In Bed with the Stablemaster Read online

  In Bed with the Stablemaster

  Sophie Jordan

  Copyright © 2020 by Sharie Kohler.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Don Congdon Associates, Inc.; the agency can be reached at [email protected].

  In Bed with the Stablemaster

  Vera Wells wasn’t normally the type to carry tales, but this was the kind of information every female ought to know, and she was not above making certain the world—the world of women, at any rate—knew all about it.

  Quite a crowd had gathered around her in the kitchen, their faces rapt as she prepared to divulge the most recent bit of information to land on Haverston Hall.

  To be certain, ever since the master of the house had married Miss Marian Langley, and her two sisters had come to live at the hall, day to day life had become vastly more interesting.

  Before the Duke of Warrington married he had lived a hermit-like existence. The place was scarcely furnished in those days, and the manor house hardly even felt like a home.

  Now the house was bustling and full of life.

  The duke had a family. They took meals in the dining room and frequently entertained guests. There was much buzz over Miss Charlotte's upcoming wedding. Haverston Hall was a regular hub of activity. The back door to the house was constantly vibrating with the knocks of one villager or another coming to see Miss Nora for one of her herbal remedies.

  “Miss Nora has invented a cure for…” Vera paused and everyone leaned in closer, their expressions keenly attentive. She glanced over her shoulder to make certain none of the male members of their staff were in proximity. “She has invented a cure for female woes.”

  “Female woes?” Martha frowned.

  “Oh, you know.” Vera waved a hand anxiously. “Womanly pains . . . during our time.”

  A collective ahhh chorused around the group followed by an immediate volley of questions. Miss Nora was a very talented herbalist. There would be no doubt among them.

  “I don't know all the particulars, only that she has administered a tonic to Miss Charlotte with some degree of success, I believe.” At least that was what Vera had gathered from the snatches of conversation she overhead when she was tidying up in the duchess's dressing room.

  “It cured her of her pains?” Daisy, one of Cook's assistants, demanded. “Oh, I need to get my hands on this tonic. My monthly troubles be something fierce.”

  “That's it?” Berthe, one of the laundresses, crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “I thought you had something juicy to share.”

  Vera blinked. “Is not a cure for female—”

  “That is not gossip.” Berthe snorted and rolled her eyes. “Not like the gossip I have.”

  All attention quickly honed in on Berthe. The laundress preened, clearly enjoying being the center of attention. “I spied Miss Charlotte in a rather compromising position with our houseguest, Mr. Kingston.”

  Gasps rippled through their small circle followed by several exclamations.

  “The duke's brother?”

  “But Miss Charlotte is betrothed to Mr. Pembroke!”

  “Did you see Mr. Kingston? I'd like to be caught in a compromising position with him.”

  “Well, she isn't married yet,” Dorothea, another laundress, inserted in a reasonable voice, “and I don't think she will go through with it. Mr. Pembroke is a dullard.”

  Several of the women nodded in agreement with this sentiment.

  “Vera!”

  Vera whipped around to observe her aunt charging ahead, the keys to the house rattling from the belt at her waist.

  Aunt Rose was a traditionalist. She still wore the keys to the house at her waist like a medieval chatelaine. Her sharp gaze swept around the congregation of females. “You know how I feel about gossip.” She clapped her hands together. “All of you. To work at once.”

  The women fled like grouse startled from the brush.

  Once they were gone, her aunt turned her gimlet stare on Vera. “I expect better from you. You must set an example for the others.”

  “I wasn't gossiping.” Not precisely.

  “Am I to imagine that I did not overhear Miss Charlotte being discussed?”

  Vera winced. “I did not make mention of Miss Charlotte. It was—”

  “Miss Charlotte is to be married this summer. It won't do to have her good name muddied with servants' gossip—”

  “I was not—”

  With a shake of her head, Aunt Rose turned from her. She snatched a basket from one of the wall hooks and thrust it at her.

  Vera caught it against her chest.

  Her aunt continued, “You're to be a role model for the others. I'm disappointed. If you're to fill my shoes and someday become the housekeeper of this grand house, then you must be above reproach.” She pointed a gnarled finger to the ceiling where the members of the family dwelled. “You're to serve and protect the duke and his family, not relish in base tittle-tattle.”

  Vera's cheeks burned. “That was not what I—”

  “Do you understand me?”

  Cheeks still burning, Vera nodded. “Yes, Aunt Rose.”

  “Very good. Now go fetch some blackberries. Cook wishes to make a tart for the duchess this evening.”

  “Blackberries?”

  “I trust that is not a problem for you?”

  Blackberries grew at the northernmost edge of the duke's vast property. It would take her an hour's walk there and an hour's walk back and at least an hour to gather a basket full of berries. Vera would be gone half the day, and she had several tasks waiting for her attention here.

  Usually, her aunt sent a groom on such errands and left Vera to more important household tasks. Tasks befitting someone destined to take over as the housekeeper to a ducal household. Not blackberry picking at the edge of the earth.

  Her aunt was punishing her.

  “No. No problem at all, Aunt Rose. I'll see to it and be back in time for Cook to make his tart.”

  Her aunt nodded briskly and turned on her heels, marching through the kitchen and ascending the stairs to the upper floor.

  “How the mighty have fallen.”

  Vera gasped and whirled around to find Rufus, the stablemaster, biting into a shiny fat apple. When had he arrived? Thanks to her aunt, no other servants were loitering about.

  “Ugh. You,” she grumbled.

  Merriment danced in his eyes, and he grinned, flashing a brilliant white smile at her, and she knew it was simply because he enjoyed these skirmishes with her. “A delight, as always, to see you.”

  She glared at the big brute of a man. “Eavesdropping, Blackthorne? Haven't you better things to do with your time? Stables …to master?”

  He chuckled. “Some day that saucy tongue of yours is going to land you in trouble.”

  “Well, it hasn't yet.”

  His gaze flicked to her basket. “Berry picking is a rather menial task for an upper house servant, is it not?”

  She narrowed her gaze on his much-too-handsome face. “And what would you know of the tasks that befall the house staff? Your domain is outside, Blackthorne, with the rest of the livestock.”

  One corner of his wicked mouth lifted. “Oh, I know many things, Vera.”

  “That is Miss Wells to you.” She didn't know why she bothered. She had never been Miss Wells to him in all the years they had known each other, but she felt compelled to try.

  He leaned a hip against the rough-hewn trestle table and took another slow, leisurely bite from his apple—as though he had all the time in the world and not any work waiting for him.

  “Oh, Mr. Blackthorne,” Marjorie,
one of Cook's assistants, exclaimed with a blush as she entered the room carrying the day's eggs. She dipped halfway in some manner of curtsey. A curtsey! As though he were lord of the manor and not a servant like the rest of them.

  Vera rolled her eyes.

  “Mr. Blackthorne, have you had your breakfast? You certainly need better sustenance than that apple. Can I make you something?” She hastily unloaded her eggs from her apron onto the table, catching them from rolling off the edge. Satisfied they were safe on the surface, Marjorie sidled closer to him, lightly brushing a hand over his thick forearm with a breath of admiration.

  He patted her hand gently. “That's very kind of you, lass. You needn't add to your work load for me.”

  “It's no inconvenience, I assure you.”

  Vera watched the by-play in disgust. He was always so kind and thoughtful to everyone. Everyone but her.

  She told herself it did not matter. She told herself she didn't care. She didn't want or need his kindness.

  Marjorie was not to be discouraged. “Are you certain, Mr. Blackthorne? Eggs? Kippers? A strapping fellow like you needs a hearty meal to get you through your day.”

  Another eye roll.

  Marjorie had been working here for at least two years, and she, like the majority of the female population at Haverston Hall, melted into puddles at the sight of Rufus Blackthorne. It was nauseating.

  Vera was immune, however.

  Ever since she came to live with her aunt at the age of ten and three, she had been impervious to the charms of Rufus Blackthorne.

  She still recalled her first glimpse of him: a tall and brawny lad of ten and five with the shadow of a beard on his jawline. She had thought him a full-grown man.

  Shortly after her arrival she had caught him kissing a buxom milkmaid several years his senior behind the stables, and hours later she had caught him flirting with another—different—maid—in the kitchen.

  He'd been full of himself even then, working in the stables and building the muscles that thickened his frame now. He had been well aware of his impact on females all those years ago. Just as he was aware now.

  He was a rogue, and she had no use for such men.

  Her father had been a rogue. He'd seduced her mother and left her with a broken heart and, nine months later, Vera. Mama had worked as a seamstress in London and passed herself off as a widow up until her death.

  Vera never forgot her mother's many warnings of men who took and used and crushed young girls' hearts. Handsome men were not to be trusted.

  “If you'll excuse me. Some of us have work to do.”

  She swept from the kitchen, but Blackthorne was there, following, even managing to reach the door before her. Opening it, he waved her ahead of him.

  Lifting her chin, she preceded him out.

  His bigger body fell in beside her, making no contact but she felt his nearness like a touch regardless. She told herself it was because he was so very large. He radiated heat and energy and strength.

  She had always been aware of her unseemly size for a female and never felt an ounce of regret over it. Most men had to tip their heads to look up at her, and it made her feel indomitable, which, in her opinion, was not a bad thing. She was an orphan. She had no father or brothers to protect her. It was not an unwelcome thing to feel formidable in this too often unkind world.

  According to Mama, Vera's father had been a tall man, thick-framed with hands the size of hams. That was the only explanation Vera had as to why she towered over her mother at the age of ten and wore adult shoes and men's gloves. While her hands were not quite the size of hams, they could not fit into her mother's dainty gloves.

  Rufus Blackthorne was the only person to ever make her feel small and vulnerable, and she did not like that one little bit. He discomfited her and made her skin feel too tight for her body.

  “Looks like rain,” he announced.

  She cast him a quick look. His face was upturned, studying the clouds.

  “Perhaps,” she allowed.

  “No doubt about it.”

  She squinted at the sky. “It will pass. Clouds are to the south.”

  “They're moving north,” he countered.

  “Tell me.” She stopped in the yard and faced him. “Does it ever exhaust you?”

  “What?”

  “Knowing everything about everything?” she snapped. “It must be beyond grueling to be so very clever.”

  He chuckled and the sound rippled along her spine. She wiggled her shoulders, hoping to shake off the sensation.

  “I'm right about this.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of the sky. "You're going to get yourself soaked and then catch ague.”

  “I won't.”

  He looked as though he wanted to shake her and she felt immensely gratified knowing she had irked him. That was the way between them. A constant battle. A skirmish of continuous barbs.

  “Very well. Go on then. Be daft.” He waved one of his great paws in the direction she would be venturing to pick berries. “I've work to do.”

  “How very good of you to decide to do it,” she retorted.

  That impossibly broad chest of his expanded with an inhale of indignation. “I don't shirk my duties.”

  That much was true, although she would not acknowledge it. He might be a womanizing rogue, but his work ethic could not be questioned.

  The man was a bloody horse whisperer. Everyone in the shire came to see him about horses, mules, goats . . . generally anything on four legs. The Duke of Warrington's stables were impressive. Spotless as far as stables went. Organized and well managed, and she knew it was due to the arrogant stablemaster—arrogant being the key word. She would not give him further reason to pat himself on the back. He had an army of preening admirers (likely gazing at him from windows now) on hand for that.

  She sniffed. “Unless there's a pretty diversion in skirts, of course.”

  He stepped nearer, his leather boots crunching over loose bits of grit, his giant man thighs straining the seams of his trousers.

  No man ought to look as he did in trousers. It was indecent.

  He thrust his face a scant inch from hers. “Jealous?”

  His face this close, his heat-radiating body this close, affected her breathing. Her lungs squeezed tight, air passing in and out at a trickle.

  “Hardly,” she replied breathlessly, resisting the urge to shove him away. That would mean putting hands on him and she instinctively rebelled at the notion of that. He wore his shirt open at the throat, no cravat in sight and she could see the tantalizing skin of his throat and the top of his muscled, hair-dusted chest.

  He smirked. “Perhaps the frigid Miss Wells longs for a man to lift her skirts.”

  “My skirts are none of your business. And I'm not frigid… I am perfectly decent.”

  “Decent. Of course. You are that.” His lip curled in a sneer and something in his wickedly dark eyes made her think decidedly indecent things.

  She might make it a goal to avoid wicked men, but she was not ignorant of matters of the flesh. In her bedchamber, tucked beneath her mattress, hid several salacious books on erotic love.

  She had not known what comprised the pages of the books until after she moved to Haverston Hall. The erotic works had been among her mother's possessions and Vera had hastily packed them up without even examining them until much later. It was some time after she had moved into her tiny bedroom belowstairs that she recovered the books from Mama’s chest and browsed them.

  Initially, it had astonished her that her mother possessed any book on erotic love, much less several. It made her wonder if her mother had not dismissed all notions of carnality and only purported to do so. Perhaps there had been secret lovers after Vera's father.

  Curious indeed, but Vera would never have that answer.

  She merely knew that she had read the texts countless times over the years and stared at the illustrations of couples locked and entwined until the pages of the books were fragile and well-
worn under her fingers…and parts of her anatomy throbbed and ached—so much so that she had learned to touch and rub and fondle herself to fulfillment.

  For the last few years now, Vera had become quite adept at achieving her own arousals. She might not have a partner, but there was nothing frigid about her.

  The stablemaster looked her up and down critically, and she knew the lewd man thought her not only inexperienced but ignorant. It irked her. She knew it should not. She knew a proper and upright unmarried woman would not be insulted at the designation of 'frigid'. It would be a point of pride. It would mean she was modest and modesty was a virtue.

  But he meant it as an insult, and that was enough to annoy her.

  Holding her ground, she lifted her chin, propping her hands on her hips, and dipping her voice to a taunting whisper. “You know nothing of what lies beneath my skirts and you never shall.”

  His dark eyes seemed to grow impossibly darker, and he lashed back, “What makes you think I'd even want to know what's beneath the skirts of a dusty ol' virgin like you?”

  She tried not to flinch at that.

  He smirked. “Plenty of hot-blooded and willing lasses around here.”

  “Yes,” she said flippantly. “Plenty of thrill and mysterious allure with all those very willing lasses. I'm sure you enjoy the hunt when it comes so very easily for you.”

  His expression turned cross.

  She continued, “A different liaison every day of the week.” She gave a shrug and tsked. “How very predictable and . . .” She angled her head, reaching for the word and arriving at it. “Boring.”

  His eyes widened. “Boring.”

  “Indeed. Boring,” she agreed with a nod of perfect nonchalance. Vera didn't know why she was toying with him in this manner. It was childish of her. Perhaps years of frustration were finally bubbling to the surface. All the sniping and fighting and watching him flit from one maid to another.

  She wanted to provoke him.

  As he continued to glower at her, she swept past him. “Good day, Mr. Blackthorne.”

  Humming with satisfaction, she left him standing there staring after her, the basket swinging at her side. She was profoundly pleased that she had the last word. If he said anything, she didn't hear him behind her, and nothing on earth would make her look back.