They only waited a few moments before the latch was turning and the door swung inward, revealing a tired footman dressed in the house livery. Warren recognized him immediately. Geoffrey Cole. Damn. Bad luck. The man was a fop and a gossip.
Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed on Warren. He puffed out his chest, ready to ream him for putting on airs. Men like Warren were not permitted inside the house unless on special occasions, like the Christmas ball. He was strictly outside staff. Christ, even the hunting dogs were granted more comfort than him.
But then the young lady stepped fully into the light. “Good evening, Geoffrey,” she murmured.
Shit…she knows his name?
Geoffrey’s eyes went wide. “Lady Madeline?” He looked around confused, his neck craning to see past Warren into the yard. “How—”
Warren couldn’t focus on his antics.
Madeline. That’s her name.
He wanted to say it aloud, to taste the music in it for himself. A name as lovely as her face, as her taste.
“Can I come in?” she asked, her fatigue finally showing.
Geoffrey all but stumbled back in his rush to let the lady in.
The lady. That’s what he called her. Lady Madeline.
You are in so much trouble.
He should leave. She was safely inside. His job was done. And yet, too curious for his own good, he locked in step right behind her, following her into the house before Geoffrey could shut the door on him.
The footman stared daggers at him, closing the door with a grimace. He turned back to Madeline. “Are you in need of assistance, my lady?”
“I…”
Warren didn’t need to see her face to know she was blushing. He could tell from the set of her shoulders, the way she was making herself smaller. She put him in mind of a songbird, afraid to come into his hand to earn a little seed. He felt protective of her, ready to step in and defend her from Geoffrey’s questions. He stepped up closer to her back, willing her to feel his unspoken support.
Her back straightened at his closeness and her voice rang out. “I…umm…please let the duchess know I am here. It’s urgent that I see her.”
“Of course, my lady. Would you like to wait here?” Geoffrey gestured with his gloved hand to a settee. “Or I could show you to the drawing room and sit you down by the fire.”
She glanced over her shoulder, her bright blue eyes finding Warren. She was afraid. She wasn’t yet ready to part with his company. He was bringing her comfort. Something inside him warmed at the notion. He liked that she trusted him. He liked the way she was looking at him, like his opinion mattered. Like he mattered.
“We’ll wait here for the duchess,” he said for her.
Her eyes flashed in gratefulness, relieved not to have to make the decision.
But stupid Geoffrey scowled at him. “I’m sorry, but why are you here, Warren? Don’t you have a rabbit to skin somewhere?”
Warren bristled, fighting his resentment at so easily being dismissed by this footman. Of course, the arse would try to put him in his place in front of the lady. To his surprise, Madeline bristled too. He imagined if he tugged her silly mitts off, her hands would be balled into tiny fists. He smirked at this fierce little squirrel, guarding her acorn.
“Mr. Warren did me a good turn tonight. I am in his debt. I would like the duchess to know the service he rendered me.” She took off her winter bonnet, handing it over to Geoffrey. As she pulled it off, a few golden tendrils tumbled loose from her messy bun.
Goddamn it, of course her hair was as golden as a sunrise. Warren stifled a groan. It reminded him of sunshine glistening off the tops of the barley, blowing in a find westerly wind. He wanted to reach out and touch it, feel that silken texture. He wanted it draped across his chest—
Damn. Shit. Fuck.
He clenched his fists tight. Touching her again would be unthinkable. Dangerous. It made his head spin to think how quickly he’d lose his place at Alcott if he was caught being handsy with the lady for a second time.
Madeline was still in her standoff with Geoffrey.
The footman folded like a house of cards, taking her hat with, “But of course, my lady.” Before he could set the hat aside, a voice cried out from the stairs.
“Madeline?”
All three of them turned to see the duchess standing at the top, one hand on the banister. She was a beautiful woman—dark curls and chocolatey eyes, with curves in all the right places. Perhaps a few too many curves now, for she was heavy with child. Her great belly hung low. She braced it with one hand as she raced down the stairs.
“What on earth?” she cried, sweeping across the black and white tiled floor. “Madeline, what are you doing here?”
“Rosalie.” Madeline’s voice was almost a sob.
Shit…were they on first name terms?
“Oh, my dear. Are you hurt?” the duchess said, folding Madeline into the circle of her arms. She was clearly ready to go to war for the girl. “Heavens, you’re freezing. What happened? How are you here?”
“I am unharmed,” Madeline murmured.
The duchess missed nothing, her gaze sweeping over Madeline’s shoulder to take in Warren and the footman.
“Mr. Warren?” she said, eyes wide. “You brought her here?”
“I did, Your Grace.” His voice sounded odd in this place. It echoed deep and loud.
Her eyes narrowed. “Explain, sir.”
He cleared his throat. “She was in the village, Your Grace. Said she needed a ride up to the house. Mr. Tram and I brought her up in the hay cart.”
“A hay cart?” she cried, giving Madeline’s back another rub. “Oh, my Madeline. Well, you’re here now. Where are your things, dear?” She looks around the empty entry hall, her gaze landing back on Warren. She raised one brow in question.
“I…umm…” came Madeline’s non answer.
“Never mind,” the duchess soothed. “Just come. Let’s get you upstairs and into a warm bath. Geoffrey, tell Mrs. Davies we’ll need a room made ready. The Blue Room.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said with a curt nod.
“And thank you, Warren,” she added. “Thank you for bringing her to us safely. Pass my thanks to Mr. Tram as well.” Without another word, the duchess led Madeline away towards the stairs.
Warren watched them both leave, his eyes snared by the glinting gold of Madeline’s hair in the flickering candlelight.
At the base of the stairs, she paused and turned, glancing over her shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Warren,” she called in that soft voice. Not waiting for his reply, she followed the duchess.
“Who is she?” he muttered, watching the tail end of her muddy coat trail across each step.
Geoffrey scoffed, all his sniveling airs forgotten now that his mistress was out of earshot. “You really don’t know?”
Warren’s curiosity outweighed his pride. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”
“Her name is Lady Madeline Blaire,” the footman replied.
“Blaire,” he repeated, trying to place it.
Geoffrey just couldn’t resist saying aloud what they were both thinking. “Of course, why would a gamekeeper know the name of one of the oldest noble families in England?”
Warren rounded on him, flexing his shoulders back. “You’re pretty cocksure for a man who opens doors for a living. You know they already do that all on their own, right? You just push.”
Geoffrey matched him glare for glare. “Lady Madeline Blaire, you ignorant swine, is the daughter of Lord Richard Blaire, the Right Honorable Viscount Raleigh, who was one of the fifth duke’s oldest friends. And Lady Madeline herself is one of the duchess’s closest confidants.”
“Shit.” This time, Warren made the mistake of saying it out loud, instead of merely thinking it.
Geoffrey’s smirk vanished as his eyes widened. “Oh…Warren, what did you do?”
“Nothing,” he replied quickly. And because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Yet.”
