The sooner he handed Thea over to Sally and forgot about her existence, the better.
“Why does Sally Holt wear men’s clothing?” Thea asked in a low voice.
“Because she wants to, I suppose.”
“And you don’t mind? Arabella’s mother would have a fit.”
“If you had met some of the people I’ve met in the world, you’d understand why I do not care a penny what my housekeeper wears.”
“I cannot wait to see the butler.” She turned her eager gaze toward the front door. “What does he wear?”
“No butler.”
“Why not?”
“He objected to Sally and said either he went or she went, and I said fine. She manages without one.”
“Why did you choose her over him?”
Rafe hesitated, not sure how to explain Sally. He released Thea’s elbow and settled on saying, “Her father was the local schoolteacher, and she has lived here most of her life.”
It was simpler not to say the rest: that as a girl, Sally Holt had been unexceptional, except for her beauty, which she attempted to conceal under plain gowns, unflattering caps, and a deferential manner. But in the six years between Katharine’s death and Rafe’s return—that period when Rafe went into the selva to hunt orchids and avoid the world—polite Miss Holt had transformed into a woman who said what she pleased, dressed as she pleased, and eyed the world as if she wished to deal it a good hard slap.
Rafe had never asked Sally what happened in those years that made her change so, and she never volunteered the information. By tacit agreement, they never mentioned Katharine at all.
Thea threw another glance over her shoulder, and said, “Oh, she’s coming,” and stopped short. Rafe had to stop too.
“My apologies for losing you a deliveryman, my lord, but I will protect the girls at any cost,” Sally said, as she approached. Her words were for Rafe, but her eyes did not leave Thea. “I trust I did not frighten you, my lady.”
“Not at all.”
“That was not how I intended your first impression of Brinkley End. The staff were to be lined up outside to greet you. But then the maidservant was weeping and… I shall call the staff now, if you wish, my lady.”
Rafe frowned at this unexpected version of Sally. She seemed almost anxious to please. Surely not.
“Do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Holt,” Thea said graciously. “I was very impressed. It is much more important to protect the maid.”
“Thank you, my lady. And I prefer just ‘Sally,’ if you do not object to the informality.”
How unusual. Sally never sought his opinion on such matters. Rafe tried to catch Sally’s eye but to no avail, for she was still talking to Thea, saying, “We are delighted to welcome you to Brinkley End. Lord Luxborough said he would never marry again, but I have long hoped he would.”
“You have?” Rafe asked.
The two women ignored him. “I trust you find everything to your liking, my lady,” Sally went on. “I will happily make any changes you require.”
“No need,” Rafe interrupted. “She will not interfere.”
“Of course not,” Thea agreed cheerfully. “Interfering would be work, and the best countesses never work.” She turned her bright smile on Sally. “Feed me at regular intervals and I shall be no trouble at all.”
No trouble? Thea? Ha! She created trouble simply by standing in one place, her hair troubling him to run his fingers through it, the fastening of her cloak troubling him to release it.
Such trouble made Rafe’s arms restless, so he waved at the far side of the house. “Sally has prepared an apartment for you in the west wing. You have ample space in your rooms for your meals and everything else you need.”
“My meals?” she said sharply.
“Feeding at regular intervals.”
“But what about you?”
“I also feed at regular intervals.”
“You expect me to take my meals alone in my room?”
Wounded bewilderment haunted her tone and eyes. No, he would not feel guilty or offer her comfort. He was not here for her passing entertainment.
“That’s what I do,” he said.
“I don’t like dining alone. People dine together.”
“I’m not people.”
She glared at him, but her imperious countess look did not mask her lingering hurt.
“Get used to it,” he snapped.
He wheeled about and crunched across the gravel to the carriage, where a groom was lifting a box of orchids. Rafe yanked the box into his arms and strode away, down the path and toward the woods, not looking back.
Aware of Sally’s watchful gaze, Thea lifted her chin and pretended nothing was amiss. Neither should it be. Lord Luxborough was her adversary—not her friend and certainly not her husband—and she could rely on him for nothing, not even dinner. It was better that he did not behave like an interested husband, because the more questions he asked, the more lies she would have to tell.