She walked across the frosted courtyard, her mind spinning with a checklist of a hundred things left to do. Sweep the front steps. Check the wine cellar. Iron the good tablecloth. She pushed open the heavy stable doors.
"Tom, I need you to polish the brass on the front gates. The carriage is arriving by noon."
And she stopped. The lantern was unlit. The stables were quiet, save for the soft knickering of the horses. The pitchfork was leaning neatly against the wall. The stalls were already mucked out.
"Tom," she called out. Only the heavy silence answered her.
Jane walked down the aisle, checking the tack room. Empty. His heavy leather apron was draped over a chair. His boots were gone.
A cold, heavy stone formed in her stomach. It wasn't uncommon for laborers to run off when nobilities arrived. Dukes brought their own staff, their own masters of horse. Sometimes they fired the local help on a whim. Or perhaps Tom simply didn't want to deal with the chaos and demands of a royal visit. But he had left without saying a word. Without his tea.
Jane looked down at the chipped white mug in her hand. The steam was already dissipating in the cold air. A sharp unexpected sting of betrayal bit at her eyes. She swallowed it down violently. Fool. She berated herself. He was a transient laborer. You were an employer. Did you expect him to stay and fight your battles?
She dumped the tea into the dirt, the dark liquid staining the straw. She turned on her heel and marched back to the house. There was no time for bruised feelings. The wolf was at the door.
At precisely noon, the distant crunch of gravel announced their arrival. Jane stood on the front steps of the manor, flanked by Mrs. Gable in a clean white apron, and Sarah, the elderly maid, who was visibly trembling. Jane wore her best dress, a dark navy wool that was terribly out of fashion, but free of patches. She stood with her spine rigidly straight, her chin tipped up, preparing to face the man who was coming to strip her home down to the floorboards.
Two massive black carriages, pulled by matching teams of grays, swept up the circular drive. The mud on their wheels did nothing to diminish their opulence. The crest of the wolf was emblazoned in gold on the doors. A footman in dark livery jumped down from the back of the first carriage before it had even fully stopped. He opened the door, snapped to attention, and lowered the steps.
Jane braced herself. She expected an older man, soft around the middle, draped in silk, perhaps clutching a cane and complaining about the state of the roads. A tall man stepped out of the carriage. He was wearing a dark, impeccably tailored velvet great coat over a charcoal waistcoat and a crisp white cravat. His boots were polished to a mirror shine, free of a single speck of mud. He stood for a moment, adjusting the cuff of his coat, looking up at the imposing facade of the crumbling manor.
Jane's breath physically left her body. Mrs. Gable made a small choked sound of confusion.
The man turned his head. His eyes, a dark, unreadable gray, locked instantly onto Jane standing on the top step. The rough stubble was gone, shaved clean to reveal the hard aristocratic lines of his jaw and the faint, pale scar she had stared at in the library 3 days ago. His dark hair was brushed back, neat and controlled. He did not smell of hay and horse sweat. Even from a distance, he looked like power, wealth, and undeniable authority.
But it was him. Tom.
Jane couldn't move. She couldn't speak. Her mind shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, trying to reconcile the man who had fixed her leaking roof in a wet linen shirt with the Duke of Penrith standing before her. He didn't look away from her. He began to walk up the steps, his gait no longer the tired, heavy tread of a laborer, but the confident, predatory stalk of a nobleman entering his domain.
As he reached the top step, he stopped mere inches from Jane. The rest of the staff dropped into deep curtsies. Jane remained standing, frozen, her eyes wide, locked on his face. A tense silence stretched. The footmen watched nervously.
"Miss Fielding," he said. His low baritone was exactly the same, yet stripped of any rustic camouflage. It was smooth, educated, and commanding.
Jane's throat worked, but no sound came out. The betrayal, the realization, the sheer audacity of it all crashed over her like a tidal wave.
He leaned in slightly, close enough that she could smell cedarwood and fine soap, and lowered his voice so only she could hear. "I believe," the Duke of Penrith murmured softly, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You promised to pour boiling tea into my lap."
Jane's mind went entirely blank. The blood rushed from her extremities, pooling hot and heavy in her chest. She looked at the immaculate cut of his coat, the signet ring catching the pale afternoon light on his right hand, the subtle arrogant tilt of his head. The man she had ordered to muck out stalls. The man she had pitied for his worn boots. The man who had touched her face in the damp gloom of the library.
It had all been a lie. A grotesque theatrical farce played by a bored nobleman slumming it in the dirt. The shock receded, instantly replaced by a white hot, razor-sharp fury. It burned through the exhaustion of the past 24 hours. Jane did not scream. She did not throw a tantrum or dissolve into tears. Instead, she locked her knees, smoothed her hands down the front of her faded wool skirt, and executed a stiff, technically perfect curtsy. It was a mechanical drop of the knee, devoid of any genuine respect.
"Your grace," she said. Her voice was ice over a deep, dark lake. "Welcome to Fenwick Hall. I apologize for the lack of boiling tea. Had I known you were arriving, I would have put the kettle on sooner."
A flicker of something—annoyance perhaps, or regret—crossed his gray eyes. But his expression remained a mask of polite aristocracy. "The manor looks well, Miss Fielding," Thomas replied, matching her formal tone.
"Given the circumstances, we have prepared the master suite in the West Wing for you," Jane continued, refusing to meet his gaze. She looked firmly at the crisp fold of his cravat. "Your staff may use the servants' quarters on the third floor. I have instructed Mrs. Gable to prepare dinner for 8:00. If that meets your approval."
"That will be fine."