Wasn’t that the problem Fallon had alluded to when defending her charade? The very thing that had prompted her to don a pair of trousers and pretend to be a man? She was just too damn noticeable.
He cleared his throat. “Ethan, I’m aware you’ve made free with some of the other maids—”
Ethan blinked in a mocking display of guilelessness. “Me?”
“I would appreciate it if you leave Fallon alone. Leave all of them alone, for that matter.”
“Fallon, is it?”
He grimaced, regretting using her Christian name.
“I can’t help it if the women on your staff find me charming.”
He nodded in Fallon’s direction through the glass. “I can assure you that she is one female disinclined to the persuasions of a nobleman.” She had made clear her aversion to blue bloods.
“Already tried, have you?”
A flash of Fallon as he’d seen her emerging from her bath, a wet towel plastered to her body made his blood burn. To say nothing of how she had felt. If he had wanted, she could have been his. He shook his head. Fine time for him to grow a sense of honor.
“No,” he murmured. “Believe it or not, I don’t dally with the women in my employ.”
“How noble of you. Fortunately, I am not held to such restrictions.” He fairly rubbed his palms together as he gazed out the window.
“Oh, but you are, my friend,” he warned, not caring whether he sounded possessive or not.
With an eyebrow cocked, Hunt cut him a sharp glance. “Am I?”
Dominic held his gaze a moment before looking out the window again, his gaze traveling along the elegant line of Fallon’s neck as she bent over flowers. She brushed her face with her hand, swiping ineffectually at the russet strands curling against her cheek. “Leave this one alone.”
Almost as if she heard him…or felt him, Fallon looked up. Their eyes collided across the distance. Her gaze flicked to Hunt beside him. Some of the color bled from her cheeks. She murmured something to the other maid and rose, hastily weaving a path from the garden.
Ethan’s voice dragged his attention from her retreating form. “You sound jealous. Certain you aren’t staking a claim for yourself? Just say so. No need to play at the honorable gentleman. We both know you are not.” Hunt snorted. “Neither one of us are. That is why we get on so well.
Always have.”
Indeed. A statement he could not deny for its veracity.
“Claim?” he scoffed and forced himself to move away from the window. “She’s not a country to be conquered. Merely a woman. And one of no special interest to me.” It was a wonder the words did not choke him.
“On the contrary. I find that a perfect metaphor.” Hunt lowered himself back down into a wingchair. “A woman is to be conquered like any parcel of land.”
Dominic’s hands curled around the arms of his chair. “Remind me why I choose to associate with you?”
Hunt laughed. “We’re a pair, you and I. Why else?”
“Hmm.” Suddenly being as iniquitous as Hunt did not sit well with him. He flicked a hand in the direction of the garden. “Just keep your paws to yourself.”
“Of course.” A wicked grin curved Hunt’s mouth that did not engender a great deal of faith.
“What are friends for?”
Dominic shook his head, disgusted and wondering if he and Hunt were truly alike. And, he realized with a start, when had he cared at the distinction?
“Well. Well. Good afternoon.”
Fallon’s gaze snapped up, her fingers nearly losing their grip on the pitcher of water she held.
Hugging the carafe to her chest, she bobbed a quick curtsey as Lord Hunt approached, his boots clicking lightly upon the foyer floor. Darting a quick glance to her left and right, she tried to judge the quickest escape route. Then it occurred to her that running away might appear a bit odd and attract the close scrutiny she precisely wished to avoid from him. Grinding her teeth, she rose from her curtsey.
He stopped before her and dipped a sharp bow. A bow one might present to a lady and not a lowly maid in a duke’s household. Unable to stop herself, she felt her brow wing high.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Ethan Waverly, Viscount Hunt.”
Ah, a formal introduction, too. Did he think her like simpering Nancy? Easily impressed and ready to lift her skirts at the slightest acknowledgment from him?
With a deferential nod, she tried to step past, careful to keep her face averted. No longer disguised, she hoped he did not recognize her. Although he certainly never paid much mind to the gardener’s daughter. Too occupied chasing after the skirts of older girls. Still, she would prefer not risking him reaching the realization that they once shared a home.
Never a home, she quickly amended. For however safe she had felt there with Da to look after her, it had never been her home. Only Hunt’s.
He settled a hand on her arm, pulling her close with the boldness of man accustomed to having whatever he wanted. _Whomever _ he wanted. Staring at him, his face blurred and became his father’s the day he called her into his study to impart the news of Da’s death—so punctilious as he informed her that she would never see her father again.
“Come now, is Damon such a slave driver you cannot…” his voice faded. Dread curled in her belly as his dark gaze scanned her face intently, missing nothing it seemed, skimming her features, drifting over her hair until recognition lit his gaze.
“Where do I know you from?”
What could she say?
I’m the daughter of the man your father killed?
I’m the duke’s valet you disliked so much?
Before she had time to formulate a response, his voice escaped in a croak, “Fallon.” Shock washed over the chiseled lines of his face, echoing the astonishment rippling through her.
“Fallon O’Rourke.”
The sound of her name on his lips fed panic to her heart. He should not know her. Should not remember her.
Wrenching her arm free, she managed two steps before he forced her around again, his hands clamping down on each arm.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded…almost as though she should be someplace else.
Almost as if it mattered one way or another to him _where _ she happened to be.
“Working,” she bit out. “I work for a living, Lord Hunt. Just as my father before me. I am quite certain you remember him,” she charged, her voice scathing.
“I searched for you—”
“Why?” she bit out. “Your family washed their hands of me years ago, eased their guilt by putting me through Penwich.”
He started at the mention of the school. “Yes, Penwich! I went there.”
“Good for you.” She struggled against his hold. “You should visit again. Yorkshire is lovely this time of year. Now let me go.”
“No. You don’t understand. I went there looking for you. Only last year.”
“Ethan.”
The sound of Lord Hunt’s name fell hard as a stone dropping. She tensed, recognizing that voice at once, feeling it vibrate in her very bones. Dominic approached, his boots emitting softly dangerous clicks on the marble floor. “Care to remove your hands from my…” His voice faded.
Heat scalded her face at the _”my” _ he left hanging in the air. They all three exchanged glances.
Tension, palpable and pungent, began a slow churn on the air.
Lord Hunt answered at last. “I will. If she promises not to run away.”
“What business is it of yours what she does?” A muscle rippled in Dominic’s hard jaw, and she knew he issued no idle threat. “Now unhand her before I mop the floor with you.”
Hunt flushed, an occurrence she would have thought impossible in the scoundrel. Of all things, she would never have credited him with any sense of sobriety. He was all snideness and levity.
Typical blue blood.
Even with Dominic’s threat hovering, he did not release her. Her arms began to hurt where he held her, but she hid her grimace.
“It doesn’t concern you, Dom. We have history, she and I.”
“History?” Dominic stalked forward. Grabbing her arm at the elbow, he yanked her free. He turned a blistering gaze on her—as if _she _ had committed some great sin—before looking back at his friend. “Of what history do you speak—”
“This doesn’t concern—”
“Say that again and you’ll be picking your teeth up off the floor.” That muscle now jumped wildly in his jaw, and in that moment Dominic looked the utter savage, and quite capable of doing precisely such a barbaric thing. And more.
Lord Hunt inhaled, his chest swelling. “Fallon and I grew up together—”
“Hardly,” she inserted with a bitter laugh. “You were the master’s son. I was but the gardener’s daughter…too young for your perversions, so thankfully you never attended to me—”
Face ruddy, Hunt spit out, “I’m trying to explain something, damn it. My father made a provision for you in his will. He always felt somewhat responsible—”
“Somewhat? Only somewhat? He sent my father to the Seychelles Islands—the blasted ends of the earth! And why?” She felt her lips curl back from her teeth as she snarled, “To retrieve a flower for his blasted gardens!” Tears clogged her throat, but she could not stop herself. The floodgates opened. “Did he ever once think of the risk? The dangers to my father? The long year he would be gone from me?” She snorted and took a steadying breath. “Of course a year only turned into a lifetime.”
“I visited Penwich and spoke with a man named Brocklehurst,” Hunt went on as though she had not spoken. “He did not know where I could locate you.”
She scoffed. “Oh, he knew.” The headmaster at least knew he could ask Evie. “Brocklehurst would not relish good fortune falling my way. Would you like to know what he _did _ relish?” She advanced a step, Dominic’s warm grasp on her arm keeping her from charging forward in full pique. “Beatings. He enjoyed beating us. Teaching us God’s word with each swipe of his rod. He enjoyed watching us starve…and suffer through the cold of winter with poor shoes and threadbare blankets.”
“Fallon, don’t,” Dominic’s soft directive fluttered the tiny hairs near her ear. His fingers roved in small circles against her arm, and even in her anger, she felt a small, unwelcome thrill.
She ignored him, finishing. “Next time you stand over _your _ father’s grave, thank him for his generosity in sending me to such a place.”
A muscle feathered along the viscount’s cheek. “I did not know. Nor did my father. I am sorry for that. He wanted to do right by you.” Hunt straightened and reached inside his jacket. With numb fingers, she accepted the card he extended. “In any case, keep this should you change your mind. On his deathbed he charged me with the task of finding you and seeing you secured. It is a task I do not take lightly.”
Dominic’s hand softened where he held her, becoming less a shackle on her arm. Without thinking, she leaned against him, suddenly needing the support and uncertain that she would not collapse in a boneless puddle.
Lord Hunt straightened, rigid as a tin soldier, his dark eyes flinty as he looked down at her.
The sudden fall of footsteps filled the charged silence. Mrs. Davies appeared, face etched in concern. “Your Grace?” Several maids hovered behind her.
“Go away,” Dominic barked.
The housekeeper and maids scurried away, leaving the three of them in the vast foyer. Grand.
More rumors for the servants. Ever since Nancy found her in the pantry with Dominic, her life had been a torment. Nancy had wasted no time divulging all she had witnessed. Every time Fallon entered a room, indiscreet whispers floated to her ears. Words like _harlot _ and _whore _ were uttered loudly enough. Even Daniel and Mr. Adams no longer met her gaze.