“Where would you like the tea, sir?”
“On the same table you used last night, but I’ll have a cup at my desk here.”
“Very good, sir.”
She set down the tray and looked over at him. He wished he’d pulled back the draperies so the sunlight filtered over her, and he could see her more clearly, but he concentrated better when no distractions hovered at the edge of his vision. He worked diligently to avoid anything that interfered with his focus. She was a distraction he didn’t seem to mind.
“How do you take your tea, sir?”
“Prepare it however you enjoy it.”
Her eyes widened slightly, not in alarm, but in surprise before she went about doing as he’d asked. He watched as milk and sugar—dear Lord, was that five lumps?—were added to the brew in the cup. She stirred gently, and he had the impression she was humming a little ditty in her head. She seemed at peace, content, and yet an alertness about her remained as though she was constantly gauging her surroundings, was aware of everything around her, and could probably even tell him how many ledgers were spread before him, as well as their contents.
After lifting the saucer upon which balanced the teacup, she glided over and set both on the corner of his desk. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yes. Is it Margaret, Marguerite, or Margarette?” She went still, so visibly still, that he wasn’t certain she even breathed.
“I beg your pardon?”
Interesting. The words came out crisp and demanding. The courteous, obliging servant had disappeared and before him now stood a woman who didn’t like to be questioned. No, it was more than that. Wouldn’t tolerate being questioned. “I doubt very much that your mother named you Daisy. Marguerite is French for daisy, and so I’m curious as to which version of the name she gave you.”
Pressing her lips together, she studied him through narrowed eyes before giving a little nod. “Marguerite. She was French. My mother. She was the only one to call me Daisy, although recently I’ve begun using the moniker as a way to remember her.”
“Was?”
A couple of quick, jerky nods. “She died when I was younger. As did my father. I was an orphan, raised by my father’s spinster sister.”
“My condolences on your loss.”
She lifted a slender shoulder as though to shrug off his words. “It’s been twenty years now. I’ve grown accustomed to their absence.”
“We may adapt to their absence but that doesn’t mean we don’t still miss them.”
“Your tone implies you speak from experience. Are you an orphan?”
“Not completely. But I did lose my mother when I was at a tender age.” Still too young to have prevented the tragedy that befell her.
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t usually tell people about his mother because he always felt a modicum of guilt that he’d not been able to save her. In spite of his youth, he should have been able to do something. Before he fell down that dark hole of regret, he reached for the cup, took a sip of the concoction, and returned the china to the saucer. “Oh, God, that’s dreadful.”
Her delicate brow furrowed. “Too much sugar or milk?”
“It’s the tea. I’ve never fancied the bloody stuff.”
“Then why did you ask that I bring it to you?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve had any, and I thought to see if it’s as appalling as I remember. It’s more so.” Why was he explaining himself? One didn’t justify one’s actions to servants. And did he have to sound so blasted chagrined?
“Oh, I see.” She took a single step back, and he decided she really did see. It wasn’t the tea he’d wanted but her presence.
“I’ll also admit to finding you intriguing. Your diction is more suited to upstairs than down. You strike me as being too independent to take orders. You’re accustomed to giving them.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’m not sure. You bring to mind a mine that is played out, but the owner is trying to sell it by insisting it is still of value.” He shook his head. “No, that’s not quite right. You’re more like something of value striving to appear that it isn’t. Which makes no sense. Yet still, I’d invest in you in a heartbeat.”
“I can’t decide if I’ve been complimented or insulted.”
“There.” He winked at her. “A servant wouldn’t be so bold as to respond to what I said. Would have simply asked if I required anything else. Last night . . . you know your liquors. Most maids don’t.”
“How many maids have you had pour you a drink?”
He released a quick burst of laughter. “None.”
“Therefore, you may be judging me by what you think a servant does rather than what one actually does.”
“I grew up with servants.”
“As did I.”
“That does not surprise me. Why seek employment as one?”
She glanced around the room.
“I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Her gaze came back to him and nearly skewered him. “Will you?”
He gave one brisk nod. “You don’t have a face for playing cards. Your expressions are far too easy to read.”
Her sigh of surrender would have lifted a kite and sent it soaring among the clouds. “My aunt gave me an ultimatum—marry or move out. I chose to move out. I needed a position quickly, and, well, some household is always in need of a servant.”
“You could work as a governess. I would think that occupation would better suit you.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t believe you know me well enough to know what suits me.”
I’d like to. But even as he had the thought, he squashed it. She was employed in his household, and he wasn’t going to be like the man who’d raised him and cross those boundaries. He also had his scandalous reputation to contend with, which, until that moment, he’d never considered a burden, but it wasn’t going to appeal to a woman such as she and would only serve to do what the gossip rags promised: bring her to ruination. While she might have the right of it and he didn’t know what suited her, he did understand fully and completely that she was undeserving of a downfall, especially one at his hands. “You may take the tea.”
“The inquisition is over?”
He grinned broadly. Damned, if he didn’t like her. “A servant would never speak in such a condescending tone of voice to the master of the household.”
“Seems I have a lot to learn.” She took the saucer with its cup and gave a quick bob of a curtsy. “Good day, sir.”
She deposited the china on the tray, picked it up, and began strolling from the room.
“Good day, Marguerite,” he called out.
She stopped, held still for a heartbeat, two, before carrying on. He wondered what retort had been on the tip of her tongue. Probably go to the devil.
Never do anything to make him smile.
Good God, but his grin had been devastating, had made him look unburdened, carefree, and fun. Had made her want to reach out and touch his mouth, his cheek, his jaw.
Then the way her Christian name had rolled off his tongue . . . She’d never liked Marguerite. It had seemed too pretentious, too large for the girl she’d been, but his deep voice had made it sound as though she fit it perfectly. She’d never be a great beauty like her mother but in that moment, she’d felt seen, appreciated, and lovely. And terrified because no man had ever made her feel as though he had a true interest in her, all of her, not just the shell that came with a dowry. Part of the reason she’d never felt she fitted properly within Society was because she wanted to be viewed as more than the overseer of a household and the bearer of children. Hence, much to her uncle’s chagrin and her aunt’s disappointment, she’d set up her own business rather than move about in their social circle of lords, ladies, and the elite.