A housemaid to redeem hi.., p.1
A Housemaid to Redeem Him, page 1
“You cannot live like this,” Rose said, reaching with one hand and placing it on his cheek.
It was an intimate gesture, and Rose was aware she had trampled over the boundary that was supposed to separate master and servant, but right now she couldn’t find it in herself to care. Every time she looked at him, she saw a man suffering, a man crying out for comfort even though he would never admit it. She could give that comfort.
His eyes locked onto hers and she felt a pulse of attraction pass between them. For a long moment neither of them moved and Rose’s fingers felt as though they were burning where they made contact with his skin.
“Rose,” he said, and he sounded like a man who was drowning.
She stepped closer so their bodies were almost touching as his hand came up and covered hers, pressing it to his cheek.
“You deserve some happiness,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Author Note
Some books take years in planning. First there is the spark of an idea, slowly nurtured as it builds and grows into a fully fleshed story. Other books I find are quite the opposite. A Housemaid to Redeem Him was one of the latter. One late spring evening, I was walking through the wildflower meadows between St Ives and Hemingford Grey in my beautiful little corner of Cambridgeshire. It was one of those idyllic days with golden light and a gentle breeze, and I suddenly thought what a wonderful setting for romance. Even before I had decided on the characters or their stories, I knew I wanted to write about two people, battered and bruised by the world, finding peace and being healed in a place most dear to me.
From there everything built quickly, and even before I was home I knew what Rose and Richard would be like, what they had suffered and how they could make one another happy. I am sure the next book will be one that takes longer to plan, but I am always grateful for those stories that seem to rise almost fully formed.
I hope you enjoy A Housemaid to Redeem Him, and as you read I am certain you will fall in love with the meadows of Cambridgeshire as I have.
LAURA MARTIN
A Housemaid to Redeem Him
Laura Martin writes historical romances with an adventurous undercurrent. When not writing, she spends her time working as a doctor in Cambridgeshire, where she lives with her husband. In her spare moments, Laura loves to lose herself in a book, and has been known to read from cover to cover in a single day when the story is particularly gripping. She also loves to travel—especially to visit historical sites and far-flung shores.
Books by Laura Martin
Harlequin Historical
An Earl to Save Her Reputation
The Viscount’s Runaway Wife
The Brooding Earl’s Proposition
Her Best Friend, the Duke
One Snowy Night with Lord Hauxton
The Captain’s Impossible Match
The Housekeeper’s Forbidden Earl
Her Secret Past with the Viscount
Matchmade Marriages
The Marquess Meets His Match
A Pretend Match for the Viscount
A Match to Fool Society
The Ashburton Reunion
Flirting with His Forbidden Lady
Falling for His Practical Wife
Scandalous Australian Bachelors
Courting the Forbidden Debutante
Reunited with His Long-Lost Cinderella
Her Rags-to-Riches Christmas
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
For Luke, for those sunny evenings in Houghton and all the walks across the meadows.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Excerpt from A Proposal to Protect His Lady by Elizabeth Beacon
Chapter One
As his feet hit the smooth cobbles Richard felt a deep sense of familiarity. Eight years he had been away, eight years of travelling, of wandering, always with his eye on the next place he would visit. He had pushed his home far from his mind, aware of the pain he felt when he thought of everything he had left behind, but now it all came rushing back.
These were the streets of his childhood. He had bought sweets from the shop on the corner, walking home with a mouthful of toffee, feeling as though he was king of the world. His eyes skimmed over the tailor’s, where he had been fitted for his first dinner jacket, and the draper’s, where his mother would spend hours discussing fabrics while he sat in the corner with his toys.
For a moment he allowed the nostalgia to wash over him, then quickly shook it off. A pleasant reminiscence was not the point of this trip. It was not the reason he had travelled across half the globe. When he had received the letter that gently suggested he return home, he had been helping to rebuild after the devastation of the eruption of Mount Tambora in the Dutch East Indies. The letter from his old childhood friend had arrived, battered and water damaged, many months after it had left England, but it had sparked the trip across the oceans that had eventually brought him back here.
Richard turned away from the market square, walking towards the bridge over the River Great Ouse. From the town it was a fifteen-minute stroll across the meadows to his parents’ home in Hemingford Grey. He walked slowly, aware that he was delaying the moment he would have to face his parents again.
The letter from his childhood friend had been artfully written, telling Richard a few pieces of trifling news before moving on to the real point. Sebastian had told him of Richard’s father’s failing health, of the struggles his mother was going through to look after him. It had gently acknowledged the reasons Richard had left, but encouraged him to put the past behind him and return home.
He dreaded what he might find at Meadow View. When he had left his father had been a strong man, quick to laughter and jolly in nature. He hardly ever fell ill and was proud of his robust constitution.
As Richard walked on to the bridge he felt someone brush past him and the almost imperceptible graze of fingers against his torso. He had spent the last eight years in some of the poorest countries of the world, surrounded by the desperate and the criminal. At first he had often fallen foul of the skills of the pickpockets and street thieves, but over the years his instincts had sharpened and now he knew all the tricks he could employ to keep his possessions safe.
With lightning speed he reached out and grabbed the arm of the young woman who had slipped her hand inside his jacket, grasping her wrist firmly so she could not escape.
She cried out in surprise and spun to face him and he found himself looking into rich brown eyes and a pretty heart-shaped face. The young woman was frowning and tried to pull her arm away.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, her accent marking her out as not from this rural part of Cambridgeshire with its London drawl.
‘I felt your hand in my jacket,’ he said, holding her eye. ‘You were trying to steal from me, young lady.’
‘I was doing no such thing,’ she said, trying to tug her wrist from his grip. ‘Let go of me.’
‘As soon as I let go you’ll run.’
‘Do you blame me? I’m walking along innocently, minding my own business, and then a strange man accosts me and holds me prisoner.’
‘I am hardly holding you prisoner,’ he said. He calmed the roil of irritation that welled inside him. It was another known tactic of the petty thieves, one they employed if they were caught in their crimes. Loudly they would deny all knowledge of the crime, calling on other passers-by for aid, accusing their victim of assaulting them.
The young woman pulled her wrist sharply and then looked at him pointedly. ‘I am not free to walk away, therefore you are holding me prisoner.’
‘Give me my coin purse back.’
‘I don’t have your coin purse.’
‘Give it back to me with no further fuss and I will not haul you in front of the authorities.’
‘I don’t have your coin purse,’ she said, an edge to her voice now.
‘Let me phrase it a different way. Delay any longer and I will take pleasure in handing you over to the local magistrate and letting him know quite how much money was in my purse. If you are lucky, you’ll be transported.’
Fire danced in the young woman’s eyes and he saw her square her shoulders and straighten her back.
‘Take me to the magistrate. Once we are standing in front of him you can check your pockets and find your coin purse is exactly where you left it. I can even see the tell-tale bulge in your jacket.’
He glanced down
‘Check your pocket,’ she said, motioning to his jacket. ‘And then I expect a grovelling apology.’
Slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the young woman, he raised his hand and slipped it inside his jacket. He was surprised to find the coin purse there, sitting snugly in the concealed pocket, undisturbed. He frowned. He was sure he had felt the dance of her fingers over his shirt and wasn’t often mistaken in matters such as these.
‘It is there, is it not?’ she said, boldly taking a step towards him.
‘It is.’
‘Well?’
Richard looked at the petite blonde woman, realising what a disservice he had done her.
‘Please accept my profound apologies, Miss...?’
‘You don’t need my name,’ she said sharply. ‘Next time, perhaps check if you have been robbed before throwing around accusations.’ With a flick of her head she spun and strode off, ignoring him as he called out after her.
Chapter Two
Meadow View was an impressive house built fifty years earlier by a clever architect who had endeavoured to make the most of the spectacular views from the plot of land available. The result was a beautiful sandy-coloured stone house with vistas of the River Great Ouse from two sides and a magnificent garden that ran down to the banks. The downside was each winter everyone residing in Meadow View would nervously watch as the water level rose and the river burst its banks, hoping desperately it would not reach the house.
There was a sweeping drive up to the front of the house, the entrance on a quiet lane at one end of the village. Today the gates stood open, inviting Richard in.
He was aware he was not expected. Many months ago he had sent a letter to his mother, letting her know he was starting the arduous journey home, but there was no guarantee it had ever reached her. Other letters followed from his stops in India and Egypt and finally Italy, but the system was slow and unreliable and even if she had received one of his missives she would not know when exactly he would be back.
It took him a moment to summon the courage to walk back through the gates. Eight years he had been away and, until recently, he had not thought he would ever return home. His exile was self-inflicted, but he had imagined it would be lifelong.
Oak and horse chestnut trees lined the drive, creating a canopy above his head and providing shade for the first part of the walk to St Ives when it was hot weather. Today those trees were heavy with green leaves and all around him were signs that summer was well on its way.
After a few minutes the house came into view and Richard paused. It looked almost the same as when he had last set eyes on it and he felt a bolt of discomfort when he thought of everything he had missed in the years he had been away. He forced himself to move again, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other until he was directly outside the front door.
He knocked and the door was opened after a few seconds to reveal a smartly dressed footman in the familiar hallway. The footman was young, far too young for him to have been employed when Richard was last home, and smiled at him politely, but with no recognition in his eyes.
‘Richard Digby,’ he said, passing the man his bag. He always travelled light, with just a few essentials packed in a small bag that he could easily carry himself.
‘Mr Digby,’ the footman said, flustered. ‘We were not expecting you yet.’
He should have sent a letter when he disembarked the ship in Southampton, or at least dispatched a fast messenger with a note when he reached London, but if he was honest with himself he had wanted the chance to change his mind, to turn around and head back to where no one knew him or knew of his past actions.
‘Are my parents in?’
‘Your mother is in the morning room.’
Richard didn’t wait for the footman to say any more, striding through the hall with the portraits of his ancestors looking down and into the morning room.
His mother had aged in the eight years since he had last seen her, although she was still immaculately presented. Her hair had streaks of grey and her face a few more wrinkles, but the absolute joy on her face when she saw him took years off her appearance.
‘Richard,’ she said, standing and embracing him. He pulled her close, enjoying the warmth he had always shared with his mother. ‘We were not expecting you yet. I did not know you had landed in England.’
‘I am sorry, I should have written, but I wanted to surprise you.’
‘This is the best surprise, the very best,’ she said and then promptly burst into tears.
Richard held her tight, letting her sob into his shoulder as he tried to suppress the lump in his throat. His guilt was almost overwhelming. In the time he had been away he had, of course, known his family would miss him, grieve his absence, but he had not allowed himself to really think about what that meant.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, apologising for so many things.
‘Look at me,’ his mother said with a hint of a smile. ‘I’ll drive you away again with my crying.’
‘No, you won’t.’
Lady Digby took a step back and regarded him, letting her eyes flick over his face and body before giving a nod of satisfaction.
‘I worried you would be wasting away, living in those exotic places, always chasing the next disaster to throw yourself at.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘Chasing the next disaster’ wasn’t a bad way to describe how he had lived his life the last few years. After leaving England he had lacked purpose, but had the strong urge to do some good in the world. He had spent some time outside New York, helping to rebuild and replant damaged crops after a hurricane had wreaked havoc. Then he had moved on, looking for the next place that needed a strong physique and volunteers to help after storms and earthquakes and, most recently, a devastating volcanic eruption that had led to a terrible famine.
‘But you look well, Richard, strong,’ she said.
‘You look well, too, Mother, although a little tired.’
Lady Digby gave a sigh filled with emotion. ‘I am tired.’
‘How is Father?’
There was the glint of tears again in his mother’s eyes and he felt a gnawing anxiety as she bade him to sit.
‘I think Sebastian wrote to you, am I right?’
‘He did.’
‘He’s a good boy. He visits every week when he is back from London and brings a hamper filled with the best produce from his estate.’
Richard suppressed a smile at his mother calling Sebastian Harper a good boy. The man was thirty, well over six foot tall, and had been the Earl of Cambridgeshire for the last six years.
‘What did he say?’
‘That Father was unwell, that his memory was failing. He urged me to come home and said you needed me.’
‘He is right, your father’s memory is failing.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘It started a couple of years after you left. At first it was innocuous things—he would search for hours for his spectacles, have the whole household involved, until eventually we would find them with the plants for potting in the greenhouse, secreted in one of the terracotta pots. Only he could have put them there, but he denied it vehemently.’
Richard nodded, but he was unable to imagine his once sharp father doing such a thing.
‘It only got worse from there. He began forgetting the servants’ names, at first those who were new to their positions, but after a while he struggled with everyone except those who have been here for decades. We would have conversations and a minute later he would be asking the same questions again, as if he hadn’t heard a word I had said.’
‘And now?’ Richard asked, hardly wanting to hear the answer.
Lady Digby grimaced and closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. ‘Now he has good days and bad days, but most of the time he is not in the present time. He asks for his mother and gets distressed when he doesn’t recognise the faces of the servants. His physical health is failing, too, his appetite has gone and he becomes frail and sometimes...’ She trailed off.
