Read Online What a Lady Demands by Ashlyn Macnamara - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ashlyn Macnamara
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muslin day dress, still wrinkled from their abandoned constitutional this morning. “What you’ve got on is just fine.”
“But what about Jeremy?” As governess, she’d expected to oversee his meals.
“One of the maids will bring a tray as usual.” One had yesterday, in fact, but Cecelia had assumed that deviation was part of her settling in. “They know the routine. Now come along. His lordship doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“No, of course not,” she replied faintly. And here she’d hoped to take advantage of the meal to learn a bit more about her charge. At least she’d discover if he liked his greens or not. “Jeremy, if you’d like to keep practicing on your own, you may.”
He nodded, a brief jerk of his head that allowed him to keep concentrating on his letters, but that movement showed on the page as a blot in the middle of an
m.
Pursing her lips, Cecelia followed Mrs. Carstairs from the room.
Heavens, Lord Lindenhurst went about matters strangely. Cecelia could never once recall her governess being required to take a meal with her parents. They’d always eaten together in the nursery as a mannerly little family of their own, she and Jane and Alexander and Miss Knightley.
The housekeeper trooped down two staircases, winding along ever-widening passages toward the receiving rooms. But Mrs. Carstairs bypassed the dining room. Cecelia remembered formal meals taken in the dark-paneled space, as a guest of her brother’s friend.
Instead, the housekeeper came to a halt in front of Lindenhurst’s study.
Lindenhurst himself sat behind his desk. A tray before him bore a plate heaped with roast beef, potatoes, and vegetables. A crystal glass of rich red wine stood near his right hand, its fragile stem awaiting his fingers. Several of the staff lined the wall opposite the desk, each man holding himself stiff, hands behind his back—like soldiers on guard—and not one of them seemed to have any means of partaking of the meal. Indeed, other than Lindenhurst’s plate, no other food appeared to be in the offing.
Mrs. Carstairs filed in behind Cecelia and took the spot next to the butler. Lindenhurst looked up, and with a glare and a curt nod, Cecelia slipped to the end of the line.
Silence reigned while Lindenhurst cut into his meat. He dipped a bite into a rich-looking sauce and forked it into his mouth. The food’s rich aroma tantalized Cecelia’s nostrils and reminded her she hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. The cup of tea in Mrs. Carstairs’s rooms hardly counted.
Lindenhurst swallowed his mouthful. “Smithers.”
“Yes, my lord.” The butler snapped himself straighter, hands at his sides, truly a soldier at attention. “I’ve taken inventory of the silver, and it’s been polished for the week. I’ve given orders to the first footman to remove the carpets in the morning room for cleaning and…”
As Smithers continued his report, Cecelia kept her gaze riveted on that plate of food, shadowing every last forkful to Lindenhurst’s mouth, watching the movement of his jaw as he chewed, tracking the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed a mouthful of wine. Fluffy potatoes dripped with butter. The carrots swam in a sauce flavored with orange, if the scent reaching her nose was any indication.
Her stomach gave a growl, and she pressed her hands to her belly, glancing sideways to see if anyone had noticed. Every last one of the staff kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Trained, yes, and wasn’t that the most apt expression? They’d known what to expect and had doubtless come prepared. She made a mental note to request a substantial tea next Tuesday.
Smithers finished his report, and Lindenhurst called on the next man, a complete stranger to Cecelia, the head gardener, based on his report and his rough dress.
She glanced sideways down the line. But for Smithers, the housekeeper, and the head groom, every single face was new to her. She searched through her memories of
“But what about Jeremy?” As governess, she’d expected to oversee his meals.
“One of the maids will bring a tray as usual.” One had yesterday, in fact, but Cecelia had assumed that deviation was part of her settling in. “They know the routine. Now come along. His lordship doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“No, of course not,” she replied faintly. And here she’d hoped to take advantage of the meal to learn a bit more about her charge. At least she’d discover if he liked his greens or not. “Jeremy, if you’d like to keep practicing on your own, you may.”
He nodded, a brief jerk of his head that allowed him to keep concentrating on his letters, but that movement showed on the page as a blot in the middle of an
m.
Pursing her lips, Cecelia followed Mrs. Carstairs from the room.
Heavens, Lord Lindenhurst went about matters strangely. Cecelia could never once recall her governess being required to take a meal with her parents. They’d always eaten together in the nursery as a mannerly little family of their own, she and Jane and Alexander and Miss Knightley.
The housekeeper trooped down two staircases, winding along ever-widening passages toward the receiving rooms. But Mrs. Carstairs bypassed the dining room. Cecelia remembered formal meals taken in the dark-paneled space, as a guest of her brother’s friend.
Instead, the housekeeper came to a halt in front of Lindenhurst’s study.
Lindenhurst himself sat behind his desk. A tray before him bore a plate heaped with roast beef, potatoes, and vegetables. A crystal glass of rich red wine stood near his right hand, its fragile stem awaiting his fingers. Several of the staff lined the wall opposite the desk, each man holding himself stiff, hands behind his back—like soldiers on guard—and not one of them seemed to have any means of partaking of the meal. Indeed, other than Lindenhurst’s plate, no other food appeared to be in the offing.
Mrs. Carstairs filed in behind Cecelia and took the spot next to the butler. Lindenhurst looked up, and with a glare and a curt nod, Cecelia slipped to the end of the line.
Silence reigned while Lindenhurst cut into his meat. He dipped a bite into a rich-looking sauce and forked it into his mouth. The food’s rich aroma tantalized Cecelia’s nostrils and reminded her she hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. The cup of tea in Mrs. Carstairs’s rooms hardly counted.
Lindenhurst swallowed his mouthful. “Smithers.”
“Yes, my lord.” The butler snapped himself straighter, hands at his sides, truly a soldier at attention. “I’ve taken inventory of the silver, and it’s been polished for the week. I’ve given orders to the first footman to remove the carpets in the morning room for cleaning and…”
As Smithers continued his report, Cecelia kept her gaze riveted on that plate of food, shadowing every last forkful to Lindenhurst’s mouth, watching the movement of his jaw as he chewed, tracking the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed a mouthful of wine. Fluffy potatoes dripped with butter. The carrots swam in a sauce flavored with orange, if the scent reaching her nose was any indication.
Her stomach gave a growl, and she pressed her hands to her belly, glancing sideways to see if anyone had noticed. Every last one of the staff kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Trained, yes, and wasn’t that the most apt expression? They’d known what to expect and had doubtless come prepared. She made a mental note to request a substantial tea next Tuesday.
Smithers finished his report, and Lindenhurst called on the next man, a complete stranger to Cecelia, the head gardener, based on his report and his rough dress.
She glanced sideways down the line. But for Smithers, the housekeeper, and the head groom, every single face was new to her. She searched through her memories of
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