Page 113 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Ethan might have laughed aloud at this woman’s cheekiness if he wasn’t so irritated with the current situation in general.

At one time, he had been a gentleman who wouldn’t think of tossing a helpless woman out into the elements, but his compassion had died at the Battle of Waterloo after he’d been stripped of everything—and not just his ability to walk properly.

He glanced at Tobin, who looked torn between his loyalty to his master and the demands of this pert female.

No doubt her comely features were part of his hesitation.

Ethan hadn’t been expecting such a young lady to enter the room and confront him, nor that he would be so struck by the bright blue of her eyes and the deep midnight of her hair.

It wasn’t often that he was hit with something other than annoyance, anger, or a combination of the two, but as he’d first beheld Miss Meyer, there was the slight stirring of… something else.

It was entirely unwelcome.

He ground his teeth together, the last of his humanity warring with his need to be left in solitude. In the end, he waved a dismissive hand that could have been taken any such way and the servant hastily retreated toward the back of the manor with Miss Meyer in tow.

Ethan leaned his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. It was the wrong thing to do, because he caught the faint scent of a lingering fragrance. Citrus?

Normally women liked to wear floral perfumes, but of course, Miss Meyer had the pluck to be different.

Or else, it had just been so long since he’d been with any woman that he had fallen out of fashion of what was preferred.

That was another lingering possibility. While he had his liaisons from a few of the local village wenches, it was a temporary fixation to slake his lust and nothing more.

Afterward, he tossed a few coins on the table in his chamber and ordered them out.

There were rumors that he was mad, or worse, but Ethan didn’t care about idle gossip.

He had never cared about it when he used to peruse the London ballrooms, except for the time he was injured on the battlefield and he’d received word that once Margo had learned of his injury, she had cried off from their engagement and married another.

If only the Brazen Belle would write about some of the viperous women he’d known in his lifetime, but he supposed it was easier to villainize the male species.

And honestly, he couldn’t fault the woman for writing columns about worthless scoundrels if she had been injured by one.

If he cared enough about Margo and her betrayal, he might have started his own gossip sheet, but it wasn’t worth the effort.

Nothing was worth the effort anymore.

And thus, he had returned to the moment when he fell into despair and drank himself into oblivion.

Not just because it dulled the constant throbbing pain in his leg, but because it dulled his senses enough where he no longer cared that Margo was happy and settled with a nursery full of children that might have been his.

He had always been close to his own nieces and nephews, but after the war, he had given up on everything because he had lost the reasons to care—about his family, about himself, about…

anything. He knew it was pointless to go back to society and live like a crippled shell of the man he’d once been, to see Margo and have her give him a look of guilt mixed with the worst emotion of all—pity.

He was done trying anything new. He was…

done. He could care less about the festive holiday season that was upon them.

He hadn’t allowed any of the usual traditions he’d grown up with to adorn a single room in this house.

Not a single bit of greenery or figgy pudding.

He wanted no memory of anything that had once brought him cheer because he despised everything that reminded him of all that he’d lost.

Miss Meyer might imagine she was on some savior’s errand to bring him back from the dead and return to London with him in tow amid a joyous celebration to be had by all.

Bollocks.

She could attempt to bedevil him by staying here with her demanding demeanor, but he would soon see her packing her things and leaving in utter dismay. He was not the same Ethan Grange he had been a few years ago when he still carried the bright light of hope within his chest.

He was Lord Darville. Or as some of the locals had begun to refer to him, Lord Darkville. Because that was the color of his heart and perhaps his very soul.

Black. Dark.

Dead.

Claire would forever be indebted to the lovely hospitality of the quiet staff of Darville House.

She realized quickly that she’d been wrong about the butler.

He was stone faced because that is what his master demanded of him.

Below stairs was another matter entirely.

Sitting at the scarred wooden table while the cook heated up some leftover stew and bread, Claire found herself laughing at the teasing antics that these people showed one another.

It was a close-knit association, like their own private family, but then she discovered that most of the servants had served Lord Darville’s father before him.

They were loyal to a fault and it was obvious that they yearned to share the same enthusiasm with the earl, but they knew it was impossible to do so.

“He wasn’t always so cruel and unforgiving,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Peel, noted with a downturn of her lips.

“He was a handsome scoundrel but the war changed him. When he got injured, nothing was the same and when the woman he loved—” She hastily broke off and offered an almost guilty smile.

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t be spreading gossip.

The master pays a good wage and ensures that the steward gives him a weekly report on how the tenants and crops are faring.

He might have given up on himself, but he has yet to completely lose his humanity when it comes to the needs of others. ”

That bit of information was all Claire needed to hear.

If the earl had allowed his lands and tenants to suffer, she might think that he was completely irredeemable.

But as it stood, he just wanted to shut out the rest of the world and hide within his own misery and grief.

If what the housekeeper had been about to say, that he’d lost someone special, that would explain a lot.

Love did not have a time limit when it came to recovering. A heart could bleed for years.

“Is this everyone that works here?” Claire asked, having been introduced to the cook and a footman as well. “It seems like a small staff for the size of the grounds and a peer.”

“The master employs a steward, but he doesn’t live at Darville House.

And there is a gardener, but again, he doesn’t remain at the estate.

There is a groom but no coachman as the earl did not see the need for one.

He hasn’t taken the carriage out in months.

” Mrs. Peel shook her head. “We had a maid but they don’t seem to stay for long.

The younger girls don’t have the fortitude it takes to deal with the master’s ill temperament. ”

“Ah. I see,” Claire murmured, and suddenly found a way where her presence could be appreciated while she attempted to coerce the earl to try some of her healing methods. “I would be happy to assist while I’m here. That is to say, if the earl agrees.”

“But miss,” Tobin noted. “You are a gently bred woman. You shouldn’t be doing laundry or making beds.”

“Trust me,” Claire returned. “I do not mind and if it can take some of the strain off of everyone here, I am glad to help.”

Mrs. Peel dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “That is right kind of you, miss. It can be rather stressing at times.”

“That’s settled then.” Claire smiled as she rose to her feet. “Thank you for a lovely meal but it’s been a long day. I should like to turn in for the night.”

Mrs. Peel inclined her head. “If you’ll follow me?”

Claire followed the housekeeper up a set of stairs that overlooked the great hall.

She couldn’t resist glancing down at the chair that now sat empty.

She frowned slightly, wondering why she was disappointed that the earl was no longer there, but decided that he must have turned in as well.

The housekeeper opened a door at the end of the hall and revealed a cozy chamber with a four-poster bed, a washstand and screen and a modest dresser.

A fire burned in the grate and she was thankful for the heat.

She had finally started to thaw from her journey in the kitchens, but she was eager to pass a comfortable night.

She noticed that her traveling valise was already sitting at the foot of the bed. She had nearly forgotten she’d left it on the front steps in her haste to retreat from the bitter cold.

“I had the footman retrieve it while you were in the kitchens, as well as prepare the room for your stay.”

“Thank you. I do appreciate it. I know it was short notice.” Claire offered a warm smile, which was returned.

At least she seemed to have won over the respect of the servants, who knew she was there for good intentions and on behalf of the earl’s aunt.

She had no doubt they would champion her cause as much as they could without interfering with the earl’s word.

Changing into her nightdress, Claire slipped between the covers and pulled them up to her chin. Tomorrow was a new day. She just had to remember that with the dawn came new opportunities.