of the scenes. Think of the tantrums!”
Lucinda shuddered.
“Well, I had better go and make myself ready. This is your home now. You had better look about. I do not seem to have the knack of keeping servants, so at the moment I am reduced to Chumley and the daily scrubbing women.”
He stood up and stretched his arms above his head. His dressing gown fell open to reveal his broad naked chest.
Lucinda quickly looked away. “What have you done?” screamed a voice in her head. But when she looked up again, it was to see him leaving the room.
She sat for a long time, very still, listening to the silence of the house, telling herself that all she had to do was to open the door and run away.
But she thought of her father and she at last forced herself to admit that the marquess had been more than generous in accepting her odd provisos.
A little warm feeling of gratitude toward this odd rake began to spread through her body. She decided to explore, and went down to the kitchens first.
She looked in dismay at the greasy black hole that was the main kitchen. There was an antiquated open range for cooking, a rough table covered in old scraps of food, greasy walls and dirty china and filthy pots. Obviously it had not been used for cooking anything lately. The hearth was cold. Chumley must have made the coffee on a spirit stove abovestairs. There was a tolerably clean baize apron hanging behind the door. Lucinda took off her pelisse and bonnet, tied on the apron, and proceeded to light the fire. A little scrubbing and cleaning would take her mind off her fast-approaching nuptials.
The marquess had shaved himself and dressed by the time Chumley returned and silently handed him a special license and a gold ring. “Where am I to be married?” asked the marquess.
“St. Edmund’s in Dove Lane, Holborn, my lord.”
“I suppose it will have to do. Hardly the most salubrious neighborhood. You had better be brideman, Chumley. Can you raise some female to act as maid of honor to Miss Westerville?”
“I have already arranged for a Mrs. Grant, a sidesman’s wife, to perform that service.”
“You may raise your wages, Chumley.”
“Your lordship is most kind. There is one problem, however…”
“That being…?”
“Miss Westerville is no longer in the saloon.”
“If that silly unmentionable epithet has fled the coop, I shall track her down and wring her neck.”
“May I say, my lord, Miss Westerville did not strike me as the sort of lady to do anything so impolite. Had she changed her mind, then I am sure she would have informed your lordship first.”
The marquess stood frowning. Then he said, “Follow me.”
He clattered down the stairs with Chumley after him. To Chumley’s surprise, his master continued on down the back stairs to the kitchens.
“I thought so,” said the marquess with satisfaction.
Chumley peered over his master’s shoulder.
The fire was blazing in the kitchen range.
The table was scrubbed, and shining dishes gleamed in serried ranks on the dresser. From the scullery came the sound of splashing water.
The marquess, followed by Chumley, walked through to the scullery. Lucinda was diligently scrubbing pots.
“I want a wife, not a slave,” said the marquess.
Lucinda straightened up and brushed a damp tendril of hair from her forehead. “I will not be able to engage any kitchen staff if the place is left in the disgusting mess in which I found it.”
“May I say, my lord,” put in Chumley, “that the mistress has the right of it. The last housekeeper I tried to engage took one look at the state of the place and had the vapors.”
“Then why didn’t you clean up the place yourself, man?”
“Because in a servantless house, I have a damn sight too much to do as it is, my lord,” snapped Chumley.
Lucinda waited, trembling, for the marquess’s wrath to break over poor Chumley, although surely such insolence from a mere servant deserved any master’s wrath.
The marquess
Lucinda shuddered.
“Well, I had better go and make myself ready. This is your home now. You had better look about. I do not seem to have the knack of keeping servants, so at the moment I am reduced to Chumley and the daily scrubbing women.”
He stood up and stretched his arms above his head. His dressing gown fell open to reveal his broad naked chest.
Lucinda quickly looked away. “What have you done?” screamed a voice in her head. But when she looked up again, it was to see him leaving the room.
She sat for a long time, very still, listening to the silence of the house, telling herself that all she had to do was to open the door and run away.
But she thought of her father and she at last forced herself to admit that the marquess had been more than generous in accepting her odd provisos.
A little warm feeling of gratitude toward this odd rake began to spread through her body. She decided to explore, and went down to the kitchens first.
She looked in dismay at the greasy black hole that was the main kitchen. There was an antiquated open range for cooking, a rough table covered in old scraps of food, greasy walls and dirty china and filthy pots. Obviously it had not been used for cooking anything lately. The hearth was cold. Chumley must have made the coffee on a spirit stove abovestairs. There was a tolerably clean baize apron hanging behind the door. Lucinda took off her pelisse and bonnet, tied on the apron, and proceeded to light the fire. A little scrubbing and cleaning would take her mind off her fast-approaching nuptials.
The marquess had shaved himself and dressed by the time Chumley returned and silently handed him a special license and a gold ring. “Where am I to be married?” asked the marquess.
“St. Edmund’s in Dove Lane, Holborn, my lord.”
“I suppose it will have to do. Hardly the most salubrious neighborhood. You had better be brideman, Chumley. Can you raise some female to act as maid of honor to Miss Westerville?”
“I have already arranged for a Mrs. Grant, a sidesman’s wife, to perform that service.”
“You may raise your wages, Chumley.”
“Your lordship is most kind. There is one problem, however…”
“That being…?”
“Miss Westerville is no longer in the saloon.”
“If that silly unmentionable epithet has fled the coop, I shall track her down and wring her neck.”
“May I say, my lord, Miss Westerville did not strike me as the sort of lady to do anything so impolite. Had she changed her mind, then I am sure she would have informed your lordship first.”
The marquess stood frowning. Then he said, “Follow me.”
He clattered down the stairs with Chumley after him. To Chumley’s surprise, his master continued on down the back stairs to the kitchens.
“I thought so,” said the marquess with satisfaction.
Chumley peered over his master’s shoulder.
The fire was blazing in the kitchen range.
The table was scrubbed, and shining dishes gleamed in serried ranks on the dresser. From the scullery came the sound of splashing water.
The marquess, followed by Chumley, walked through to the scullery. Lucinda was diligently scrubbing pots.
“I want a wife, not a slave,” said the marquess.
Lucinda straightened up and brushed a damp tendril of hair from her forehead. “I will not be able to engage any kitchen staff if the place is left in the disgusting mess in which I found it.”
“May I say, my lord,” put in Chumley, “that the mistress has the right of it. The last housekeeper I tried to engage took one look at the state of the place and had the vapors.”
“Then why didn’t you clean up the place yourself, man?”
“Because in a servantless house, I have a damn sight too much to do as it is, my lord,” snapped Chumley.
Lucinda waited, trembling, for the marquess’s wrath to break over poor Chumley, although surely such insolence from a mere servant deserved any master’s wrath.
The marquess
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