Page 53 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Armande’s passion might well have been stamped upon her face for all to see. She could feel her skin glowing, how tender her mouth was from the force of his kisses, her hair tumbled about her like some wild-eyed gypsy’s. It was as well she encountered none of the servants, for she could not have concealed the tumult of her emotions.
Armande said he loved her. His unexpected declaration filled her with wonder. She had never thought to hear those words from any man, certainly not the icy Marquis de Varnais. Ah, but he was not the marquis, and whoever he might be, it was enough to know him as the man who loved her, whom she loved in return. She would make it enough.
Even living on the edge of this precipice was preferable to the lonely existence she had known before Armande came. Nowshe reveled in the riotous thrum of her pulses, the excitement tingling through her veins. The crash might come, bringing in its wake a despair darker than she ever had known. But it wasn’t coming today.
Armande loved her, her, Phaedra. Not ‘Lord Ewan’s relict.’ Not her grandfather’s heiress. Herself. She skipped toward her room so blithely that for a moment she might well still have been that barefoot little girl from Donegal. She barely noted that the door to her bedchamber stood ajar until she bounded across the threshold. She nearly collided with the grim figure of Hester Searle.
A gasp, half of fright, half of annoyance, escaped Phaedra. She drew back in a gesture as reflexive as shrinking from a repulsive toad. “What are you doing in here?”
Even though she towered over the housekeeper by a full head, it was she who felt at a disadvantage as Hester’s beadlike eyes took in Phaedra’s mud-stained skirts, studying her flushed face. A soured expression twisted Hester’s pinched visage.
“I’ve been checking on the housemaids to make sure as yer rooms be cleaned proper. It scarce happens by magic, ye know.”
“Or by witchcraft. Phaedra offered her a too-sweet-smile. “I am quite satisfied with condition of my room, so you may go.” Not even Madame Pester should be allowed to spoil her happiness this day. She stalked past the woman to her wardrobe.
“If I have intruded, I am sorry.” Hester sneered. “I had no idea yer ladyship would be wishful of changing clothes at this hour of the day.”
Phaedra yanked open the wardrobe door, searching through the silks for a fresh gown. “One usually does after slipping on the wet grass and taking a tumble.” She immediately despised herself for offering any explanation of her disheveled state. She was not obliged to render an accounting to the likes of Hester Searle.
Hester stooped to pick up some blades of grass that had dropped from Phaedra’s petticoats. Crushing them between her crooked fingers, she said, “I’ve just put the maids up to doing the bed in the marquess’s room. Do ye reckon he will be needing to change his garb, as well?”
There was no mistaking the insinuation in Hester’s voice. Phaedra flushed.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she snapped. She snatched a sacque back gown of peach-colored silk from the wardrobe and stormed into the powdering room to change, slamming the door behind her.
That Searle creature was going to push someone too far one of these days. She only hoped she was there to see it. The woman could not have made the connection between herself and Armande unless her prying eyes had been at work again. Perhaps the woman had been listening at the keyhole last night when she and Armande had made love. Phaedra suppressed the thought, the mere suspicion of such a thing enough to make her feel quite ill.
She tugged off the soiled gown without summoning Lucy to aid her. Searle’s suspicions had been bad enough without her maid wondering why her mistress returned from a morning’s walk with her corset strings all tangled in knots.
As Phaedra struggled into the peach silk, she thought of Hester’s spiteful expression with increasing dissatisfaction. It occurred to her that the woman’s penchant for spying could present a real danger to Armande. Hester might search through Phaedra’s bedchamber as much as she liked. All of Phaedra’s secrets were carefully locked away in the garret. But could Armande say the same for his? She thought of the wooden casket he kept in plain view upon his dressing table. One of Hester’s hairpins might be enough to pry it open. She ought to warn him.
Phaedra’s lips curled into a wry smile. After trying so hard to expose him herself, it was rather ironic she should now seek to protect him. Being enamored of a man made a great many changes in one’s perception. If love was not precisely blind, it did render one far more willing to look at things a different way.
Still smiling, thinking of Armande, Phaedra rustled back into the bedchamber. To her displeasure, Searle was still there. The woman stood smoothing the lengths of Phaedra’s ivory counterpane, although the bed had already been made up by one of the maids. Hester’s rough fingertips snagged on the satin brocade, a brooding expression darkening her features.
How out of place, in her stiff, black bombazine, the wizened creature looked amid the lace and frills of Phaedra’s bedchamber. Phaedra frowned, the image of Hester caressing her bedclothes somehow disconcerting, like the shadow of death passing through a bride’s bower.
“I told you, you can go, Mrs. Searle,” she said in her frostiest accents. Not waiting to see the command obeyed, Phaedra swept over to her dressing table. Settling herself into the gilt carved chair, she pulled up the mirror and began brushing the tangles from hair.
Phaedra had never been given cause to feel vain before, but as she regarded her reflection in the mirror, she could nearly believe Armande’s words of endearment when he had called her beautiful. What fairy spell had he worked upon her in the pond’s hidden glade? Never had her eyes shone so bright and luminous, her skin tinted with such a soft pink glow. Her lips quivered as though harboring the sweetest of secrets only a woman could know. How she-
Phaedra dropped her hairbrush, a frightened cry escaping her. Another face flashed beside hers, like some hobgoblin appearing within the depths of the mirror, the features contorted into an ugly mask. It took Phaedra a moment torealize it was only Hester hovering behind her. She placed her hand across her bosom in an effort to steady her jumping heart.
She retrieved the fallen hairbrush, unwilling to let Hester see how much she had startled her. She glared at the woman.
“Was there something else you wanted Mrs. Searle?” The woman’s eyes met hers in the mirror and in their depths, Phaedra read a degree of hatred and jealousy that unnerved her.
Phaedra shivered. She had never been afraid of Hester before, but in that instant, she felt terrified. The woman’s blue-veined lids slowly lowered, her eyes assuming their customary sly expression. Once more she was nothing but the prying housekeeper, a source more of irritation than terror. Phaedra let out her breath.
“No, milady. There was naught else.” Still, Hester did not leave. She lingered by the dressing table, daring to finger Phaedra’s fan and her dainty kid gloves. Although she was no longer afraid, the woman was making Phaedra decidedly uneasy.
When Hester picked up the porcelain shepherdess Phaedra had found in the garret, she commanded, “Put that down.”
Mrs. Searle’s clawlike fingers tightened around the delicate figurine until Phaedra feared she meant to crush it. “Where’d ye come by this?”
“That is none of your concern.” She moved to take the shepherdess from the woman, but to Phaedra’s outrage, Hester whisked it out of her reach.
“Miss Lethington meant this geegaw for Master Ewan, so she did. How did you come to have it all this time?”
