“A bit,” Hattie admitted. Her cheeks had seemed so pale to her when she was dressing earlier. She’d had the look of a wraith.
“You look like you’ve just lapped a bowl of cream, missy. You think you’re one of the ladies in line to marry him?”
That was so outlandish that Hattie laughed. “No, Mama, I don’t. I’m no one. I enjoy the work, that’s all. Is that so strange? I’ve always kept myself busy, you know that.”
Her mother came out of the drawing room. “Be careful, Harriet,” she said darkly. “You’re not one of them. Don’t allow yourself to believe the ideas they put in your head.”
Hattie’s good humor cooled considerably. She was tempted to ask her mother just whothemwas, but deep down, she knew the answer. She preferred not to hear her mother say anything that would hurt her heart. Hattie knew she wasn’t like Flora or Queenie—she didn’t need her own mother to point it out. She knew she was not desirable, had nothing to recommend her, and really, had no chance of matrimony, thanks to this house and its inhabitants. And not to mention her broken engagement. “I have no idea what you mean,” she said pertly. “I don’t want to be late. Good afternoon, Mama.” She opened the door and walked out into the rain, not even bothering to try and catch one of the cats that skittered out when she did.
She marched along, a bit miffed that her mother wanted her to feel shame for her work, for who she was. A bit miffed that her own mother would be the one to remind her that a man like Lord Abbott would never find anything about her to want. It hardly mattered that she was infatuated with the viscount—she was aware she was in no danger of that sentiment ever being returned or even noticed.
But as she marched along, she began to think that maybe her mother was right. Shehadallowed her imagination to get the best of her. She had imagined herself in Santiava. With him. Speaking Spanish fluently, delighting him, discussing books and all the interests they shared. It was a silly daydream. What was the harm?
She was convinced she had a gimlet eye as far as he was concerned—the man was aloof and distant! She’d thought at first that he didn’t care for her, that he resented her presence, and was sending her off to tea just so that he wouldn’t have to be near her. But when Pacheco or Borerro entered the room, he affected the same aloof manner with them. The only time she’d ever heard him laugh was through the window that first afternoon.
It wasn’t until his lordship noticed her looking at his books that he had seemed to soften, if only a little. What had astonished her most about the entire exchange was that he seemed to be genuinely interested in what she thought ofThe Viscount of Bragelonne.
Her enthusiasm for bringing the gifts had been dampened by her mother’s warning. She hoped she wasn’t being foolish to bring him a gift. Well, it was too late now. No matter what happened, one day Hattie would look back fondly to the spring she wrote correspondence and read books with Viscount Abbott, the Duke of Santiava.
CHAPTER TEN
PACHECOWASSPORTINGa pin on his lapel that was the same red-and-white rose that Mateo had seen on Borerro and at least two footmen. He didn’t understand the significance, really, but it was clear that Miss Woodchurch had used her wages to purchase lapel pins for his household.
Is that what she needed the position for? To purchase pins?
“You, too?” he accused his manservant as Pacheco held out Mateo’s coat for him.
Pacheco had been his father’s manservant and was a wise old soul. He not only understood what Mateo was talking about, but he steadily avoided his master’s gaze as he brushed his hands across the tops of Mateo’s shoulders, smoothing the fabric of his coat. Frankly, Pacheco’s silence was one of the reasons Mateo got on with him as well as he did—the man didn’t feel the need to respond to superfluous questions any more than he did.
And he did not respond to him now.
When he’d finished dressing, Mateo made his way downstairs. He intended to make his session with Miss Woodchurch quick today—he and Rosa were attempting to make a treacle tart before supper.
Miss Woodchurch was already in the study, standing at the window as she waited. She was wearing a soft pale yellow gown today that, with her blue eyes, reminded him of a bird that often visited the palace veranda in Valdonia.
“Good day, my lord!” she said brightly. “A bit of rain, but it looks as if the clouds will break.”
This woman was always cheerful, no matter his mood. He appreciated that about her and wished he could affect even a bit of her good cheer. He wished he could walk into a room and shout out a good day to everyone. He could imagine the confusion if he did, how the people around him would faint away with it.
“Good day.” He went to his desk and picked up a stack of papers that included some invoices to be sorted by property and asked her to do it.
They worked in silence for the first hour. When she had done all that he asked, they began to review the latest post. Most of it was invitations. It seemed to Mateo that all anyone did in London was host or attend one supper party after another.
The last was a letter from his mother. She wrote with news of her travels, listing the people she’d visited, the many invitations to dine—apparently all anyone did in Paris was attend supper parties, too—and a list of what she’d purchased that made his eyes gloss over. He had explained to her more than once that the duchy purse was not her personal financial reserve.
His mother closed the letter by asking him if he’d met with Lady Aleksander, and if he hadn’t, when she might expect some news.
He handed the letter to Miss Woodchurch. “You may respond that all is well, etcetera and so forth.”
“Etcetera and so forth?” She took his mother’s letter and read it. Then she looked up at him.
“Is there a question?”
“No, my lord.”
He turned back to the remaining stack.
“But then again...” She waited for him to look up. “Is that really all you wish to say?”
