Page 8 of Tender Blackguard

“Blasted rain. Again.”

The lord’s muttered curse of annoyance managed to shake Lark from her momentary lapse in propriety.

“Is there anything else you require, my lord?”

Cool blue eyes angled toward her. For a second, he appeared to tense. But it was such a subtle thing, she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. There was no denying, however, the sharp intensity of his gaze cutting across the room.

“Mrs. Evans.”

His voice was quiet. Sleep-roughened.

Her nape tingled.

“Where’s the maid?”

“Jane, who was assigned to awaken you, left her position this morning. Mary, Bridget, and Tess are occupied with other duties, my lord.” There was a pause while he said nothing in response. Just continued to stare at her from beneath black arching brows. Lark glanced to the valet stand. “I’ve set out your shaving accoutrements. I understand you’ve no valet?”

“Correct.”

“Are you looking to hire one?” It was really none of her business since the domain of male servants fell to the butler, and a gentleman’s valet would have been even beyond Gideon’s authority. For some reason, she couldn’t keep from imagining the marquess standing at the mirror as he ran the edge of a blade along his sharp jaw, and the thought triggered another wave of heat through her body.

His eyes narrowed. “I enjoy my privacy too much for a personal manservant, Mrs. Evans.”

The message in his statement was clear; at present, she was the one encroaching upon his privacy.

“Of course, my lord. Your tea will be waiting for you in the study.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “I’ll take my tea in the library this morning.”

The change was unexpected, but it was not her place to wonder at it. “As you wish. Would you like breakfast brought to you there as well?”

“No breakfast, Mrs. Evans.”

Lark curtsied again then headed for the door. It was the same every morning. Tea but no breakfast. Some mornings he went for a ride, and if so, he’d call for a bath on his return. Then a change of clothes and a quick lunch before heading out to do whatever lords did about town.

Cook, a tall and formidable woman near forty years in age with pale red hair and liberally freckled skin, had complained to Lark more than once how her talents were wasted in such a household where breakfasts and formal dinners were nonexistent and lunch was barely appreciated.

Before she could slip from the lord’s room, he stopped her in the threshold with a hard-voiced, “Mrs. Evans.”

She turned to see he’d risen from the bed and slipped on a black velvet robe while her back had been turned.

“I expect a full upstairs staff by the end of the week. Increase the offered wage if you must.” He paused and glanced down as he finished tying the sash of his robe around a trim waist. “Do not to come to my bedroom again, Mrs. Evans. You’re the housekeeper, not a common maid. Do you understand?”

He met her gaze again with his last word. His eyes were cold and hard.

Something clenched tight inside her, but she couldn’t quite identify it. Meeting his stare with a proud expression, she dipped another quick curtsy. “Perfectly, my lord.”

Then she left, closing the door silently behind her.

Arsehole.

The word came to mind before she could stop it, but she wouldn’t take it back. Not when it was so applicable.

Tea being a particular luxury, especially when the blend was as fine as the marquess enjoyed, meant it was stored in a locked box to which only the housekeeper had access. Of all the responsibilities assigned to the housekeeper of a grand household, the making of tea was Lark’s favorite. There was a sort of earthy magic to the ritualistic task. The slow heating of water, the sifting and crushing of the leaves. The precisely timed steeping to bring out the right balance of strength and flavor. And lastly, the artful presentation. Not that her current employer was the type to appreciate such fine details.

As expected, by the time she carried the laden tray to the library, the marquess was already there. Dressed all in black as was his preference even for day wear, with his strong-angled jaw cleanly shaven, he had taken a seat in a chair before the fire. His elbows were propped on the curved armrests, and one ankle was crossed over the opposite knee as he perused the morning paper, which had been properly pressed by the butler and arranged on the table beside him.

As she made her way across the somber library, Lark experienced the same reaction she always had when in his presence, but it was accompanied by a visceral memory from the night before.

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