more firmly about the handle, and yanked with all her might.
Cook stopped on the threshold, a bowl of dried apples in her hands. “Missus! Whatever do ye think ye are doin’? Let Ned deal with the likes of that.”
With a frustrated sigh, Arabella straightened, pushing her skirts back down more modestly. She hated to ask for
52
help. Surely if she just put a little more effort into it, the damper would come unstuck and she could— She gave one last pull.
Whoosh! A chunk of soot dropped into the fireplace and poofed a huge black cloud into the room. Arabella stum- bled backward as Cook screeched, both of them gasping for breath and waving their hands in the murky air.
“Lawks, missus!” choked Cook. She grabbed a clean cloth and tossed it over her apples, then scurried to open a window. “Ye’ll have soot in the tarts if ye keep that up! Whatever will the dook think then?”
Arabella tried to answer, but her nose and throat were too full of soot for her to do more than sneeze repeatedly. Cook used her apron to wave as much of the gray cloud out of the window as she could. “Thank ye fer tryin’ to help, missus, but I’m goin’ fer Ned. There’s less than three
hours left to dinner and I need the fire.” Arabella rubbed her nose. “But I can—”
“Not when I’ve a dook to feed, ye can’t.” Cook gave one last wave of her apron, grabbed up her cloak from the hook beside the door, and marched outside.
Coughing, Arabella went to stand in the doorway and gulp the fresh air as she watched Cook pass through the gate to the stables. For two days, now, all she’d heard from Ned and Cook was “the dook” this and “the dook” that. Even Mrs. Guinver, the persnickety housekeeper who took pride in disliking every male she met, had grudgingly admitted that “as far as dooks go,” Lucien was by far the best-behaved.
It was infuriating. Since his arrival, Lucien had gone out of his way to charm her servants, but Arabella was not fooled. She knew exactly who Lucien Devereaux was, and being a duke did not lessen his imperfections one bit.
It was just like him to ride carelessly into her life and
disrupt her carefully laid plans. And despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop wondering about his cryptic comment about making “new memories.” He must know he was not welcome back into her life, no matter how “improved” he wanted everyone to think him.
Though it irked her to admit it, she could understand her servants’ awe. Lucien did possess more than his fair share of handsomeness. And one would be hard-pressed to find a man who managed to carry himself so very . . . dukelike. But that, too, was a product of his birth, and not a result of any goodness on his part.
Lucien Devereaux was an ordinary man who deserved no special treatment whatsoever. She glanced at the elabo- rate dinner preparations already under way: An uncooked rack of lamb sat on a platter liberally sprinkled with crushed mint, and a thick tub of cream had already been whipped with sugar into a frothy sauce for the apple tarts, while various other succulent dishes sat in varying stages of completion. Each one represented a week’s worth of food for the inhabitants of Rosemont.
Arabella scowled to think of their winter supplies dwindling just to feed a worthless, unappreciative duke, but nothing she said swayed her servants from acting as if they had been blessed by his majestic presence. Cook had even opened the last sack of fine sugar for the tarts.
Drat the man. If he didn’t leave soon, they’d be forced to eat dried beans and bland pottage the rest of the winter. She stared at the table and toyed with the idea of over- peppering the rack of lamb. The image of Lucien choking and turning a bright red held immeasurable appeal. But Robert was more likely to suffer than Lucien, for her brother adored roasted lamb. She hunched a shoulder toward the table and turned away. The idea was beneath
her dignity anyway.
It seemed as
Cook stopped on the threshold, a bowl of dried apples in her hands. “Missus! Whatever do ye think ye are doin’? Let Ned deal with the likes of that.”
With a frustrated sigh, Arabella straightened, pushing her skirts back down more modestly. She hated to ask for
52
help. Surely if she just put a little more effort into it, the damper would come unstuck and she could— She gave one last pull.
Whoosh! A chunk of soot dropped into the fireplace and poofed a huge black cloud into the room. Arabella stum- bled backward as Cook screeched, both of them gasping for breath and waving their hands in the murky air.
“Lawks, missus!” choked Cook. She grabbed a clean cloth and tossed it over her apples, then scurried to open a window. “Ye’ll have soot in the tarts if ye keep that up! Whatever will the dook think then?”
Arabella tried to answer, but her nose and throat were too full of soot for her to do more than sneeze repeatedly. Cook used her apron to wave as much of the gray cloud out of the window as she could. “Thank ye fer tryin’ to help, missus, but I’m goin’ fer Ned. There’s less than three
hours left to dinner and I need the fire.” Arabella rubbed her nose. “But I can—”
“Not when I’ve a dook to feed, ye can’t.” Cook gave one last wave of her apron, grabbed up her cloak from the hook beside the door, and marched outside.
Coughing, Arabella went to stand in the doorway and gulp the fresh air as she watched Cook pass through the gate to the stables. For two days, now, all she’d heard from Ned and Cook was “the dook” this and “the dook” that. Even Mrs. Guinver, the persnickety housekeeper who took pride in disliking every male she met, had grudgingly admitted that “as far as dooks go,” Lucien was by far the best-behaved.
It was infuriating. Since his arrival, Lucien had gone out of his way to charm her servants, but Arabella was not fooled. She knew exactly who Lucien Devereaux was, and being a duke did not lessen his imperfections one bit.
It was just like him to ride carelessly into her life and
disrupt her carefully laid plans. And despite her best efforts, she couldn’t stop wondering about his cryptic comment about making “new memories.” He must know he was not welcome back into her life, no matter how “improved” he wanted everyone to think him.
Though it irked her to admit it, she could understand her servants’ awe. Lucien did possess more than his fair share of handsomeness. And one would be hard-pressed to find a man who managed to carry himself so very . . . dukelike. But that, too, was a product of his birth, and not a result of any goodness on his part.
Lucien Devereaux was an ordinary man who deserved no special treatment whatsoever. She glanced at the elabo- rate dinner preparations already under way: An uncooked rack of lamb sat on a platter liberally sprinkled with crushed mint, and a thick tub of cream had already been whipped with sugar into a frothy sauce for the apple tarts, while various other succulent dishes sat in varying stages of completion. Each one represented a week’s worth of food for the inhabitants of Rosemont.
Arabella scowled to think of their winter supplies dwindling just to feed a worthless, unappreciative duke, but nothing she said swayed her servants from acting as if they had been blessed by his majestic presence. Cook had even opened the last sack of fine sugar for the tarts.
Drat the man. If he didn’t leave soon, they’d be forced to eat dried beans and bland pottage the rest of the winter. She stared at the table and toyed with the idea of over- peppering the rack of lamb. The image of Lucien choking and turning a bright red held immeasurable appeal. But Robert was more likely to suffer than Lucien, for her brother adored roasted lamb. She hunched a shoulder toward the table and turned away. The idea was beneath
her dignity anyway.
It seemed as
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