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Authors: Helen Dickson
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sister’s toilet. Even his expression was casual.
Looking at Lisette through the mirror Araminta eyed her in watchful curiosity, noticing her wandering attention and the soft flush that had risen to her cheeks when Ross had entered. She wondered what lay behind her maid’s lovely face, for she really was exceptionally beautiful and in the right clothes she would be stunning.
‘Tell me, Lisette, do you speak any other languages besides English?’
‘I speak Urdu and Hindustani,’ she answered, aware of Colonel Montague’s eyes observing her every move and willing herself not to think of it. ‘My parents taught me well and were quite insistent that I learn the language in order to understand the people and the culture of India.’
‘That must have been difficult.’
‘Not really. I was young so it came naturally.’ Suddenly she felt like disappearing into the floor, for her announcement might have sounded like boasting and probably branded her a bluestocking in her mistress’s eyes. But it had done no such thing. It had only increased her mistress’s growing respect for this unusual maid of hers.
‘Do you play the pianoforte and sing too?’ Ross asked with a teasing smile.
Lisette returned his smile through the mirror and said, ‘Oh, no. I can’t do either. I gave up the piano in frustration, and when I opened my mouth to sing, to my immense relief my mother covered her ears and gave up on me.’
‘And do you like working here, Lisette?’ Araminta asked.
‘Of course. I consider myself extremely fortunate to be working for such a fine family.’
‘I am glad my brother brought you to my attention.’
‘Our meeting on the docks was brief. I’m surprised he remembered me at all.’
‘I’m not. You’re very pretty, Lisette. Exceptionally so, and never have I seen hair so dark as to be almost black—in fact, I do believe it is. It’s a beautiful shade—exotic, even, the perfect frame for your features and creamy skin. Do you not agree, Ross?’
Caught completely off guard, Ross said cautiously, ‘Forgive me, Araminta, I’m not sure what you mean?’
‘Either you’re extremely unobservant or else your eyesight is afflicted. I was talking about Lisette’s hair. It’s quite extraordinary, don’t you agree?’
‘I am sure Colonel Montague has many things to think about other than my hair, Miss Araminta,’ Lisette remarked. ‘It is black and quite ordinary, which I do not find in the least exciting and is a common shade in India.’
‘You don’t like it,’ Ross summarized.
‘Not really,’ she answered, touching Araminta’s light brown tresses with something like envy in her eyes, ‘but one must be satisfied with what one is born with. I would imagine that living in India and seeing nothing but dusky skins and black-haired natives day in and day out you would find monotonous, Colonel Montague.’
‘Not at all—quite the opposite, in fact,’ he replied, his gaze shifting to that exotic hair twisted and coiled neatly about Miss Napier’s well-shaped head, with not a hair out of place. His fingers ached to release it from the pins and to let the heavy mass tumble in waves over her shoulders and down her back, to run his fingers through the tresses and to smell its fragrance.
It began to register on Lisette that the expression on his face wasn’t dislike at all. In fact, he really did look almost admiring—and she saw something primitive flare in his eyes, which stirred her alarm and which she chose to ignore. Meeting his gaze she favoured him with an irrepressible sidewise smile. ‘You mean you really do like it?’
Ross liked it. He liked every damn thing about her. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to thrust his sister out of the room and snatch Miss Napier into his arms, to kiss the smiling mischief from her lips until she was clinging to him, melting with desire. She’d indicated a feminine concern about her hair, then calmly accepted it. This gave him the distinct
Looking at Lisette through the mirror Araminta eyed her in watchful curiosity, noticing her wandering attention and the soft flush that had risen to her cheeks when Ross had entered. She wondered what lay behind her maid’s lovely face, for she really was exceptionally beautiful and in the right clothes she would be stunning.
‘Tell me, Lisette, do you speak any other languages besides English?’
‘I speak Urdu and Hindustani,’ she answered, aware of Colonel Montague’s eyes observing her every move and willing herself not to think of it. ‘My parents taught me well and were quite insistent that I learn the language in order to understand the people and the culture of India.’
‘That must have been difficult.’
‘Not really. I was young so it came naturally.’ Suddenly she felt like disappearing into the floor, for her announcement might have sounded like boasting and probably branded her a bluestocking in her mistress’s eyes. But it had done no such thing. It had only increased her mistress’s growing respect for this unusual maid of hers.
‘Do you play the pianoforte and sing too?’ Ross asked with a teasing smile.
Lisette returned his smile through the mirror and said, ‘Oh, no. I can’t do either. I gave up the piano in frustration, and when I opened my mouth to sing, to my immense relief my mother covered her ears and gave up on me.’
‘And do you like working here, Lisette?’ Araminta asked.
‘Of course. I consider myself extremely fortunate to be working for such a fine family.’
‘I am glad my brother brought you to my attention.’
‘Our meeting on the docks was brief. I’m surprised he remembered me at all.’
‘I’m not. You’re very pretty, Lisette. Exceptionally so, and never have I seen hair so dark as to be almost black—in fact, I do believe it is. It’s a beautiful shade—exotic, even, the perfect frame for your features and creamy skin. Do you not agree, Ross?’
Caught completely off guard, Ross said cautiously, ‘Forgive me, Araminta, I’m not sure what you mean?’
‘Either you’re extremely unobservant or else your eyesight is afflicted. I was talking about Lisette’s hair. It’s quite extraordinary, don’t you agree?’
‘I am sure Colonel Montague has many things to think about other than my hair, Miss Araminta,’ Lisette remarked. ‘It is black and quite ordinary, which I do not find in the least exciting and is a common shade in India.’
‘You don’t like it,’ Ross summarized.
‘Not really,’ she answered, touching Araminta’s light brown tresses with something like envy in her eyes, ‘but one must be satisfied with what one is born with. I would imagine that living in India and seeing nothing but dusky skins and black-haired natives day in and day out you would find monotonous, Colonel Montague.’
‘Not at all—quite the opposite, in fact,’ he replied, his gaze shifting to that exotic hair twisted and coiled neatly about Miss Napier’s well-shaped head, with not a hair out of place. His fingers ached to release it from the pins and to let the heavy mass tumble in waves over her shoulders and down her back, to run his fingers through the tresses and to smell its fragrance.
It began to register on Lisette that the expression on his face wasn’t dislike at all. In fact, he really did look almost admiring—and she saw something primitive flare in his eyes, which stirred her alarm and which she chose to ignore. Meeting his gaze she favoured him with an irrepressible sidewise smile. ‘You mean you really do like it?’
Ross liked it. He liked every damn thing about her. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to thrust his sister out of the room and snatch Miss Napier into his arms, to kiss the smiling mischief from her lips until she was clinging to him, melting with desire. She’d indicated a feminine concern about her hair, then calmly accepted it. This gave him the distinct
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