His housekeeper’s lips twitched. “I’m sure sheets won’t be front of mind for the lady.”
“I want to make it nice,” he said irritably. “Someone else shouldering the burden for a change.”
Mrs. Eden stilled, her gaze turning thoughtful. “So, that’s the way of it, is it?”
Jasper shook his head. He’d lost his noted composure over Ada, first pacing and watching the clock, then attempting to learn bed-making. Yes, he felt an unusually powerful attraction, but she would still be a temporary mistress, nothing more. “Never mind. I’ll muddle through. I’m sure you’ve far more important tasks to do.”
“Just remember to tuck in the corners. Enjoy your afternoon,” said Mrs. Eden as she bobbed a curtsy, and departed the room.
Annoyed at his excessive preparation, Jasper quickly packed the sheets, cloth, and potpourri into the satchel before adding the final items: quill, ink, and parchment for the contract he and Ada would write together. When finished, he hauled the satchel over his shoulder and made his way downstairs and outside to the stables to find his pure black stallion, Thunder.
The weather was warm and sunny, perfect for a ride and to preserve the fiction that he would be jaunting about Gilroy Park. Thunder was always eager for a good country gallop, and as he lived mostly in London, he didn’t indulge the beast as often as he should.
“C’mon boy,” he said as they trotted past the extensive herb gardens that surrounded the manor proper. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
At the lightest flick on the reins, Thunder surged forward. They practically flew across the rich pasture, and with a gentle breeze caressing his face, Jasper nearly forgot propriety and whooped. What could be better than riding prime horseflesh on a summer’s day to meet a beautiful woman for a secret tryst?
Although his lands stretched as far as the eye could see—a full two thousand acres that included woods rich with deer and game, hunting lodge, orangery, a lake for trout fishing, tenant farmers, and cornfields—it took Thunder less than a quarter hour to reach the old gamekeeper’s cottage. After removing his horse’s tack, completing a quick rub down, feeding him some oats and fresh well water, and setting him loose in the fenced paddock next to the cottage, Jasper walked over to the small Tudor-era building. As a family home, the single-story red brick dwelling with diamond-paned windows and dark brown shutters was wholly inadequate. But for lovers it was ideal—private and quiet, with a kitchen, larder, privy closet, solar, and bedchamber.
He unlocked the door and walked inside.
Ugh. He should have given himself an extra day to clean the place. Thankfully it wasn’t moldy, or housing any number of creatures, but a thin layer of dust covered everything.
Well, yesterday he’d been hired as a lover for the first time. Earlier he’d attempted to learn the fine art of bed-making. Now he could be a duke who dusted. Ada did expect the highest of standards from her employees, after all.
Jasper snorted and began to unpack the satchel.
Today he truly would earn that shilling.
“Bother!”
Ada stared in dismay at the mess of hot tea and broken crockery on the kitchen table in front of her. Naturally, the day she attempted to finish her daily tasks as swiftly as possible, everything went wrong. Like the sturdy silver teapot—her late mother’s pride and joy—slipping from her hand as she poured and destroying her father’s cup with a nerve-shattering crash. Earlier she’d managed to accidentally decorate the hallway with freshly laundered linen, and nearly set the kitchen ablaze with a too-generous scoop of coal. Their maid of all work, Deborah, had delicately inquired if she was well.
That was highly debatable. But how could anyone concentrate on housekeeping when a life-changing afternoon of pleasure beckoned?
“Ada,” barked a familiar masculine voice behind her, and she almost jumped a foot in the air. “All I can hear is the most undignified banging and crashing, which is not helpful when one is trying to write a sermon.”
A guilty flush scorched her cheekbones, and she took a deep breath before turning to face her father, Ernest Blair. They were almost the same height; he was perhaps an inch taller and noticeably thinner, with narrow shoulders, iron-gray hair, slightly florid cheeks, and thick eyebrows like two caterpillars about to duel. But as she and the rest of the parish could attest, a great deal of righteous wrath spilled from such an unassuming package.
“Forgive my clumsiness. I promised Ruth and Martha I would meet them at half-past one to…finish darning those trousers for the charity box. They offered berries and clotted cream if I would assist, and you know how I love berries.”
Her father nodded impatiently. “As long as you don’t become a glutton, daughter. But you are tardy with my afternoon tea, so attend to the task with proper diligence and do not break anything else. Haste to visit your friends is not sufficient excuse for poor effort. Unless there is something else distracting you? Something to confess, perhaps?”
Reverend Blair asked this of everyone, so it wasn’t a pointed question. Usually she could honestly reply nothing. Not today, though, when she would soon be finalizing a wicked contract with the Duke of Gilroy, and paying him the token sum of a shilling to bed her. On the carriage ride home Ruth and Martha had explained the true cost of a London lover; she now knew exactly how great a favor the duke had granted her, and the generous act made him even more attractive.
“Only the sin of coveting berries and clotted cream,” Ada replied, forcing a laugh. She hated to lie, but would tell a hundred to get to the cottage.
Ernest tilted his head and fixed his dark gaze on her, a tactic alongside the fire and brimstone that was remarkably successful in extracting information from his parishioners. Fortunately, she was immune to it after twenty-nine years, and when she merely continued to smile, he huffed out a breath.
“Clean up this mess and bring me my tea. After that you may visit with Miss Lacey and Miss Kinloch. Don’t forget to change your gown and brush your hair. You look a fright,” said Ernest over his shoulder as he marched from the kitchen.
Ada sank against the cool stone wall, gulping in air. Then she did as she was bid, her movements deliberately slow and methodical as she mopped up the spilled tea, prepared a fresh tray, and delivered it to her father’s small study. Afterward, she dashed to her bedroom, Deborah behind her to assist with the gown change.
What did a woman wear for such a momentous occasion?
Ada perused her meager collection of gowns. Reverend Blair would be extremely suspicious if she wore her rose-pink Sunday best to darn with Ruth and Martha, so she couldn’t wear that one. Gilroy had already seen her in pale blue, and the white lace-trimmed gown would be a trite and unwanted reminder of her maiden state. That left a dark brown serge more suited to the colder months, a bronze-striped calico she often wore to clean, or a primrose-yellow cotton a little faded now from frequent laundering.
“Yellow, I think,” she said.
“You always look lovely in it. Like a sunbeam,” said Deborah with a grin. “I’m sure His Grace will appreciate it.”
Ada stared in horror at the younger, red-haired woman. “Beg pardon?” she croaked.
“Oh, come now, Miss Ada. We have an actual duke nearby. Just about every unmarried woman within fifty miles is putting on a pretty gown for an outing to Cheltenham, hoping that he’ll see her from his carriage and fall madly in love.”