Sapphire

“I think you do, Miss Fabergine.” He leaned closer, over the tray she held between them, so close she could feel his breath on her mouth. “Manford Lawrence is a business associate, but he is also my dear friend. If you say anything to embarrass me—”

“And what of Miss Lawrence?” she asked, staring at him. They were so close she could have kissed him. Or smacked him across the face. “Hmm?” she asked. “Is she also your dear friend?”

He sat back on his heels, his eyes suddenly turning a stormy gray. “I think you’re jealous.”

“Absurd.”

“I think you miss me,” he whispered, leaning close again. “I think you miss my touch.” He brushed her waist with his fingertip in a light caress and then withdrew it.

It was just enough to set her skin beneath the rough fabric aflame and he knew it…just enough to make butterflies flutter in the pit of her stomach.

“I think you want to kiss and make up, but your foolish pride is what stands in the way between you and me and a very…mutually satisfying arrangement.”

Sapphire felt the tray of tall, frosted drinks tip slightly in her hands as she peered at Blake. “You know what you are,” she whispered. “You are a conceited, manipulative—”

“Mr. Thixton?” a woman called from the veranda.

Sapphire took a step back just in time to see an attractive dark-haired woman dressed in a lovely rose satin gown glide through the doorway into the keeping room from the veranda. Mrs. Sheraton, Sapphire thought. Myra had pointed her out on the street the day before as her previous employer and one of Blake’s neighbors.

“Oh, there you are, Blake dear.” Her last words were soft enough for only Blake and Sapphire to hear. She acted as if she didn’t even see Sapphire standing there. “I was wondering where you had gotten to. I want you to tell Mrs. Carter about the Italian painting you procured. It isn’t hanging yet, is it?” She slid her arm through Blake’s and took a glass of lemonade from Sapphire’s tray as she led him back onto the veranda.

Sapphire stood there for a moment, frozen in her old, beat-up shoes. Myra poked her head around the corner and waved frantically. Sapphire found her feet and hurried for the door.

“What did the master say to you?” Myra whispered. “Is there a problem with the lemonade?”

Sapphire shook her head, not trusting herself to speak yet.

“Come along, then.” Myra gave another quick wave. “The ladies are waiting on their drinks. ’Course Mrs. Sheraton has already asked me if there isn’t something stronger before dinner.” She winked and then turned to the first female guest they came upon on the veranda. “Lemonade?” Myra asked, already lifting a glass from the tray to offer it.

Once Sapphire and Myra had served the drinks, they did not return to the kitchen as Sapphire had hoped they would. Instead, they stood at attention, backs to the stone wall of the house, waiting to see if they coul

d serve more lemonade or take the glasses.

“This is the best part,” Myra whispered out of the side of her mouth. “It’s like we ain’t even here.”

Sapphire tried to stay focused as she looked out over the veranda that hung over the cliff. Even at dusk, it was a spectacular view. She could still see the ripple of dark water and whitecaps far below, and there was a twinkle of lights on the small slice of land that was the shore. By this time of evening, there was little movement on the water; all the ships that had anchored would burn lamps through the night in order to be seen by those insistent upon sailing in the darkness.

“So, has he asked?”

A young woman with ebony ringlets holding Clarice Lawrence’s hand led her in front of Sapphire and Myra as they lowered their heads in private conversation. “Has he?” the woman repeated.

Both young women were dressed elegantly in nearly identical off-the-shoulder evening gowns of white silk; Clarice wore a pale lavender ribbon belt, and the other woman a pink one. Both had their hair swept up with fresh flowers tucked in one side of their coiffures, and Sapphire felt herself longing for one of the white gowns, for clean hair and the ivory pins she would need to sweep her hair off her neck. The privileged young women appeared so cool, so comfortable, while Sapphire’s uniform was itching her fiercely at the neckline. But no matter how badly it itched, she knew she couldn’t scratch. She would not scratch, not in front of Miss Clarice Lawrence, even if it killed her.

“Well, when is he going to propose?” the dark-haired young woman asked. “I thought you said you were certain he would ask you the day he returned from London. What did you say? I remember, it was ‘now that he is a titled lord, he would have need of the perfect wife.’” The last words were almost hissed and most certainly accusatory in nature.

Myra sank her elbow into Sapphire’s side and cut her eyes in the women’s direction to be certain her companion was listening, then continued to look straight ahead.

“If he doesn’t ask you soon,” the dark-haired debutante went on, “you might as well start looking elsewhere, because you are certainly not the only woman setting her lace cap for Mr. Blake Thixton, Earl of Wessex.”

“He’ll propose,” Clarice insisted, tapping open an ivory lace fan with one hand, sipping her lemonade. “Have no fear of that.”

“I understand Mrs. Sheraton has been discussing her daughter with him. She’s eighteen next month, you know. Younger than you and some say prettier.”

“He’ll marry me if my father tells him he must,” Clarice whispered hotly.

“And exactly how will your father be in a position to insist Blake Thixton—”

Sapphire heard a gasp from the dark-haired twit, then a giggle. “Miss Lawrence, don’t tell me you have surrendered your virginity to Mr. Thixton!” She sounded both properly shocked and excited at the same time.