Read Online Etiquette With The Devil by Rebecca Paula - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Paula
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sorting out the house like a maid.”
There was no malice to her words. Even Clara recognized her efforts would raise eyebrows in polite society. She had one role, but her two weeks at Burton Hall had taught her there were many to be filled, just as Mr. Barnes had warned.
“I’m helping where it is needed. The children have been through a great deal. I imagine it would be best if they can settle into their new home before their aunt arrives.”
A fevered look washed over Tilly’s face before she turned to the whistling kettle and poured two cups of tea. “That woman belongs more with the hounds of hell than the likes of Burton Hall. It was cruel what she did to her poor sister, the selfish creature.”
Clara leaned against the stone casing of the doorway, dragging in a deep breath of the late summer air. The lavender bonnets of the harebells, blown by the breeze, swayed in a merry dance by her feet in what once must have been a kitchen garden. Now it was overrun with weeds, seeded dill, and some wild flowers by the foot of the door.
“Poor dears,” Tilly mumbled behind her at the stove. “The whole lot of them.”
When Clara was a lady’s companion, she had many quiet afternoons like this spent in the pleasant sea air of Aldeburgh. It helped that her employer was an elderly recluse, never wishing to leave the confines of her bedroom. It left Clara the run of the house and the gardens besides the equally as old housekeeper and cook, who mostly remained in the kitchen. After spending the previous years at school dodging nasty rumors and teasing about her pedigree, Clara had enjoyed the relative peace she found at Hyclyffe House, even if she craved conversation.
“Ho,” a voice roared from beyond the courtyard. Clara startled, knocking her head against the door jamb. Burton Hall was in a constant state of movement and noise, overrun with the unruly Ravensdales. She missed the sea.
Mr. Ravensdale emerged over the crest of the hill, leading his horse to the stable with long, easy strides. A pair of dead stags bobbed lifeless over the gelding’s back who followed behind, no longer the wild horse they had secured in the village. A rifle rested against Mr. Ravensdale’s shoulder and once again, he was parading about in rolled-up shirtsleeves.
His worn boots crunched over the pebbled drive. It was not polite to stare, but the very sight of him commanded her attention. He was frightful and magnificent all at once.
“Here you are, dear,” Tilly said, brushing up beside her. Clara took the warm cup with a grateful smile. She realized as she turned back that the usual tug in her side had eased over the past week as she finally began to heal. A jagged broken bottle to the midsection wouldn’t prove fatal to her, or the hands that clutched at her throat. She was afraid to question someone about the wound on her head. It never bled again, so perhaps Mr. Ravensdale’s method worked, though she would never admit that fact, especially not to him.
“I can’t believe my eyes,” Tilly said on a long sigh. “I still see him running around in his knickerbockers raising hell in the nursery. His brother was always the quiet sort, but that boy there couldn’t sit still the day he arrived in this world.”
Mr. Ravensdale bellowed again at the workers, his words carried off by the wind. He raised an arm and pointed at the chaotic tangles of ivy. Receiving a round of blank stares from the workers, he scaled the aged vines, wind ruffling his brunette locks as he climbed. Clara gasped as he stopped, hanging on with only when arm, and pulled a surprisingly large knife from his boot. She glanced nervously to her side before taking a sip of tea, noting the small smile at Tilly’s lips.
Ivy rained down around the workers as he climbed higher, careless of the large blade in his hand.
Clara had never met a man like him before. He was like a hero out of one of her silly novels, except he was impossible and rude, not to mention
There was no malice to her words. Even Clara recognized her efforts would raise eyebrows in polite society. She had one role, but her two weeks at Burton Hall had taught her there were many to be filled, just as Mr. Barnes had warned.
“I’m helping where it is needed. The children have been through a great deal. I imagine it would be best if they can settle into their new home before their aunt arrives.”
A fevered look washed over Tilly’s face before she turned to the whistling kettle and poured two cups of tea. “That woman belongs more with the hounds of hell than the likes of Burton Hall. It was cruel what she did to her poor sister, the selfish creature.”
Clara leaned against the stone casing of the doorway, dragging in a deep breath of the late summer air. The lavender bonnets of the harebells, blown by the breeze, swayed in a merry dance by her feet in what once must have been a kitchen garden. Now it was overrun with weeds, seeded dill, and some wild flowers by the foot of the door.
“Poor dears,” Tilly mumbled behind her at the stove. “The whole lot of them.”
When Clara was a lady’s companion, she had many quiet afternoons like this spent in the pleasant sea air of Aldeburgh. It helped that her employer was an elderly recluse, never wishing to leave the confines of her bedroom. It left Clara the run of the house and the gardens besides the equally as old housekeeper and cook, who mostly remained in the kitchen. After spending the previous years at school dodging nasty rumors and teasing about her pedigree, Clara had enjoyed the relative peace she found at Hyclyffe House, even if she craved conversation.
“Ho,” a voice roared from beyond the courtyard. Clara startled, knocking her head against the door jamb. Burton Hall was in a constant state of movement and noise, overrun with the unruly Ravensdales. She missed the sea.
Mr. Ravensdale emerged over the crest of the hill, leading his horse to the stable with long, easy strides. A pair of dead stags bobbed lifeless over the gelding’s back who followed behind, no longer the wild horse they had secured in the village. A rifle rested against Mr. Ravensdale’s shoulder and once again, he was parading about in rolled-up shirtsleeves.
His worn boots crunched over the pebbled drive. It was not polite to stare, but the very sight of him commanded her attention. He was frightful and magnificent all at once.
“Here you are, dear,” Tilly said, brushing up beside her. Clara took the warm cup with a grateful smile. She realized as she turned back that the usual tug in her side had eased over the past week as she finally began to heal. A jagged broken bottle to the midsection wouldn’t prove fatal to her, or the hands that clutched at her throat. She was afraid to question someone about the wound on her head. It never bled again, so perhaps Mr. Ravensdale’s method worked, though she would never admit that fact, especially not to him.
“I can’t believe my eyes,” Tilly said on a long sigh. “I still see him running around in his knickerbockers raising hell in the nursery. His brother was always the quiet sort, but that boy there couldn’t sit still the day he arrived in this world.”
Mr. Ravensdale bellowed again at the workers, his words carried off by the wind. He raised an arm and pointed at the chaotic tangles of ivy. Receiving a round of blank stares from the workers, he scaled the aged vines, wind ruffling his brunette locks as he climbed. Clara gasped as he stopped, hanging on with only when arm, and pulled a surprisingly large knife from his boot. She glanced nervously to her side before taking a sip of tea, noting the small smile at Tilly’s lips.
Ivy rained down around the workers as he climbed higher, careless of the large blade in his hand.
Clara had never met a man like him before. He was like a hero out of one of her silly novels, except he was impossible and rude, not to mention
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