"All you're subjected to is a few frowns and a comment or two," O'Brien reminded him. "While I'll have to endure another in a series of lectures regarding my lack of training in the proper etiquette for a gentleman's gentleman."
"What?" Adam asked.
"Some lord of the manor you are," O'Brien teased. "Don't ya know that your private secretary feels he's duty bound to lecture me following breakfast in the upper servants' quarters each morning?" He spoke in an exaggerated Irish brogue. "Of course you don't." He answered his own question. "But it's time you opened your eyes, boyo, and paid attention to what's going on inside the walls of the lodge, instead of outside them."
"What does he lecture you about?"
"The usual topic is the relationship between a particular gentleman's gentleman and his employer and why said gentleman's gentleman should maintain a proper distance between his employer and himself and not attempt to overreach his station in life by believing he is his employer's equal." O'Brien drained the last of mouthful of whisky from his glass and set it down on the table beside his chair.
"Despite his employer's words and actions to the contrary."
O'Brien laughed. "Despite that."
Adam joined in the laughter. "I have complete faith in your ability to handle Maximillian Langstrom."
"That's good," O'Brien told him. "Because I'm beginning to lose faith in yours."
Adam stopped laughing.
"Face it, boyo, you've been spending too much time outdoors supervising the building of that golf track...."
"Links," Adam corrected automatically. "It's called a golf links."
"Track. Links. No matter," O'Brien said. "Whatever it's called, you've spent so much time there that your instructions carry little weight with the indoor staff around here."
"My words and actions carry no weight with any of the staff around here," Adam corrected. "Except the day laborers from the village, the workers from Glasgow, and the men from St. Andrews ..."
O'Brien shook his head. "The workers from Glasgow and St. Andrews maybe, but the villagers are taking their orders from Isobel and Gordon, who take them from Max, the reigning head of the household. You may own the place, boyo, but you've been usurped."
"I can't have been usurped." Adam gave a self-deprecating snort. "Because I've never been in control of the household staff." He poured himself another finger of whisky, offered some to O'Brien, then set the bottle aside when O'Brien refused. "I haven't even managed to gain control over that damned dog."
"Caught him on your bed again, eh?"
"On his back with all four paws in the air, snoring loud enough to wake the dead."
"Where was his owner?" O'Brien asked.
"On her hands and knees cleaning the ashes and soot from the fireplace in your room," Adam replied.
Murphy knew that one of the many duties of a housemaid was to clean and blacken the fireplace grates, but he could not reconcile the image of Georgiana Langstrom on her hands and knees scrubbing like a charwoman. "You're joking."
"I wish I were," Adam answered honestly. "But seeing George on her hands and knees cleaning the hearth in a Worth gown was no joke."
O'Brien wondered suddenly if he'd heard correctly or if Adam had simply consumed too much whisky. "Did you say Worth gown?"
Adam nodded. "A black silk moire day dress with jet beading, a small bustle and short train."
"How do you know it was Worth?"
"I crossed the Atlantic with Kirstin, the Honorable Lady Marshfeld." Adam smiled. "So did you. And I happen to know that we were treated to the latest Parisian fashions including several by Monsieur Worth. I recognized the style."
"I've always said that you were a man of many talents," O'Brien retorted.
"Talented enough to know that the white pinafore George wore over her gown was not Worth. It was ordinary, run-of-the mill, standard housemaid attire."
"How many other households can lay claim to a housemaid who wears Worth gowns?" O'Brien couldn't control his smirk. He pushed himself to his feet and sketched an elaborate bow. "You are, indeed, the Bountiful Baron."
Adam shook his head. "I'm not that bountiful. I didn't supply the staff with Worth gowns."
"Then who did?" O'Brien set his whisky glass aside and exchanged glances with Adam.
"Certainly not the Langstroms," Adam answered. "If they could afford Worth originals, there would be no need for them to work as domestics."
"Maybe the gown was one of the countess of Brocavia's castoffs."
Adam paused for a moment, debating whether or not he should confide his suspicions about the countess of Brocavia, but thought better of it. Murphy O'Brien was the soul of discretion, but Adam had promised George he'd keep silent. "I don't think so," he said at last. "Brenna is the lady's maid, and as a lady's maid, she would be entitled to any of her mistress's cast-off garments."
"But Brenna's not wearing Worth originals," O'Brien finished Adam's train of thought.
"That could be because she hasn't done anything to merit them," Adam grumbled.
O'Brien shrugged. "You said it yourself. Brenna is a lady's maid. What is there for her to do?"
"She could be helping her sister with the dusting and cleaning," Adam told him.
"Not so, boyo."
"Why not?"
"Belowstairs doesn't work that way. Belowstairs has its own hierarchy. A lady's maid ranks higher than a housemaid. Ordinary dusting and cleaning is beneath her."
"I know what a lady's maid does and I understand her place within the household," Adam retorted. "George explained it. But it galls me to know that while George is on her hands and knees scrubbing hearths, Brenna does nothing to earn her keep except watch the dog." Adam snorted. "And she's a dismal failure at that."
O'Brien laughed. "The dog sleeps all the time. He must not be very interesting to watch, because Brenna is much better at watching her sister and her mother and me work."
"You?" Adam was surprised.
O'Brien winked. "Shy Brenna isn't as shy as we thought. She watches me as I go about my duties as your gentleman's gentleman."
"That is interesting," Adam mused.
"It may not be as interesting as you think," Murphy said.
"She may not be watching me, so much as hoping to keep an eye on you."
"Unless the Langstroms have Brenna watching you because they know you're not what you pretend to be."
O'Brien shrugged. "They have no doubt that I'm a vastly inexperienced valet," he said. "But I don't think they know I'm only masquerading as one—or that I'm a private detective. And there's no doubt that Brenna is watching us—but whether she's been instructed to or whether she is doing it on her own—or whether she's watching me or you—remains to be seen," O'Brien said.
"In your role as a valet you're a more likely prospect for a lady's maid than I am," Adam reminded him.
"That's true. But you're better looking and a better catch."
"I think she finds you attractive...." Adam teased.
"She might," O'Brien agreed. "Or she might have decided to use me to get to you." He shrugged his shoulders once again. "I don't know. Unfortunately, my French is worse than her English, and I can't begin to guess what her other language is. I do know that Brenna isn't as lazy as you think," O'Brien added. "Or as unfeeling. She may not help Georgiana take care of the housework, but she helps in other ways."
"What other ways?"
"According to Max, Brenna practices her lady's maid skills by taking care of George—by drawing her sister's baths and attending to her clothes and hair."
Adam got up out of his chair and began to pace the length of the library. "You mean to tell me that I'm paying one member of the staff to take care of another?"
"I hear she needs it now that she's sliced her hand."
"She cut her hand"—Adam stopped his pacing and turned to face his friend—"on a shard of broken porcelain. She didn't slice it."
"Isobel and Albert and Max made such fuss over the wound while Iso
bel was cleaning it and dressing it with salve, you would have sworn that it was mortal." O'Brien gave a sharp whistle as he reached over Adam's abandoned chair and helped himself to another whisky. "I don't know what they found more shocking—the fact that Georgiana cut her hand or the fact that you refused to allow her to continue to work until it healed. Let me tell you, boyo, there was quite a family discussion when Georgiana appeared for the noonday meal, all pink-cheeked and rosy-lipped, presenting her cut and your soiled handkerchief to Isobel." O'Brien took a sip of whisky, then refilled Adam's empty glass and held it up to him as Adam resumed his pacing. They kept their voices low and I didn't catch more than a word or two of the conversation, but your name and the word porcelain came up more than once."
"Thanks." Adam snagged the glass of whisky as he walked past.
Murphy winked and pretended to tip his cap. "At your service, sir." He grinned as Adam swallowed a mouthful of liquor. "I gathered from those two bits of information and the wound on Georgiana's hand that there was more breakage-----"
Adam laughed. "I seem to have that effect on her."
"What was it this time?" O'Brien asked more out of curiosity than anything else.
"The little shepherdess that used to sit upon the mantel in your bedchamber."
Recalling the pretty little porcelain figurine, O'Brien frowned. "Was she valuable?"
"The ones in Kirstin's house are."
"Ouch."
"Yes, ouch," Adam agreed. "That brings the breakage total to a tray of dishes, a clay pipe, a cup and saucer, and a porcelain shepherdess."
"It's a good thing Georgiana doesn't work at your saloon," O'Brien joked, "or there would be a severe shortage of beer mugs by now."
"Yes, but the value of the breakage would be much lower."
"Did she offer to repay you?"
Adam nodded. "She's offered to repay me for all of it. But it's out of the question," he said. "Worth gown or not, she doesn't make enough to replace what she's broken. Besides, there's no need. And it doesn't matter. The loss of a few pieces of expensive china isn't going to break me."
"What about the girl?" O'Brien asked, turning his unflinching stare on Adam.
Adam sighed. "The china is of no consequence, but George may prove to be the death of me."
Chapter 13
A Princess of the Blood Royal of the House Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya understands and willingly accepts the personal sacrifices she must make in order to do her duty to her country.
—Maxim 2: Protocol and Court Etiquette of Princesses of the Blood Royal of the House of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya, as decreed by His Serene Highness, Prince Karol I, 1432.
He had kissed her. Adam M Kendrick had pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She had felt the heat of his body penetrating the fabric of her white cotton pinafore and the silk of her black dress beneath it. But the heat of his body had been nothing compared to the heat of his mouth.
Giana remembered the taste of him, the rasp of his tongue against her teeth as it slipped between her lips into her mouth. She recalled the urgency of his kiss and the way she had echoed it, moving her lips under his, allowing him further access. Giana moved her own tongue, then experienced the jolt of pure pleasure as it found, and mated with, Adam's. She had looped her arms around his neck, and her hands had somehow found their way onto his broad shoulders. She remembered the feel of the superfine of his coat against her fingertips. She had traced little circles against the fabric before trailing her fingers up the column of his neck to caress his thick, silky black hair.
As she lay in her bed staring up at the ceiling, Giana knew that as long as she lived she would remember the thrill, the sweetness, the romance, the absolute terror of her first kiss. It would remain firmly embedded in her heart and on her soul until her dying day. She pressed her fingertips against her mouth. A man had kissed her, and her life would never be the same.
Wagner moaned in his sleep, and Giana wiggled her toes against his back as he slept at the foot of her bed. Adam McKendrick complained about finding Wagner on his bed every time he turned around, but she didn't understand why. She preferred the comfort and companionship of a warm body cuddled beside her—even a canine one—because it kept her from feeling so alone and being so lonely.
She had always been alone. Her mother and father had had each other, and in many ways they had never needed anyone else. When she outgrew the nursery and her nanny, Giana had been alone. She was a princess surrounded by people, yet isolated from them by her position and rank. But for a few precious moments while Adam McKendrick was sharing his life's breath with her, she had felt as if she were a part of him. She, who had always felt apart and different, had felt as if she finally belonged, not to the people of Karolya, but to him. In his arms Giana had found the safety and security that had eluded her since the night she had learned that her parents were gone.
She reached up and traced the outline of the gold locket that lay beneath her nightgown, nestled in the valley between her breasts. It had belonged to her mother. Princess May had taken it from around her own neck and presented it to her daughter on the anniversary of Giana's twentieth year of life. Inside the locket was a miniature of her maternal grandparents copied from their official wedding portrait and a miniature of an informal portrait of her father and mother and herself on the day of her christening. Giana had always loved the expression on her parents' faces as they gazed down at the child their love had created. She swiped at a tear with the back of her hand and managed a tiny smile.
Her father had often said that he'd taken one look at her mother and known that May was the woman God sent to share his life. They had fallen in love and married despite the objections of her father's ministers, clergy, and the high aristocracy.
His Serene Highness Prince Christian of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya had married for reasons of the heart instead of for reasons of state. And because he had married for love, he had married beneath his rank.
Giana sighed. Now she understood why her mother had never explained how wonderful kissing could be. It was a feeling that couldn't be put into words. It could only be experienced. It could only be felt. And her parents had felt it. They had known that incredible feeling of wonder and the sense of belonging to someone else and to each other.
But Giana was a princess of the Blood Royal and princesses of the Blood Royal were not permitted to belong to anyone except their subjects, nor were they permitted to kiss a man until they had been pronounced man and wife. As to enjoying the experience, Giana suspected that that depended a great deal on the man chosen to be their husbands. She shuddered. Now that she knew what it was like to kiss and be kissed by Adam McKendrick, she found it impossible to imagine kissing any of the royal suitors who had petitioned her father for her hand in marriage or allowing them to kiss her—and sharing a bed with any of them was out of the question—especially her cousin Victor.
Unfortunately, princesses of the Blood Royal of the House of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya historically had little or no say in the man chosen to be their husbands. But in this Giana had been exceptionally lucky. Her father had not only refused her cousin Victor's suit, but had kept it a secret from her. The fact that he had done so had been a blessing because the idea of marrying her first cousin was so abhorrent to her it made her skin crawl.
Giana rolled onto her side and hugged her pillow closer. When she was a little girl, her mother had kept her entertained for hours with stories of how she and Prince Christian had met and fallen in love. But as she grew older, her mother had grown more and more reluctant to regale her with those romantic tales. And now she understood why.
Her mother wouldn't discuss the particulars of the marriage bed with her because her mother's tutelage in the intimacies to be found in the marriage bed had come from a loving husband. They were precious and private, not meant to be shared with anyone—even a daughter. Especially when the daughter's introduction into the intimacies of the marriage bed would most likely come from a stranger—a husban
d chosen by her father and his cabinet ministers for state reasons.
Giana exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her parents' marriage was unique in Karolyan history. They had been allowed to marry for love—not out of sentimentality, but because her father, as sovereign, had had the power to make the match he wanted. But her father was a man.
She was a female, and while the "Female Provision" of the Karolyan Charter allowed Giana to assume the throne, it did not allow her the complete freedom to rule as she saw fit. Giana suddenly realized that the sadness she had seen in her mother's eyes when she had begged to hear the romantic stories of her parents' courtship and marriage was there because Princess May had known that her daughter might not be as fortunate.
Princess May hadn't been born a princess, she became one when she married Prince Christian. She hadn't even been born Karolyan. Lady Caroline Frances Alexandra May, only child of the elderly marquess of Barracksford and his young marchioness, Lady May—as she preferred to be called—came into the world as the sole heiress to a tidy fortune.
There had been whispers surrounding the birth of Barracks-ford's heir, but none of that meant anything to the marquess and marchioness. Let the gossips speculate and whisper about the fact that Lady May bore no resemblance to the marquess. She was born a Barracksford and nothing could change that. The marquess and marchioness held their heads high and ignored the gossip. Antoinette Barracksford had married the marquess without regret and she had been rewarded with a daughter who became the light of her life and who exceeded her grandest expectations by marrying Prince Christian of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya, becoming a princess, and presenting her adopted country with an heir.
An heir who was currently working as a chambermaid in a hunting lodge deep in the Scottish highlands and sharing a bed with an Irish wolfhound while she built girlish fantasies around a man with dark hair and sky-blue eyes who kissed like a dream.
A dark-haired, blue-eyed man who had not only kissed her lips, but had kissed away the pain of the cut on her palm. A man who overlooked her embarrassing spate of clumsiness and the destruction of his objets d'art and household china. Although he refused to accept payment for the damages, Giana intended to find a way to repay him. And she knew, without a doubt, that if she thought about it long enough, she would come up with a way.