The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(18)
Well, he’d learned. He no longer believed in angels or putting women on pedestals.
He saw Tessa Todd precisely for what she was: a devilish brat who ought to be turned over his knee. At the thought of spanking the minx, an inexplicable surge of heat flooded his groin.
He cursed, raking a hand through his hair. He didn’t understand his physical reaction to the chit, and he didn’t trust things he didn’t understand. Logically, he couldn’t deny that Tessa Todd was attractive. Her eyes shifted between green and grey depending on her mood and flashed verdigris fire when she was angry (he ought to know). Her features were delicate and fresh, her figure enticingly petite, and, if she wasn’t such a hellion, she might bring to mind a porcelain figurine.
Nonetheless, he knew who she was. Celeste had hidden her true nature behind a fa?ade of demure virtue, but Tessa Todd had no qualms about being a wicked, spoiled miss through and through. In fact, she seemed to take pride in it. Knowing her capacity for deception and manipulation ought to have neutralized his attraction to her, yet his baser instincts warred against his rationality—and the latter, he realized with self-disgust, was far from claiming a decisive victory.
Perhaps he’d just been celibate too long. He hadn’t been with a woman since Roxanne, hadn’t wanted distractions while he was finding his footing. But now he recognized the pent-up need building in him, putting him on edge.
Do not let Tessa Todd get under your skin, he told himself. You have a mission to complete. Rein in the troublesome chit—and your own bloody self.
With brisk efficiency, he finished dressing and reached for his boots. This was his spare pair: his favorite Hessians had been ruined by Miss Todd, who’d somehow managed to furtively fill them with honey. Scowling, he took the precaution of sticking his hand into the battered leather footwear—unadulterated, Praise Jesus…though a bit shoddy.
The state of the boots was due to the fact that he found shopping as enjoyable as a visit to the tooth drawer. His wont was to get fitted once, have multiple duplicates made, and wear the items until they could no longer be decently worn. Or until his glamorous sister-in-law, Marianne, declared his wardrobe a state of emergency and corralled him into a shopping expedition. Luckily, Marianne wasn’t here, so he donned his boots, which were old but comfortable, and vacated the room, heading across the dark courtyard to the kitchen.
The cavernous room was warm and bustling with activity. A black stove lined one wall, pots and pans hanging neatly from hooks. The servants were milling about the large central worktable, preparing for breakfast. The smells of frying meat and fresh bread permeated the room.
Harry returned the friendly greetings and received more than one sympathetic look.
“Ready for another round, are you, Bennett?” Jim, the second footman asked, grinning.
“Hush, Jim.” Mrs. Gates, the bespectacled housekeeper, looked up from the list she was consulting on the worktable. “If the master hears you speaking with disrespect, you’ll find yourself out on the street, and you’d deserve it.”
Jim snorted as he hefted up a tray. “Master would have to be ’ome to’ ear me, wouldn’t ’e?”
The footman had a point. Since Harry had started work, he’d seen little of Black. He hadn’t been able to do much in the way of reconnaissance due to Miss Todd keeping his hands full. She was an early riser, but it was not yet dawn, so he had some time before she started to wreak havoc anew. Now was a good time to gather information.
“Has something been keeping Mr. Black busy?” he said casually.
“Just the usual murder and mayhem,” Jim called before he disappeared up the steps.
Murder and mayhem? Is he referring to The Gilded Pearl?
“Pay Jim no mind,” Mrs. Gates said, a reproving line between her brows. “If he spent half as much time on improving his skills as he did on idle chatter, he’d be a first footman by now.”
She turned to chastise a pair of chatting housemaids, who scurried off to do her bidding.
Seeing the cook’s arms tremble as she lifted a large saucepan from the stove, Harry strode over to assist. “Allow me, Mrs. Crabtree.”
She relinquished the heavy pan with a grateful smile. “Much obliged, Bennett.”
“My pleasure.” With her plump, pigeon-like figure and frizzled hair, the good lady reminded him a little of his own mama. He set the pan down on the worktable, next to a dish of baked eggs. “The cream sauce smells delicious.”
“It’s the tarragon.” Her eyes twinkled. “And the splash o’ sherry.”
“My mama made shirred eggs in the same fashion.”
“Do your kin live in London?”
He hesitated. “My parents passed some time ago.”
“I’m sorry to ’ear it.”
“Thank you.” Although his mama had died when he was twelve and his papa a decade after that, Harry still felt a pang when he thought of them. Marjorie and Samuel Kent had been a loving couple and devoted parents; sometimes, he wondered if he would ever experience the security and happiness of his early years again.
“It ain’t easy losing kin. I lost mine when I was a girl.” Mrs. Crabtree spooned the sauce carefully over the eggs. “If it weren’t for the master, I’d have ended up in the orphanage or worse.”
“Mr. Black took you in?” Harry couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.