Stung, Leah turned toward the large drawing room that would see the most action. Maybe there was a tablecloth to straighten or a settee to dust or a chamber pot to empty.
She shuddered. Approaching footsteps made her turn.
“Miss Ramsey, I have but a moment, but do let me apologize for my behavior toward you this morning.” Avery’s voice was nearly a whisper.
“What is your problem?” Leah hissed back to him, picking up a vase of flowers and straightening the cloth beneath it. “You act like you don’t give two shits about me and then you treat me like I’m some kind of helpless female who needs you. Which is it?”
His jaw worked silently for a moment.
“Russell, you’re needed in the drive. His Grace has arrived,” the Tunstall Place butler called.
Without another word, Avery gave her a quick look and strode away.
“Stupid man,” Leah mumbled beneath her breath. She plucked a wilted leaf from a daisy. “What am I saying? They’re all stupid.”
The guests started to arrive. Backing into a half-hidden corner, she pretended to dust some figurines while she soaked in her first glimpse of true London gentility.
It was like being a guest at William and Kate’s wedding, only without all the tabloid reporters.
There were beautiful women, wearing insanely decorated hats and beautiful, ornate gowns. The footmen took turns showing the ladies in, one by one. Their escorts, gentlemen dressed in tight breeches and colorful waistcoats, followed, straightening their jackets and laughing with one another.
Leah sighed with happiness as she pressed up against the half-wall that shielded her. God, this was beautiful. The gowns, the clothes, it was straight out of a dream she’d had in college—the one that almost made her go into theatrical costume design. It was only her inability to survive as the permanent houseguest on someone’s futon that prevented her from chasing that dream all the way to Broadway.
But here, seeing such opulence firsthand? It brought back the feelings full force, and she happily swam in them.
Polite chitchat and laughter swirled around Leah as the guests made their way into the sitting room. The other maids and footmen scurried around in the background, but Leah didn’t really pay them any attention. The real show was the lords and ladies, and she intended to enjoy it as much as possible.
She did until Henrietta, buried under several ladies’ cloaks, shot Leah an evil glance as she passed. Startled, Leah dusted furiously. Whoops. She’d almost forgotten her charade. She’d have to be more careful when the dowager appeared. Speaking of which, where was the esteemed old dragon?
As if her thoughts had conjured the lady up from the underworld, the woman herself descended the staircase.
“Wymond, my dear sweet boy,” she crooned in a deep voice that made Leah jump. Holy shit, it was an eighty-year-old Bea Arthur with a British accent. Leah smothered her surprised laugh with a half-choked cough. The dowager was tall, with a long face, pursed lips, and jowls, just like the Golden Girl—down to the mostly-salt- and-barely-pepper hair and everything. But who was Wymond?
“Mother,” a soft male voice responded.
When Leah turned to see who had spoken, she dropped the Dresden shepherdess she’d been pretending to dust. The resulting clatter brought everyone’s eyes to her, but she was still staring at the man who stood at the bottom of the staircase.
Holy shit, it was the duke. The duke’s name was Wymond. How could such a beautiful man have such a dorky name? It was hard to tell which had shocked her more: the fact that his name was so unfortunate, or the fact that she’d called him a boy. He had to be pushing sixty.
She forgot about her supposed love’s unfortunate name when the dowager rounded the bottom stair and glared at her.
“You stupid, thoughtless chit,” the lady snarled, her formerly regal face now something that looked more like Emperor Palpatine about to shoot lightning bolts into Leah’s body. “You shall regret that.”
Oh, holy crap.
The clatter of porcelain on wood slammed a hush over the entry hall, servants and masters alike. Miss Ramsey winced and righted the figurine she’d dropped, but the damage was already done. Avery’s anxious fingers crushed the fabric of the greatcoat in his arms as if he could crush the mounting tension in the room. If only it were that easy.
How could she be so careless? He’d thought she understood the importance of staying unnoticed in front of the dowager.
Stealing a glimpse of Her Grace’s face, Avery stopped breathing. The dowager’s papery cheeks were flushed, her brows lowered, and her knuckles white on the banister. This did not bode well.
She descended the last stairs and rounded the corner toward Miss Ramsey with pure murder in her bearing. Avery didn’t know what she’d do, but he knew it would not be pleasant. He had to act—and swiftly—if Miss Ramsey were to outlast the encounter.
With only a small amount of regret, he extended his leg toward a passing Tunstall footman. With his burden of gentlemen’s coats and hats, the poor soul never had a chance to avoid the obstacle. With a surprised squawk, he went flying and launched his burden directly at the duke and the dowager.
Chaos reigned.
A dark blue greatcoat settled over the dowager’s head like a net, trapping her beneath it. Frantic cries came from beneath the billowing fabric as she fought to free herself.
A cane struck His Grace’s nose before clattering to the floor. The nobleman clapped a hand to his face and screwed his eyes shut in discomfort. Maids and footmen, Avery included, rushed to assist the beleaguered pair. Miss Ramsey, Avery was relieved to note, disappeared into the sitting room during the confusion. At least the chit had the good sense to run.
“Who is responsible for this?” The dowager’s voice echoed in the hallway once her maids had freed her from the predicament. “I demand that you speak up at once!”
“Your Grace, my apologies,” the poor footman stuttered. He was pale as fine bone china. “’Twas an accident. I stumbled…”
The dowager’s rage was thankfully curtailed by the duke’s interruption.
“Mother, your guests are waiting.” He sniffed, pinching the bridge of his injured nose. “Come, let us go in.” He dropped his hand and offered his arm to her.
With a scornful look at the hapless assembly of servants, and an especially dark glare toward the unfortunate footman, the dowager allowed her son to escort her into the sitting room.
Avery sagged with undisguised relief. What a near thing that had been. Despite his careful tutelage, Miss Ramsey seemed determined to worry him senseless.
A quick glimpse at the sitting room reminded him that the evening had only just begun, and that his self- appointed charge would have many more opportunities to offend tonnish society. With a long-suffering sigh, he ducked inside the sitting room door. If he were lucky, perhaps another rescue would be unnecessary.
He tried not to imagine the next scrape she’d find herself in.
Taking up a position opposite another footman, he stood like a soldier at his post, hands clasped behind his back, waiting to be called on. Scanning the room, he exhaled a calming breath when he caught sight of Miss Ramsey, who was, for once, exactly where she should be.
She, along with four other maids, was attending to the spread of scones, biscuits, jams, and assorted other refreshments on a long side table. Appearing to take her cue from the well-trained Tunstall maids, Miss Ramsey’s movements were slow and methodical as she set a new pot of tea on the end of the table. She nodded to Harold, another footman, as he fetched a sherry for a guest.
Avery took heart at the sight, stiffening his spine against the sitting room wall. She’d avoided certain disaster already today. Surely she could manage to stay out of trouble now?
