.

“Helen, what in God’s name . . . and you,” said Ashworth, directing an irate stare at his niece, who now appeared quite ashamed of herself. “After last week, you disobey a direct order from me to stay put?”

He broke off, and it was then that Clara noticed just how stressed his expression was, with dark circles under his eyes and the faint sheen of stubble on his cheeks. It seemed obvious that his Rosa’s near miss still disturbed him greatly, unless there was something else going on that was affecting him this way. She wanted to find out . . . but how?

“My lord,” interrupted Clara with a quick curtsy, trying to conceal her concern, “Rosa found me in the drawing room. She had not been gone but a minute or two, and I brought her back immediately.”

His dark glance jumped over to her, and she tensed in anticipation of his wrath. But his features finally softened with gratitude.

“I appreciate your help,” he replied, holding her gaze.

A thousand butterflies took flight in her stomach.

Turning away, he knelt down and grasped Rosa by the shoulders. “I need to know you are safe at all times,” he stated earnestly.

Rosa lifted her eyes to meet his, then wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself close. Lord Ashworth laughed softly and patted the girl’s blonde waves, then stood to face his steward.

“I apologize for the interruption, Paxton, but I believe we were mostly finished here,” he said. “Be sure to convey my concern for the flooding situation at the Dunby and Howard farmsteads, and find out what can be done to resolve the matter.”

The man bowed. “Of course, my lord. Right away.”

The steward turned to leave, casting a brief glance at Clara over his shoulder as he did. She returned his smile, but as she looked back to the earl, she felt it falter. Ashworth stood in silence, watching his man depart with a curious expression on his face. Then he turned to her.

“Do you know my land steward?” he asked.

Clara looked at him, astonished. Was the earl . . . could it be possible he was jealous?

She scoffed at herself. The very notion was ridiculous. And yet, as she studied him, she could not quite decipher the look on his face . . .

“No, my lord,” she replied, an embarrassed heat working its way up her neck. “I’ve never seen the man before today.”

Before he had a chance to respond, Stella appeared in the hallway, a slight frown of confusion on her face.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” she began, “but I was expecting Helen in the drawing room and wanted to see if everything was all right . . .”

The earl glanced at the other maid, and Clara again noticed the expression of strain and weariness etched on his handsome features. Something was wrong. She wished she could help.

“I have need of her today, Stella,” he said, surprising her once again. The words had no ulterior meaning, and yet she couldn’t help the delicious shiver that chased down her spine. “I must finish these letters and decide how best to deal with the flooding down near the village.” He cast a sardonic look at his niece. “Clearly Rosa requires the full attention of a guardian.”

“Certainly, I will watch over her. She can join me for my morning tasks.” Clara turned to Stella and ushered Rosa in her direction. “Perhaps I could meet you in just a moment? I’ll be along shortly.”

Flummoxed, Stella nodded, curtsied, and left with the little girl who waved over her shoulder until they rounded a distant corner. Trying not to lose her nerve, Clara faced the earl, who seemed somewhat surprised by her actions. Steeling herself before she could lose courage, Clara whispered, “My lord, may I have a private word with you?”

She knew she was about to act brashly. But in that moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

A notch formed between the earl’s brows as he stared at her, bewildered. His singular green eyes held a mixture of fascination and restraint. Clara knew she was pushing the boundaries between them.

After a long moment, Ashworth took a step back and extended a hand, gesturing for her to enter the study. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear herself think, but since she had chosen to disregard any semblance of reason, she didn’t think she was any worse off for it.

Clara proceeded to the middle of the room, and twisted around to face him only after she heard the click of the door behind her. To her surprise, he hadn’t followed her all the way in, but remained nearer to the door so he could observe her from afar. She couldn’t blame him, really. This was all very unconventional.

She cleared her throat.

“My lord, are you well?”

Ashworth’s hand slowly dropped from the doorknob and he stared openly at her, his expression unreadable. Clara guessed it could have been weeks or months since he’d had a loved one or a friend ask him that question.

He cocked his head to the side, eyeing her curiously. “Do I appear to be unwell?”

Clara bit her lip. Of course, he appeared very well indeed. She couldn’t stop her eyes from scanning over him and felt herself flush hotly in response.

“Yes . . . no . . . that is, you look distressed. As if something is wrong.”

Ashworth stepped forward. “I am in charge of an earldom. There could be many things wrong.” He paused. “And this concerns you because . . . ?”

“Well, I am aware it shouldn’t concern me,” she answered nervously. “But—I find it does.”

He mulled this over in silence as his restless gaze roamed over her, starting at her cap, alighting on her face, moving down the dark rose-colored fabric of her morning dress, skimming over her apron, and landing on her sturdy black shoes. His eyes snapped back up to hold hers in their sway.

“I appreciate your concern, but rest assured, it is misplaced.” The earl took another step in her direction. “However, since we’re on the subject of appearances, I would tell you that you seem tired today.” The corner of his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile. “Is there something amiss?”

Clara’s lips parted in surprise. “That was neatly done, my lord. You managed to avoid answering my question while directing one at me instead.” She hesitated. “Well if you must know, I am tired. My room is like an icebox at night.”

He blinked. This time he really did look concerned. “Is it?”

“Yes,” she replied. “But that’s really beside the point. You are under no obligation to confide in me, I only thought perhaps—”

“And I told you,” he said, cutting her off, “that I appreciate the concern. But you and I both know it’s against all proprieties to discuss personal matters—”

“Have you always been so set on adhering to the proprieties, my lord?”

The earl straightened, eyes widening in disbelief, and she immediately knew the conversation had been taken too far.

Clara lowered her head and tried to avoid him, skirting around the edge of the room towards the door. “Forgive my intrusion. It was wrong of me to insert myself where I do not belong.”

She passed Ashworth and his hand shot out, securing her wrist in his hold before she could flee.

“Was that an insult? Or simply an observation?” he inquired.

She swallowed, weighing her response with caution. “No, my lord. On the contrary, I think it an admirable quality in a peer to be willing to break with tradition.” Ashworth’s gaze drifted from her face to the place where his fingers were wrapped around her arm. After a moment, he gently released her. Disappointment flooded through her as the heat of his hand evaporated off her skin.

Stepping backwards, he spread his arms wide in mock invitation.

“Since we are ignoring decorum, is there anything else you wish to ask?” Then he added wisely, “I may or may not choose to answer.”

She considered this in silence, her hand moving to cover the wrist that still tingled from his touch. This game had already started. Why stop now?

“Yes, my lord. There is one thing.” Clara took a deep breath. “Has your steward much experience with flooded farmlands?”

“Pardon me?” His voice was low. Possibly annoyed.

“My lord, your land steward is another servant, regardless of his accomplishments. I’d wager your tenants would value a visit from you, the Earl of Ashworth, along with the opportunity to discuss their thoughts on resolving the flooding.”

She had managed to say the words, but she had also begun to tremble uncontrollably. She clenched her hands into fists and held them tightly at her sides to conceal her shaking.

Lord Ashworth stood stock-still. He simply stared at her as if she had spontaneously recited the Russian alphabet. When he did speak, he sounded calm, but his voice was hoarse.

“What do you know of flooded farmlands, Helen?”

A trickle of sweat raced down her back.

Ashworth stepped closer to her, his face expectant. Clara’s breath came in gulps as she attempted to maintain her composure. “I–my father had experience in such matters.”

“Your father?” he asked, intrigued.

“Yes, my lord,” she responded hastily, hoping to change the subject. “I’ve no wish to interfere, but I was thinking a meeting might help connect you more closely to your townsfolk.”

The earl’s eyebrows arched. “Why do you take such an interest in my affairs?”

“I’m not. I don’t,” she stammered. “I’m only thinking as a commoner. Speaking as a commoner . . .”

“Speaking as a commoner,” he interrupted thoughtfully, taking another step forward. “A commoner would know when to hold her tongue, and yet you, somehow, do not.” Another step. The alarm bells she had chosen to ignore earlier were now clanging again, more insistently.

His words were true. She was being Clara Mayfield right now, and she needed to correct her course immediately. Before he was close enough to touch her.

“Of course, you are right, my lord,” she forced out, hoping to put an end to the conversation. “I only meant to help. I can see now that I’ve overstepped my bounds.”

A huff of amusement escaped him. “A habit of yours.” Then softly, “And how can you possibly help me?”

The earl took one last step in her direction, and it wasn’t until Clara felt her back collide with the far wall that she realized she had also been retreating. He was only inches away, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. Being at eye level with his broad chest, he suddenly seemed far too large, far too close.

Ashworth had an incomparable sensual grace, unmatched by any man she’d ever seen. Without thinking, Clara reached out and placed her fingertips on his chest—whether a defensive reflex or an invitation, she couldn’t be sure. At her touch, he tensed and closed his eyes, a small gasp hissing through his teeth.

Any lingering doubts melted away as she witnessed his reaction. He wanted her hands on him. She flattened her palms across the lawn of his shirt, feeling the contrast of hard muscle to soft fabric.

Clara had always believed her inexperience had caused her to be shy with men, but now it was apparent part of the problem had been that she had not yet been with the right man. Here, with Ashworth, fire flowed through her veins as she allowed her hands to roam. His clenched jaw and fists were an indication of resistance, but his refusal to halt her caresses challenged her to continue.

What could she possibly do to help him?

He had asked, and now she burned to find out.

Her fingers traced along the length of his blue satin cravat, and he made a sound low in his throat.

The sound raced through Clara like wildfire. Disregarding everything . . . the woman she was, and the woman she was pretending to be . . . she rose high up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his.