Upon A Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(17)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

"When you’re ready, Your Grace." Higgins, the estate manager, was a short plump man with an all too cheerful demeanor and an aggravating voice that sounded quite like an animal in heat, though to be fair, worse comparisons were out there.

Stefan muttered a few more curses for good measure and plastered a ducal smile on his face while he reached out to shake the man’s hand. "Higgins, it seems I’m a bit in the dark. Tell me how I can be of service."

"Right away, Your Grace! And may I just say, to work next to such a man! Well, I don’t think my Betsy will believe me when I tell her!"

As long as Higgins didn’t repeat all the curses Stefan muttered, repeating the story would be fine.

"Yes, good." Stefan looked around the stables. Where was all the help?

Higgins stepped closer to Stefan and whispered in that awful voice, "What’cha lookin’ for, Your Grace?"

"Pride."

"What was that?"

Stefan cleared his throat. "People, my good man. Where are all the servants?"

Higgins brow furrowed, a bark of laughter escaped his lips. "Oh, apologies, I thought the lady of the house told ya. It’s just me and the stable boy, cook, and of course, Abigail, and ol’ cranky pants, the butler. We haven’t had servants in this house since the earl’s passing."

Which meant Stefan was to be a servant for the day. Oh the ways he would make Rosalind pay. On second thought… A smile spread across his lips.

"Very good!" Stefan slapped Higgins on the back and walked towards the shovels. "Shall we get to work then? It seems these stables need a good cleaning before we leave in the morning, wouldn’t want the estate to fall into disarray with the lady’s absence."

Higgins joined his side and slapped him on the back, obviously not aware that dukes did not, in fact, get slapped by servants or any person for that matter. But he meant it in good fun, so Stefan let it slide like he had so many other things the past few days — pride, sanity, good sense…

"Well, let’s get to it, good man. Wouldn’t want to keep you from Betsy."

Higgins grin was so wide, Stefan’s own mouth grew slightly sore. "Thank you, Your Grace. I tell you it is an honor, it is."

"Right."

Stefan gripped the shovel. Rosalind had another thing coming if she thought he was to be scared off by a little work. Had she no idea what he was doing in India that entire time? Nor that his father had tenants and estates of his own before his passing? Ones that Stefan saw flourish under his own two bare hands. If she wanted help, well, help was what she would get.

And with that, Stefan began to whistle a tune.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Hear my soul speak;

The very instant that I saw you, did

My heart fly to your service.

~ The Tempest — William Shakespeare ~

Rosalind looked out the window facing the stables and froze. Was that…? Her ears strained to hear the melodious tune. No, it couldn’t be. The man was whistling! And the blasted horses seemed to be dancing along with that sorry tune.

"Of all the…" Her eyes flashed back to the window. Breath stole straight out of her lungs causing her to choke. The duke had removed his jacket. Seconds later, his shirtsleeves, as he began the laborious chore of chopping wood. May God rain curses on him for being such a fine specimen to look at.

Her elbows leaned on the windowsill of their own accord; her chin soon followed until she was leaning against the window, pasting her face to the glass so hard her nose was smooshed.

"My Lady?" A man’s voice penetrated her spying, throwing cold water onto the fervor of heat. With a bang, her forehead hit the window. Rolling her eyes, she put a hand to her skin hoping it wouldn’t bruise and turned around.

"Yes, Alfred?"

"I merely came to see if you needed any more assistance, were the windows dirty? Perhaps a good cleaning before we off tomorrow?" Alfred made a move to look out the window.

"No!" Rosalind yelled pressing her hands against the valet’s chest. With a jerk she pulled them back and let out an embarrassed laugh. "I mean, no need! I was just inspecting them for dust and they seem to be perfect. Not one speck of dust, or fat, or deformity…"

Alfred turned his head to the side in thought. "On the windows, you say?"

"Course, yes. I meant the windows, whom, I mean what else would I be referring to?" She nervously cleared her throat and clenched her hands behind her back.

"Right then. I shall sleep soundly tonight knowing there isn’t at trace of fat on them. Good day, miss." Alfred gave her a knowing wink, then walked off just as another hot wave of embarrassment washed over her.

Sighing, she turned back towards the window. Just one more glance, she told herself as her eyes searched for Stefan’s muscled form. Where the devil did he go? Rosalind pressed her nose closer, her eyes now roaming in earnest to search the estate grounds.

"What are we looking for?" Stefan’s breath fanned the side of her neck making the embarrassment complete.

"Ah, Your Grace! Was just looking for you. It seems the windows are clean!" Alfred announced coming back in their direction.

Oh no.

"Is that so?" Stefan said still standing dangerously close to Rosalind who had yet to take her eyes off the cursed window.

"Oh yes, miss Rosalind was very perceptive earlier when she was looking at them for all traces of… Let me see what did you say? Oh yes dust and fat, was it, Miss?"

"What is this nonsense?" Mary walked up behind Alfred. "We do not use fat to wash our windows!"

"Did you need something, Mary?" Rosalind nearly yelled above the commotion.

"Yes, Cook isn’t yet back with supplies and we need all the help we can get in the kitchens."

Rosalind smiled, feeling the upper hand. "I’ll just send His Grace down in a bit, shall I?"

"Very good!" Mary stomped her cane and walked off. Rosalind allowed herself a brief smile. She would like to think that every time Mary came into the room Stefan was a trifle fearful of the cane she carried.

"But—" Stefan opened his mouth to say more, but Rosalind took advantage of his being tired from hours of work.

"No buts, Your Grace. You said you’d help in any capacity, it seems we are to help with dinner tonight. That is, if you don’t mind getting your ducal hands a bit dirty."

Stefan leaned in pinning her against the wall and his rock hard body. "I think we both know I don’t mind a bit of dirt." His eyes locked on her lips, and instinctively she leaned in.

Alfred coughed.

With a shaky hand, Rosalind pushed Stefan back, so what if that same hand stayed longer than necessary across the flat planes of his godlike stomach? He was solid, hard, and so foreign, yet her hand remained, until Stefan cleared his throat. Pulling back as if burned, she snapped a retort, "I’ll see you after you clean up a bit, Your Grace."