“Yes, Henrietta?”

“Did you know that the dowager especially likes it when servants speak with her in a familiar manner?” Henrietta smoothed her skirt nonchalantly. “I am told that she and her scullery maid have a nice little tête–à–tête every evening.”

Sara’s jaw dropped in clearly overdramatic shock. Leah rolled her eyes.

“Oh yes,” Sara nodded, her words wooden. She’d clearly practiced this hundreds of times. “The dowager does indeed like it when servants call her by her Christian name, Hyacinth.”

“Yes. And she is also quite fond of…” Henrietta trailed off as Avery and another footman entered the carriage. Once they were seated and the door closed, the carriage creaked to a start and jounced along the road toward Tunstall Place.

Well, at least Henrietta and Sara stopped giving me advice that’ll get me skewered by the dowager, Leah thought. Avery sat across from her, looking out the window. She took advantage of the silence to examine him and gauge her reactions. It was almost like a science experiment.

His hands folded in his lap, his jacket pressed and straight, his hair pulled neatly back into what he called a queue, his face solemn. His hazel eyes, clear and bright as they looked out on the slowly passing streets. His nose was crooked, and she caught herself wondering what had happened to disrupt the straightness. Her skin warmed as she took him in, and something in her chest loosened pleasantly.

They jounced over a rut, and she realized with a start that she’d been staring at him like he was a half-dressed Chippendale dancer. Heat climbed her cheeks and she looked out the window herself.

What the hell was wrong with her?

DUKE. She was here for the DUKE. Not for his manservant. Mrs. Knightsbridge had been clear. Well, sort of clear. And Avery had sworn that he was the last person on earth who could be meant for her. So she’d best get her brain in the game and start playing to win.

The carriage jounced along the busy and crowded streets, the air inside thick with tension.

Leah picked at the threads on her cloak. This was as awkward as a group blind date.

The footman beside Avery was checking out Sara, who was staring at the ceiling as if it was printed with the winning lotto numbers. Henrietta glared at Avery as if she could make him disappear for ruining her set-up of Leah’s failure. And Avery stared out the window, a crease marring his forehead.

Dump them in a big house with some video cameras, and there was reality TV gold right there.

Fortunately, the carriage ride only lasted about fifteen minutes. They rolled to a stop beside a beautiful manor that looked a lot like Granville House, only not quite as fancy. Avery offered his hand to assist her from the carriage, but Leah ignored it and hopped down to the gravel alone. Sure, it was a childish move, but damn it, he’d acted like a caveman with Lachlan earlier.

Mrs. Harper, who’d ridden in the first carriage, clapped her hands.

“Henrietta, Sara, Ramsey, attend me.”

Why do I get called by my last name? It was a stupid thing to let bother her, but it did. Just another way to keep her separated. She followed the other maids and stood behind them as Mrs. Harper doled out duties for the day.

The preparations took forever, but they passed by in such a whirl of activity that it was hard to really gauge the passing of time. There were tablecloths to be ironed, flowers to be arranged, china to clean, silver to polish, and enough other things to keep a platoon of Mr. Cleans busy for a good month. But with the army of maids and footmen from both Tunstall Place and Granville House, all of it got done in time for the party.

“Now,” Mrs. Harper said in an excitedly hushed voice, “we must be ready when the guests arrive. Henrietta, Sara, you remain in the entry hall to assist with hats and coats and the like. Teresa, you can assist with the trays when they’re rung for. Henry, George, do go and help Cook.” She turned to address the butler.

“Um, Mrs. Harper?” Leah hated to speak, but she was tired of being ignored. She’d been standing there for twenty minutes waiting for her assignment. “Where do you want me?”

“Oh, anywhere, girl, do find something.” Mrs. Harper dismissed her with a wave of her hand.

Stung, Leah turned toward the large drawing room that would see the most action. Maybe there was a tablecloth to straighten or a settee to dust or a chamber pot to empty.

She shuddered. Approaching footsteps made her turn.

“Miss Ramsey, I have but a moment, but do let me apologize for my behavior toward you this morning.” Avery’s voice was nearly a whisper.

“What is your problem?” Leah hissed back to him, picking up a vase of flowers and straightening the cloth beneath it. “You act like you don’t give two shits about me and then you treat me like I’m some kind of helpless female who needs you. Which is it?”

His jaw worked silently for a moment.

“Russell, you’re needed in the drive. His Grace has arrived,” the Tunstall Place butler called.

Without another word, Avery gave her a quick look and strode away.

“Stupid man,” Leah mumbled beneath her breath. She plucked a wilted leaf from a daisy. “What am I saying? They’re all stupid.”

The guests started to arrive. Backing into a half-hidden corner, she pretended to dust some figurines while she soaked in her first glimpse of true London gentility.

It was like being a guest at William and Kate’s wedding, only without all the tabloid reporters.

There were beautiful women, wearing insanely decorated hats and beautiful, ornate gowns. The footmen took turns showing the ladies in, one by one. Their escorts, gentlemen dressed in tight breeches and colorful waistcoats, followed, straightening their jackets and laughing with one another.

Leah sighed with happiness as she pressed up against the half-wall that shielded her. God, this was beautiful. The gowns, the clothes, it was straight out of a dream she’d had in college—the one that almost made her go into theatrical costume design. It was only her inability to survive as the permanent houseguest on someone’s futon that prevented her from chasing that dream all the way to Broadway.

But here, seeing such opulence firsthand? It brought back the feelings full force, and she happily swam in them.

Polite chitchat and laughter swirled around Leah as the guests made their way into the sitting room. The other maids and footmen scurried around in the background, but Leah didn’t really pay them any attention. The real show was the lords and ladies, and she intended to enjoy it as much as possible.

She did until Henrietta, buried under several ladies’ cloaks, shot Leah an evil glance as she passed. Startled, Leah dusted furiously. Whoops. She’d almost forgotten her charade. She’d have to be more careful when the dowager appeared. Speaking of which, where was the esteemed old dragon?

As if her thoughts had conjured the lady up from the underworld, the woman herself descended the staircase.

“Wymond, my dear sweet boy,” she crooned in a deep voice that made Leah jump. Holy shit, it was an eighty-year-old Bea Arthur with a British accent. Leah smothered her surprised laugh with a half-choked cough. The dowager was tall, with a long face, pursed lips, and jowls, just like the Golden Girl—down to the mostly-salt-and-barely-pepper hair and everything. But who was Wymond?

“Mother,” a soft male voice responded.

When Leah turned to see who had spoken, she dropped the Dresden shepherdess she’d been pretending to dust. The resulting clatter brought everyone’s eyes to her, but she was still staring at the man who stood at the bottom of the staircase.

Holy shit, it was the duke. The duke’s name was Wymond. How could such a beautiful man have such a dorky name? It was hard to tell which had shocked her more: the fact that his name was so unfortunate, or the fact that she’d called him a boy. He had to be pushing sixty.

She forgot about her supposed love’s unfortunate name when the dowager rounded the bottom stair and glared at her.

“You stupid, thoughtless chit,” the lady snarled, her formerly regal face now something that looked more like Emperor Palpatine about to shoot lightning bolts into Leah’s body. “You shall regret that.”

Oh, holy crap.

Thirteen

The clatter of porcelain on wood slammed a hush over the entry hall, servants and masters alike. Miss Ramsey winced and righted the figurine she’d dropped, but the damage was already done. Avery’s anxious fingers crushed the fabric of the greatcoat in his arms as if he could crush the mounting tension in the room. If only it were that easy.

How could she be so careless? He’d thought she understood the importance of staying unnoticed in front of the dowager.

Stealing a glimpse of Her Grace’s face, Avery stopped breathing. The dowager’s papery cheeks were flushed, her brows lowered, and her knuckles white on the banister. This did not bode well.

She descended the last stairs and rounded the corner toward Miss Ramsey with pure murder in her bearing. Avery didn’t know what she’d do, but he knew it would not be pleasant. He had to act—and swiftly—if Miss Ramsey were to outlast the encounter.

With only a small amount of regret, he extended his leg toward a passing Tunstall footman. With his burden of gentlemen’s coats and hats, the poor soul never had a chance to avoid the obstacle. With a surprised squawk, he went flying and launched his burden directly at the duke and the dowager.

Chaos reigned.