Louise Allen - A Mistletoe Masquerade

This experience was certainly making her appreciate Alice more, Rowan reflected as she made her way to the foot of the stairs, chamberstick in one hand, jug of hot water in the other. Going to bed had always seemed so simple-but it was not if you were the one putting the clothes away, tidying the room, securing the jewellery box and all the time answering anxious questions and soothing doubts.

She trudged upwards, one floor, then two. The handle of the jug was cutting into her fingers, but she could not use both hands and still see where she was going. The stairs unwound themselves onto a narrow landing-nothing more than a linking passage between wings, with the spiral stair to her turret curling up into the darkness on the other side.

'Ouch.' Rowan dumped the jug on the flags, splashing the cooling water, and sat down on the top step, her back to the landing while she massaged her fingers back to life.

'What's wrong?'

She jumped, stumbling to her feet. Then her heel caught in her hem and she was falling, the stone stairs beneath her and nothing to hold on to.

'I've got you.' She was stronger than he had guessed, twisting in his grasp and using his body as a counterweight to regain her balance. Lucas found himself with a warm armful of panting woman clutched to his chest, her hands clamped around his forearms.

'Idiot!' She might only have been wearing light indoor shoes, but the force of her kick on his shins had him stepping back abruptly, pulling her with him. Of course-he might have known. It was Miss Lawrence, not some chambermaid with a twisted ankle.

'Ouch,' he said mildly, setting her back from him. 'First my nose, now my shins. You are a dangerous woman, Daisy Lawrence.'

'You would be in no danger at all if you kept your distance from me,' she snapped.

The light was poor, and he could see little of her face, but her eyes sparked at him and he thought it a safe bet her expression was not one of simpering gratitude.

He should, of course, let go. Only he found he did not want to, and she was clinging just as tightly, doing nothing to improve the set of his fourth-best evening coat. 'I thought you had hurt yourself.' An olive branch seemed in order. 'Twisted your ankle, perhaps.'

'Instead of which I nearly broke my neck.' There was a sudden flash of white teeth as she smiled, her irritation vanished as rapidly as it had come. 'The hot water jug was hurting my fingers. I set it down while I rubbed them.' Her voice, now she was not scolding him, was soft and held a hint of tiredness.

'Let me see.' They were still almost breast to breast. He could smell her, an unexpectedly sweet hint of gardenia and warm woman. Delicious. 'But you will have to let go of my arms.'

'Oh! I am sorry, it was the shock.'

She opened her hands as though he was hot: he rather feared he was. Very hot. Lucas took a steadying breath.

'I am not good with heights, I must confess.' She waved him away as he tried to take her hand and lead her towards the candle, walking over to hold it close to the flame herself. 'See? It is heavier than I thought.'

The sight of the whitened ridges on the smooth skin affected him strangely. He wanted to protect her, which was ridiculous; she was more than capable of standing up for herself. But those slim shoulders were not meant for lugging heavy cans of water about. She should be doing nothing more strenuous than brushing her mistress's hair. Then he recalled the sight of her, skin damp and rosy with the effort of brushing that skirt, and hefted the water jug before his imagination got any more out of control.

'I'll carry this. Where is your room?'

For a moment he thought she would refuse to tell him, then that secret smile lit up her eyes again. 'Thank you, that would be most kind. Up this turret stair. Another two flights, I'm afraid.'

She's not in the least bit sorry , Lucas thought appreciatively. She is getting her own back . 'You come behind me, then, and hold the candle so it lights the steps at my feet.'

The stairs were steep, twisting and ancient, worn in the centre and uneven in height. By the next landing Lucas was controlling his breathing. If he had been by himself he would have changed hands at that point, but he was damned if he was going to show any weakness in front of Daisy-and that realisation in itself was galling.

'Here we are.' There was nowhere else to go. The stairs stopped in front of a planked door. Lucas lifted the latch and walked straight in. 'Thank you, Mr Lucas, I can manage now.'

She was uncomfortable with him in the room. He should go. Lucas was very conscious that if Daisy had been a Society lady with whom he was flirting then he would let this game play out, stop and tease her a little, snatch a kiss before he left. But this was Daisy Lawrence, dresser, and it was not the action of a gentleman to take advantage of a servant.

He turned and looked at her as she set the candle down on the mantel over the empty grate. The room was cold-almost he imagined he could see his own breath in the air. 'You need the fire lit.'

'Yes. I had noticed that.'

He noticed the way she reached for the shawl that lay on the end of the bed and dragged it round her shoulders, and that flare of protectiveness surprised him again, despite her sarcasm.

'There is no need-' But he was already on his knees, reaching for the kindling that had been dumped on the hearth, building it into a neat stack and adding tiny pieces of coal from the bucket.

'Am I depriving you of a treat? Do you enjoy making fires?' he asked mildly, concentrating on the delicate edifice.

'I don't know. I have never built one.' She was kneeling beside him. Her admission almost had him dropping an over-large stick on the top of the stack.

'What? Never?' Lucas sat back on his heels and studied her face in the thin light from the candle. 'You must be a very superior lady's maid, in that case. Can you pass me the light?'

He touched the flame to the wood shavings and watched as they caught and smoke began to spiral up. Beside him, Daisy did not move, and he began to fuss a little with the fire so as to stay where he was. If her earlier career had omitted menial skills such as fire-lighting, that reinforced his suspicion that she was

gently born, doubtless on the wrong side of the blanket, and had only recently had to make her own way.

Which explained why she felt to him like a woman from his world, one he could talk to on equal terms. That and the spirit that told him she would take no nonsense from him whether he was a valet or a viscount.

Rowan held out her hands to the flames, watching as the fire took hold of the wood shavings and kindling.

'You have to feed it,' Lucas said, 'or it will flare up like your temper and be gone.' She reached out for some wood but he caught her hand. 'No-too big. That will flatten it.' He released her immediately, sorting through the wood and picking out suitable pieces while Rowan sat wondering why his touch was so unsettling.

'Is Lord Danescroft a good master?' she asked abruptly.

Lucas was placing a faggot, dropped it, and swore mildly under his breath. 'A good master?'

Rowan had the impression he was stalling for time.

'Yes. He seems to be. I have not been with him long. Why do you ask?'

'I am concerned for Miss Maylin. There are the rumours, the Earl's demeanour. She is not a young woman who can cope with harshness.'

'The rumours are just that. Rumours.'

'Then there is no mystery about his wife's death?'

'It appears to have been an accident. When young women who have been drinking creep around a darkened house by the back stairs in the small hours that is not so improbable.'

'True.' She marked the underlying indignation as he spoke. 'So the rumours about the late Lady Danescroft are true, then, even if those about her husband are not?'