Enthralled (The Enslaved Duet 1)

Until they saw me.

Instantly, they froze, and the chatter evaporated.

I swallowed back my nerves, hyper aware of the long length of my legs exposed by the shirt and the fact that they probably knew I’d been chained to the floor of the ballroom for the past few weeks.

“Hello,” I said, then cleared my throat when my accent saturated the word. “Hello everyone, I am so sorry to bother. I was just exploring the, um, the house, and when I smelled something delicious, I followed my nose down here.”

They continued to stare without deviation in expression or posture.

Um, okay.

“Excuse them,” said a young man with flaming ginger hair and so many freckles he seemed like a walking constellation of golden stars. “They have no manners.” He moved forward quickly to extend his hand. “I, on the other hand, do. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Lombardi. I am Douglas O’Shea, the chef of this illustrious household.”

“So you are the wizard that made the pasta alla Genovese last night,” I said, taking his calloused hand in my own. “Thank you for that, I cannot tell you how much I longed for a taste of home.”

“Oh, the pleasure was mine. Usually I’m tasked with making the ordinary bland fare of my countrymen, so it was a delight to turn my skill to something different. Please, next time give me something truly challenging.”

I laughed at his exuberance, my awkwardness washed away by his genuine kindness. The others watched us still, but I took no mind to them.

I’d been watched all my life but received little true kindness so I would focus on that.

“Come and have a spot of tea with me while I finish these finnicky little petits forts,” Douglas encouraged me, turning our clasped hands so that he could lead me to a stool perched beside his workstation. “You look thin as a rake and in dire need of a cuppa.”

I slid onto the chair and tugged down my shirt fruitlessly when one of the male servants went slack jawed at the sight of my legs.

Douglas rapped the servant in question over his knuckles with a wooden spoon. “Young Jeffery, out with you. I believe you have some work to do in the dining room before supper.”

Jeffery blushed furious at being caught and scampered out of the kitchen along with the rest of the nonessential personnel.

“Don’t mind them, ducky. It’s been yonks since we had a proper young lady in the house and the lads are all a bit dense normally so your beauty don’t help none,” Douglas explained with a twinkle in his eye as he carefully began to pipe icing between small pink layers of cake.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you. Master Alexander hardly seems like the kind of man to abstain from female companionship,” I retorted with a snort.

Douglas paused his piping to blink at me and then roared with laughter.

I couldn’t help but laugh with him. It felt good to have some light-heartedness after so long in the pressurized company of Alexander or the vacuous chamber of my own solitude.

Douglas was young, closer to my age than I guessed Alexander’s to be, and he possessed the kind of happy personality that was infectious.

“Oh, there were women before you, for both of the masters, but none quite like you,” he prattled on, and I realized what a treasure trove of information he might be. “This is a man’s household through and through. Or it has been since the passing of Lady Greythorn.”

“Lady Greythorn?” I asked as a servant slid my way tentatively to offer me a cup of tea.

“Oh yes, the late Mistress of Pearl Hall. She passed, oh, nine years ago this May. A lovelier woman I’ve never known. Incredibly posh, but very down to earth with her household staff and family.”

“What happened to her?” I asked even though I didn’t fully understand who she could have been.

Wasn’t Alexander titled Earl of Thornton, not Greythorn?

Douglas paused his activities and looked around the room guiltily as if he’d been caught in the act of blasphemy against his employers. I could see his reluctance to continue, but I was determined to unearth some of the mystery around this great empty house and its master.

I leaned forward to place a hand on Douglas’s arm and looked up at him through my lashes with a pout curling my bottom lip just slightly. “I only ask because I recently lost my own father.”

It wasn’t a lie, not quite.

I had lost Seamus forever, just not to death.

Of course, the sadness was manufactured, but what was a little white lie between burgeoning friends?

My words had their intended effect. His face softened, and he patted a flour dusted hand over my own on his arm. “Poor thing, I’m so sorry for your loss. Well, it’s not really the thing to talk about such matters, you understand? Here, try this.” He shoved a gorgeously crafted little cake at me and waited until I’d taken a bite and moaned before continuing. “She died away from home while she was visiting… a family friend. Apparently, it was a tragic accident. She was drinking over dinner and wandered outside to the terrace for some fresh air. Next thing anyone knew, she was dead at the base of the building two stories down.”