As usual, George woke with the sun, but he did not rise as it rose. He threw his arm toward the nightstand and grabbed the book of poetry there. William Wordsworth usually calmed him. His uncle had always preferred the darkness, the sublime fantasy of Coleridge's imagination to Wordsworth's everyday miracles.
George preferred the light.
But now Wordsworth merely reminded him of Jane, of how he'd said the words against her skin, and she'd come alive. And when she'd come alive, his very own phantom of delight, he'd lost all control. He’d wanted more and nothing else.
And he’d had her. Hehadher. Last night’s interlude meant nothing less.
She would not have shared her body with him if she did not intend to wed him.
She’d fled his room last night with decidedly slumped shoulders. He’d wanted to kiss the hollowed curve between them, but she’d left before he could. And while he’d felt nothing but elation after their encounter, she’d looked… scared. Bad for the ego, that.
He threw the poetry book back on the table and ran his palms over his face.
A rap on the door startled him.
“Come in,” he said.
A young man with red hair and redder cheeks peeked through the widening crack in the door.He stepped through when it was fully opened and folded his hands behind his back. “Lord Abbington. Lady Jane sent me to see if I might serve as your valet this morning. I was to continue my training as long as you remained, but as I hear you leave today, here I am. And, um, if you find me agreeable this morning, I offer my services for every morning after.”
“Lady Jane did this?”
The young man nodded. “I would have been here sooner, as I know you were in need, but training is fierce. A full five days it’s been and likely not enough. I always aspired to the role of valet but never thought to achieve my goals so soon and in so much haste. And I never once thought so much went into the job. Being a gentleman’s gentleman will be a challenge, but I am up for it, my lord. This I swear.”
He scratched the back of his head, avoiding the still tender wound. “You’ve never attended a gentleman before? What did you do around Whitwood, before your training?”
“I'm a footman, sir.”
“What's your name?”
“Simon Fox, my lord. And you need not worry. The training I spoke of, it has been under the fine tutelage of Lord Whitwood’s valet. I know what to do. You tell me if there's some particular way you like to do things, and I'll do it your way instead.”
“Excellent. Shall we get started?” George let the boy take control, following his every directive while shaving and dressing.
The boy fairly bounced around him while carrying out his duties. He tripped and nearly fell flat on his face.
George held in his laughter. It wouldn't do to insult or humiliate him on his first day, not when he was so enthusiastic.
“How am I doing, my lord?” The words near exploded from young Simon’s mouth.
“Fine, Mr. Fox,” George reassured him. “Quite fine.”
“Mr. Wolfe says I should always have your clothing laid out the night before, but I did not have the night before to prepare. I'll be better prepared for tomorrow, my lord.” He frowned. “Or perhaps, I'll be better prepared for tonight. I assume you will change for dinner.”
“I will.”
“Mr. Wolfe says I need to cultivate a more esteemed air. That I should be less familiar with the other servants in the household now.”
“Who is Mr. Wolfe again?”
“Lord Whitwood’s valet, my tutor of the last five days.”
“Of course.” George chuckled. “Mr. Wolfe. Ha. Mr. Wolf and Mr. Fox. A pair of scoundrels you are.”
Simon chuckled too. “I see the joke, my lord. Very clever. I hope you don't mind me saying that I do like the green of this jacket. Do you have a favorite color for your apparel?”
“I do. I prefer somber colors, but I think perhaps tomorrow morning we might sneak in a red. Since it’s Christmas Eve. Jane might like that.” Why not mention Jane and her preferences? She’d laid with him last night. But fear still haunted her. He could not judge her for it. Fear still stalked through his chest like a midnight-colored cat stalking its prey, ready to pounce, strike, bloody. Every breath seemed a fight against it.
“Lady Jane will like red very much,” Mr. Fox said. “She seems to favor it in her dress. That and green. She’s a bit like a forest, you know. That doesn’t make much sense. I apologize. She’s a bit like nature—red as a berry and deep as winter green. But not cold.”
