a little
anticipation. Margery felt jealousy stir in her, the same jealousy that had
beset her earlier.
“What would you like to eat and drink?” Henry asked her, while
the tavern wench who had won the tussle for their order eyed Margery with
ill-concealed dislike.
“I will take the mutton pie and a glass of ale, if you please,”
Margery said.
The girl turned her attention back to Henry. “My lord?” she
asked.
“I will have the same, please,” Henry said. He passed over a
guinea and the maidservant pocketed it faster than a rat moved up a drainpipe.
She dropped him a curtsy. “That would buy you plenty more than food and drink,
my lord,” she said, opening her eyes very wide to make her meaning explicitly
clear.
Henry raised his brows and smiled at her with such charm that
even Margery blinked. “Thank you,” he murmured. “If I require more I will be
sure to let you know.” He turned to Margery as the girl strolled away with a
suggestive swing of the hips.
“She thinks me a nobleman and you are not even sure that you
rate me a gentleman,” he said.
“She thinks you ripe for fleecing,” Margery said crushingly.
“She is judging the guinea, not you.” She put up a hand and untied the ribbons
on her bonnet, laying it aside. Looking up, she saw that Henry’s gaze was on her
hair. Her first thought was that it must have got squashed beneath the hat, but
when his eyes met hers she saw a spark of something hot that made her heart
jerk. Her hair was a golden-brown, fine and entirely without curl, completely
ordinary, yet Henry looked as though he wanted to reach out and touch it. She
saw him swallow hard. It was extraordinary. She felt hot and bewildered, but
excitement tingled in the pit of her stomach as she thought of his fingers
slipping through the strands.
She was glad when the ale came. It broke the rather odd silence
between them. Henry poured for them both from the pitcher. Margery took a
mouthful, looked up and saw Henry’s eyes on her, a gleam of humor in them.
“It tastes rougher than a badger’s pelt,” he murmured.
“I prefer it to wine,” Margery said. She could feel the ale
loosening her tongue already. It was indeed rough, with a kick like a mule.
“Mrs. Biddle tells me I should cultivate a taste for sherry if I am to be a
housekeeper in my turn,” she said, “but I find it too genteel a drink.”
“Do you want to be a housekeeper?” Henry enquired. “Is that not
the pinnacle of achievement for an upper servant?” He topped up her glass.
“Mrs. Biddle says that I could do it if I wished, for I am
already the youngest lady’s maid she has ever known.” She sighed. “Truth is, I
do not want to be a servant.”
Henry’s lips twitched into that irresistible smile that always
led her into indiscretion. “What do you want to be, Miss Mallon?”
“I want to be a confectioner,” Margery said in a rush. “I want
to have a shop and make comfits and marzipan cakes and sweetmeats. I want to own
my own business and sell my cakes to all the lords and ladies of the ton.”
Once again Henry’s eyes gleamed with that secret amusement. “It
is good to have ambition,” he murmured.
“But I need money to set myself up in business.” Margery
drooped. “I save all that I can from my wages—and the money that Billy pays me
for collecting old clothes for him—but it will never be enough to buy a
shop.”
Henry’s eyes met hers over the rim of his glass. “You had not
thought to…ah…raise funds another way?”
The spark in his eyes captured and held her. She saw
speculation there and desire that burned her and set her heart racing. She also
saw exactly, explicitly, what he was suggesting.
She took another gulp of the ale. “Certainly not. I told you I
was not a lightskirt! Besides—” even in her indignation she could not quite
escape the force of logic “—I am not certain that I would be in any way
successful enough to make the necessary capital.”
A corner
anticipation. Margery felt jealousy stir in her, the same jealousy that had
beset her earlier.
“What would you like to eat and drink?” Henry asked her, while
the tavern wench who had won the tussle for their order eyed Margery with
ill-concealed dislike.
“I will take the mutton pie and a glass of ale, if you please,”
Margery said.
The girl turned her attention back to Henry. “My lord?” she
asked.
“I will have the same, please,” Henry said. He passed over a
guinea and the maidservant pocketed it faster than a rat moved up a drainpipe.
She dropped him a curtsy. “That would buy you plenty more than food and drink,
my lord,” she said, opening her eyes very wide to make her meaning explicitly
clear.
Henry raised his brows and smiled at her with such charm that
even Margery blinked. “Thank you,” he murmured. “If I require more I will be
sure to let you know.” He turned to Margery as the girl strolled away with a
suggestive swing of the hips.
“She thinks me a nobleman and you are not even sure that you
rate me a gentleman,” he said.
“She thinks you ripe for fleecing,” Margery said crushingly.
“She is judging the guinea, not you.” She put up a hand and untied the ribbons
on her bonnet, laying it aside. Looking up, she saw that Henry’s gaze was on her
hair. Her first thought was that it must have got squashed beneath the hat, but
when his eyes met hers she saw a spark of something hot that made her heart
jerk. Her hair was a golden-brown, fine and entirely without curl, completely
ordinary, yet Henry looked as though he wanted to reach out and touch it. She
saw him swallow hard. It was extraordinary. She felt hot and bewildered, but
excitement tingled in the pit of her stomach as she thought of his fingers
slipping through the strands.
She was glad when the ale came. It broke the rather odd silence
between them. Henry poured for them both from the pitcher. Margery took a
mouthful, looked up and saw Henry’s eyes on her, a gleam of humor in them.
“It tastes rougher than a badger’s pelt,” he murmured.
“I prefer it to wine,” Margery said. She could feel the ale
loosening her tongue already. It was indeed rough, with a kick like a mule.
“Mrs. Biddle tells me I should cultivate a taste for sherry if I am to be a
housekeeper in my turn,” she said, “but I find it too genteel a drink.”
“Do you want to be a housekeeper?” Henry enquired. “Is that not
the pinnacle of achievement for an upper servant?” He topped up her glass.
“Mrs. Biddle says that I could do it if I wished, for I am
already the youngest lady’s maid she has ever known.” She sighed. “Truth is, I
do not want to be a servant.”
Henry’s lips twitched into that irresistible smile that always
led her into indiscretion. “What do you want to be, Miss Mallon?”
“I want to be a confectioner,” Margery said in a rush. “I want
to have a shop and make comfits and marzipan cakes and sweetmeats. I want to own
my own business and sell my cakes to all the lords and ladies of the ton.”
Once again Henry’s eyes gleamed with that secret amusement. “It
is good to have ambition,” he murmured.
“But I need money to set myself up in business.” Margery
drooped. “I save all that I can from my wages—and the money that Billy pays me
for collecting old clothes for him—but it will never be enough to buy a
shop.”
Henry’s eyes met hers over the rim of his glass. “You had not
thought to…ah…raise funds another way?”
The spark in his eyes captured and held her. She saw
speculation there and desire that burned her and set her heart racing. She also
saw exactly, explicitly, what he was suggesting.
She took another gulp of the ale. “Certainly not. I told you I
was not a lightskirt! Besides—” even in her indignation she could not quite
escape the force of logic “—I am not certain that I would be in any way
successful enough to make the necessary capital.”
A corner
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