“You liked that,” she informed him, rather unnecessarily.
“I did.”
“Good.” She let the handkerchief fall to the floor. “I think I did, too.”
“You did?” He leaned down to wipe under her eyes, which still watered. “It looked unpleasant. If you would rather not, then—”
“Did I say I would rather not?”
He sighed. “Your stubbornness never ceases to amaze me. Very well, you may do as you please. And so will I.” Reaching down, he picked her up and placed her on the table before him. By the gleam in her eye, she understood what he was about to do, and she leaned back, bracing herself against her arms as he raised her skirts to her thighs. She spread her legs, and he situated himself between them. “Allow me.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Christiana sat inher private parlor and examined the lady sitting directly opposite her. She was middle-aged, perhaps in her fifties, and was dressed neatly but plainly. Her face was marked by patience and perhaps a little sternness.
Although the quality of the other applicants had not been promising, Christiana felt a tinge of hopefulness here. She had a good feeling about Mrs. Quince.
“Why did you leave your last position?” she asked.
“My mother became sick, and I moved home to care for her.”
“I see. Is she doing better?”
“She died,” Mrs. Quince said matter-of-factly.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be, Your Grace. She was suffering at the end, and her passing was a good thing, God rest her soul.”
“Your last post was in London?”
“Yes, ma’am, although I also oversaw their country property briefly. As I understand it, it wasn’t in the family’s hands very long.” Mrs. Quince’s expression didn’t change, not even a fraction of a flicker, but Christiana knew—she very intimately knew—what misfortunes could look like for servants. After all, she had dismissed plenty, and most for no blame of their own.
“What can you tell me about your former family?”
“I ran a tight ship there,” Mrs. Quince said, and Christiana nodded. That was good—she had no intention of criticizing her former employers, no matter how difficult or problematic they might have been. “They left me an excellent reference.”
“Thank you.” Christiana accepted it, then reached for the portrait Amelia had finished. She held it out to Mrs. Quince. “Please look at this.”
Mrs. Quince took the painting. So far, Christiana had given it to a total of three applicants, and all had shown some reaction upon seeing his visage. No matter how much they must have been prepared to work for the Beast of Somerset—she’d expected at least one of them had known his reputation in advance—they had been unable to hide their responses.
Mrs. Quince, however, surveyed it for a few moments without a visible shift in composure. “My brother suffered burns from a fire,” she said after a moment, surprising Christiana. “His were on his hands and arms, not his face, but the effects are similar to those that I see here. I nursed him for a while.”
Christiana hid her relief. “Family must mean a great deal to you.”
“My brother and I were always close.” After weighing her words for a moment, she added, “We lost him two years ago in a farming accident. His burns made it harder for him to work, but he insisted.”
“A tragedy. I’m sorry.”
Instead of decrying the sentiment, Mrs. Quince inclined her head. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Would you be content working in this house with me as your mistress and the Duke of Somerset as your master?”
“I would, Your Grace, and I’d be grateful for the work. I prefer living in the countryside over London, although of course I have experience with both. And it’s good to stay busy.”
That it was.
Christiana had known she would hire Mrs. Quince the moment the woman had seen the painting; hearing of her brother’s sad passing had only cinched the matter. “In which case, I should be delighted to offer this position to you.”