The Worthington Wife. Sharon Page

fingers to his lips. His father used to do this with his mother, and it always made Mam giggle, then melt and sigh and forget worry and despair.

      Julia had soft skin. Pretty hands that smelled like flowers. His head told him to be angry that her hands obviously did no work, but lust shot through him at the idea of having such soft, pampered hands gripping his shoulders as he made love to her.

      She pulled her hand back. “Stop this, Worthington.”

      He loved hearing her speak so primly. It entertained him. “I want to make amends.”

      “Then don’t tear Worthington apart. Your father was disowned and that was wrong. But what others did to you should not dictate whether you behave nobly or not.”

      “You people would say a man can never rise above his birth.”

      “I would never say that.” With that, she turned away from him and continued downstairs.

      “You know what’s funny?” he said. “When I took a tour of the house this morning and came down to the kitchen, the servants assumed I’d gotten lost. Every footman and maid I encountered, the butler, the cook, all thought I must have gotten lost to be down in the servants’ basement.”

      “We refer to it as ‘belowstairs.’”

      He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “It’s a cold, damp, stone basement without enough light. Don’t give it a prim name so you people can pretend that the kitchen staff is happy to be trapped down there day and night, scouring pots.”

      Julia recoiled from his harsh, accusatory words and continued to the bottom of the stairs, but she paused before she opened the door.

      “You want to sell Worthington. Whoever buys it will employ a kitchen maid. Count the number of servants next time you’re at a house belonging to someone who is ‘new money.’ They will have more than us.”

      “New money.” He scoffed at the term.

      But Julia went on, “Inquire about the working conditions of those servants. Find out what their employers do when they can no longer work or become ill. All too often they are let go and replaced. There is no pension, no care, no compassion. We try to take care of our own. We truly do. You Americans champion capitalism, but it can be a harsh thing.”

      She pushed open the door and walked out.

      He let her get the last word. This time.

      Cal followed her through a stone-arched doorway, into a room with a long wooden table. A woman sat at it, sewing. Two footmen where having cups of tea. Two maids sat there, giggling together.

      Their happy demeanor startled him. He’d expected to see girls who were exhausted, who looked like they were being crushed. He never dreamed a girl would sparkle when she was working her fingers to the bone as a maid.

      Had his mother sparkled and laughed like that? He’d rarely seen her do it while they were struggling to survive.

      “Good morning,” Julia said. Every person at the table pushed back their chairs and bolted to their feet to stand at attention.

      “My lady?” The housekeeper hurried out of a room, keys jangling at her waist. “My lord.”

      “My lord. My lady.” The snobby butler hurried in. “May I help you both?”

      “We wish Mrs. Feathers to spare a moment of her time,” Julia said. It wasn’t a question. It was a command, but a sugarcoated one.

      “Of course, my lady.” The housekeeper disappeared into the kitchens.

      A strident voice cried, “What does ’e want now?” Then it went quiet. A moment later, Mrs. Feathers showed up at the doorway. The pudgy woman wore a coat that strained over her ample figure, and a surprisingly stylish hat with a feather.

      Cal was just about to capitulate and agree to a truce with the cook—just to see what would happen if he made nice with Lady Julia and to find out how she would coax Mrs. Feathers to change her way of thinking—when a loud crash sounded in the kitchen and Mrs. Feathers gasped, “Oh Lord, that was the sauce for the duck. Stupid, clumsy girl!”

      Cal couldn’t see why the cook would care since she was walking out the door, but then remembered Julia had led the cook to believe he would apologize. Maybe even grovel.

      And the crash had interrupted them.

      Face reddening with impatience and anger, the cook whirled around and barked into the kitchen, “You daft twit, can’t you be careful? That’s ruined. And here’s his lordship, concerned about waste. Well, we know who’s to blame for most of the food that goes in the rubbish bin. You haven’t got the wits of a dog.”

      Mrs. Feathers lunged into the kitchen with her hand raised as if ready to deliver a slap.

      Cal had worked on the docks as a young boy. There he’d been hit and abused. No one was going to abuse anyone in his name. He stalked into the kitchen, sensing Lady Julia was close behind.

      Mrs. Feathers gripped a young kitchen maid by the shoulders. Her face was contorted and red with fury. The girl, she’d been introduced as Hannah on his previous trip to the kitchens, was thin—skinny arms stuck out of the sleeves of a beige dress, and an apron was tied around a tiny waist. The cook shook Hannah, who had wide, frightened brown eyes and tears on her cheeks. “It was an accident. I was trying to be careful. But then I turned and the dog was there and I fell over him.”

      His late uncle’s dog, a retriever, let out a whimpering sound and dropped to the floor, gazing up with pitiful eyes. The kitchen maid looked more scared than the dog.

      Suddenly, Mrs. Feathers shook the girl, her face dark red with fury. She lifted her hand—

      He grasped the woman’s wrist and hauled her away from Hannah. “So you are responsible for the bruises on this girl,” he said, his voice low and cold. He pushed up the girl’s sleeve, revealing a row of fading bruises along her forearm. “I noticed them when I was downstairs earlier. But she didn’t rat you out. She insisted she got them because she was clumsy. Now I see what’s been happening.” He dropped his voice lower, so it was nothing more than a growl. “No one hits anyone in my household.”

      The cook had turned white.

      “Apologize to Hannah.”

      “What?” gasped Mrs. Feathers.

      “You had no right to say what you did. No right to touch her. She’s a person, not a whipping boy.”

      “She’s not a person, she’s a kitchen maid. I know how to keep my staff in line. I know what works with them and what doesn’t, my lord—”

      “And I know when I see behavior I refuse to condone,” he said with lethal cool. “I was told to give you an apology to keep peace in this damn house. But you don’t deserve one. I don’t want a woman like you working here, taking out your anger on a defenseless girl. I don’t care if you’ve quit or not, because you’re fired. Now get out.”

      The woman’s jaw dropped.

      Lady Julia’s jaw also dropped.

      Hannah the kitchen maid stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. She was older than she looked, older than Mam had been when she had to start working as a maid in that Fifth Avenue house.

      “Can you cook?” he said to her.

      “Y-yes.”

      “Her? Cook?” cried Mrs. Feathers. “That’s a laugh.”

      “She’s going to cook from now on. Congratulations, Hannah. You’ve been promoted.”

      He turned to find Julia staring at him, in as much shock as the others. “I’ve solved the problem,” he said. “I have a cook.”

      * * *

      Julia pursued the infuriating Earl of Worthington along the downstairs corridor. “You simply cannot do that.”