Suzanne Robinson Read Online Free PDF Page A

to the next door. Throwing it open, he found an empty cloakroom. The next door was locked, the silver pantry. He was about to open a third when he spotted the edge of a starched skirt disappearing around a corner toward the stairs that led down to the kitchen and scullery. He sprang after it.
    Jocelin rounded the corner and collided with a maid. His foot came down on the hem of her uniform. It ripped. She cried out and stumbled, her arms flailing as she careened onto the top step. Jocelin caught hold of the banister and the neck of the maid’s gown. Material rent, and the woman gasped as he pulled her to safety on the landing. He caught a glimpse of white skin, the rise of a breast, before she clutched the ends of her bodice together and rounded on him.
    “You bleeding idiot—my lord!”
    As he tugged on his coat and brushed a lock of hair back from his face, he scowled at the plump maid. “Were you in the hall?”
    She squared her shoulders, tilted back her head to meet his gaze, and looked down her nose. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
    “Don’t look at me as if I were a street Arab with the pox. Answer me. Were you in the hall just now?”
    “No, my lord. If your lordship will remember, my task is to lay fires and clean boots this morning.”
    Her tone made it clear she thought he had no conception of heavy coal buckets and boot scraping. She stood there, as stiff and virtuously offended as a martyr at an orgy, waiting for him to apologize. The damned little nuisance was waiting for him to apologize.
    “It was you,” he snapped. “I know it.”
    “I beg leave to contradict your lordship.”
    He began walking toward her. In the dark hallway she stood her ground much longer than he thought she would, but finally, when his boot touched her torn hem, she shrank away. He followed, and her back hit the wall. Her shoulder nearly dislodged a portrait of some long dead and faithful Marshal butler. He reached out and steadied the painting. She dodged to the side to avoid his arm, but he braced his free hand on the wall so that she couldn’t burrow into the corner.
    Leaning over her so that he could make out her face, he said quietly, “Servants are supposed to be invisible, especially maids of all work.”
    “Yes, my lord. If you will excuse me, I will become invisible.”
    He flattened his other hand on the wall as she moved toward the stairs. “Too late.” With satisfaction he watched her try to merge with the wall at her back.
    “You were watching me,” he said.
    She glared at him. “I was not, you—my lord.”
    “I have bountiful leisure in which to await your confession.”
    He touched one of the wispy curls at her temple,and she started. He hadn’t realized how close to her he’d moved until he smelled lemons. This maid of all work, with her coal-grimed hands and her mussed hair, smelled of lemons. He was used to the odor of horse sweat and exploding artillery shells, accustomed to the complex fragrance of Parisian perfumes. Thus, when he swelled to near bursting upon catching a whiff of lemons from a peevish housemaid, Jocelin found himself unprepared.
    Without thinking, he pressed his body against her. She drew in her breath. Still clutching the neck of her gown with one hand, she pressed the other against his chest. Coal dust smudged the white cleanliness of his shirt. He grinned when she noticed, pulled her hand away as if it burned, then put it back as he moved closer.
    “Admit you were watching me,” he breathed near her lips. “You smell like lemons.”
    She had gone silent and stiff. At least he’d achieved that much.
    Their lips almost touched, and he whispered, “You were watching me. Other women have, so don’t be ashamed. I want you too.”
    He kissed her then, because the smell of lemons was driving him, as were her trembling and her reluctance. His lips touched hers. Pliant, they opened, and he tasted her. Then she stomped on his foot.
    “Hang it!” Springing back, he fell against