December 21, 1815
Marsden Hall
North Steyne
Brighton, England
The moment he’d learned that Lady Elizabeth Kent accepted the Countess of Marsden’s invitation to her Christmas house party, Octavian Simms had merely blinked. That had been more than two weeks ago at half ten in the morning. A Wednesday, it was to be precise. He’d stood before his employer in her grand salon and accepted her announcement with aplomb.
Yes, he was proud he’d shown no emotion at the sound of Eliza’s name.
Arrival of said young woman, Incomparable as she was said to be by the ton (and as Simms knew her to be from personal acquaintance), was of no more note than the arrival of the other twenty-odd invited guests to the venerable lady’s grand mansion along the North Steyne. Simms was prepared for anyone’s arrival. Anyone’s.
He proved it now as he stood at the ready on the front portico of Marsden Hall, his back straight, his gaze focused solely on the drive.
Not her coach.
No.
He reassured himself of the perfection of the next eight days. Preparedness was his watchword. His rule. His by-word. Indeed, he lived and breathed by the exact rhythm of the household over which he was overseer. To be any less would demand he leave the Countess’s employ. And head back to…well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? He knew not precisely what that was. And the war was now, blessedly, done.
But here he had done his very best and prepared the staff for any eventuality. Every maid had been inspected down to the cleanliness of her fingertips. The footmen’s navy blue uniforms were pressed, brushed, quite de rigueur. So too was the house spotless. The entire manse, top to bottom, sparkled. The chandeliers and the mirrors squeaked with cleanliness. The woodwork polished so brightly one could see one’s reflection in the grain. The bedrooms sported freshly laundered and ironed linens. The boudoirs were well stocked with soaps of finest mill and scent. The carpets had been hung, beaten and laid once more. The chamber pots and the bourdaloues positioned at the ready. His silver, all of it, was polished to a blinding sheen. His tableware, pristine. The tablecloths, white as a newborn’s arse. He’d filled his wine cellar to the gills. The angel’s share was so fragrant inside, the alcohol made him giddy.
Not silly.
Not moonstruck over the arrival of a young woman who should not mean a tuppence to him. Must not.
No. He straightened his back, arched a dark brow, and noted the huge red and black escutcheon on the travel coach rounding the drive. The shield of the Earl of Leith. And inside the earl’s daughter.
He narrowed his gaze straight ahead. Not toward the coach. After all, she would arrive in due time. Minutes. Rather…one…minute.
And then he would greet her as any other guest for this eight-day party.
She was a lady. The one he’d known since she was one day old and he, six years old.
She’d been his friend. One he’d valued since the day she, at age four, had ambled into his father’s vicarage and handed over the whelp of the litter from the big house.
She’d been his charmer. One who met him in the garden—in the maze really, hidden from all—and taught him how to gamble. He’d caught the trick early. She never had…and they had laughed over her lack of shrewdness.
He had been the man who’d shown her how to wrestle…and how to kiss. He’d even allowed her to kiss him back and he should never have continued that daring pastime.
“Ho! Here,” her coachman drew his horses to a stop.
In the brisk December air, the horses snorted and stomped.
One of Simm’s footmen stepped forward, at the ready to catch and sort the lady’s luggage, then hurry it up to her rooms.
Her coachman jumped down from his perch.
A rustling in the carriage alerted them that she prepared to alight.
Simms held his breath. And winced at his reaction to the impending meeting.
The inside of the conveyance was bright for this early hour of the afternoon. The windows were wide and no curtains obstructed the view inside. Even so, Simms glimpsed the lady’s sweet profile. Her outline was enough to discomfit him, damn him. Whatever she wore, it would highlight her bright red hair that was the envy of every Scottish lass north of the border. The willow green silk of the interior coach walls and forest green velvet of the squabs, as Simms remembered the decor, would put complement to her complexion and her large lustrous eyes.
He swallowed, hard put to stifle the sound as he gulped. She was a woman like others. So many others whom he’d valued for their education and wit. So unlike others whom he’d dismissed, their allure temporary, shallow, useful to him and once used, discarded.
Yet she alone had lived in his memory as an autumnal blaze of a woman. Sweet of face, pure of heart, without wiles, but quick of wit. A fairy, with flaming hair and the dreamy dark forest green eyes of a wood nymph.
Her coachman pulled down the step and flung open the door.
Her foot, clad in forest green leather boots, inched forward.
Then appeared a ridiculously huge muff of red fox. One sage leather glove. A cloak of heather tweed. A hat—a moss green Leghorn chip with two huge white ostrich feathers—truly an outrageous thing. Too big for her heart-shaped face, the horrid bit wobbled as she stepped toward the carriage door. But then, the hat suited her. She’d always liked to make an entrance. Her sense of drama suited her courage in fashion as in life. Her boldness stamped her as worthy of any theater. And he silently applauded her for it.
Curse his wayward eyes.
They locked on hers. He dared not move toward her lest he fawn like a suitor. Like a man delighted that she’d come.
His first footman, well-trained man, was assisting her down.
It was now his singular duty to step forward.
“Welcome to Marsden Hall, Lady Elizabeth.” He put on a show for the others. No inflection of familiarity, no flicker of recognition, no sign of how she had been the only woman he’d ever had the savage desire to kiss—or caress.
She’d taken his footman’s hand for his aid. But turning those eloquent emerald eyes upon him alone, she seemed to absorb him. Body. Soul. Hello, my darling, her dulcet green eyes declared…
Or so Simms thought.
Silly man.
Like a queen, she extended her hand toward him.
She shouldn’t. He was the butler, by god. But he could not resist the touch of her. Like a swain, besotted, he took it. He would take anything she offered him. And should not.
“I’m pleased to arrive so early,” she said in that crisp little voice which she modulated so that her listeners had to lean in to hear her clearly. With a cursory glance at the expanse of the Marsden mansion, she did that little thing he called her ‘twinkle’. It was her inimitable way of shrugging her shoulders and narrowing her eyes a moment. “Have all the guests arrived?”
He met her gaze with pursed lips, understanding her usual wish to make a grand entrance so all might remark about her. “You are among the last to arrive, my lady.” Might as well add the formal address to notify her he intended to keep to his station.
“Superb.” Ignoring his marker of their social differences, she locked her green eyes on his in solemn scrutiny. “How many more do you expect?”
“Two.”
“Excellent.” She stood still as a statue as she allowed her lady’s maid to fluff out her skirts, but examined every line of his face. “What is our first gathering?”
“You have appeared in time for an informal luncheon buffet in the dining room. But the Countess will receive everyone formally tonight in the main salon.”
“Ah, so then, I have time for a nap.”
“Indeed, my lady. If there is anything you wish, we are at your service.”
“Are you?” she asked with an arch to her fine red brow. “How wonderful.”
He glanced aside and saw that his footman still awaited all her luggage to be assembled by her man.
“Do show me to my rooms.”
He shot her a look of objection. He would have his footman do that.
But she tipped her head to one side, her hat teetering on her wealth of wild red hair. “I require your assistance. Your name?”
He ground his teeth. She jolly well knew his name, even though she must appear not to before his staff. But she would not…would not…perplex him. “As you wish. The name is Simms.”
“Simms,” she said as if she tested the sound of it. “I knew a family named Simms in Norfolk. Might you be related?”
His footman was more interested in counting the quantity of hat boxes and trunks than in their conversation.
Still, Simms responded, “My cousins.”
“Lovely people.”
Polite and cool, Simms nodded, then motioned for her to precede him into the foyer.
Once inside, she paused as she tugged off her gloves, “The last time I was here you were not butler then.”
That last was a question and he had no reason not to answer it with truth. “I am recently employed here. May I take your coat?”
“No. I will wear it upstairs.” She spun to her maid. “Stay here, Clara, and count the pieces. I must have it all, you know.” Then she turned back to him. “I do wish to go immediately to my room, Simms.”
“Of course.” He noted with a glance out the open front door that the footman would take quite awhile to count and bring forth all her baggage. “This way, if you will.”
He led her up the staircase. He had not intended to show her to her rooms, or to talk privately with her at any time these next few days. Instead, he’d vowed to himself to be quick, formal and unfazed. He took the landing and then around and up another flight to the floor where all guest suites were located. She was to have the one opposite the secret stairway to the downstairs library. He’d planned that for her, knowing her penchant to require new reading at all hours of the night. Rapacious in her desire for good books, she read whatever was at hand. Even the Bard—his favorite, too—was one she sought at any hour she felt so inclined. In fact, she’d taught him the versatility of Shakespeare. The man’s words fit almost any occasion. Even this one in which he had to escape her to kill that itch in him to possess her. If it were done…then ’twere well it were done quickly.
At her door, he turned the handle and pushed it open. He pressed backward to allow her enter.
She swept past him. But her arm swiped his chest. The feathers in her hat tickled his nose. Her perfume—roses, delicate roses—rushed up to fill his nostrils.
He seized his sanity, bowing to denote his impending exit.
But she whirled to face him. Caught his chin and raised his face, smiled, the witch, then pressed her lush body against his. Her voluptuous breasts warmed him. She stretched up on her toes and brushed her rich full lips across his.
She was heaven.
And he was in delicious hell.
“Hello, my darling, Octavian. I’ve had the very devil of a time finding you. Where in the world have you been, eh?”
