He wanted to bed her.

She reminded herself of what her father had once told her, that English aristocrats sought their pleasure from women of the lower orders. Seduction would mean ruin for her, while the Duke of Clayton walked away with his reputation intact. That was why there could never be anything between them beyond a tenuous friendship.

As she entered the cavernous kitchen, a glow came from the banked fire in the massive hearth while the rest of the chamber lay in darkness. She held up the candle and headed into the larder. There, the shelves held a variety of foodstuffs that gave off a delicious aroma: hams and sausages, preserves and pickles, sweets and spices. More pungent scents came from the bundles of dried herbs that hung from the ceiling.

After a short hunt, she located a canister of cold milk and poured a measure into a small saucepan. The handle felt a bit loose, but she didn’t want to dirty anything larger. She set the pot onto a trivet over the grate and added a pinch of cinnamon and sugar. Using the fire iron, she poked at the glowing embers. Flames licked upward, radiating heat that warmed her chilly hands. As she stirred the milk with a spoon, Natalie felt cheered by the blaze and comforted by the familiar aroma of cinnamon.

The simple pleasure of performing a familiar task brought back memories of life in the American wilderness where she had learned to cook out of necessity. Though it wasn’t her greatest skill, she had taken pride in the challenge of creating nourishing meals for herself and Audrey’s little family.

Leaving the milk to heat, she walked past the long worktable toward a shelf that held crockery mugs and dishes designated for the servants. She would sip her relaxing drink, then return to bed. She would try to have faith that the situation with Leo would work out …

The sudden creak of wood broke the silence.

Startled, she spun toward the deeply shadowed corner from which the noise had emanated. A large black form separated itself from the gloom.

Chapter 12

Like a bear emerging from a cave, the hulking shape stepped into the light of the fire. The nape of her neck prickled. She knew that crudely chiseled face with its crooked nose and leering smile, the mop of curly dark hair.

Lord Wymark’s groom, Bert.

Clad in a homespun shirt and brown trousers, the man stared at her, his avid gaze lingering on her robed figure. “’Evenin’, miss. Ye’re up late.”

Natalie grasped the lapels of her wrapper, wishing she had a knife in her pocket. She took several breaths to calm her surging heartbeat. It wouldn’t do to show fright, so she raised an eyebrow and glared at him. “Why did you not make your presence known at once? Why were you hiding in the shadows?”

“I was here first. Ain’t my fault ye didn’t see me.”

“You oughtn’t be in the house so late at night.” The grooms slept in the stables. Although unfamiliar with customs in grand English homes, she took a guess and added, “The door was locked, so you must have broken in.”