After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(12)

Alas, this was business as usual, not a scandal—and even if it had been a scandal, it was the rector’s, not Lassiter’s. Adrian wasn’t here to convince maids to demand a full salary.

“You may not know, Miss Winters,” he said to her across the table, “but perhaps you would speculate. I imagine you’re good at piecing together a story.”

Their eyes met over the table and Miss Winters flushed again.

Adrian had pegged her about a minute after meeting her. She was young enough to still have dreams, and lonely enough that she’d attach them to anyone who was kind to her. A smile, a slight hint of preference, and she’d tell him anything he asked.

Her eyes met his. There was a hopeless glow in them. She licked her lips, as if she had suddenly become aware of her mouth.

Adrian tried not to think of his in return. She seemed susceptible enough to kindness, and he didn’t need complications. He was bad at lying, as it was—if he let himself think too much about how pretty she was, his preference would show. He didn’t need to make her feel uncomfortable.

But Miss Winters, blush and all, just shook her head and looked away, smoothing her skirts. “No,” she said quietly. “I could speculate, but I shouldn’t. I have nothing interesting to add.”

“Good for you,” the cook said. “You don’t want to be Half-Price Camilla forever, do you?”

Her eyes flashed. My God, that appellation. Half-Price Camilla? Adrian knew too well how unkind servants could be. Those who had little always wanted to shout to the rooftops that someone else had less.

He’d been put in his place often enough that he knew what it looked like.

He could track her rebellion by the pink splotches rising on her neck, the thinning of her lips, the way her shoulder blades drew up, tight and full of tension.

He almost thought she would burst with the effort of holding in her response.

But she didn’t. That light in her eyes faltered; she looked down and took another bite.

Ah. Damn. Adrian had met people—men and women—who had had their hopes crushed right out of them. He’d known youths who still had their heads in the clouds.

This was the first time he’d seen someone in the process of getting crushed.

You know, he thought idly, perhaps it would not hurt if I said a word to her… But no. He had so much to do as it was. He needed to be back at Harvil within a week. Sooner would be better.

It rubbed him the wrong way to stay silent, but this entire endeavor rubbed him the wrong way. She couldn’t be his concern. Either she had useful information or she didn’t.

Miss Winters didn’t look at him again during the meal. She didn’t look at him so assiduously that he twice saw her on the brink of looking and coloring, before turning away again.

He shouldn’t care.

But as he finished his potato, he wondered how long it took to crush a woman’s spirit, and if there was anything to be done about it.

At the end of the meal, when she was standing up and clearing the table, he offered to help gather the plates.

She turned toward him, head down, hands full with the bread basket.

“You’re kind.” It sounded like an accusation when she spoke. She shook her head, as if dispelling a dream. “You’re very kind,” she said again, “and I don’t need it. But thank you.”



* * *



The day had been long, and Camilla had tried so hard to be good.

She had not flirted over dinner, not even when Mr. Hunter had almost made her laugh four times.

It was unfair that she should run into him on the stairs after she’d finished the dishes and banked the fires for the night. Entirely unfair—and since he had undoubtedly dressed the bishop for the evening, extremely understandable.

“Miss Winters.” He nodded at her.

It was an open stairway. She was a maid-of-all-work. There was nothing wrong with wishing him a good night. She did so to the other male servants all the time.

Nothing, except she’d have to look him in the eyes, and no matter what her single, overworked angel told her, she still liked him. She could feel the beat of her pulse in her wrist just because she stood close to him. She kept her head down, nodded in his direction, and turned to go into the room shared by the female servants.

“Oh, no,” he said softly behind her. “It happened.”

Before she could think, she turned to him.

Oh. A terrible idea, that. He was still handsome and a stranger, and with only the one guttering oil lamp standing at the head of the stairs, he seemed mysterious and enticing to boot. Golden shadows glittered across his skin. Camilla set one hand over her belly to quiet a sudden riot of butterflies.

“What happened?”

He smiled at her. “You perished after all.”

It took her a moment to remember their earlier conversation, the one where she’d…flirted with him by claiming death? Oh, excellent work, Camilla.

She had only felt dead earlier; she came to life under his perusal, as if she were a parched plant drinking the first rain after a drought.

“I did,” Camilla said slowly. “I am a walking corpse, shambling about the countryside.”

Damn, damn, damn. She was doing it again. She was flirting—awkwardly, with talk of walking corpses—but no matter how badly she was doing it, she was still flirting.