The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(71)

He narrowed his eyes. “That almost sounds like a compliment, Miss Helen.”

“It is. Good heavens, have I been such a shrew you don’t recognize praise from me when you hear it?”

“No, miss. But nor do I take praise from your lips lightly.”

She inclined her head. “I think you could accomplish anything you set your mind to.”

He looked at her significantly. “Anything?”

She blushed. “I refer to business, of course.”

Arnold came in with a special delivery on a tray. Nathaniel’s heart surged to see the familiar handwriting. The much-anticipated letter.

He waved it to gain Helen’s attention. “A letter from Father.”

Helen pressed a hand to her chest. “What does he say?”

Hudson, Nathaniel noticed, gave Helen’s arm a discreet, comforting squeeze.

Nathaniel unfolded the letter and read the first line. “He assures us he is well.”

Helen pressed her eyes closed and sighed. “Thank God.”

He continued to read. Paused. Blinked his eyes, then read the words again. Stunned, he handed the letter to his sister.

For several moments Helen read silently, frowned, then stared up at him, eyes wide. “Good heavens. I have never known him to be so . . . Apparently he was quite shaken by the revolt, the brutality of the soldiers, the confessions of the implicated slaves. . . .”

“Does he say what I think he says?”

She nodded slowly. “I believe so. He says . . . he says you were right, Nathaniel. And he vows to put into motion your plans to extricate our family from any involvement with slavery.”

Nathaniel released a long exhale. “I was afraid to believe my eyes.”

His heart lifted. Sitting there with his sister and friend, and knowing that his father and brother were safe, Nathaniel had a sudden longing to see another quite dear to him.





Margaret dusted the desk in Nathaniel’s bedchamber, careful not to knock over the candle lamp nor break anything else of his. The door opened behind her, and she turned, startled. It was Nathaniel himself.

She backed up a step, disconcerted by the look in his eye.

He stepped forward.

“What is it?” she asked. She held the feather duster before her like a sword.

He advanced, eyes riveted on hers. “Seeing you puts me in mind of a piece of French chocolate.”

She swallowed and took another step backward.

“If one wants to discover what is inside, one must first remove the foreign wrapping.”

The odd light in his eyes both mesmerized and frightened her. She wanted to run; she wanted to stay. Her body, nerves tingling, mind whirling, refused to move. Like a hare cornered by a fox about to pounce, she could only stare, eyes wide. Frozen.

He was only a foot away from her now.

He lifted both hands toward her face. She leaned her head back to evade his reach, but her head came to rest against the wall.

He touched not her face, but her spectacles, gently unhooking them from her ears and lifting them from her nose. “You don’t really need these, do you,” he murmured.

“I do, actually,” she whispered, but he continued on, setting the spectacles on the desk.

He returned his gaze to her face. A gaze too penetrating for comfort. She was torn between wanting to look away and wanting to sink into those intense sea-storm eyes.

He tilted his head to one side, regarding her. “I hope you don’t think me rude for mentioning it, but you have a little something on your face.” He withdrew his handkerchief, dipped it into the pitcher and came forward with it. She tipped her head back, but he grasped her chin in his long fingers, gently but firmly, and wiped first at one eyebrow, then the other.

“A bit of soot, perhaps,” he said and tossed the handkerchief aside. “From your work with the grates, no doubt.”

“I . . .” she faltered but could form no further words, because now both his hands touched her skin. His fingertips slid over her cheeks and jaw, cupping her face, while his thumbs reached up to rub arcs over each eyebrow, the fine hairs bristling to life under his touch.

Her heart thudded. He knew. He had to know. Was he not surprised to find blond brows beneath the dark? He did not appear surprised.

Emotions crossed his features like lightning dancing across the sky, sparking behind his eyes. “And this cap doesn’t suit you. I’m sorry to say something so ungallant, but there it is. Do you mind?”

She licked her lips. A tremor passed through her, of anticipation, of fear, of hope. If he didn’t know, if he had merely removed her spectacles to see her face more clearly, to ease his way toward—her chest ached to even think the phrase—kissing her. If he really had mistaken her darkened brows for soot . . .

But beneath her cap lay a wig. A wig could be mistaken for nothing but disguise, unless she were bald beneath! No, he must know.

He raised his hands when she would have happily endured them on her face far longer. He peeled off the cap and tossed it on the desk. Again he regarded her. “I am afraid, miss, that your hair, if hair it can be called, does not suit you either. May I?”

Yes, he definitely knew. He did not seem angry, as she would have guessed. Or was he so self-possessed that it did not show? How in control of himself, of the situation, of her, he seemed.

He gave a gentle pull, but the wig caught at its anchor pins, stinging her scalp.

“Pins,” she murmured and managed to reach up and pull them from behind each ear. She was helping him? Yes, she was, she realized. She suddenly wanted very much to stand before him as herself, with no more guise or lies between them. Her hands hesitated, then lowered to her sides. Heart hammering, and more self-conscious than ever, she waited. Waited for him to bare her hair. Her identity.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled the wig from her head. He asked, bemused, “You just happened to have this lying about?”

“I meant to wear it for a masquerade.”

He chuckled, deep in his throat. An intimate sound that warmed her. “And you certainly did. The longest masquerade in history.”

He set the wig aside, his eyes lingering on her face, her hair. He reached up, stroking a tendril at her temple that had come free when he’d pulled the wig away.

Then Nathaniel cupped the sides of her face once more. He leaned near, lowering his face toward hers, tipping her chin one way, angling his the other. His eyes roamed her cheeks, her eyes, her lips.

She felt warm and flushed, as though she had sipped orange wine. He leaned nearer yet, and she could smell his sweet peppermint breath and shaving soap.

Her voice sounding young and nearly giddy in her ears, she asked, “Are you certain, sir, you ought to kiss a housemaid?”

No answering chuckle. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” he whispered, his breath tickling her upper lip with each syllable.

He was going to kiss her. Sweet heaven. Nathaniel Upchurch was going to kiss her. Her knees suddenly felt weak, her heart shot through with electricity.

His head dipped and his lips touched hers, softly, faintly. Too faintly. She couldn’t help it. She leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth more tightly to his. In a second, his arms were around her, molding her body to his in an embrace that stole what was left of her breath. Is this what love is? Oh, what I have been missing!

He pulled his mouth away, grasped her shoulders firmly and took a half step back. “Forgive me, I should not. Not so . . .”

He cleared his throat. If Nathaniel had lost his self-control for one moment, now by painful degrees he mastered it again. He removed his hands, and she felt bereft, nearly chastised, for she had been as overcome with passion as he. For a moment she feared he regretted the kiss, but he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, chasing those doubts away. He then placed his fingertip where his lips had been, tracing the hollow beneath her cheekbone.

She asked, “How long have you known?”

“Ever since I saw you coming from your bath with a towel around your head.”

“So long! And you never said a word?”

“At first I thought I must be imagining things. Then I feared you would be mortified to be discovered in such a role. Finally, I decided I needed to learn what was going on—why you were here, and what you were running from—before I tipped my hand.”

“And have you?”

“I learnt of your coming inheritance and of Sterling Benton’s desperate financial situation. That coupled with the installation of his favorite nephew under his roof led me to believe he was pressuring the two of you to marry. The pressure must have been strong indeed to cause you to run away. To”—he gestured vaguely toward her discarded wig and feather duster—“drive you to this.”

She nodded. “You’re right.”

His gaze roved her face. “I am glad you came to Fairbourne Hall.”

She glanced at him, uncertain. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he said, mouth quirked in a lopsided grin. “We needed a new maid.”

He leaned in for another kiss.

Voices in the corridor brought them both up short. This was not the best manner nor place to end her charade. She quickly slicked back her hair and pulled the wig into position. He tugged on her cap for her and crossed to the door while she replaced her spectacles.

Fiona pushed open the door and started at seeing Nathaniel just inside. “Pardon me, sir.”

“No matter, I was just leaving.”