“I’ll Wait for You Forever.”

Heartbroken when her childhood love never returned, Rose Smith soon learned she had even greater worries—she carried his child. Ten years later as a housemaid in London, she encounters Samuel Blackstone. The kind youth she adored has turned bitter with success. Feeling out of place in Sam’s high-society world, Rose fears what he may do when he learns of their son….

A wealthy stockbroker, Sam is used to getting what he wants. And when he learns that Rose bore him a son, he wants to claim his family. But he’ll have to convince Rose to trust him again if he’s to have any hope of meeting the boy…or recapturing her heart.

“I’m not excusing my behavior—”

“Good.”

Sam stiffened imperceptibly. Rose doubted he’d been treated with anything less than deference in ages. Where she got the brass to be cheeky she didn’t know, but remembering he had the power to alter her life for the worse, she thought better of acting outright insolent.

His lips tightened, but he soldiered on. “I had hoped you might consider forgiving me on account of our past...association. We were good friends once, or don’t you remember?”

Her fingers tightened into the arms of the padded leather armrest. As far as she was concerned, the word friend was an insult to what they’d shared. He’d been her reason to wake up each morning and her last thought each night. Even now, there were nights when he filled her dreams. Without him, she’d been wretched. The world had been fierce and frigid. If not for the Lord and His guiding hand, she didn’t know where she’d be.

“How could I forget?” she whispered.

CARLA CAPSHAW

Florida native Carla Capshaw is a preacher’s kid who grew up grateful for her Christian home and loving family. Always dreaming of being a writer and world traveler, she followed her wanderlust around the globe, including a year spent in the People’s Republic of China, before beginning work on her first novel.

A two-time RWA Golden Heart Award winner and double RITA® Award finalist, Carla loves passionate stories with compelling, nearly impossible conflicts. She’s found that inspirational historical romance is the perfect vehicle to combine lush settings, vivid characters and a Christian worldview. Currently at work on her next manuscript for Love Inspired Historical, she still lives in Florida, but is always planning her next trip…and plotting her next story.

Carla loves to hear from readers. To contact her, visit www.carlacapshaw.com or write to Carla@carlacapshaw.com.

Second Chance Cinderella

Carla Capshaw

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.

—Psalms 119:105

To Dottie, her favorite Andrew and our second chance at friendship.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Dear Reader:

Extract

Prologue

Devonshire, England

November, 1833

“Please don’t cry, Rosie.” Sam Blackstone gazed into the glistening blue eyes of the only girl he’d ever loved.

A few feet away, Ezra Stark’s magnificent coach stood ready to convey him to London and a new life filled with possibilities—a far cry from sleepy Ashby Croft, with its cob-n-thatch cottages and meandering muddy lanes that led to nowhere.

Rose’s slender fingers curled around the frayed edges of his open coat front. “I’m afraid you won’t come back to me,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t be a daft little goose.” He tried to cajole a smile from her, but the effort was a lost cause.

Painfully aware she’d been abandoned by everyone else who should have cared for her, he pulled her close and breathed in the light scent of rosewater she’d favored ever since he’d bought a bottle for her birthday last spring.

Her sadness tore at his heart. She’d endured more disappointment and hardship in her sixteen years than a soul should have to bear in a lifetime. All he wanted was to make her happy.

He kissed the top of her head, savoring the feel of her in his arms. He dreaded leaving her, but he had to go. Mr. Stark had made it clear he wanted to be away before the village fully awakened.

“Listen to me, luv.” Sam dabbed Rosie’s tear-streaked face with the embroidered handkerchief she’d fashioned for him last Christmas. “This is our chance. Mr. Stark thinks I have a real gift for numbers. The clerk’s position he’s offered me is a stunner of a job. At sixty quid a year there’ll be no need for more gambling or thieving to earn our daily crust.”

He motioned to the ramshackle inn across the rutted street where she slaved as a maid for a pittance. The stagecoach waited out front and several travelers were already milling about in preparation to leave. “I want more for you than working your fingers to the bone day in and day out. Maybe someday we can even buy a cottage by the sea like we always dreamed of.”

“But...” She glanced nervously toward the gleaming lacquered coach and matched team of four gray horses nickering impatiently. “What if Mr. Stark isn’t who he claims ta be? What if—”

“He is, Rosie, no doubt. I told you before, if you’d seen how high-an-mighty Sir Percival was bowing and scraping around him you’d know you needn’t fret.” He tucked the handkerchief in his coat pocket and cupped her shoulders. The threadbare gloves she’d darned for him too many times to count did little to protect his callused hands from the late-autumn chill.

A gust of wind tugged at the brim of Rose’s worn brown cap, exposing her golden-blond hair. Having grown up as orphans, neither of them was used to the fineries of life, but if he had his way, it wouldn’t be long before she was turned out in the softest linen and richest silks. She deserved jewels and servants to see to her every whim. He was bound and determined to give them to her.

“I’ll be back from London within a month...afore the trees are bare. I’ll save every ha’penny and the minute I come back we’ll get married just as we always said we would.”

A ray of sunlight pierced the gloomy morning. A tremulous smile turned her soft, pink lips. “I like the sound of that. It’s about time I brought you up to scratch.”

“And here I was thinking I’d finally be making an honest woman of you.” He grinned. “Jus’ proves how much we need each other.”

Her faint smile faltered. “I can’t help feeling something bad is bound to happen.”

“Worrywart.” He tweaked her chin and laughed, despite the tightness banding his chest. How he dreaded leaving her when she was so afraid. They’d never been parted more than a day or two, but there was no help for it if they were ever to be more than a pair of bootlickers. “I’m going to town, not to war, sweetheart. Besides, even if I turned up my toes—”

“Don’t say that!” She leaned back in the circle of his arms, her stricken gaze pinned to his face. “I couldn’t bear it if you were taken from me forever.”

“You could never be rid of me for good. We’re a pair, you and me—the sand and surf, the moon and stars—”

“A goose and ’er gander?”

“Exactly.” He chuckled, relieved to see her smile. His thumb brushed tenderly across her wind-reddened cheek. He pulled her back against his chest, pleased by her wish for him to stay. His mother, whoever she was, had discarded him on the steps of the orphans’ asylum and no one else had ever cared a whit about him, except Rosie. “You have to know you’re all that matters to me. All I’ll ever care about.”

She sniffed against the rough wool of his shirtfront. “You say that now, but you might meet someone, a pretty London miss who—”

“Silly girl.” He squeezed her, snorting at such nonsense. She was as irreplaceable to him as his own heart. He’d been a lad of three the first time he saw her, a red-faced infant who’d been dumped on the orphanage doorstep. Even then he’d known she’d be important to him. In the sixteen years since, they’d become inseparable. She was everything to him, the reason he breathed and dreamed.

He nuzzled her ear. Squeezing his eyes shut, he missed her already. “I love you,” he said gruffly.

Her arms tightened around his waist. “You know I love you, too. More than anything.”

A few feet away, the coach’s door swung open. The forbidding presence of Ezra Stark remained out of sight inside the magnificent conveyance, but there was no mistaking his tone. “It’s time, Blackstone. Or have you reconsidered my offer?”

Sam stared at the tufted, burgundy velvet lining the door. The luxurious fabric probably cost more coin than he managed to scrape together in a year. How grand it would be to be like Ezra Stark who, according to the lads down at the pub, had more wealth than he could spend in ten lifetimes.

The shadowed figure moved within the coach. “The day is wasting, man. Make your choice.”

Now that the moment of reckoning had arrived, Sam wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life to leave all that he knew and everything he held dear. His hand still clasped in Rose’s tight grip, he took a step forward then stopped. His gaze darted back to Rose. Her chin quivered.

If she asks me to stay once more, I won’t go. I won’t rest till I find a position in service somewhere and—

“I sketched this for you.” She reached into her dress pocket, extracted a small roll of paper and handed it to him. “Don’t look at it until you’re gone. Promise you’ll come to fetch me as soon as you can, Sam. I know you want to find us a proper place to live, but I don’t need anything grand. I only need you.”

An ache swelling in his chest, he ignored Ezra Stark’s silent demand for him to hasten and accepted the gift. He leaned forward and kissed Rose’s cold lips, committing their softness and her warm response to memory. “You have my word as long as you promise you’ll wait for me.”

“Now who’s being a silly gander?” She pasted on a brave smile. The rain began to fall, helping to disguise her tears, but he wasn’t fooled. Pulling her crocheted shawl tighter around her shoulders, she hugged her small waist. Deep-blue eyes watched him with equal parts of uncertainty and trust. “Never doubt me, Sam. I’ll wait for you forever if need be,” she promised as he climbed into the coach.

Chapter One

London, England

September, 1842

It was the woman’s hair that drew Sam Blackstone’s full attention. The waterfall of gold tumbling down her narrow back from beneath a serviceable black bonnet reminded him of Rose Smith. As the blonde disappeared into the sea of pedestrians, his mood soured that same instant. The last thing he wanted or needed was a morning poisoned by memories of the past.

Relying on the years of strict mental discipline he’d employed to rise from being a village ne’er-do-well to one of London’s most prominent stockbrokers, he forced memories of Rose’s betrayal from his mind and descended the wide front steps of his elegant Mayfair townhouse.

In the past nine years, he’d played the game well and few challenges remained. He’d acquired more wealth than he’d ever dreamed as a young orphan in Ashby Croft. Far from going to bed with an empty stomach gnawing his ribs, sleeping in a drafty hovel and wearing itchy rags, he dined on delicacies, lived in a mansion and dressed in the finest Savile Row suits. Few rivaled his influence in financial circles. His advice on monetary matters was sought by everyone from potato farmers to Parliament members.

His driver opened the coach’s door. Sam climbed in and sat heavily on the black, embossed leather seat, impatient to get underway.

As he waited, his gaze slid back to the Georgian edifice he’d acquired three years earlier. The echoing monstrosity boasted every luxury and admirably performed its duty to impress, but the residence was devoid of human warmth or cheer. He much preferred to spend his waking hours at the city offices of Stark, Winters and Blackstone or overseeing the firm’s vigorous trade of commodities at the Exchange in Capel Court.

“Beggin’ yer pardon for the delay, sir,” his driver, Gibson, said over the din of the busy street. “Oxford’s in a tangle. The fine weather’s drawn everyone out. I ’spect there’s nary a church mouse to be found indoors at present.”

The coach finally pulled away from the curb. The pungent aroma of horseflesh and smoke carried on the air. Sam consulted his pocket watch before extracting several reports from the leather portfolio he’d brought with him. Not one to waste time when there was more wealth to be gleaned, he shuffled through the pages.

The list of figures blurred and the brisk activity all around him faded as his mind wandered to the taunting vision of the woman with blond hair. Something about the stranger beckoned him to find her, but he remained in his seat, determined to shut her out with a stubbornness that bordered on vice. She was nothing and no one to him. True, she’d been of similar height and build as Rose. And that golden hair—such a unique color. What if, by some twist of fate, Rose had come up to London and—

He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, dispelling the wild notion before his imagination grew to unrealistic proportions. Nine years had come and gone since he’d left tiny Ashby Croft. He was never going to see Rose again, and frankly, good riddance. Far from waiting for him as she’d promised, she’d married another bloke within months of his leaving. If a heart could break into a thousand jagged pieces, his had the day he’d returned to Devonshire to collect her and learned she’d thrown him over for someone else.

As much as he’d tried to forget her, the foul taste of her faithlessness had tainted every day for him since.

Despising the black mood overtaking him, he stuffed the reports back into the portfolio and closed the latch. The flow of vehicles congesting the street had slowed to a standstill. “How much longer, Gibson?” he demanded. “The ’Change opens in an hour.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Bother this.” Sam thrust the door open and climbed down from the vehicle. “I’m certain I’ll find the pace more brisk if I walk. Pick me up at half past six as usual...if you manage to be free by then.”

“Forgive me, sir, but shall I make that half past five? I overheard Cook say you was dinin’ with guests tonight.”

Sam frowned. He’d forgotten all about his dinner companions, including Lord Sanbourne and his beguiling daughter, Amelia, who was to serve as his hostess for the evening. “Right you are, Gibson. Half past five.”

The driver tipped his cap with a quick, “Aye, sir,” before pulling along the curb and setting the brake. The matched pair of gray geldings hitched to the conveyance whinnied and shook their heads as though disappointed by the loss of their morning exercise.

Portfolio in hand, Sam started off, shouldering his way through the occasional gaps that opened between his fellow pedestrians. He pressed his top hat tighter to his head to keep it from being dislodged by one of the frequent gusts of wind. At Oxford Street a seemingly endless row of traffic forced him to wait on the crowded corner.

“My, what a glorious day,” a lady in front of him cooed, nearly poking him in the eye with her ruffled parasol.

“Indeed, ’tis marvelous,” her elegant companion agreed.

Sam supposed it was true. The sun shone with undaunted enthusiasm, and rather than fog or London’s usual gray haze of coal smoke, the air seemed clear for once. Pots of flowers graced the steps and entryways of the grand terraces on both sides of the busy thoroughfare. Their late-summer blooms shone in shades of bright pink, fiery-red and, to Sam’s everlasting irritation, a golden-yellow that once again reminded him of Rose’s burnished hair.

Gritting his teeth, he headed toward Regent Street.

He wasn’t one for mysteries. He understood himself well enough to know that if he didn’t at least try to ascertain the truth of the blonde’s identity his imagination would pester him forever.

Aware of the unlikelihood of finding the stranger in the crush of people and that a solid quarter of an hour had passed since he’d first caught sight of her, he soldiered on as though some insistent, yet invisible force were pulling him forward.

Half a block later he began to wonder if he should retire to Bedlam. If there’d ever been a wild-goose chase, he was on it. Feeling foolish to his core, he scanned the hustle and bustle along the street and shook his head at his own stupidity. The woman, whoever she was, had disappeared like a vapor in the wind.

Annoyed by the bitter disappointment that assailed him, he wedged the portfolio under his arm, removed his top hat and combed a hand through his short, black hair. With a sinking heart, he wondered if he’d ever be truly free of Rose Smith.

His hat back in place, he was determined to forget the blonde and the lunacy that compelled him to chase after her. The pounding of workmen’s hammers making repairs on the row of buildings behind him mixed with the call of newspaper boys and the clamor of horses and carriages. In the distance, the bass notes of a church bell announced the ninth hour.

A momentary break in the rank of pedestrians allowed him a glimpse of his quarry on the corner at the next block. His heart kicked against his ribs. He sprinted after her, her lovely hair drawing him like a lodestar as he pushed through the gaggle of people meandering along the footpath.

A gust of wind swished the lady’s cape up and out behind her. She carried a battered valise he hadn’t noticed before, and the black garb she wore appeared to be the typical frock of a servant.

A passing barouche and row of horse carts impeded his progress at the corner of Holles Street. For a few, tension-filled moments he feared he’d lost her again, but the way cleared in time for him to see her stop in front of a Palladian townhouse on the east side of Cavendish Square. Although she stood in profile, the details of her face were obscured by the bill of her bonnet. Her head nodded as she looked from the front of the building to a piece of paper she held.

The paper gave him pause. Rose didn’t know how to read, or at least she hadn’t when he’d known her. Perhaps she’d learned in the past nine years, the same as he had acquired new skills and bettered himself.

He picked up his pace. “Rose!” he shouted, drawing startled looks from the other walkers, but he paid them no mind. “Rose!” he called again, dodging several horses as he crossed to the square. No response. Either she didn’t hear him over the activity in the street or he had the wrong woman altogether.

And yet she seemed so familiar. The fluid way she walked, the expressive tilt of her head... The cape she wore made it difficult to tell, but now that he’d had a better look, she seemed shapelier in the hips and bust than his Rose had been. But wasn’t that to be expected? She was no longer a girl of sixteen, but a mature woman of twenty-five.

The mystery lady disappeared down the townhouse steps leading to the servants’ entrance. Sam yanked off his hat and broke into a run. A door slammed just as he reached the front of the house. He moved to the narrow flight of steps he’d seen the woman take and stared at the scuffed black door that led to a basement and the source of the rich aromas filling the air.

Sam slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. He considered inquiring after the woman but discarded the notion. Servants were often a prickly lot with an abhorrence for being intruded upon by outsiders.

Besides, what would he do if he found out his quarry did happen to be Rose? Strangling her wasn’t an option and he doubted she’d come willingly to the door to hear his abysmal opinion of her.

He noted the address. The townhouse boasted mansion-size proportions, wide front steps, imposing columns and lead-glass windows. If he wasn’t mistaken, the edifice belonged to Baron Malbury, a shifty fellow who’d risen to his current status through the untimely death of his predecessor in a boating accident the previous month.

Sam had been reluctant to take on the self-important, nearly impoverished peer as a client, but if Malbury employed Rose, he’d have to reevaluate the situation and determine the best way to use the connection to his advantage.

Sam returned to the corner across the street and called to a newspaper boy leaning on the gas lamp.

“Aye, govna?” the boy rang out as he bounded over to him. A child of no more than seven or eight, he was unkempt with dirt smudges on his cheeks, his muddy-brown hair uncombed. His ragged clothes were too big for his scrawny frame and the hungry look about him reminded Sam of his own miserable childhood. “You wan’ ta buy a paypa?”

Sam shook his head. He’d already looked over The Times at breakfast. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Georgie, sir.”

“Well, Georgie, I have a proposition for you. How would you like to earn a quid for say...ten minutes of your time?”

Georgie’s brown eyes rounded with a hopeful eagerness he couldn’t quite hide. “If it ain’t on the up and up, me mum—”

“Oh, it’s honest, all right. You needn’t worry. I want you to go to the servants’ entrance of that residence—” he pointed to the Malbury mansion “—and ask if there’s a maid by the name of Rose employed there. If so, ask if her name was Rose Smith before she married. Do you think you could do that for me?”

“That’s all I ’ave to do for a ’ole quid?”

Sam nodded. His gaze slid back to the mansion. His eyes narrowed on the glossy front door. Curiosity burned in his veins. “Yes, and if you hurry I’ll give you two.”

Georgie took off at a flat run.

* * *

Praying she’d come to the right place, Rose knocked on the kitchen door. Ever since she’d become a Christian eight years ago, she’d relied on the Lord to direct her path. Relying on His guidance eased her mind when the shifting letters and numbers others seemed to read with ease made little sense to her.

The scuffed black door swung open. “Ye’re late,” said a young, frowning kitchen maid.

She blinked, surprised to see a woman instead of a footman answer the door. “I know. I apologize. The coach from Paddington station suffered a broken wheel.” Her heart racing from the mad pace she’d kept in her failed attempt to arrive on time, she switched her battered valise to her other hand and descended the final step into the basement. A blast of heat assaulted her along with the aroma of roasted fowl. “I had to walk the last few miles and I lost my way a bit. I came as quick as I could.”

The door slammed shut behind her as the dour-faced Scot ushered her farther into the entryway. A stone arch separated the small space from the ovens and activity of the kitchen beyond. The harried staff reminded her of the frantic crowds in the maze of streets outside.

“Then yoo’d best get settled an’ tae work straight awa’,” said the maid. Dressed in a column of black wool and a sullied white apron, the young woman inspected her with a quick, unimpressed glance. “I don’t ken how ye bumpkins in th’ coontry work, but our cook, Mrs. Pickles, isna a body for tardiness or excuses of any kind.”

Taking exception to being called a bumpkin, Rose bit back a tart reply as she followed the maid down a hallway that led to a spiral staircase. Before leaving Hopewell Manor, the Malbury family’s country estate where she’d been in service for the past eight years, she’d been forewarned of the infamous Mrs. Pickles’s reputation as a taskmaster. It was said the cook ran her kitchen like Wellington at Waterloo and with nearly as many casualties.

The mere thought of losing her job made Rose’s stomach churn. It was imperative that she make a favorable impression on the irascible woman who held Rose’s job in her hands. Rose was on excellent terms with the staff at Hopewell Manor and only in London for a fortnight to help with a shortage of trained servants in the townhouse kitchen, but that did not mean she couldn’t be dismissed. The tragic death of the previous baron and his wife had put the livelihood of every Malbury employee in jeopardy.

Apparently, the new baron had inherited the title and lands with very little coin to sustain the expenses that accompanied the prize. His servants worried he planned to terminate long-term staff in favor of importing cheaper, Irish labor. Nothing could be taken for granted, nor a foot placed wrong. She could not afford to be sacked. Finding another position was nigh impossible for anyone and doubly so for a woman in her precarious situation.

“My name is Rose Smith, by the way,” she said over the banging of pans and calls for more boiling water.

“Ah be Ina McDonald.”

“Have you been in service here long?” Rose asked as they reached the third floor.

“Six months. Five and a half too many if ye ask me. Min’, th’ auld baron an’ baroness were kind enough, but Mrs. Pickles makes every day a sour circumstance.” Ina took a skeleton key from her skirt pocket and unlocked a door across the hall. “Ye’ll be sharin’ quarters wi’ me whilst ye’re here. Keep yer belongings tae yer own side of the room an’ we’ll get on jus’ dandy.”

Rose found the converted attic similar in size to the room she shared with Andrew at Hopewell Manor. Her former employers had always displayed a unique sense of Christian charity toward their servants’ well-being and the snug space was pleasantly situated. Morning sunlight and a cool breeze streamed through two dormer windows dressed with faded blue curtains. Simple white moldings edged plastered walls painted in a cheerful shade of yellow.

Three single beds hugged the opposing sides of the room. Ina had claimed the one left of the door and arranged her few belongings with obvious care and neatness in mind.

“Hurry, if ye ken what’s good fur ye.” Ina headed back to work. In a rush to follow her, Rose moved to the bed nearest the windows and set her valise on the scuffed, but freshly swept wood floor. She would have to make up the bare mattress later.

She hung her cloak and bonnet on the wall hook at the end of the bed before opening her valise to fish for a fresh apron. The faint hint of talcum clung to the extra work frock, Sunday-best dress and other belongings that filled the case. With no more time to find the small mirror she’d brought, she did her best to repair her hair and repin the long blond tendrils that had bounced free when the coach suffered its broken wheel. She wished she could remove her shoes and rub her throbbing feet. They ached from miles of walking and she had a long day ahead of her.

As she stood to tie the apron around her waist, she glanced out the window and took in the bird’s-eye view. Amid the colorful parasols and scurry of pedestrians, a tall man on the corner of the square across the street drew her attention. The refined dark business suit and top hat he wore vouched for his importance, but there was a solitary quality about him that she recognized in herself.

Despite the need to make haste, she remained nailed to the floor. The distance between her perch and the square kept her from seeing the gentleman’s face. She willed him to move closer.

Instead, the newspaper boy he spoke with darted toward the Malbury townhouse whilst the man turned his back to her and made for one of the ornate, wrought-iron benches set along the gravel path. Tension wafted off him in waves.

A flock of pigeons scattered like feathers in the wind, jolting Rose from her musings. With no more time to spare, she dragged herself from the window and shut the door behind her as she left the room.

The stirring of curiosity toward the stranger surprised her. Not since Sam had she noticed a man with any personal interest on her part. After all they’d meant to each other, he’d simply forgotten her. He’d been gone for over a year before she’d given up all hope and admitted to herself that he’d cast her off the same as everyone else in her life had done. In turn, she’d banished him from her heart and mind—or at least tried to.

“How good of you to join us,” a stern voice said the moment Rose reached the bottom of the stairs. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust well enough to see the gaunt, gray-haired woman in spectacles at the opposite end of the hot, dimly lit corridor.

“I am the household’s cook, Mrs. Pickles. You shall report to me or the housekeeper, Mrs. Biddle, while you are employed here. Ina informed me your less than punctual arrival this morning is due to the state of the roads and an unreliable vehicle. I shall let the incident pass this once, but do not test me on future occasions. I do not abide tardiness in my kitchen. Since we’re short staffed, you will work as a between maid whilst you’re here. However, since the lion’s share of your time will be spent in the kitchen and scullery, rather than the rest of the house, you shall look to me should you have any questions. You are expected to be ready for work promptly at half past five each morning. To my way of thinking Mrs. Michaels allows you far too many liberties at Hopewell Manor. Be mindful that those privileges won’t be extended here.”

A ring of keys she extracted from her pocket jangled as she unlocked and opened a dark-paneled door. “What are you waiting for? Come into my office, and be brisk about it, if you please.”

Rose’s black skirts swished around her ankles as she rushed past the older woman whose rigid spine, stiff shoulders and prim collar made Rose wonder if she’d bathed in starch.

The spotless office smelled of pine oil and drying herbs. A battered bookcase bowed with old crockery and receipt books stood in one corner. Rose checked her posture and waited like the wayward servant Mrs. Pickles apparently believed she was. The cook folded into the chair behind the heavy oak desk with the ease of bending stone and removed her wire-rimmed spectacles.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Pickles released Rose to work. Armed with the names of her superiors, the litany of her duties, a lecture on propriety and a key to her room, Rose aimed for the door.

“And one last thing,” Mrs. Pickles said the moment Rose turned the smooth brass doorknob. “I trust you aren’t in any trouble. Your personal difficulties won’t be tolerated in this household.”

Rose paused, unable to hazard a guess as to what the cook meant by that cryptic remark. Was she warning her against the prospect of bringing Andrew up to London? “I assure you I’m only here to do my duties to the best of my ability, ma’am. I’m grateful for my place at Hopewell Manor and look forward to returning there once you no longer require my assistance. If you’re referring to my son, he’s staying with a relative in the country. I assure you I have no intention of bringing him here.”

Mrs. Pickles returned her spectacles to the bridge of her nose before folding her hands into a tight knot on the desktop. “Ah, yes, the child.” Her thin lips curled distastefully. “Michaels mentioned him when she wrote to me about you. It seems everyone at Hopewell Manor, including the former master and his family, is quite taken with the pair of you. However, you are no pet here. I warn you that I’m wise to women of your questionable character, who put on airs and mimic their betters—”

“Pardon?” Rose grew hot in the face. She didn’t mimic anyone. Aware that most people considered her far beneath their notice, she’d made a concerted effort to capitalize on the education she’d received while living at the orphanage.

Although her inability to learn to read embarrassed her, she’d striven in other ways to improve herself. She had no wish to disgrace her son or give the other parents and children additional reasons to look down on him because of her lowly background or poor speech.

“—and bear children out of wedlock, then take advantage of the charity of others. Be aware that this is a respectable household. If you wish to sell your favors or dangle men on a string, then I suggest you go elsewhere for I’ll have none of your antics taking place under this roof.”

Offended to her core but forced to tread lightly lest she lose her much-needed employment, Rose prayed the Lord would guard her mouth. “Mrs. Pickles, I’ve made mistakes in the past to be sure, but I promise you I don’t participate in the behavior you’ve described.”

“Then be so good as to explain why, within minutes of your arrival, a boy came to inquire about you at the behest of a man waiting across the street.”

“A boy?” She frowned.

“Yes, the paper hawker from the opposite corner. He asked if Rose Smith worked in service here. When Miss McDonald told him you did, he explained about the man who’d sent him, then promptly ran away.”

The image of the well-dressed gentleman popped into her mind and an unexpected surge of excitement made her heart flutter. “Did the lad happen to mention the gentleman’s name?”

Mrs. Pickles shook her head. “Am I to assume you may be familiar with the identity of your admirer?”

“No, ma’am.” Rose’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “I haven’t the slightest idea why anyone would seek me out. This is my first venture to London and other than asking for directions from a rag woman a few streets over, I’ve spoken to no one.”

Mrs. Pickles stood, her expression skeptical. “You may claim you’re not looking for a man, but according to the boy, there is definitely one looking for you.”

“I assure you, ma’am, I—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve no idea who he might be,” the cook said. “We shall see. Off to work you go. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

Rose wasted no time leaving the office and making her way to the scullery. Smarting from the housekeeper’s accusatory manner, she despised her lowly lot in life and her inability to defend herself. The foul odors rising from the buckets lined against the stone wall gagged her. Towers of breakfast dishes stood beside the sink filled with food-crusted pots and pans. Dampness from shallow puddles on the floor pervaded the small, windowless closet of a room.

Resentment rippled through her. Thanks to someone else’s whim, she’d been sentenced to the kitchen’s dungeon once more. The years she’d spent toiling her way up to kitchen maid, then cook’s assistant might as well have never been.

After fetching and heating the necessary buckets of water, she filled the sink and rolled up her sleeves before placing a stack of plates in to soak. She reminded herself to be grateful she had a job at all. The walk through London’s crowded, fetid streets this morning had proven she could ill afford to be particular. At the best of times, females had few, if any, real choices and a woman like her—with a young child to care for and no husband to rely on—had fewer options still.

Thankfully, she wasn’t alone. She had the Lord to depend on and He had yet to fail her. She never forgot that before she loved Him, He had loved her. Even in her darkest hours, when she’d been near starving, expecting a child and leeched of hope that Sam would ever return, He had not forsaken her. Instead, He’d brought Harry Keen into her life and then the Malburys, a loving and godly family who cared more for people than convention. Without them and their willingness to take her on despite her being an expectant mother, she would never have been able to keep Andrew or supply a roof over their heads.

Picking up two of the buckets by their rope handles, she headed outdoors. The thought of losing Andrew chilled her to the marrow. He was a gift from the Lord and the center of her existence. She’d do anything to protect him, to ensure he remained with her and in the happiest home she could provide. If that meant scrubbing pots and pans until her fingers bled, then that’s what she would do.

The first luncheon dishes arrived to be washed just as she finished drying the last pan from breakfast. By midafternoon, her hands were raw from the hot water and strong soap, and her feet ached from the hours she’d spent standing on the unyielding stone floor. It was a great relief when Ina fetched her to help the chambermaid make beds upstairs.

Early evening found Rose back in the scullery, another teetering mountain of pots and pans beside the sink to be washed. Hearing Mrs. Pickles’s joyless voice in the corridor set her teeth on edge. She glanced around for a bucket to empty outside as an excuse to escape the stern woman.

“Smith, there you are.” The cook stopped in the doorway. “I have revised instructions for you tonight.”

Rose faced the older woman. “What am I to do, ma’am?”

Mrs. Pickles dried her hands on her long, white apron. “You’re to go with Ina to a house on Hanover Square. There’s a well-to-do gentleman, a Mr. Samuels, I believe, who is short staffed for a dinner party he’s hosting this evening. Baron Malbury is keen to win his favor and has graciously offered to send the two of you to assist.”

“When are we to leave?” She wrung out her dishrag and laid it over the edge of the sink to dry.

“Immediately. I’ve already given the address to Ina. Be certain you change your apron before you depart. You look like day-old porridge,” she tossed over her shoulder as she left.

Rose wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple and pushed back the damp tendrils of hair falling around her face. As she climbed the stairs to her room, she removed the offending apron and wished she could crawl into bed. Exhaustion crippled her. Considering the day had started with a carriage accident before dawn and gone progressively downhill from there, she began to wonder what trials the night held in store.

A downpour accompanied Rose’s unfamiliar trek through Mayfair’s confusing maze of slippery cobblestones and fog-shrouded streets. Her shoes squeaked from more than one dunk in a mud puddle and her soggy bonnet had quit shielding her face from the rain two blocks earlier.

The short jaunt should have been uneventful, but due to a pugnacious individual who seemed to believe he owned the entire footpath, Ina had been pushed off the curb and sent reeling into an open sewer. Her twisted ankle and filthy skirts left her unfit for work. After calling a hack to convey the other girl home, Rose had pressed on alone.

Shivering and keenly aware that she was late for the second time in the same day, Rose made use of the knocker on the glossy, black kitchen door of the Samuels’s townhouse. As she always did when visiting a new place, she worried she’d misread the address and come to the wrong establishment.

The door swung open. Heat from the stove and the delicious scents of savory dishes emanated from the large work area beyond. A uniformed footman stared down at her.

“Hello, I’m Rose—”

“My name is Robert. Weren’t there to be two of you?”

“Yes.” She explained about Ina’s predicament. “She twisted her ankle and had to return home.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re late?”

She nodded.

“The master’s waiting for you and his guests are expected soon. Follow me.” The footman stepped back to allow her entrance into the warm, cavernous basement that smelled of herbs and cinnamon.

“The master wishes to see me?” Struck by the oddity of the situation, she handed over her sodden bonnet, muddy cape and umbrella. Damp patches spotted her gown and a rip marred the hem. Water from her wet hair trickled down her temples and the back of her neck. “You must be mistaken. I’m in Baron Malbury’s employ. Mrs. Pickles sent me to help with the shortage of kitchen staff this evening. Why should your master wish to see the likes of me?”

Robert shrugged. “It’s not my place to ask, miss.”

“Does he interview all the temporary help?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

As she followed the footman, she noticed the copper pots bubbling on the wood stove and the variety of roasted meats resting on the chopping blocks. Kitchen maids buzzed about doing chores and putting the final touches on the sauces and desserts. Unlike the Malbury townhouse, or even Hopewell Manor at times of late, this kitchen seemed well staffed—perhaps overly so.

A flight of stairs delivered them to the ground floor where a checkered pattern of black-and-white marble anchored the central hall. Massive paintings of somber individuals looked down on her from ornate, gilded frames hung on walls covered with blue-watered silk.

Until now, she’d found Hopewell her ideal of refinement, but the grand manor where she’d worked for the past several years seemed like nothing more than a pretty house compared to the opulence on offer here.

“This way, miss.”

The faint sound of servants discussing the proper placement of cutlery filtered out of the dining room as Rose trailed the footman past marble busts, cut-crystal vases filled with hothouse flowers and a massive etched mirror. She cringed at her ghastly reflection of bedraggled hair and cold, blue-tinged lips.

Robert stopped in front of a door and rapped on the dark wood.

“Enter,” came a muffled order.

The flash of pity that crossed Robert’s expression gave her pause. “He’ll see you now.”

Trepidation snaked through her as he opened the door. The peculiar situation couldn’t be discounted. Employers usually took as much notice of their lower servants as a fallen leaf in the park.

With nervous fingers, she brushed damp tendrils off her face and tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt before she hesitantly crossed the threshold.

The scent of lemon polish and leather greeted her. Despite the glow from the fireplace, shadows lurked in the corners of the masculine room. Shelves crammed with books lined the walls and her exhausted brain began to ache at the thought of trying to decipher even the simplest among them.

“That will be all, Robert.”

Gasping, she spun in the direction of the deep voice.

Sam’s voice.

Disbelief coursed through her. Her heart clamored in wild abandon even before she found him standing behind a wide, polished desk at the head of the room.

“Hello, Rose.”

Chapter Two

Rose blinked rapidly as she struggled to form a sensible reply. How she wished Mrs. Pickles hadn’t gotten the name wrong and had given her time to prepare for being face-to-face with Sam. “Hello...”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yes.” Her lips wooden, she stared helplessly as simultaneous joy and agony overwhelmed her. Her gaze roved over Sam’s face in a frantic, failed attempt to take in all the details of him at once.

Time had erased the last traces of the boy she’d known. His face was leaner, his features sharper, his jaw more defined than when he’d left Ashby Croft. As tall as she remembered and even more handsome, if possible, with his thick, black hair and chocolate-brown eyes, he was dark for an Englishman. As children they’d fancied he must have gypsy blood since his sun-warmed complexion set him so far apart from the many pasty-faced boys of the village.

“What are you doing here, Sam?” Registering the smoldering fury in his dark eyes, she took a self-protective step back. “How...how did you find me?”

“Funny thing, that. I saw you on the street this morning and followed you to Malbury’s.”

“This morning?” Even as she noted his polished accent, her eyes widened with sudden recollection. “You’re the man I saw in the square. The one speaking to the paperboy.”

She took his silence as confirmation. His anger spread to her like a contagion. A multitude of questions swirled through her brain until she felt lightheaded. Praying she wouldn’t fall apart in front of him, she swallowed the sob of emotion lodged in her tight throat. “Where have you been all these years? Why did you never come back?”

A silky, black eyebrow arched with unconcealed derision. “Where have I been? Why, here in London, of course. Right where I said I’d be.”

Sam’s frigid tone dripped with enough scorn to penetrate Rose’s dazed senses. Her Sam had never spoken to her in such a fashion—as though he loathed even the faintest knowledge of her existence.

“The better question is—” his square jaw tightened “—where have you been?”

A shiver rippled through her that had nothing to do with her damp garments or clammy skin. Any hope she’d ever cherished for a pleasant reunion vanished. This severe man looked like Sam—albeit a more mature version—but he bore no resemblance to the lively, brash and indomitable boy she’d loved. He might as well be a stranger.

The tick of a mantel clock marked the silence. Her shock began to fade. Other emotions raced through her in quick succession. Anger and confusion gave way to disbelief, then fear as she pieced together the truth of the situation. Sam had arranged this meeting to knock her for six and he’d succeeded. She didn’t understand his apparent loathing, but his intentions were clear. He’d always wanted to shine. Obviously, he’d made his fortune and sought to rub her nose in the fact that he’d forgotten her without so much as a by-your-leave. Why else would he plot to bring her to this magnificent house to act as his servant when he’d ignored her for the past nine years?

The meanness of his scheme tweaked her pride and renewed her anger. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She did honest work. How dare he treat her so shabbily? He was the cad who’d lied to her, abandoned her, ground her heart into dust. If he expected her to rant and rave like some forsaken fishwife, he’d be disappointed. She refused to give him the pleasure of seeing her make a fool of herself, especially when he deserved nothing but contempt for his selfishness. He may have been amassing a mountain of money all these years, but she’d been seeing to the important task of raising their son.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “If you must know, I was in Devonshire until two days ago. Just as I said I’d be.”

Dark eyes fringed with thick, black lashes narrowed with disdain. “You’re such a good liar. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you straightaway.”

“Me, a liar?” She lifted her chin. “That’s rich coming from you, Sam.”

“Mr. Blackstone, if you please. Kindly remember I’m your employer at present. Nothing more.” He rounded the desk and moved toward her. Instinct warned her to run, but she held firm. She’d done nothing amiss, but he had much to answer for.

Bristling with tension, she focused on his shirtfront for that seemed the least threatening spot. Dressed in formal attire of black and white, he looked like a seething tiger with an elegant bow tied round his neck.

He stopped before her, close enough to touch. She breathed in deep, taking in his scent of soap and the subtle hint of sandalwood cologne. Desperate to feel indifferent, she detested the traitorous way her heart refused to calm.

“Stay away from me.” She clenched her trembling fingers into fists to keep from reaching for him. She prayed he’d maintain a proper distance, but then again he’d never been the least bit proper.

A sly grin tugged at his firm, sculpted lips. “Make me.”

The whisper-soft touch of his fingertips along her jaw silenced her. Tremors raced down her spine and her feet grew roots to the floor. A sigh feathered in her throat as he lifted her chin.

Their eyes met. Instantly ensnared by the rich, brown depths of his gaze, she lost track of time and all sense of good judgment. Blood rushed in her ears and her knees began to quiver like an aspic left in the sun. She swayed toward him. The fleeting thought of how much their son resembled him evaporated the same moment his thumb caressed her full bottom lip.

He leaned closer. His warm, mint-scented breath fanned across her cheek and tickled her ear. “You want me to kiss you, Rosie. Admit it.”

His smug expression rubbed her raw and restored some order to the chaos of her senses. How could she have let her guard down? Sam may have embodied home and safety for her nine years ago, but no longer. In fact, no one seemed more dangerous to her body, livelihood or peace of mind.

Please Lord, give me strength.

She released a shaky breath. “Is that an order, Mr. Blackstone? Am I to understand that although you’re my employer I’ll have to be concerned about untoward advances from your corner?”

He laughed. “Untoward? Debatable. Unwanted? I think not.”

Her cheeks burned. She wished otherwise, but she’d never had any strength of will when it came to Sam and she hated that he could see her weakness while he was the picture of strength. “Think what you like, sir. If I may, I’d like to return to work.”

She turned, desperate to leave, to regain her breath and her bearings. Somehow she managed to navigate halfway to the door before he stopped her. “There’s no use for you in the kitchen.”

She stumbled midstep, then whipped around to face him. Sheer panic seized her. “Are you sacking me?”

He studied her for such a long moment she squirmed like a butterfly pinned to a board.

“That depends on if you’re nice to me or not.”

“I’ve never been cruel to you, Sa...Mr. Blackstone. Unlike you and how you’re treating me at present.”

“Is that so?” He returned to his desk and sat in his imposing leather chair. “Then I suppose you thought you were doing me a favor when you ran off and married another man?”

Her knees buckled and the room tipped to an unnatural angle. Only God’s mercy kept her upright. She gripped the back of a chair, her fingers digging into the soft leather. Had she heard him correctly? How did he know about her marriage? Did he know about his son?

Fear invaded the deepest recesses of her being. Having inhabited a lower rung in society all her life, she was used to being powerless. More than once she’d seen the rich get away with all sorts of evil simply because they had the means to buy their own justice. Was that why he’d brought her here? To show her he had the wealth to bend the law to his will? Was he simply funning with her before he revealed his knowledge of Andrew and that he meant to snatch their son from her care?

Nausea soured her stomach. How could she live without her child?

“How...?” She cleared her throat. Voices in the hall competed with the rush of blood in her ears. “How did you learn about Harry?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“What is he? A footman?” His lip curled. “No, my money’s on a groomsman. You always did want a horse.”

“He was a farmer, if you must know,” she said, irked that he didn’t answer her. “A good and godly man. He deserves your thanks for helping me, not your scorn.”

He surged to his feet. All six feet two inches of lean, hostile muscle. “I’ll be flayed alive before I thank the likes of that clodhopper. You were my girl, Rosie! You promised to wait for me forever if need be. Those were your words, not mine. Imagine my surprise when I went to fetch you in Ashby Croft and learned your definition of forever meant less than eight measly months.”

In the wake of his outburst, a hush fell over the room. “You came for me?” she whispered, unable to accept he told the truth.

“Of course.”

“Of course?” She balked at his arrogance. “There’s no of course about it. You said you’d return in a few weeks.”

Color scored his high cheekbones. “Settling in and learning my trade took longer than I expected. Stark had me working eighteen hours a day for months...I wrote to you. I hoped you might get your friend, Lizzy, or that layabout of an innkeeper you worked for to read my letters.”

“Letters? As in more than one?”

He weaved a letter opener between his long, elegant fingers before letting the ivory-handled implement clatter to the desktop. He cleared his throat. “The post isn’t always reliable. I wanted to be certain you heard from me.”

Her heart plummeted. If he was telling the truth, where had those messages gone? Had they truly been lost or had someone stolen them? How different their lives might have been if she’d received even one. “None of them reached me.”

He shrugged. “Water under the bridge now that you’re wed.”

She flinched at the accusation in his voice. Whatever he knew of her marriage, he mustn’t be aware that she’d been widowed within weeks of saying her vows or that Harry’s wounds had made it impossible to make a true union. Was it possible he didn’t know of Andrew’s existence, either?

Hope buoyed her for the first time since she’d entered the study. “I did wait for you, but I’d been ill and—”

“Are you ill now?”

“No, but—”

“Then details aren’t worth a farthing as far as I’m concerned. What it boils down to is you didn’t have enough faith in me and you ran off with the first available chap to come along. But don’t worry. It didn’t take me long to get over you, either. As you might expect, a city as lively as London offers countless diversions.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “With a little imagination a body can’t be bothered to wallow in the past for long, and it didn’t take much for me to realize I’d be better off without you.”

She gasped at the spike of pain that pierced her heart. “I see.” Hating that her eyes misted with tears, she glanced out the window. Gas lamps glowed along the street, alleviating the darkness and eerie wisps of fog.

Bitterness welled inside her at the unfairness of the situation. While he’d been playing away in London, uprooting her from his heart, she’d been expecting his child, terrified and lonely to her bones.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Honesty insisted she tell him he was a father since he’d given no indication he knew about their son, but for now Andrew seemed to be her secret. She planned to keep it that way until Sam proved he could give her a fair hearing. Since he harbored such ill feelings toward her, he would no doubt use Andrew as a weapon to punish her for her supposed wrongs, and she’d be mad to give this wrathful, unforgiving stranger such a powerful means to ruin her life.

Besides, her heartache demanded she let him stew for a little while longer. All of his indignation was for show. He may have been disappointed when he learned of her marriage, may have even convinced himself he’d been heartbroken for a time, but unlike her, he’d recovered from their separation with far too much ease to claim his love had been of the eternal variety.

What a fool she’d been to believe they’d shared something special. She’d been no more to him than a habit he’d easily broken. She hated that she’d missed him when he didn’t deserve such sentiment almost as much as she loathed the inviolate hope that whispered time was all they needed to clear the air.

Yet, how could they become reacquainted when they were no longer equals? To others they were as different as gold and rust. She’d grown up in a small village, but she wasn’t completely ignorant of the ways of the world or society’s expectations. Sam’s wealth placed him head and shoulders above her. She couldn’t see him coming to the kitchen to chat while she peeled potatoes.

No, he was one of the privileged now, a fact he must realize given how easily he’d used his higher status to intimidate her.

“Since you’re over me, why did you bring me here?” she asked past the lump in her throat. “To make a display of yourself and show me what a fool I’ve apparently been for not pining for you all these years?”

“That’s part of it,” he answered flatly.

“Then I didn’t miss a thing.” The chiming of the clock almost drowned out her strained whisper. “You’re petty and coldhearted. I’m fortunate I never tied myself to a cad like you.”

His dark eyes shimmered with thinly veiled rage. She teetered on a knife’s edge, stunned by her outburst when she had so much to lose. Certain he’d send her packing, she felt every nerve in her body clench with dread.

A knock on the study door shattered the tension.

“What?” Sam snapped.

Robert opened the door and took a hesitant step into the room. The shiny, brass buttons of his uniform glistened in the lamplight. Although he seemed a bit winded, his sallow face had been wiped clean of emotion. “Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but Mr. Hodges sent me to inform you Lord Sanbourne and his daughter, Miss Ratner, have arrived. Mr. Hodges installed them in the drawing room, but Miss Ratner—”

“Has declined to wait,” a feminine voice announced from the corridor. A petite beauty with light brown hair breezed past the footman and into the study without further introduction. Artfully wrapped in a silk lavender gown, she made her way straight to Sam and kissed him in greeting. “I think it’s positively ghastly to suggest I do so when you should at least pretend to be on pins and needles waiting for your hostess to arrive.”

Aggravated by the brunette’s pawing of Sam, Rose noted he didn’t untangle himself with any haste. Obviously, he approved of Miss Ratner’s brazen ways.

At the end of her patience, she headed for the exit without waiting for Sam’s permission to leave. Robert withdrew first, but she managed a narrow escape just before the door clicked shut in her wake.

* * *

Sam watched Rose dart for the door and checked the impulse to call her back. The newspaper boy might as well have stabbed him in the vitals when he confirmed that Rose Smith did, indeed, work for Baron Malbury. Used to dealing with the ’Change’s unexpected variables, he rarely suffered from surprise. However, the knowledge that Rose lived within striking distance had knocked the wind from his lungs and he had yet to catch his breath.

How dare she act as though she were the injured party? He’d done nothing wrong. He’d sought to make a better life for them. She had forgotten him like week-old rubbish the moment someone new came along.

“Sam?”

“What?” He blinked and focused on Amelia. Glad for the distraction of her arrival, he detested the noxious mix of resentment and regret coursing through his veins.

“Are you listening to me, darling?”

“Of course.” Using all his powers of concentration, he forced Rose from his mind, although she refused to go without a fuss. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m more than a little overcome by how lovely you look this evening.”

She smiled and angled her trim body to show her gown to best advantage. The shining silk and lace belonged on a duchess instead of the daughter of an impoverished viscount, but Amelia wasn’t one to burden herself with such pesky distinctions. The bright blue ribbons framing her oval face and the sapphire gems at her throat reminded him of Rose’s eyes. He gritted his teeth. Everywhere he looked today, Rose was there to taunt him.

“You seem distracted.” As was her wont in private, Amelia dismissed propriety and sank gracefully into one of the leather armchairs. “I saw you on Oxford Street earlier today. You looked rather harassed. I had my driver hail you, but you quite had your head in the clouds.”

“I’ve been preoccupied with a personal matter.” His gaze drifted to the door. How was it possible that Rose was even lovelier than he remembered? Over the years he’d forgotten the blueness of her eyes and the natural blush of color in her smooth, fair cheeks. Worse, no one made him feel more invigorated than she did. The moment she entered the room he lost track of all else. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

She glanced at him from under downcast lashes. “It’s not financial difficulties, I trust? After the grandeur you’ve become accustomed to, one doubts the Marshalsea would suit your tastes in the least.”

Compared to the squalor he and Rose had lived in once the orphanage closed its doors, the notorious debtor’s prison qualified as a palace. “I’d manage.”

“I’m certain you would. I find it excessively appealing that you’ve remained a scrapper beneath all the polish you’ve acquired, but I’m quite certain I’d die if I ever found myself in such a hideous place.” Her gloved hand soothed the silken folds of her gown. “If you are in dire straits, I hope you will remember you can come to me should you ever need a confidant—”

“I’m much obliged, but you needn’t fret.”

“As long as you know I’m always here for you.”

He tamped down the cynical suspicion that her loyalty depended on the sum of his bank accounts. “Your friendship is dear to me.”

She smiled. “As you’re aware, I want very much to be more than just your friend.”

Still rough from his confrontation with Rose, he leaned back against the desk. His fingers clutched the lip of the desktop, his right ankle crossed casually over the left.

This wasn’t the first time Amelia had made her wishes known. Just as she’d hinted on several occasions, he should probably marry her. In truth, he’d been considering a proposal for weeks. Her father’s hapless investments had made her family desperate enough for funds to overlook his guttersnipe background, and Amelia would make the perfect wife for a man who had everything except a permanent place in society.

“My father agrees we’d make a splendid couple,” she continued, undaunted by his lack of comment.

“I’m certain he does,” he said drily. In fact, he could think of a million reasons why.

The provocative gleam in her dark eyes faded. “Darling, what’s gotten into you today? You’re too sullen by half. I wish you’d reconsider and come shooting with us at the Digby estate in Devonshire next month. A nice long holiday would do you good.”

“It wouldn’t be much of a holiday, I’m afraid. I grew up in Devonshire. The area is filled with memories I’d rather forget.”

“Even more reason to come with us.” She stood and moved close enough to brush up against him. Her perfume, though subtle, carried a powdery scent that made his nose twitch. “It will give us a chance to replace those bad memories with fond, new ones.”

He gave her a cool half smile. “I’ll consider it.”

“That is all I ask. Her gloved hands reached for his cravat and began to refashion the knot. “You are quite a catch, you know. You may not be a peer, but you are divine to look at, charming when you choose to be and—”

“Rich.”

She pouted. “I’ve told you before, it’s vulgar to mention money, but since you have, yes, your wealth is, shall we say, one of your finest assets. It saddens me greatly because I am so fond of you, but without your fortune to make up for other things...”

“You wouldn’t be seen within a mile of me.”

“You needn’t be harsh. You’re aware of my circumstances.” She patted his chest. “Nor must you be unfair in your judgment of me. My family expects me to wed, if not well, then at least lucratively.”

Her snobbery both amused and revolted him. “And why should I want to marry you?”

“You must be joking. I’m the daughter of a peer.”

“You can also be a crick in the neck.”

“True, but you’re a philistine.” She laughed. “We’ve been dancing around an agreement for weeks, so since we’re being honest, let’s face facts. An alliance between us is a most sensible option. You have everything except a family to carry on your name and eventually squabble over the fortune you’ve amassed. I, thanks to my father’s missteps, am in need of...protection, shall we say. We understand each other and get on well most of the time. You can help my family, and I can open doors for you that your background prohibits you from entering on your own.”

“You assume I want to cross those lofty thresholds.”

She frowned as though she’d never heard such a ridiculous notion. “Of course you do, Sam. You don’t have to pretend with me. Everyone, even those who deny it, want to be part of the crème de la crème.”

“I don’t lack for invitations as it is.”

“Yes, however, these invitations will be from people who matter, not those boorish tradesmen or stuffy politicians with whom you usually conspire. All I ask is that you contemplate the possibilities. Imagine I’m a new stock and consider your potential rate of return.”

He already had. The Ratners’ decline in circumstances may be recent, but their title and mortgaged properties were centuries old. To a man whose own roots went no deeper than the day of his birth, buying a branch on the Ratners’ lauded family tree held a certain appeal.

Best of all, he wasn’t in any danger of falling in love with Amelia, nor did she expect him to. Their union would be little more than a mutually beneficial business arrangement. No deep emotions to make him feel helpless or dependent on anyone but himself for happiness.

“I’m always calculating variables.”

“Brilliant.” Voices passing in the corridor drew Amelia’s attention. “I’d best see to the dining room before our guests descend. Everything must be perfect tonight.”

“Speaking of variables—” he opened the door to help usher her out “—something popped up today and we’re short a footman this evening.”

Amelia paled. “How can that be?”

“I’ve made other arrangements with Hodges.”

“That old fossil you call a butler should have been put out to pasture a decade ago. I gave him strict instructions to send word to me if the slightest mishap occurred.”

He refrained from mentioning that Hodges had been in a dither himself when he’d informed the older man that he’d given Frank the night off and that Rose would fill his position.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she moaned. “I’ve planned every detail and now all is ruined!”

“Hardly. A kitchen maid has already been found to replace him.”

“One of the maids?” Amelia’s hand fluttered to her chest as though she might faint. “I’m aware you’re not fully educated in these matters, but a woman serving...are you mad? That will never do.”

Amused by her dramatics, he wondered vaguely if there were any smelling salts on hand just in case she keeled over. “It’s already been decided.”

“I’ll send for one of ours—”

“There’s no time.” The first muffled notes of a violin being tuned bolstered his point. He led her to the door. “We’ll have to make due. You are the one interested in all the latest fashions. Perhaps we’ll usher in a new one.”

Chapter Three

Once free of Sam’s study, Rose followed the footman into the servants’ stairway. Shaking uncontrollably, she reached toward the wall for support as she made her way down the steps.

In the kitchen, the chaos before a dinner party was a situation with which she was well acquainted. Already at a fever pitch from her confrontation with Sam, her senses seemed unusually sensitive to the clamor of voices, banging pots and the aroma of roasted meats and exotic spices.

“Miss Smith?” An aged man with a bald pate ringed by gray hair called from the doorway. “Miss Rose Smith?”

“Yes, sir.” She made quick strides across the room. The man’s formal ensemble and somber mood marked him as the butler. With trepidation, she wondered what she’d done to be called out by the likes of him when it was the housekeeper’s duty to oversee female staff. “I’m Rose Smith.”

“I’m Mr. Hodges, Mr. Blackstone’s butler. Robert tells me the other girl on loan tonight suffered an accident on the journey here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Hodges’s bushy, gray eyebrows pleated together into a straight line. His faded green eyes peered at her through thick spectacles, sizing her up from head to toe. His sigh of exasperation didn’t speak well of his impression of her. “Follow me.”

He led her to a small, oak-paneled office at the end of the corridor and motioned toward a mirror in the corner. “Have you seen yourself? You look as though you’ve been dragged by a runaway mount. How in the world am I to make you presentable in time?”

“In time for what, sir?” she asked, mortified by how mussed and messy she looked compared to the radiant Miss Ratner.

“Mr. Blackstone insists you serve tonight.”

Dismay choked her. “Me in the dining room? But I work in the kitchen.”

“He doesn’t care. He wants you.”

He wants to humiliate me, more like. He no longer loved her and intended to hammer home the point. There was no other reason to toss convention to the four winds just to have her wait on him and his self-important friends. She didn’t remember Sam being such a vindictive swine, but apparently nine years in London had hardened his heart to granite. That ruthless quality terrified her.

“Stay here,” Hodges said. “I’ll have one of the other girls fetch you a cap and something more acceptable to wear.”

Left alone with her untidy reflection, she longed to return to Devonshire and Hopewell Manor. She’d never been this far from Andrew, and her arms ached to hold her son. Exhaustion pressed in on her and hunger pangs cramped her stomach. The entire day had been one foul kettle of fish after another with the worst being the superior way Sam looked down his nose at her. The more she thought about how he’d ambushed her, the more indignant she became. He’d had no right to call her on the carpet, berate her and deny her the chance to explain. Who did he think he was? A pompous nobleman?

And yet...he had returned to Ashby Croft to collect her as he’d promised. He must have done or he wouldn’t have known about Harry. Regret pierced her like a thousand knives. If only she’d found the strength to wait for him a little longer.

The knowledge they were both to blame for losing one another helped to cool her temper. His love may have withered with more ease than she cared to admit, but he had not abandoned her without cause as she’d long believed.

“Lord,” she whispered, taking a moment to pray. “I need Your help again. I feel like David facing Goliath without a sling. How can I defend myself when Sam has already made up his mind? Please, soften his heart. Convince him to give me a proper listen and accept the truth for Andrew’s sake if not for mine.”

Moments later, an older kitchen maid with dark hair and merry blue eyes appeared in the doorway. “I’m Abigail,” she said as she closed the door behind her. “Our ’ousekeeper, Mrs. Frye, sent me.” She extended a short stack of fresh garments. “You’ll ’ave to change quick, dearie. We may ’ave to pin up the ’em a bit, but it’s the best we can do on short notice.”

Unfortunately, the skirt’s length wasn’t the problem. The tightness of the bodice and waist made it nearly impossible to breathe. “I can’t wear this.”

“You must.” Abigail surveyed her with a critical eye. “Tomorrow’s wash day and this is the last acceptable garment we ’ave that might fit you. The skirt is shorter than I expected so at least you won’t take a tumble.”

“Don’t you find it a bit peculiar I’m to serve tonight?”

“I’d say. Especially since the master usually likes things jus’ so. Some say ’e’s extra fussy cause ’e used to be a nobody ’imself and ’e don’t want those lofty new friends of ’is to ream him out behind ’is back.”

Rose doubted Sam cared much about stray opinions, but he had always been a man of detail. His ability to notice what others failed to see had made him restless as far back as childhood. While growing up in Ashby Croft, he’d been unable to ignore the injustice of their lot and be content. Little wonder Mr. Stark’s promises had stolen him away in a blink. After seeing just a glimpse of what Sam had been able to accomplish in London, she marveled that she’d ever dreamed she might be enough to hold his interest.

“There,” Abigail said as she finished tying the strings of Rose’s long, white apron. “Try lifting that stack of receipt books on the corner of the desk. Were I to fancy a guess, I’d say they’re as ’eavy as most of the trays you’ll be expected to carry.”

Rose reached for the pile of books and hefted them into her arms. The dress’s seams protested, but none of them gave way.

“Thank the Lord for small mercies.” Abigail smiled with obvious relief. “After the way Mr. Blackstone stormed about in a temper this afternoon, he was liable to dismiss us all if anything else went wrong this evening.”

“Don’t be surprised if does. I don’t have the faintest idea about the proper way to serve. I’m afraid I’ll be so nervous I’ll knock over a glass or drop a dirtied plate in someone’s lap.”

Abigail chuckled. “You’ll do fine. Jus’ be sure to steer clear of Miss Ratner’s father, Lord Sanbourne. ’E’s been known to make free with his ’ands when he thinks no one’ll notice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Rose tugged at the tight material bunched at her waist. The clang of pots and pans filtered down the hall from the kitchen. “Anything else I should be aware of?”

“Well,” Abigail said after a thoughtful pause, “I ’ope you won’t think I make a ’abit of carrying tales about Mr. Blackstone or his friends, but if I was you, I’d be careful of Miss Ratner, as well.”

“She and Mr. Blackstone seem very close.”

“Indeed. Tonight is ’er debut as ’ostess ’ere. She’s been in a rumpus all week, giving orders and bragging about ’ow much the master would be lost without ’er. By bringing you on, ’e’s given ’er efforts a punch to the nose, to be sure. She won’t be ’appy about her plans being tinkered with, and she’s the kind to seek revenge on you, not ’im.”

“I’m only here to do my job. If I have my way, I’ll be gone for good before midnight.”

“That’s probably for the best.” Abigail finished pinning Rose’s cap into place. “You’ve got the prettiest ’air. What a pity it ’as to be ’idden under this silly article.”

The rare compliment gave her spirits a boost. “I’ve been a servant most of my life. I know how important it is to blend with the walls.”

“Especially since Miss Ratner searches for things to complain about.”

“She must have something to recommend her. You told me yourself, Mr. Blackstone is taken with her,” she said, denying the sudden ache in her chest had anything to do with Sam and stemmed from her inability to take in enough air.

“I suppose so. ’E’s been with ’er six months— longer than any of the other women ’e’s kept company with in all the years I’ve worked for ’im, more’s the pity. But rumor ’as it she’s angling for marriage, and a clever woman knows nothing is final until she ’as a ring on ’er finger or one in ’is nose.”

A loud clatter and a long stream of angry French drew Abigail’s quick retreat to the kitchen. Rose pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples. Armed with more information than she’d bargained for or wanted, she fought back a dark cloud of depression. Even if she hadn’t been convinced Sam had well and truly moved on without her, she was now.

“Are you presentable?” Mr. Hodges called from out in the hall. “Only ten minutes until it’s time to announce the dinner service. We must go up this instant.”

She took as deep a breath as the gown allowed and whispered a prayer for mercy. Her rattled nerves refused to settle. With one last glance in the mirror, she saw an ordinary servant sausage-wrapped in black wool and starched, white cotton. There was nothing special about her, hopefully nothing to draw Miss Ratner’s ire.

“Robert is managing the soup course, but I shall oversee the fish and carve the roasts,” Mr. Hodges informed her on the way to the first floor. “Hold the platters within easy reach of each guest and allow them to serve themselves. By all means don’t speak to anyone unless you’re spoken to first. If that should happen, keep your responses to a minimum. Some of the ladies and gentlemen present are of noble stock and won’t take kindly to being addressed by a lowly subordinate such as yourself.”

The melody of a violin grew louder as they reached the top step. Both of them were out of breath by the time they paused on the landing. Rose tugged at the tight material bunching about her waist, certain she must be blue in the face while the warm glow of the gas lamps cast Hodges’s wrinkled visage in a golden hue.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the violinist standing in a small circular alcove off the main hall. The somber melody he played added an extra layer of formality to the high, curved ceilings and dark, paneled walls.

The low rumble of conversation signaled the direction of the drawing room and the current location of the party. Hodges lifted an index finger to his lips, warning her to keep silent. He pointed to an open set of sliding doors on the left side of the corridor. Rose nodded gravely and followed him to what seemed like her doom.

* * *

In the drawing room, a fire flickered in the hearth and the aroma of savory herbs wafted across the hall from the dining room.

Aware he should be pleased with the early success of the gathering, Sam could not dismiss his impatience to send everyone home. The laughter and light conversation that flowed freely from the assembly of his guests failed to hold his interest when the possibility of renewing his discussion with Rose beckoned him.

By design, he’d left the double doors open and chosen a seat with a clear view of the corridor where Rose would have to pass by. He’d tried to deny his longing to see her, but the simple knowledge that she was somewhere beneath his roof tormented him beyond all good sense and reason.

The music took a somber turn. He stood, intending to request a more cheerful tune, but Rose chose that moment to appear and everything ceased to exist except the slim column of black slipping into the dining room on the butler’s coattails.

To his annoyance, the sight of her eased his restlessness and improved his floundering mood with an immediacy that disturbed him. After all the years they’d been separated and the way she’d broken her promise to wait for him, how was it possible she inspired anything in him except contempt?

Amelia moved to his side and linked her arm with his. “The evening is going swimmingly well, don’t you agree, darling? Just as I predicted, the Ellistons are impressed with the vintage on offer and are already imbibing their second sample.”

“How marvelous for them. I’m going to see about dinner.”

“I’m the hostess. I’ll go.”

“No, stay here and charm your pigeons. I’ll return in a few minutes.” He untangled his arm from hers and moved to the hallway where he caught a glimpse of Rose by the sideboard helping Robert ladle soup into porcelain bowls.

A glossy, blond tendril had escaped her ruffled cap and fallen in a gentle wave between her shoulder blades. An intense longing to touch the soft strands, to touch her, swept over him. He didn’t know what he wanted more: to usher her back into his study and continue demanding answers for jilting him or to kiss her senseless where she stood. He could not have guessed when he first saw her this morning that her nearness would be akin to having a severed arm reattached to his body or his heart returned to his chest.

He must be going mad.

In desperate need of a diversion, he dragged his gaze from Rose and glanced about the dining room. He had to tip his hat to Amelia. For a woman who found it vulgar to speak of money, she possessed a talent for spending his. The trio of crystal chandeliers had been cleaned and reassembled the day before, causing the room to sparkle. No expense had been spared in the crisp white linens, the ornate candelabras or arsenal of silver flatware flanking each set of china. The multiple towers of tropical fruit and hothouse flowers must have cost the earth if they’d cost a farthing.

Had Rose been impressed by the finery on display? Had it dawned on her that, had she waited for him a short while longer, all of this would have been hers?

Behind him, the chatter in the drawing room grew louder and the music progressed into an elegant melody he’d heard somewhere before but didn’t quite recognize. Hodges approached, his weathered features crinkled into an anxious mask. “May I help you, sir? We’re almost ready. Miss Ratner gave strict instructions to announce seating at precisely nine o’clock. We have six minutes remaining.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, waving the older man back to work. Rose had yet to look his way, and her inability to sense his presence when every nerve in his body was fixed on her cut deep. He wanted to rattle her air of efficiency, to make her feel as disjointed as he did. The hour since she’d quit his study had dragged on like a week, and the need to see her face had grown with every tick of the clock.

He willed her to turn around, but she continued her task for an age before finally pausing to glance his way.

She froze the moment she saw him. Triumph surged through him as her dark-blue eyes widened in response and color scored her cheeks. The soup in the ladle she held missed the bowl and puddled atop the sideboard without her notice.

He moved toward her, but Hodges stepped in to scold her, breaking the connection. “What do you think you’re about, you clumsy girl? Look at the mess you’ve caused!”

“I’m so sorry.” She glowered at Sam before dismissing him to focus on the butler. “I’ll tidy up straightaway.”

“See that you do and be quick about it.” Hodges consulted his pocket watch. “Four minutes until we must announce the meal. Miss Ratner—”

“Hodges.” Sam joined them at the sideboard. “Is everything well?”

“Everything except this simpleton, sir. She’s bound to be a detriment. I did try to explain that she’s never served at table, but—”

He dealt his usually mild-mannered butler a quelling glance before motioning toward the table and the flawless crystal goblets sparkling in the candlelight. “There are fingerprints marring several of the glasses.”

“Fingerprints on the glasses? Oh, dear! I just wiped them down. I don’t know how I missed them, sir.”

“A tragedy to be sure. I trust you’ll see to the matter straightaway.”

“Certainly, sir.” The butler shuffled away with all the meager speed he could muster. “Robert, come quickly. It seems renegade fingerprints abound on the tableware.”

Sam turned back to Rose once Hodges passed out of earshot. “Look at me, Miss Smith.”

“I have to see to this soup you caused me to spill,” she said as she searched the drawers in the sideboard for a cloth.

“I caused you?” He smiled at the dig. She’d always been cheeky, especially when her ire was up. “I was nowhere near you.” He took a clean square of linen from his pocket and mopped up the hot broth. “All better. Now look at me,” he insisted.

She tossed her head back. Eyes bright with hostility glared at him. “Why are you hounding me?”

“Is that any way to speak to your employer?” He placed the damp linen on a nearby tray of used items bound for the kitchen.

Her lips tightened into a thin line. “You are not my employer, Mr. Blackstone. I work for Baron Malbury. I realize you have the power to see that I’m dismissed if you choose, and I sincerely hope you will not, but I was sent here to help in your kitchen, not endure humiliation just because you want to teach me a lesson.”

“How have I humiliated you? You’re a servant. I’ve tasked you to serve.” Noticing Hodges and Robert glance his way, he lowered his voice. “I’ve made you a footman for the evening. If anything, you’ve been promoted.”

“We both know what you’ve done and why.” She located an extra cloth and shut the drawer with a not so gentle shove. “There are rules to these sort of functions, Mr. Blackstone. I may be a simple cook’s assistant, but even I understand your guests won’t see me as anything but a mistake that will make your hostess appear inept. I’m not trained to serve at table. Most likely I’ll commit one blunder after the next.”

“And that will humiliate you? Who cares about the opinion of a bunch of uppity toffs?”

“Don’t you? They’re your friends.”

“Hardly. They’re an experiment.”

She frowned. “And Miss Ratner?”

“She’s my concern, not yours.”

She used the clean cloth to wipe excess drops from the edges of the steaming bowls of soup. “That may be, but from what I understand she’s put a good deal of effort into making this dinner party a grand occasion. It seems small of you to mar her arrangements just to show me what I’ve missed.”

His eyebrow arched in vexation. It had been years since anyone had dared to bring him down a peg. Even longer since he’d conceded he was in the wrong, but he did now. When Amelia first brought up the idea of tonight’s engagement, he’d considered it a lark, the first move in a game to see if a low-born weevil such as himself could worm his way into the upper crust. Little wonder he’d found it easy to change the rules the moment something more interesting came along.

He cupped her shoulders and turned her to face him. She looked up, her blue eyes pleading with him to understand something he didn’t quite grasp. Her soft lips tempted him without mercy, but as much as he wanted to kiss her, she belonged to someone else.

Bitterness burned him. His hands dropped back to his sides. “Despite our past association, don’t think you know me well enough to lecture me. What I do with Miss Ratner is my business. You know nothing about our arrangement.”

“You’re right, except that I don’t know you at all. The Sam I knew was loving and kind. As far as I can tell, that Sam is nowhere to be found. It seems London’s made you rich, but it’s also made you heartless.”

“Rich, yes, but heartless? You can’t blame London on that score,” he scoffed. “That honor belongs to you, nothing and no one else.”

The clock chimed nine. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Hodges ringing his hands. “Mr. Blackstone—”

“It’s time, Hodges.” An agitated Amelia stood in the doorway. “What did I tell you about being prompt? Where has Mr. Blackstone gone? Oh, there you are, darli—”

The word died as her eyes narrowed on Rose. “Why are you consorting with this...this housemaid?” she asked Sam.

Ignoring the question, he stepped in front of Rose. “All seems to be ready. Hodges has outdone himself just as I suspected he would do. If you’re ready, let’s begin.”

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