The Housemaid's Scandalous Secret Read online

  Fortunately she spotted the people she was travelling with encamped on the other side of the river. Reclaiming her bundle she carried on with her journey to Bombay.

  Chapter One

  Surviving tropical storms, pirates and a thousand other discomforts in the cramped quarters allotted to her on board ship, Lisette was relieved when she arrived in England, a country of bucks and beaux, Corinthians and macaronis. It was said that the old King George III had lapsed into incurable madness and his son ‘Prinny’ had been made regent. As the ship made its way up the river Thames, she went on deck. Against a marbled sky of grey and white, London was spread out before her—streets and houses, church spires and the dome of St Paul’s.

  Lisette felt no attachment to England. It was a long way from the India that she loved, with its tiger hunts and elephants, oriental princes and potentates glittering with fabulous jewels living in medieval state in fantastic marble palaces. India had been her world for so long that England on this grey morning was a pale comparison. A swift vision of that lovely, mysterious country with all its smells, its vibrancy and blistering heat sprang into her mind with a mixture of pleasure and pain and she choked a little, and then swallowed. It was no time to be self-pitying, when she was on the brink of a new life.

  Stepping onto dry land her legs shook like those of a newborn colt. After the relative quiet of the small cabin, the noise and bustle of the East India dock was jarring and chaotic. The Company was rich and powerful and well organised, owning the largest ships that used the port of London. The dock was a scene of great variety. The smell of tar and coffee beans, timber and hemp, permeated the air, along with other aromas which titillated her nostrils. Another ship of the fleet, the Diligence, had already docked and its cargo of tea, silks and spices from India and porcelain from China was being unloaded.

  Although Lisette had seen many a dark face in Bombay and heard all manner of languages spoken, she was dazzled by the spectacle of foreigners and shouting sailors, uniformed men and those in styles of dress she had never seen before. That was the moment that the enormity of her undertaking came over her. She was in a country that held nothing for her. Even the faces looked alien. Fear sank into her but it was too late to do anything about it.

  Stevedores carrying crates and trunks swarmed up and down the gangplank. One of them struggled to carry a barrel. On reaching the bottom of the gangplank he lost the battle and it rolled away in the direction of a prancing horse. The horse sidestepped to avoid it, causing its young handler to leap back or risk being struck by a flying hoof. The horse rose up on its hind legs with a snort of alarm, dragging the short rein from the man’s grip. Finding itself unexpectedly free, with stirrups dancing, it then began to rear and prance with its hooves flailing, scattering everyone in its path. Raising a noisy furore amongst the crowds it was heading straight for Lisette.

  She watched as it came closer. The horse had its ears back and nostrils flared, but it seemed to her that its head was still well up, which was a sign that it was not completely out of control. The only thing she could think of was to try to slow the horse. Unafraid, stepping into its path she began to walk towards the charging beast, holding her arms wide. When it was close she uttered a gasp of admiration, for it was the most beautiful chestnut horse and it was galloping straight at her.

  ‘Oh, my God! Get back, woman! Get back!’ the horse’s handler shouted.

  Standing only a few feet from the danger, Lisette heard the warning but stood her ground, not out of bravado but from sheer fascination as the magnificent animal reared up. ‘Oh, you beautiful creature!’ she whispered. Then, as if she were urging a child to do her bidding, ‘Stop, stop, you’ll hurt yourself if you’re not careful.’

  Reaching into her pocket for a sugared sweet, she held out a flat palm to the horse, which ground to a halt, snorting wildly and rolling big hazel eyes. ‘Come on, you adorable thing. I’m sure you’re going to like it.’ The horse decided he would. He accepted the sweet as Lisette calmly took hold of the short rein and proceeded to stroke his quivering, satiny neck. With huge hindquarters and a barrel chest, he was a splendid sight. ‘You’re so lovely.’ She sighed as the horse nudged her pocket for another sweet. ‘But where have you come from?’

  Suddenly a swift, agile figure appeared from nowhere.

  ‘It’s all right, Blackstock,’ the figure shouted to the man who had brought the horse off the ship. ‘I’ll handle him. Give me that horse,’ he demanded of Lisette, holding out his hand for the rein. But as he made to grab it, the horse flattened his ears, stamped his foot and lunged at him, knocking the man sideways so that he collided with Lisette and she started to topple back. Acting so swiftly his movement was a blur, he gripped her upper arms and hauled her forward.

  She landed against him, her breasts pressed to his chest, her hips welded to his hard thighs which felt as resilient as tempered steel. The breath was knocked out of her, leaving her gasping. His hands held her upright, his long fingers gripping her arms. His lips thinned, the austere planes of his face hardened and his fingers tightened about her arms. To Lisette’s stunned amazement, he lifted her easily and carefully set her down a couple of feet away from him. When he released her arms she turned to the restless horse.

  ‘Stop that,’ she scolded, reaching out and jerking the rein reprovingly. ‘You mustn’t stamp your feet. Here, have another sweet.’ The man, a soldier, stared at her. The expression his eyes contained—intensely concentrated—sent a most peculiar thrill through her. She blinked and stared back, and then it was as if she was seeing a dream awake before her. She knew this man. Her body and all its senses remembered him. She knew him by the rich, hypnotically deep voice, and the icy, needle-like chills that were her own response to him.

  ‘Stepping in front of an out of control horse is a dangerous and extremely foolish thing to do,’ he reproached sternly. ‘Do you make a habit of it?’

  ‘No, and nor do I make a habit of talking to strangers—and never to gentlemen in uniform,’ she replied, her light mockery laced with gentle humour.

  He scowled down at her averted face. ‘And that is your rule, is it?’

  For the first time she turned her head and faced him fully. A salvo was fired. It struck home with a crushing weight. Lisette couldn’t have realised that Ross Montague could not trust himself to speak. Her beauty was such that his breath caught in his chest. It brought home to him the starvation of his need to feel a woman’s touch.

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ she replied calmly.

  With a will of iron, Ross clamped a grip upon himself. ‘Rules are made to be broken—at least mine are. By me,’ he said with an ease he little felt. ‘You could have been maimed for life or worse. But it is clear that you seem to have a way with horses.’

  ‘I was brought up with them in India where I have lived since I was a child. I love them and they seem to like me—and this is such a beautiful horse. If he’s been confined on board ship for weeks on end no wonder he bolted like he did. I would say he could do with a good gallop.’

  Beginning to relax as he looked at this enticing young woman in a dark grey, unadorned gown, his interest growing by the second, Ross gave her a slow smile. ‘I agree, but he will have to be patient a while longer.’ Having witnessed the entire incident and relieved no one had been hurt, this girl had amazed him. ‘I’ve never seen anyone stand in front of a charging horse before. I am impressed. But you do realise that the horse could have killed you, don’t you?’ She gave him a look that was almost condescending, a look that told him she had known precisely what she was doing and that she was more than capable of dealing with a runaway horse. He was indeed relieved that she was unharmed, though he was a little surprised at the strength of his emotions.

  Taking the rein, the horse jerked back and for a moment he wrestled with the animal, speaking to him in a soothing voice until he calmed down. Fascinated, Lisette watched him. She didn’t know men could move like that. His coordination was faultless. He was so tall, la
rge and lean but strongly muscled beneath the splendid scarlet-and-gold regimentals that hugged his broad shoulders and narrow waist without a wrinkle or a crease. She felt she should leave him now, this stranger—yet he wasn’t a stranger, not to her. Was this really the same man who had saved her life, the man in whose arms she had spent an entire night, clinging on to him for dear life lest she fall into a raging river?

  Tall and arrogant looking, he was olive skinned, almost the colour of a native of India. His hair was dark brown, thick and curling vigorously at the nape of his neck. His eyebrows were inclined to dip in a frown of perplexity over eyes that were watchful. It was his eyes that held her. They were vivid and startling blue, a shade of blue she had never seen on a man or woman before. It was the deep blue of the Indian Ocean—or was it the colour of the peacocks’ feathers that strutted cocksure in the grounds of the rajah’s palace? His face was too strong, his jaw too stubborn and too arrogant to be called classically handsome. His features were clear cut, hard edged. Only his lips, with a hint of humour to relieve their austerity, his intelligence and the wickedness that lit his blue eyes, gave any hint of mortal personality.

  ‘His name is Bengal,’ Ross informed her, ‘and he was given to me by a maharajah of that place. Sometimes I wonder if he’s a horse at all and not Nimrod in disguise. The Hindus believe in the transmigration of souls and I’m not convinced that in some previous incarnation this horse wasn’t a noble prince dedicated to hunting wild boar.’

  ‘Then for the love of his sins it would appear he has now descended into the body of a horse with his love of the chase unaltered,’ Lisette said laughingly as the horse nuzzled at her pocket.

  Ross met her wide gaze and looked at her long and deliberately, studying the young and guarded face, noting the wariness and schooled immobility with interest. There was something about her, something vaguely familiar that attracted his attention. He had the impression that he had seen her before, but he could not imagine where. He saw a girl slightly above average height, graceful and as slender as a young willow. Beneath her bonnet her blue-black hair was drawn straight back and confined in a black net so that its shining, luxuriant weight tilted her little pointed chin up as though with pride.

  When he looked into her eyes which were surrounded by a thick fringe of jet-black lashes, he felt an unexplainable pang of desire. They were intense, large eyes of an unusual honey-gold colour—or was it amber?—and they gave her whole face a magical look. In them were golden flecks of light, reminding him of the tigers of India. She had also acquired the lovely honey-gold skin that no longer looked quite English, yet could never be termed foreign. In fact, she seemed to radiate a feminine perfection, with all the qualities he most admired. Her soft pink lips were tantalising and gracefully curved, full and simply begged to be kissed—in fact, he’d come within a whisker of kissing them already today, but kissing a young woman before being properly introduced was simply not good form.

  A flush of colour rose into Lisette’s cheeks, embarrassed as this man studied her with such cool and speculative interest.

  ‘So you have just returned from India.’

  ‘Yes. My mistress has instructed me to look for a conveyance. Her husband, Mr Arbuthnot, has recently retired as a factor from the Company.’

  ‘I see. And you are?’

  ‘Lisette Napier. I am lady’s maid to Mrs Arbuthnot.’

  ‘And where is home, Lisette Napier?’ Ross was intrigued and he wondered why, for he didn’t often make conversation with maids.

  ‘Wherever I happen to be—with my work, you understand.’ Her voice was low and somewhat strained. ‘Before that I lived with my parents in India since I was a small child. But after India—well...’

  She felt his interest quicken. Ross bent his head to look into her face. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well—it will be...different here in London.’

  His teeth flashed in a sudden infectious grin. ‘You will find it very different indeed from India’s hot clime.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, trying not to let herself sound too regretful.

  ‘And your employer? Does she live in London?’

  She nodded. ‘Somewhere in Chelsea, I believe.’

  He grinned. ‘You will find it dull in comparison to India.’ Ross knew he should take his horse and move on but he was curiously reluctant to do so. Goodness, what was wrong with him, standing here talking to a servant girl when he had things to do. Again his horse nudged the girl’s pocket and with a laugh she produced another sweet, her hand stroking his neck to the horse’s evident delight.

  ‘You’ll spoil the beast,’ Ross found himself saying.

  Lisette saw that in the place of idle amusement was a look of awakened concentration. As their eyes met she shivered with an involuntary surge of excitement. She felt that this was the moment when she should remind him of their previous encounter, and with a multitude of ways of doing so on the tip of her tongue, thought better of it and bit back the words. Explaining her reasons for travelling to Bombay dressed as an Indian girl might prove difficult and tedious, and since they were unlikely to meet again there was nothing to be gained by doing so.

  ‘He deserves to be made a fuss of after enduring such a long journey. I knew someone who had a similar horse once. She...’

  Her voice trailed away. Ross waited for her to speak, to tell him more, but she didn’t. She merely stared into the distance as though she were alone, or he were no more important than his horse. Less so, for she evidently loved horses. He felt a strange sensation come over him and he could hardly believe it himself when he realised he was affronted because she was unconcerned whether he moved on or stayed.

  He tried again. ‘How long have you been a lady’s maid?’ he asked, doing his best to be patient, though it was not really in his nature. He had her attention again and she smiled.

  ‘Oh—long enough,’ she replied, studying him covertly, her gaze sliding over him.

  Ross felt the touch of her gaze, felt the hunter within him rise in response to that artless glance. He almost groaned. ‘And is it your intention to always be a lady’s maid? Would you not like to return to India?’

  A glow appeared in her eyes. ‘Oh, yes—and perhaps I will, one day, but I have to make my own way in the world, sir...’

  ‘Colonel. Colonel Ross Montague.’

  Ross studied her for a moment, frowning. She was looking at him, silent and unblinking, in the same way the dark-eyed Indian women stared in that unfathomable way. Having lived there for some considerable time, he suspected it was something she had developed almost unconsciously over the years, through her association with some of those doe-eyed women.

  Spending many years in India had shaped Ross’s ideal of feminine beauty. He was no great admirer of European standards—the pink and white belles who had begun to invade India, accompanying parents attached in some form to the East India Company. With their insipid colouring, their simpering ways and carefully arranged ringlets, they set their caps at him, attracting him not one whit.

  Ross sought his pleasures with the dusky, dark-eyed maidens, who offered a chance of escape from the stifling rounds of British social life, although there had been singularly few of late. This, it may be added, was not from lack of opportunity. Ross Montague was no celibate, but two things obsessed him—India, with its beauty and glamour and its cruel mystery, and the East India Company, with its precious collection of merchant traders from London who were conquering a subcontinent and maintained their own army administering justice and laws to the Indians.

  In India fortune had done nothing but smile on Ross. Young men with ambition and ability could go far. He had served with distinction; working his way up through the ranks he had now been rewarded with a promotion to colonel. But on receiving a letter from home, he had felt the sands of his good fortune were running out.

  One of his cousins had been killed in the bloody shambles of the battle at Waterloo and another of his cousins, the heir to the Montague dukedom
, had been listed as missing somewhere in Spain. Bound by the ties of present and future relationships to the house of Montague, Ross had returned to England at a time when his presence was likely to be of great comfort to his relatives there.

  But India held his heart and imagination and he had little time for anything else—and certainly not marriage. He hadn’t wanted a wife before he’d joined the army. Nothing had changed.

  ‘How old are you?’ he inquired abruptly.

  The unexpectedness of the question appeared to take Lisette by surprise, and she answered in unconscious obedience to the authority in his voice. ‘Twenty,’ she replied, having reached that age as the ship sailed round the Cape of Africa.

  He raised an intrigued eyebrow, choosing to ignore her awkward response. ‘And you have a place.’

  Her mouth quivered, but then she looked away, rather awkwardly. She felt her heart tighten. ‘Not beyond three weeks. Now my employer’s husband has retired from the Company he is to move his family to Brighton where they have a full complement of staff already. I have been told I must seek another situation.’

  As she stood there she looked vulnerable for the first time. Her air of impregnable self-sufficiency vanished and Ross saw her troubled and rather desperate. ‘You have references?’

  ‘Oh, yes—well, just the one. I can only hope it will secure me another position—even that of a scullery maid would be better than nothing at all.’

  ‘Even though it would be a blow to your pride?’

  ‘I’m truly not proud,’ she said with a bewitching smile. ‘I’m wilful, I suppose. Stubborn too. And headstrong. But not, I think, proud.’

  At that moment appeared Lottie Arbuthnot, her employer’s daughter, treading with care over obstacles and holding her skirts to her sides so as not to mark them on the many barrels and casks piled up on the dock. On reaching Lisette she pricked her with her needle-like eyes.