“You don’t look five-and-ten, Iain,” his Uncle Lonnie had said upon seeing Iain in his new clothes earlier today. He’d then grinned and squeezed Iain’s shoulder. “Go ahead and give us yer story one last time, lad.”
The story was one his uncle had concocted when Iain first came to work in Viscount Yarmouth’s household three months ago: Iain was nineteen and had spent six years in Mr. Ewan Kennedy’s household, two as a scrub boy, two as a boot boy, and two as a footman, even though he was unusually young for that last position. Uncle Lonnie also told Lord Yarmouth that Iain had come to London seeking employment after Mr. Kennedy died and there weren’t any other suitable positions in the tiny town of Dannen, Scotland.
That last part was the only true part of the whole story. Dannen was more a collection of shacks than a real village and there’d never been any Mr. Kennedy, nor any work as scrub boy or footman. Iain had written the letter from “Mr. Kennedy” himself, under his uncle’s direction.
“Admiring your pretty face?”
Iain yelped and jumped a good six inches. Female laughter echoed down the mahogany-paneled corridor. He turned to find Lady Elinor behind him, her small, almost boyish, frame propped against the wall in a very unladylike manner. Her white gown looked limp and tired, as if it were ready to go to bed. Her hair, a nondescript brown, had come loose from its moorings and fine tendrils wafted about her thin, pale face. Only her large gray eyes held any animation.
Iain drew himself up to his full height and glared over her shoulder at nothing. “How may I be of service, my lady?”
“Oh, stuff! You’re angry with me, aren’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m sorry for being beastly earlier. I was wrong. Pax?” She held out her hand and limped forward. Iain stared, not because of her limp—he already knew she was lame—but because of the gesture. Surely a footman wasn’t permitted to shake a lady’s hand?
Besides, he hadn’t forgiven her. His mother and uncle both accused him of being too grudging and slow to forgive. He looked down at her little hand and chewed his lip. Maybe they were right; perhaps it might be advisable to appear to forgive her. He’d just decided to say ‘pax’ when Lady Elinor grabbed his hand.
“Don’t be angry with me. I apologized.”
“I’m not angry,” he lied, tugging not so subtly on his hand to free it from her grasp. He suspected it would not do to get caught holding the hand of the daughter of the house at three in the morning, or at any other time of the day or night, for that matter.
“Why aren’t you in there,” he gestured with his chin toward the ballroom, “dancing? Er, my lady,” he added a trifle belatedly.
She snorted and hiked up her dress, exhibiting a shocking amount of leg. “With this?”
Iain gawked. He’d seen girl’s legs, of course, but never a lady’s leg. Her stockings were embroidered with flowers—daisies, perhaps. His groin gave an appreciative thump as he studied the gentle swell of her calf. She had shapely legs for such a tiny thing.
She dropped her skirts. “Are you ogling my limb?”
“What do you expect if you go around hiking up your skirt like that?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Iain squeezed his eyes shut and waited for her to start screeching. But the sound of giggling made him open them again.
She eyed him skeptically. “You’re not like the other footmen.”
What was Iain supposed to say to that?
“You look very young. How long have you been a footman?”
“Today is my first day.”
“You shan’t keep your job very long if you argue with any other members of my family. Or ogle their limbs.”
His face heated and he pursed his lips.
She looked delighted by whatever she saw on his face. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen, my lady.”
“What a bouncer!”
“How old are you?” Iain bit out, and then wanted to howl. At this rate, he would be jobless before breakfast.
“Sixteen.” She stopped smiling and her eyes went dull, like a vivid sunset losing its color. “But I might as well be forty. I shan’t even have a Season.”
“I thought all young ladies had at least one Season.” What drivel. What the devil did he know about aristocrats, Seasons, or any of it? It was as if some evil imp had taken over his body: some pixie or spirit determined to get him sacked. Or jailed. He clamped his mouth shut, vowing not to open it again until it was time to put food in it.
Luckily his employer’s daughter was too distracted to find his behavior odd.
“Tonight was my betrothal ball.” Her shapely, shell-pink lips turned down at the corners. “Why should my father go to the expense of a Season when he can dispose of me so cheaply without one?”
It seemed like an odd way to talk about a betrothal but Iain kept that observation behind his teeth.
“The Earl of Trentham is my betrothed,” she added, not in need of any responses from him to hold a conversation. “He is madly in love.”
The silence became uncomfortable. Iain cleared his throat. “You must be very happy, then,” he said when he could bear it no longer.
Her eyes, which had been vague and distant, sharpened and narrowed. “He’s not in love with me, you dunce. He is in love with a property that is part of my dowry. Some piece of land that is critical to a business venture he and my father have planned.”
Iain’s flare of anger at being called dunce quickly died when he saw the misery and self-loathing on her face.
“Lord Trentham will have his land, my father will get to take part in the earl’s investment, and I? Well, I will have—” She
