One Enchanted Summer Read online

  With a patronizing tilt of his golden head, he indicated which room was hers, and Mia dragged the trunk across the floor, her cheeks still burning in embarrassment from her ridiculous reaction to a man’s well-arranged features…and the way his well-cut jacket spanned his shoulders…and the span of his biceps. Ugh, she must have gawked much longer than she thought.

  As Mia started setting her meager possessions around the spartan room, she sternly reminded herself that there was no use ogling an aristocrat. Her father had made no mention of a title when he said her employer’s name, nor did he have to. It was as obvious as if the Queen herself arrived and made a proclamation that Dominic Attwood was the Lord High Duke of all of England and even Wales. She had ascertained with her earlier perusal that the well-tailored clothes he wore were enough of an indication that he had to be nobility…or someone with enough money that he could assume the same amount of deference. And Mia Tillman was in no doubt what could come of a hawker’s daughter managing to catch the eye of such a man…nothing but a belly full of baby and a future of heartache.

  Chapter 2

  The woman was trying to starve him.

  Granted, he’d been thinking of going on a reducing regimen but never one this drastic. His early supper consisted of watery soup that she claimed contained chicken served beside a plate of weeds. He couldn’t contain his annoyance though he had felt mildly guilty for snapping at her. But then, she had forgotten to serve tea entirely, so he was ravenous. Perhaps tea was a social nicety that hadn’t yet reached the wilds of Lincolnshire.

  It was unsettling having the maid within arms’ reach at all times; Dominic felt like the caged lion at the London Zoo, his every movement on display – he felt self-conscious every time the rocking chair creaked, or the pages of his book crinkled which was odd because he had been surrounded by servants his entire life. In the nursery, he had nursemaids and nannies while in adulthood there was valets, coachmen, and footmen to tend to his every want. The only time he was truly alone was when he was sleeping and even then, he knew someone was only a bell ring away. But there was always movement of many people…dozens of people who kept his house working like a well-oiled clock. With only two people in the small cottage quarters, it felt far too…intimate.

  Not only did he feel like he was exposed in front of the new maid, she was very distracting. It was difficult to concentrate on his book while she drifted in and out of his peripheral vision, not to mention the sounds she made while setting the table or opening drawers. But he would soon become acclimated to her presence. With familiarity, all servants eventually blended into the woodwork…or in this case, she’d blend into the lime plaster.

  Though it would help to remember her name. He had managed an entire day without requesting anything, but now it occurred to him that he would eventually have to address her directly. He never communicated with the staff at home – matters of the house were handled by the butler or his mother while matters of the estate were managed by his efficient steward.

  Mary. That was it. Perhaps Martha? It definitely started with an M. Mags? Sounded like the name of an unkempt dog, but maybe…no, that was the proprietor of the disreputable inn he had the misfortune to stumble upon.

  It would eventually come to him.

  He should have been more attentive when that drummer had made introductions, but Dominic had been distracted by Tom Tillman hauling that barrel across the yard. He still hadn’t heard an explanation of its presence.

  He had assumed there would be other servants in the house – a housekeeper and a cook at a minimum. When Lord Pritchard had suggested using this cottage, Dominic had been under the impression that the structure was a bit more…impressive. Or at least substantial. He expected at least a four-bedroom manor relatively close to town where the basic niceties could be acquired. If he stumbled upon any of Pritchard’s past lovers, he’d have to ask if his “friend” always exaggerated the grandeur of his attributes.

  The sun was nearly set, leaving yellow streaks across the clouds as if the Creator had drizzled wide bands of liquid gold across the darkening sky, and Dominic realized he should inquire after Monaco’s comfort before he was stumbling about in the dark of night. Since there wasn’t a stable hand – or even a worthy stable, he’d have to see to his horse himself.

  Despite his new abode’s ramshackle conditions, Monaco appeared content and already half-asleep, his long silvery tail swishing lazily at a loudly droning fly that seemed unable to escape through the open stable windows and door and instead ricocheted off every vertical surface. Dominic gave him a pat on his huge neck as he checked the water trough was full and then promised him an apple or carrot as soon as the maid – Margie? – went to the market.

  As he came again around to the front of the cottage, his attention was caught by a lone figure marching purposefully down the lane and Dominic slowed his steps, curious to where the man could be going. All the homes he had seen from that direction were at least a half-mile away, and he was fairly certain the situation would be the same if he continued down the road in the opposite direction. Judging from the man’s long black cassock, Dominic assumed the fellow was some sort of priest, though the waning light made it impossible to tell if he was Catholic or Anglican. Neither option was reassuring.

  Dominic felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as the tall, long-limbed man turned off the lane to step smartly over the wooden bridge and continue to the cottage’s front door. The aging priest – vicar? reverend? – had a long craggy face with a beak of a nose that instantly put one in mind of a vulture, and his hazel eyes had a fiery intensity more suitable to the passionate speech of an evangelical than the intoned prayers of a monk.

  “Where’s Mia?” the old man demanded while still marching, his black cassock flapping behind him from the speed of his pace.

  “I beg your pardon?” Dominic wasn’t accustomed to being greeted in such a manner. Most members of the clergy were painfully unctuous in hopes that he’d fund their next church renovation or that he would put in a good word with the bishop, his second cousin, for a more favorable appointment.

  “Your maid?” the priest snapped in exasperation as he came to a halt in front of him.

  “I’m not in the habit of…”

  “I heard you’ve come from London,” the man interrupted in an accusatory tone, and Dominic again nodded his head briefly, bristling under this interrogation and unable to see why the mere fact that he traveled from London should send a vicar flapping to his door and acting as if he had murdered a parishioner.

  “I’m Reverend Martin from St. Matthew’s. It’s been my parish for thirty years and Mia is one of my congregation.” This was said less as an introduction and more as a declaration of war. “Unlike in The City, we expect our maids to be respected and valued. I or one of my friends will be by often and, if I hear of one indiscretion, of one debasement, I won’t bother sending for a magistrate. We know how to protect our own.”

  Dominic was tempted to roll his eyes, but it seemed imprudent to risk the wrath of the reverend since he was already in a high dudgeon. But truly? The maid? He’d seen more curves on a broom handle. He couldn’t recall her facial features, but he did remember her hair was some shade of brown. The vicar could have paraded thirty women between fifteen and fifty past him and Dominic was reasonably certain he wouldn’t be able to choose which one she was, much less entertain the thought of molesting her.

  “She won’t be overworked or abused,” the man continued doggedly. “She will have Sunday mornings for church and after luncheon, she’ll have Sunday afternoons to herself. There’s a fair on Monday next, and I expect to see Mia at it.”

  “That’s only four days from now, and she’s only been in my employ for six hours. I can hardly have the girl gone half the time!” Dominic protested, but Reverend Martin lowered his wiry gray eyebrows over his glittering eyes and glared so fiercely that Dominic snapped his mouth shut.

  “I’ve lived in Lincolnshire for thirty years, bu
t I know the ways of London. Poor girls left destitute, their employers cheating them out of their wages, leaving girls with child out on the street. Such things won’t happen to Mia. No one here will let our girls fall into ruin or danger.”

  “I may live in London for some of the year but my family hails from Staffordshire,” Dominic explained, his smile more condescending than placating but his clarification did not appease the reverend.

  “And I hail from Stepney so I know what dangers London can truly hold. I know from just looking at you that you’ve been pampered and properly petted from your very moment of birth. I’m here to tell you you’ll get no differential treatment. I care for the ploughman as much as for the man who wears a coronet. Probably more for the ploughman to tell the truth.” The man looked over his hooked nose to give Dominic an assessing look from head to toe, and the resulting curl of his lip said that he found Dominic’s very appearance telling. “I’ve met Theo Pritchard and he seemed a decent enough gentleman. I doubt he’d give leave to use his home to anyone he’d deemed dangerous or untrustworthy so I shall withhold judgement for now.”

  Before Dominic could sardonically comment that the man seemed to have done a great deal of judging already, the old man called loudly to the cottage. “Mia! Mia, come out for a moment.”

  The cottage door opened, and the maid, now rightfully known as Mia, appeared, her pale face registering complete surprise before she bobbed a hurried curtsy.

  “Reverend, has something happened? Is someone injured? Do you need me at the rectory?” she asked in concern.

  “Are you well, Mia? Nothing amiss here?” the ferocious man demanded sharply, and she shook her head slowly while spreading her arms wide, as if willing to be thoroughly examined.

  Dominic felt as if he had been tossed onto a stage in the middle of a play without being provided the script. His only consolation was that the maid appeared to be as completely baffled as he felt.

  “All right, then go back inside and I’ll see you on Sunday.” The rector relaxed his posture a bit and a smile softened his craggy features momentarily, but as soon as the girl returned to the house and shut the door, he turned his piercing eyes on Dominic again.

  “And I shall see Mia every Sunday and at Monday’s fair. Good day, sir.” The vicar turned smartly and crossed over the bridge, his departure just as abrupt and startling as his arrival. Dominic was still trying to wrap his mind around the rector’s hostile visit when the reverend’s black vestments disappeared back over the hill.

  With a mental shrug, Dominic turned back towards the cottage. His friends always joked about the eccentricities of country people…everyone knew they were nearly as rustic and uncouth as Americans, and he certainly had met his share of characters in the past few days. Some had even attempted to rob him.

  He opened the cottage door to see the maid sweeping the rough-hewn boards of the floor with a rather scraggly looking broom. Remembering the rector’s stern warnings and seeing that her face was turned away from him, he daringly perused her form.

  Her slight figure still failed to impress.

  Chapter 3

  On Sunday morning, Mia woke with a gasp, the twittering of the birds and the sunshine streaming in through her miniscule north and west-facing windows making it obvious that she had slept far later than usual on the one day that she had to have her chores finished before she made her way to church. She yanked a brush through her long brown hair and quickly wrapped the mass into a bun at the nap of her neck before dressing. It certainly wouldn’t do to not have breakfast ready when Mr. Attwood awoke.

  Throwing open her bedroom door, she skidded to a stop when she saw that he was already sprawled in a chair next to the kitchen table, looking surly and glaring at her. He obviously hadn’t bothered to shave, most likely because she hadn’t heated the water yet, and the dark blond hairs stippling his chin made him look rough and slightly dangerous, completely at odds with his impeccably pressed and fitted clothes.

  Mia bobbed a curtsy before rushing to the stove and quickly lit a match to start the fire. She opened the stove door only to see that he’d already warmed the stove, and she awkwardly threw the still burning match on top of the already flickering flames. It seemed Mr. Attwood was not completely inept after all.

  Mr. Attwood sullenly moved his long legs out of her path, but it was obvious that she was not forgiven for inconveniencing him. With a mental roll of her eyes, Mia hurried out to the cheerfully burbling stream to fetch the crocks of butter and milk she had carefully placed in the chilly water to stay cool.

  With well-practiced movements, Mia dumped oats and milk in a pot before checking the tea kettle to see if the water was at least warm yet, but the fire had not yet heated it adequately. Still avoiding Mr. Attwood’s gaze, she quickly set a bowl, a spoon, and a napkin on the table before fetching the salt and sugar bowls. The oven was still far too cool, but the water had warmed considerably though not to boiling.

  “You’ll be able to shave in only a moment, sir,” she called over her shoulder after snatching up a cloth to pick up the metal teakettle’s handle. He didn’t respond, and she turned awkwardly balancing the porcelain basin now filled with warm water and hid a smile at the dread she now saw on his face.

  It seemed Mr. Attwood was not a dab hand with a razor.

  His cheeks and chin bore dozens of cuts from his previous attempts over the past few days, and Mia had been mildly concerned that he was suffering from a great malaise and just hadn’t succeeded in his slow, painful attempt at suicide. By the resignation now tightening his features, Mr. Attwood himself had his doubts that he would accomplish the chore with any less blood loss with this next attempt.

  Wanting to get back into his good graces after her rather disastrous start to the day, Mia thought she should take pity on him.

  “Would you like to me to shave you, sir? I’ve done it for my father thousands of times.”

  That was a lie. Mia had shaven her father perhaps twice in her life and once for another employer, but that had ended with her upending the water basin on the man’s lap and threatening him with the razor if he came any closer. That was the third position that she left without notice and consequently without a reference but, after that fool had pressed his face to her bosom, she had been too furious to spend another moment in that house.

  She could tell Mr. Attwood was feigning indifference when he shrugged, so she sat the bowl on the table before fetching the razor, shaving brush, shaving soap, and towel he had set by the water pitcher in his room.

  After hurrying back into the room, she set the razor and towel down on the kitchen table and fetched the tea kettle from the stovetop so she could pour more hot water on the towel before settling it carefully over his face to soften his beard’s whiskers. The tension left her shoulders as soon as he was no longer stonily staring at her and Mia relaxed into the rhythm of the morning as she again checked the oven’s temperature before pouring the soap into a bowl, adding water, and beating the resulting mixture into a frothy foam with the shaving brush.

  Whisking the towel away, Mia took a fortifying sigh before setting to work, pretending that it was a daily occurrence that she not only was in such close proximity to the most handsome man of her acquaintance but actually touching his face with her hands. Seeing the shining silver blade quiver slightly in her shaking fingers reminded her to keep her mind on the task at hand or she could very well hang for accidently slitting her employer’s throat.

  ∞∞∞

  Dominic willed himself to be very still despite feeling slight alarm at the thought of a near stranger putting sharp objects near his jugular. Though she was a slight little thing. Her wrists and arms looked like they contained bird’s bones, and he was confident that he could disarm her or crush those delicate limbs if she suddenly went insane and attempted to murder him.

  A man had to have a plan of defense when knives were involved.

  He never had this concern with his valet, Watters. If only the man’s fa
ther hadn’t become ill. Waters had asked to return to his father’s home just as Dominic had ordered his trunks carried to the wagon for the journey. Dominic had granted him permission to leave without hesitation, but he had also been under the impression that he would be able to hire a new valet upon arrival. He had considered bringing along one of the footmen, but his mother had quickly intervened, claiming that the household couldn’t be short one for the summer.

  Mia stood directly behind his chair and began moving the blade in short, quick movements just along his ear, the front of her apron just brushing the nape of his neck as she leaned forward. The scraping of the knife against his cheek sounded loud in the stillness of the room, the chirping of the birds enjoying the summer’s morning sounding distant now after they had so noisily awoken him nearly two hours ago.

  “This blade is as dull as a soup spoon. It’s no wonder you’ve had such a time of it. I’ll fetch a whetstone.” She set the shaving tools beside him and hurried to her bedroom door. She paused a moment before turning again to the stove. “I’ll set your breakfast to cooking first, sir. Your porridge will be ready in a trice.”

  Dominic hadn’t had porridge since he was a child, and he had no intentions of eating that tasteless mush again. “I’d prefer an egg or two. Perhaps toast. Kippers if they’re available.”

  She continued to place a hearty scoop of oats out of a canister and into a battered pot. “You ate the last of the eggs yesterday. I’ll cook these with milk and sugar. Or would you prefer me to mix it with a bit of blood like the Highlanders do?”

  Dominic pulled a face and then was irritated when she glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. She’d expected he’d find that meal repugnant, and he was tempted to insist she did prepare just so. She’d have to scramble to find blood to put in such a dish; they hadn’t eaten meat since the day he arrived. He’d never had to settle for such fare…well, that inn had an appalling lack of choices too.