“Milk and sugar?” she asked in a soft voice that held a hint of gentility. While he’d not been born into the nobility, he had friends who had been. He’d accompanied them now and again to aristocratic affairs and been introduced to enough of their acquaintances to recognize refinement when he heard it. He wondered how it was that she’d come to be a servant.
“Please,” Mrs. Mallard said.
He shouldn’t be mesmerized, watching the delicate, unblemished hands pour tea, then milk, into the china cup decorated with pink roses—all his china reflected his mum’s favorite blossoms—before adding two lumps of sugar and stirring all the contents. With a soft smile, she handed the cup and saucer to the married lady before turning her attention to him. “And you, sir?”
He lifted his glass slightly. “I prefer my beverages with a bit more bite to them.”
“Shall I pour you some more before I take my leave?”
No. That’s what he should have said. He needed to get her out of here so he could finish his business with Mrs. Mallard. After all, he had an appointment to keep. What he heard escaping his mouth, however, was yes.
What the devil was wrong with him? He’d once had no control in his life and now he maintained power over every aspect of it. He certainly never said what he did not mean. Yet he stopped silently castigating himself the second she was near enough that he could inhale the soft fragrance of sweet violets and was reminded of his mother pointing out the delicate blossoms on their walks through the forest and the many times he’d plucked them as a gift to her. Their home had always smelled of violets.
As she took the tumbler, her warm bare fingers touched his, and he went completely still, not even breathing, his eyes locking with hers, not so much from the shock of such an inappropriate encounter but the awareness it stirred to life, as though he could sense how glorious her entire body would feel nestled against his.
Then the glass was gone, as was she, along with his wits. He couldn’t recall any woman ever having such a disconcerting effect on him. He watched her stroll to the sideboard. She removed the stopper from one decanter, gave it a sniff, and returned it to its proper place before giving another a try. That one she poured into his tumbler. She knew her liquors then. Expensive ones. She wandered back over to him and extended the glass. Taking more care in removing it from her grasp, he ensured no part of his hand touched hers.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” she asked.
“Not tonight.” He nearly slammed his eyes shut at the implication that there might be more on another night, more that was not within her realm of duties. The slow stroke of his hand along her spine, a brush of his lips over her throat, a lick of her skin. Dangerous journeys all. Forbidden. Treks he wouldn’t enjoy because he did not take advantage of his servants. Ever, under any circumstances.
“Very good, sir.”
“Close the door on your way out.” He hated that he sounded so brisk, nearly cross, but he wasn’t accustomed to being unsettled by a mere slip of a woman.
“Yes, sir.” If she noted his brusque tone, she gave no indication. She gave another quick bob of a curtsy before wandering slowly from the room, and all he wanted to do was trail after her.
Jesus. He tossed back the scotch, noticing that she’d left some of her violet fragrance on the tumbler. Or maybe it was simply that the scent now permeated the room. Unfortunate that, because he needed to stop thinking about her.
“Are you suddenly unwell?” a quiet, hesitant voice asked out of the ether.
He jerked his attention to Mrs. Mallard. He’d completely forgotten about her. It was unlike him to lose his train of thought. What sort of spell had the captivating maid cast over him? “No, I’m fine. Where were we?”
“My husband’s threats?” she replied meekly, although the high pitch of her voice at the end made it sound as though she wasn’t entirely certain she was providing the correct answer.
At that moment, he hated the man for his ability to mentally beat down this woman until she possessed no confidence whatsoever. He wanted to see the blighter rot and her liberated from him. “Right. Have you children?”
“No.”
He was glad of that. Children and the custody of them brought additional complications. Not to mention the mental anguish they suffered when too young to fully understand what was happening.
“How will you provide for yourself, Mrs. Mallard? He will not be required to pay alimony since you will be the one found guilty of infidelity.”
“I’ve made arrangements to serve as an elderly widow’s companion, should this come about so I gain my freedom. As we get along famously, she will wait to fill the post until I know my fate.”
He was impressed that she’d considered her financial position. The women he aided usually either returned to the bosom of their families or found employment. One had been squirreling away her pin money, and after her divorce he’d helped her invest it, so she received enough in interest to live modestly but happily.
He made a motion to move toward the chair across from her, and her eyes widened in alarm. “As I mentioned earlier, you have nothing to fear from me, but I need you to understand what is at stake, and my not hovering over you will make the discussion easier.”
A nod, a sip of her tea, and he imagined she was striving to position herself so she could toss the hot brew on him if the need arose. He was actually grateful for that bit of rebellion.
He crossed over to the chair, sat, and, holding his tumbler with both hands, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “To be clear, this will not be a pleasant experience for you. Divorce is granted only when adultery is involved. It could take weeks before your husband discovers what we are about, but in order to meet with success, we will have to convince him and the courts that we were engaged in an illicit liaison. It will no doubt be reported in the newspapers. All of your family—parents, siblings, cousins—will hear of it. Your friends. Enemies. Strangers. It is likely to bring you disgrace. You need to think long and hard about the consequences and be certain you wish to tread this path.”
In her hands, the teacup sat still and unmoving on the saucer. Not a single vibration. Not a single tremor. “If I do nothing, I think I will run mad. I have already given it considerable thought, Mr. Bishop—”
“Just Bishop.”
She gnawed on her lower lip again. Sitting this close to her, he could see the slight scarring from previous gnawing. “I feel I have no choice.”
“Are you certain he isn’t having an affair?”
“Quite certain. But even if he was, a woman must show two causes for divorce, while a man need show only one.”
As she was familiar with that condition of the regulation, perhaps she’d already spoken with a solicitor or Mrs. Winters had explained the unfairness of the law to her. Bishop had articulated several times to his friend the Duke of Kingsland about the need to amend that portion of the act so women were not required to have more reasons to end a marriage than men. But the gents who enacted laws feared if they made it too easy for a wife to dissolve the arrangement, more fellows might find themselves turned out. Bishop thought that particular worry had an easy enough solution: don’t be an arse to the woman you took to the altar. “You’ve indicated he’s not treated you well. Would you go so far as to say cruelly?”