Second Chance Cinderella. Carla Capshaw

her stomach. The entire day had been one foul kettle of fish after another with the worst being the superior way Sam looked down his nose at her. The more she thought about how he’d ambushed her, the more indignant she became. He’d had no right to call her on the carpet, berate her and deny her the chance to explain. Who did he think he was? A pompous nobleman?

      And yet...he had returned to Ashby Croft to collect her as he’d promised. He must have done or he wouldn’t have known about Harry. Regret pierced her like a thousand knives. If only she’d found the strength to wait for him a little longer.

      The knowledge they were both to blame for losing one another helped to cool her temper. His love may have withered with more ease than she cared to admit, but he had not abandoned her without cause as she’d long believed.

      “Lord,” she whispered, taking a moment to pray. “I need Your help again. I feel like David facing Goliath without a sling. How can I defend myself when Sam has already made up his mind? Please, soften his heart. Convince him to give me a proper listen and accept the truth for Andrew’s sake if not for mine.”

      Moments later, an older kitchen maid with dark hair and merry blue eyes appeared in the doorway. “I’m Abigail,” she said as she closed the door behind her. “Our ’ousekeeper, Mrs. Frye, sent me.” She extended a short stack of fresh garments. “You’ll ’ave to change quick, dearie. We may ’ave to pin up the ’em a bit, but it’s the best we can do on short notice.”

      Unfortunately, the skirt’s length wasn’t the problem. The tightness of the bodice and waist made it nearly impossible to breathe. “I can’t wear this.”

      “You must.” Abigail surveyed her with a critical eye. “Tomorrow’s wash day and this is the last acceptable garment we ’ave that might fit you. The skirt is shorter than I expected so at least you won’t take a tumble.”

      “Don’t you find it a bit peculiar I’m to serve tonight?”

      “I’d say. Especially since the master usually likes things jus’ so. Some say ’e’s extra fussy cause ’e used to be a nobody ’imself and ’e don’t want those lofty new friends of ’is to ream him out behind ’is back.”

      Rose doubted Sam cared much about stray opinions, but he had always been a man of detail. His ability to notice what others failed to see had made him restless as far back as childhood. While growing up in Ashby Croft, he’d been unable to ignore the injustice of their lot and be content. Little wonder Mr. Stark’s promises had stolen him away in a blink. After seeing just a glimpse of what Sam had been able to accomplish in London, she marveled that she’d ever dreamed she might be enough to hold his interest.

      “There,” Abigail said as she finished tying the strings of Rose’s long, white apron. “Try lifting that stack of receipt books on the corner of the desk. Were I to fancy a guess, I’d say they’re as ’eavy as most of the trays you’ll be expected to carry.”

      Rose reached for the pile of books and hefted them into her arms. The dress’s seams protested, but none of them gave way.

      “Thank the Lord for small mercies.” Abigail smiled with obvious relief. “After the way Mr. Blackstone stormed about in a temper this afternoon, he was liable to dismiss us all if anything else went wrong this evening.”

      “Don’t be surprised if does. I don’t have the faintest idea about the proper way to serve. I’m afraid I’ll be so nervous I’ll knock over a glass or drop a dirtied plate in someone’s lap.”

      Abigail chuckled. “You’ll do fine. Jus’ be sure to steer clear of Miss Ratner’s father, Lord Sanbourne. ’E’s been known to make free with his ’ands when he thinks no one’ll notice.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.” Rose tugged at the tight material bunched at her waist. The clang of pots and pans filtered down the hall from the kitchen. “Anything else I should be aware of?”

      “Well,” Abigail said after a thoughtful pause, “I ’ope you won’t think I make a ’abit of carrying tales about Mr. Blackstone or his friends, but if I was you, I’d be careful of Miss Ratner, as well.”

      “She and Mr. Blackstone seem very close.”

      “Indeed. Tonight is ’er debut as ’ostess ’ere. She’s been in a rumpus all week, giving orders and bragging about ’ow much the master would be lost without ’er. By bringing you on, ’e’s given ’er efforts a punch to the nose, to be sure. She won’t be ’appy about her plans being tinkered with, and she’s the kind to seek revenge on you, not ’im.”

      “I’m only here to do my job. If I have my way, I’ll be gone for good before midnight.”

      “That’s probably for the best.” Abigail finished pinning Rose’s cap into place. “You’ve got the prettiest ’air. What a pity it ’as to be ’idden under this silly article.”

      The rare compliment gave her spirits a boost. “I’ve been a servant most of my life. I know how important it is to blend with the walls.”

      “Especially since Miss Ratner searches for things to complain about.”

      “She must have something to recommend her. You told me yourself, Mr. Blackstone is taken with her,” she said, denying the sudden ache in her chest had anything to do with Sam and stemmed from her inability to take in enough air.

      “I suppose so. ’E’s been with ’er six months— longer than any of the other women ’e’s kept company with in all the years I’ve worked for ’im, more’s the pity. But rumor ’as it she’s angling for marriage, and a clever woman knows nothing is final until she ’as a ring on ’er finger or one in ’is nose.”

      A loud clatter and a long stream of angry French drew Abigail’s quick retreat to the kitchen. Rose pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples. Armed with more information than she’d bargained for or wanted, she fought back a dark cloud of depression. Even if she hadn’t been convinced Sam had well and truly moved on without her, she was now.

      “Are you presentable?” Mr. Hodges called from out in the hall. “Only ten minutes until it’s time to announce the dinner service. We must go up this instant.”

      She took as deep a breath as the gown allowed and whispered a prayer for mercy. Her rattled nerves refused to settle. With one last glance in the mirror, she saw an ordinary servant sausage-wrapped in black wool and starched, white cotton. There was nothing special about her, hopefully nothing to draw Miss Ratner’s ire.

      “Robert is managing the soup course, but I shall oversee the fish and carve the roasts,” Mr. Hodges informed her on the way to the first floor. “Hold the platters within easy reach of each guest and allow them to serve themselves. By all means don’t speak to anyone unless you’re spoken to first. If that should happen, keep your responses to a minimum. Some of the ladies and gentlemen present are of noble stock and won’t take kindly to being addressed by a lowly subordinate such as yourself.”

      The melody of a violin grew louder as they reached the top step. Both of them were out of breath by the time they paused on the landing. Rose tugged at the tight material bunching about her waist, certain she must be blue in the face while the warm glow of the gas lamps cast Hodges’s wrinkled visage in a golden hue.

      From the corner of her eye, she saw the violinist standing in a small circular alcove off the main hall. The somber melody he played added an extra layer of formality to the high, curved ceilings and dark, paneled walls.

      The low rumble of conversation signaled the direction of the drawing room and the current location of the party. Hodges lifted an index finger to his lips, warning her to keep silent. He pointed to an open set of sliding doors on the left side of the corridor. Rose nodded gravely and followed him to what seemed like her doom.

      * * *

      In the drawing room, a fire flickered in the hearth and the aroma of savory herbs wafted across the hall from the dining room.

      Aware