The Lady’s Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

McCall was not the only man she’d kissed in her life. The world of the theatre was less prudish than that of ordinary mortals. She might be a virgin but she knew how these things went and she’d experienced that excitement, low in her body, the craving for more. But she’d never known she could feel that sort of desire just from looking at someone. Someone standing at least ten feet away. Someone who hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her…
    Well, of course he hadn’t. He thought she was a man.
    He thought she was a man.
    She had overcome the first hurdle in this charade. Would she be able to keep it up? She would be spending a lot of time with Harland, living in close proximity to him. Would he detect the truth or would she be able to carry off her masquerade? Max said she was a talented actress; that it was such a shame she didn’t have that burning desire to perform her mother had had.
    Well, she had it now. For this role, a role that wasn’t merely pretence. She would really be his valet.
    And she thought she just might pull it off.

Chapter 4
    Two weeks later
    Half past nine in the morning.
    Almost.
    Georgy leaned one shoulder against the wall outside Harland’s bedchamber, waiting for the maid to arrive with his breakfast tray. As was his habit, Harland had left precise instructions for her on his return to the house in the early hours. The dashed off note, handed to the night footman, was waiting at her place at breakfast this morning. It read “Breakfast in my bedchamber at half past nine. Coddled eggs. Coffee. Riding clothes.”
    During the two hours between eating her own breakfast and taking Harland’s to him, Georgy had pressed the wrinkles from a pile of coats and waistcoats. It was a hot, sweaty task and she was red-faced and sticky when she finished. She just had time to run to her own chamber to wash her face and tidy her hair before making her to way to her master’s apartments to wait for the maid.
    She’d been waiting at Harland’s bedchamber door for several minutes by the time the maid arrived—Rosie, a plump, silent girl from the kitchens who Tom the footman insisted was “sweet on George.”
    “Morning, Rosie,” Georgy said.
    Rosie blushed beetroot red—she always did when Georgy spoke to her. The china on the tray rattled as she handed it over. She mumbled a greeting and scurried away.
    Georgy put the tray on the occasional table that stood outside Harland’s door and quickly checked the contents. It was all there: his morning newspaper, the pot of coffee, the neat plate of eggs huddling under the silver dome, the buttered toast and the sliced orange. Harland was terribly partial to oranges. He hadn’t said in his note that he wanted one, but he had one every morning, always sliced into eight pieces.
    Georgy’s mouth watered. She adored oranges too. It felt like forever since she’d had one. The juicy, glistening flesh looked so appealing in the little crystal bowl Mrs. Simms had sliced it into. She wondered briefly if Harland would notice if she stole one little piece. But of course he would. There were always precisely eight pieces and it would be just like him to notice if there were only seven.
    She lifted a hand and rapped on the door. She counted to ten before she opened the door, and even then only a fraction.
    “Come.”
    Harland’s voice—his early morning voice, still husky from sleep—was the final key to her entry. Georgy lifted the tray and entered backwards, using her back to swing the door open. When she turned around, Harland was in the process of sitting up. He wore nothing, as usual. His dark hair was mussed, his eyes half-closed and sleepy as he passed a weary hand over his face. Three o’clock this morning he’d come in, Jed had said. If she were Harland, she would have slept till lunch.
    She stared at his torso while he fiddled with his pillows. It was a habit she had formed. Safer to look there while she stood waiting with the breakfast tray than