Page 7 of The Duke’s Lance (The Duke’s Guard #12)
H elen wished she did not feel such a kinship with the women working for the Duchess of Wyndmere, whom she had the utmost respect for. Her Grace had treated Helen as if she mattered from the moment she and Emily stepped down from the carriage at Wyndmere Hall. Though she had planned to leave the duke’s estate as soon as Emily married Garahan, the duchess had convinced her to stay on and continue to work in the nursery.
Between the duke and duchess’s eighteen-month-old twins, and Patrick and Gwendolyn’s new babe, there was plenty to keep the four women busy. Gwendolyn, Emily, the duchess’s maid Francis—who had been sharing nursery duties before being elevated to personal maid to the duchess—and Helen shared the duties. As the duke’s guard rotated positions, so did the women, ensuring the pregnant duchess, and the two married women, got plenty of rest. Francis and Helen shared most of the overnight duties, as they were single, not married and expecting.
Helen had to speak with Emily again and explain her desire to seek other employment. It would free the woman from the need to watch over her, which she had done since Lord Montrose brought her home—though he had never told Emily how he met Helen. Emily had promised her father that she would always look after those he brought home to join his staff. She had kept her word.
With the help and guidance of Montrose’s butler, housekeeper, and cook, they had formed a ragtag family. Every last one of those Lord Montrose had saved from starvation—or worse, Newgate Prison—were loyal to him. After his death, they turned to his lordship’s staff for direction.
Helen knew that Emily would always look out for them…even though she had no plans to live there permanently. But Emily should no longer have to look after her. They weren’t children anymore. They were both of age—well, Emily was a few years older than Helen, who would be nineteen in a few months. Most young women of the ton were either engaged to be married or married at that age.
You’re not a member of the ton , remember?
She sighed deeply. It was beyond time to cut the cord, and childhood vows, binding them. Now that her friend was pregnant, Helen had to free her from the obligation so that Emily could lavish her attention on Garahan, and their babe when it arrived. Helen was confident that between Garahan and the rest of the duke’s guard stationed at Wyndmere Hall, Emily would be well protected and live the fulfilling life she deserved.
“A letter just arrived for you, Miss Helen.”
Helen paused in her task of helping Constance set out the accoutrements for the duchess’s midmorning tea. “Thank you, Humphries.” She hoped it was news from Mrs. Minnover—she had recently written to the Montrose’s housekeeper. Turning the letter over, she paused to stare at the neat handwriting, noting it had not originated from Montrose House in London, but Flemington Gatehouse in the Borderlands.
“Good news from Montrose House?” Constance inquired.
Helen glanced up at the kind face of the duke’s cook. “Er…no.”
Constance brushed her hands on her apron and placed a comforting hand on Helen’s shoulder. “If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”
“Thank you, I will. Do you mind if I take a moment to read my letter?”
“Not at all. We have a bit of time before we need to fill the teapot and add the sweets to the tea tray.” The cook made a shooing motion toward the hallway. “Why don’t you use the room by the pantry? It’s quiet right now, and you can have the privacy you need.”
“Thank you, Constance.” Helen hurried toward the room by the servants’ staircase at the end of the hall. She closed the door, sat in the chair by the cot, and broke the wax seal.
Hands trembling, she read the note twice before blowing out the breath she’d held.
She pressed the note to her breast and breathed a sigh of relief. “This is what I want. Emily can devote all of her time and attention to Garahan and the babe she carries.”
She read the note for a third time.
Dear Miss Langley,
Your qualifications meet my requirements. I have rigid standards that my elevated station in life requires in a companion. Present yourself at Flemington Gatehouse in a sennight for a personal interview.
Dowager Duchess Flemington
Folding the note, she slipped it into the pocket of her apron, rose to her feet, and opened the door. Head down, mind in a whirl, she was walking one minute, and on her backside the next.
“Miss Helen!”
She blinked and looked up at a footman she did not recognize, but must have bumped into. “I beg your pardon. I was preoccupied, not looking where I was walking.”
“Forgive me.” The young man held out a hand and helped her to her feet.
She bit her lip to keep from grimacing. It would not do at all for the footman to ask if she’d suffered an injury…given what part of her anatomy hit the floor. Ignoring the twinges of discomfort, she thanked him and stiffly walked away.
Constance was filling the teapot when Helen stepped into the kitchen. The cook’s smile faltered. “Unexpected news?” When Helen did not answer right away, Constance asked, “Anything we need to advise Emily?”
“Er… No. Not unexpected, nor anything to bother Emily with. Simply a response to a letter I sent.”
The cook did not try to wheedle more from Helen, for which she was grateful. Mrs. Minnover would have dragged Lord Montrose’s cook into the mix. Between the two of them, they would try to extract every last detail of Helen’s letter.
The tightness between her shoulder blades eased when the questions did not begin, but she winced as a twinge of pain shot from her backside to her waist, then breathed a sigh of relief that the cook had her back to her and did not notice.
“What’s this I hear about ye falling on yer bottom?”
Helen spun around so quickly that she hit her backside on the edge of the table. Biting her lip to keep from moaning, she glanced up at the last man she would never admit her clumsiness to.
O’Malley stood in the doorway. “Did yer fall affect yer ability to hear?”
Constance smothered her laughter, and Helen watched as the cook turned to grab another plate of sweets. She wished she could ignore the Irishman, but he closed the distance between them and was just too…well, too everything ! Broad of shoulder. Irritating. Handsome.
He raked a hand through his hair. “Are ye in pain, lass?” Her eyes met his, but before she could answer, he grunted and swept her off her feet and into his arms. “Not a bloody word.”
She heeded his warning and bit her bottom lip.
“And don’t do that,” he practically growled at her.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be biting yer lip like that.”
Startled by his request, she stammered, “I…I b-beg your pardon?”
“Yer lip, lass. Don’t be calling attention to it by biting it.”
She informed him, “It is a habit I have had since childhood.”
He grunted again. And what in the world was that sound supposed to signify? Before she could ask, he strode into the room she had just left and deposited her on the cot. “Lie down.”
She got off the cot as soon as he stepped back. “No!”
O’Malley’s mouth hung open for a moment before he snapped it shut and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “Ye need to lie down before ye fall down.”
“I have no intention of sitting.” Or telling the stubborn man that it was too painful to sit at the moment. Maybe when the sting in her bottom subsided a bit, she could.
His eyes widened, and he shook his head. Slowly, he set her free. “Ah, forgive me for not understanding.” He slipped an arm around her waist and leaned close. “I can ask one of the footmen to bring ye a pillow to sit on.” Her face flamed in response, and he chuckled. “Yer blush reminds me of me ma’s roses.”
“Do you make a habit of discussing such personal topics with women you barely know?”
His green eyes sparkled with devilment as he drew her alarmingly close. “Ah, but I know you, Miss Helen Langley, former maid to Mrs. Emily Garahan, ward to the Duke of Wyndmere. Ye’re a welcome sight of a morning, with yer black-as-ebony hair coming loose from its pins, and yer entrancing violet eyes alight with joy.”
O’Malley brushed the tip of his finger along the curve of her cheek. Her knees wobbled at his touch. She stiffened her legs and tried to add distance between them. When the backs of her knees pressed against the edge of the cot, she realized she had nowhere else to go.
“You are being far too familiar, O’Malley.”
“I stated me intention the other day. Ye’ve yet to give me yer answer.”
Helen struggled to keep her temper in check. “Your memory is faulty.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes, it is. You did not ask me a question, therefore I do not owe you an answer.”
He laughed, the sound reverberating off the walls of the small room. “Faith, ye’re the only one for me, lass. ’Twas yerself that asked the question who would marry ye and offer protection to ye, and ’twas meself that answered, ‘That would be me.’ Have ye forgotten already?”
She clenched her teeth, gathered her composure, and whispered, “Have you forgotten that you did not ask me to marry you?”
*
He closed his eyes and recalled the conversation he’d had with Emily that day. Actually, it wasn’t a conversation—Garahan’s wife had told him the three things she felt he needed to do if he truly wanted Helen to stay at Wyndmere Hall and marry him.
Three things he had yet to do. He’d start now. “Forgive me, lass, for not treating ye with the respect ye deserve.” He ticked off the item in his head, then reached for her hand as he went down on one knee. Now for the second . Holding her gaze captive, he asked, “Will ye do me the honor of becoming me wife?”
She bit her bottom lip again, and the need to nibble on it distracted him.
“Are ye having trouble making up yer mind?”
“I’m sorry, Eamon. I’m leaving in a few days for the Borderlands.” He stood and stared at her. A myriad of expressions flitted across her face. “If my life were different, Eamon…” She surprised him by cupping his face in her hand before lifting to her toes. Her lips brushed his clean-shaven jaw, the touch featherlight, but the feelings it roused inside of him were the exact opposite. He fought for control, grateful he’d taken the time to shave.
She lingered a moment before inhaling. “Mmm… You smell like the outdoors and sun-warmed pines.”
He willed Helen to change her mind, and from the look in her eyes, he sensed she considered it. What was behind her need to leave? What did he not know?
She dropped her hand and stepped back. “I owe Emily for all that is good in my life. She deserves to be happy, now that she is married to Garahan and expecting. It would not be fair to distract her from her new life. It’s past time for me to cease being a millstone around Emily’s neck.”
“Ye’re right Emily will have her hands full—as will I if ye marry me, lass. ’Tisn’t just yer beauty that has me asking for yer hand.”
“No?”
“I just said it wasn’t.” He fought to hide the turmoil inside of him. “’Tis the twins’ laughter I hear whenever ye’re in the nursery, and I’m stationed on that floor. And ye have a way with Gwendolyn and Patrick’s babe Deidre that warms me heart. Ye put all of yerself into whatever task ye undertake, lass. Constance and Merry speak highly of ye. Her Grace enjoys yer company, and she trusts ye with Richard and Abigail. I cannot think of a higher compliment.”
Helen’s eyes welled with tears, and he watched her struggle not to cry. “It sounds as if you would recommend me as a nanny or companion. Not a wife.”
“Bloody hell, woman!” She flinched, and he fought his frustration. “Forgive me.” When she stared at him, he reached for her hand. “ Please say ye forgive me. Me ma would wallop me on the back of me head with her favorite cast iron pan for cursing in front of a lady.”
“You are forgiven. I did not mean to upset you, nor do I mean to hurt you by refusing your offer of marriage. Please try to understand.”
Gutted, he hid the pain inside him. “I can’t say that I do. I’m offering ye the protection of me name, me position within the duke’s guard, and me strength. I’d do anything for ye, lass. Can ye not understand that?”
Helen looked as if she were tempted. Then her expression changed to one of acceptance. Did she doubt his love? Did she not know that all it took sometimes was a glance to recognize the other half of yer heart?
“Emily and Garahan knew with one look,” he said.
“I’m not Emily.”
“I never thought ye were, lass.” He lifted her hand and touched his lips to it. “Thank ye for accepting me apology. Me offer still stands, if ye find the position in the Borderlands isn’t to yer liking. I’ll be waiting for ye to come to yer senses and see that we’re meant to be.”
Helen seemed to be moved by his heartfelt declaration…until the part about coming to her senses. Her expression and stance changed. He should have left that part out. Women were touchy whenever men mentioned their senses.
“I cannot change my mind. But I will always remember the handsome-as-sin Irishman who offered the protection of his name and marriage.”
He stepped to the side and motioned for her to precede him out of the room. As he watched her walk away, he noticed Flaherty standing by the rear door. Though his cousin’s expression was neutral, he flinched in pain. O’Malley shook his head.
“I wish ye well, Miss Helen Langley. Don’t be forgetting what I said.”
“I won’t.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“’Tis me choice. Ye have no say in what I do.”
“As it is mine to leave. Goodbye, O’Malley.”
“Goodbye, lass.”
Flaherty placed a hand on O’Malley’s shoulder in a show of comfort.
“Why can’t she understand that I’ve offered the best of me—me name and me strength?”
“She could still change her mind.”
“She won’t.”
Flaherty shoved O’Malley with his shoulder. “But she might.”
“Bleeding bugger.” O’Malley shoved him back.
They jostled one another as they strode outside, heading to their respective stations. It was going to be a long time before O’Malley’s heart healed. He rubbed his palm over it and glanced down. “Not bleeding.”
With a shake of his head, he drew in a breath, called on his steely control, and scaled the ladder to the roof. Time to remember the vow he’d sworn and his duty to the duke.