Second Chance Cinderella. Carla Capshaw

wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple and pushed back the damp tendrils of hair falling around her face. As she climbed the stairs to her room, she removed the offending apron and wished she could crawl into bed. Exhaustion crippled her. Considering the day had started with a carriage accident before dawn and gone progressively downhill from there, she began to wonder what trials the night held in store.

      A downpour accompanied Rose’s unfamiliar trek through Mayfair’s confusing maze of slippery cobblestones and fog-shrouded streets. Her shoes squeaked from more than one dunk in a mud puddle and her soggy bonnet had quit shielding her face from the rain two blocks earlier.

      The short jaunt should have been uneventful, but due to a pugnacious individual who seemed to believe he owned the entire footpath, Ina had been pushed off the curb and sent reeling into an open sewer. Her twisted ankle and filthy skirts left her unfit for work. After calling a hack to convey the other girl home, Rose had pressed on alone.

      Shivering and keenly aware that she was late for the second time in the same day, Rose made use of the knocker on the glossy, black kitchen door of the Samuels’s townhouse. As she always did when visiting a new place, she worried she’d misread the address and come to the wrong establishment.

      The door swung open. Heat from the stove and the delicious scents of savory dishes emanated from the large work area beyond. A uniformed footman stared down at her.

      “Hello, I’m Rose—”

      “My name is Robert. Weren’t there to be two of you?”

      “Yes.” She explained about Ina’s predicament. “She twisted her ankle and had to return home.”

      “I suppose that’s why you’re late?”

      She nodded.

      “The master’s waiting for you and his guests are expected soon. Follow me.” The footman stepped back to allow her entrance into the warm, cavernous basement that smelled of herbs and cinnamon.

      “The master wishes to see me?” Struck by the oddity of the situation, she handed over her sodden bonnet, muddy cape and umbrella. Damp patches spotted her gown and a rip marred the hem. Water from her wet hair trickled down her temples and the back of her neck. “You must be mistaken. I’m in Baron Malbury’s employ. Mrs. Pickles sent me to help with the shortage of kitchen staff this evening. Why should your master wish to see the likes of me?”

      Robert shrugged. “It’s not my place to ask, miss.”

      “Does he interview all the temporary help?”

      “Not to my knowledge.”

      As she followed the footman, she noticed the copper pots bubbling on the wood stove and the variety of roasted meats resting on the chopping blocks. Kitchen maids buzzed about doing chores and putting the final touches on the sauces and desserts. Unlike the Malbury townhouse, or even Hopewell Manor at times of late, this kitchen seemed well staffed—perhaps overly so.

      A flight of stairs delivered them to the ground floor where a checkered pattern of black-and-white marble anchored the central hall. Massive paintings of somber individuals looked down on her from ornate, gilded frames hung on walls covered with blue-watered silk.

      Until now, she’d found Hopewell her ideal of refinement, but the grand manor where she’d worked for the past several years seemed like nothing more than a pretty house compared to the opulence on offer here.

      “This way, miss.”

      The faint sound of servants discussing the proper placement of cutlery filtered out of the dining room as Rose trailed the footman past marble busts, cut-crystal vases filled with hothouse flowers and a massive etched mirror. She cringed at her ghastly reflection of bedraggled hair and cold, blue-tinged lips.

      Robert stopped in front of a door and rapped on the dark wood.

      “Enter,” came a muffled order.

      The flash of pity that crossed Robert’s expression gave her pause. “He’ll see you now.”

      Trepidation snaked through her as he opened the door. The peculiar situation couldn’t be discounted. Employers usually took as much notice of their lower servants as a fallen leaf in the park.

      With nervous fingers, she brushed damp tendrils off her face and tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt before she hesitantly crossed the threshold.

      The scent of lemon polish and leather greeted her. Despite the glow from the fireplace, shadows lurked in the corners of the masculine room. Shelves crammed with books lined the walls and her exhausted brain began to ache at the thought of trying to decipher even the simplest among them.

      “That will be all, Robert.”

      Gasping, she spun in the direction of the deep voice.

      Sam’s voice.

      Disbelief coursed through her. Her heart clamored in wild abandon even before she found him standing behind a wide, polished desk at the head of the room.

      “Hello, Rose.”

      Chapter Two

      Rose blinked rapidly as she struggled to form a sensible reply. How she wished Mrs. Pickles hadn’t gotten the name wrong and had given her time to prepare for being face-to-face with Sam. “Hello...”

      “It’s been a long time.”

      “Yes.” Her lips wooden, she stared helplessly as simultaneous joy and agony overwhelmed her. Her gaze roved over Sam’s face in a frantic, failed attempt to take in all the details of him at once.

      Time had erased the last traces of the boy she’d known. His face was leaner, his features sharper, his jaw more defined than when he’d left Ashby Croft. As tall as she remembered and even more handsome, if possible, with his thick, black hair and chocolate-brown eyes, he was dark for an Englishman. As children they’d fancied he must have gypsy blood since his sun-warmed complexion set him so far apart from the many pasty-faced boys of the village.

      “What are you doing here, Sam?” Registering the smoldering fury in his dark eyes, she took a self-protective step back. “How...how did you find me?”

      “Funny thing, that. I saw you on the street this morning and followed you to Malbury’s.”

      “This morning?” Even as she noted his polished accent, her eyes widened with sudden recollection. “You’re the man I saw in the square. The one speaking to the paperboy.”

      She took his silence as confirmation. His anger spread to her like a contagion. A multitude of questions swirled through her brain until she felt lightheaded. Praying she wouldn’t fall apart in front of him, she swallowed the sob of emotion lodged in her tight throat. “Where have you been all these years? Why did you never come back?”

      A silky, black eyebrow arched with unconcealed derision. “Where have I been? Why, here in London, of course. Right where I said I’d be.”

      Sam’s frigid tone dripped with enough scorn to penetrate Rose’s dazed senses. Her Sam had never spoken to her in such a fashion—as though he loathed even the faintest knowledge of her existence.

      “The better question is—” his square jaw tightened “—where have you been?”

      A shiver rippled through her that had nothing to do with her damp garments or clammy skin. Any hope she’d ever cherished for a pleasant reunion vanished. This severe man looked like Sam—albeit a more mature version—but he bore no resemblance to the lively, brash and indomitable boy she’d loved. He might as well be a stranger.

      The tick of a mantel clock marked the silence. Her shock began to fade. Other emotions raced through her in quick succession. Anger and confusion gave way to disbelief, then fear as she pieced together the truth of the situation. Sam had arranged this meeting to knock her for six and he’d succeeded. She didn’t understand his apparent loathing, but his intentions were clear. He’d always