Page 14 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

“Nonsense.” She stepped down to where he stood. “If you can spare a towel?”

“A towel?”

She cast a pointed glance to the small puddle at his feet. “I would hate for someone to slip on the stairs.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself. I’ll tend to it myself when—”

“No trouble at all. I’ll make short work of it.” She took the topmost towel from the stack in his arms and, in one smooth movement, knelt down and mopped up the spill. “There, you see?” She rose to find him regarding her with a slightly furrowed brow and an assessing glint in his sharp, foxlike eyes.

Her smile faded. She had the uncomfortable feeling that her relative value was being weighed and measured down to the inch. “Forgive me,” she said, “but are you his lordship’s valet?”

“I have that honor, miss.”

She slowly folded the damp towel. She had wondered if Sebastian would be joining them for their ride this morning. But if his valet was only now bringing up his shaving things, he clearly had no intention of doing so. “Well…” She extended the folded towel. “I’ll not keep you then.”

“Thank you, miss.” He gave her as much of a bow as he could manage with his arms full.

She watched him for a moment as he continued his ascent up the stairs. He had been Sebastian’s batman, had he not? More than anyone else, he must know about Sebastian’s state of mind. She was terribly tempted to question him, but something in the way he had looked at her convinced her to hold her tongue. She could not be entirely certain, but she had the distinct impression that Milsom would never divulge any of his master’s secrets—least of all to her.

Sebastian tilted his head back, allowing Milsom to run a shaving razor up the length of his throat with a practiced flick. “You’re damnably quiet this morning,” he grumbled.

“Am I, my lord?”

“Not conspiring with my sister again, are you?”

Milsom lowered his brows in disapproval. “I should think not, sir.” He made another pass with the razor. “I never did conspire with anyone.”

“No? What would you call it, then?”

“Can’t say what I’d call it.” Milsom considered for a moment. “Her ladyship plagued me about that lock of hair of yours until I confessed the name of the female who gave it to you.” He swiped the razor along the edge of Sebastian’s jaw. “Don’t expect anyone could withstand her ladyship once she’s got an idea in her head.”

Sebastian frowned. “Perhaps not.”

“I resisted her as long as I was able.”

“That bad, was it?”

“You’ve no idea, my lord.” Milsom grimaced at the memory.

“She cried, I suppose.”

“A great deal, sir.”

Sebastian was not wholly unsympathetic. He knew from bitter experience that Julia could make a damned nuisance of herself if she did not get her way. Still, he had thought his valet was made of sterner stuff. “The trouble with you, Milsom, is that you haven’t the first idea how to defend yourself against feminine wiles.”

“Don’t reckon I do, my lord.” Milsom stood back to assess his handiwork. “There’s never been much cause to learn, has there?” Seemingly satisfied with the quality of his master’s shave, he turned to the dressing table and busied himself with cleaning up. “Speaking of the fairer sex…I saw your Miss Stafford this morning.”

Sebastian’s traitorous heart gave a painful lurch. He scowled. “She’s not my Miss Stafford, Milsom.”

“She was dressed up to ride with her ladyship.”

“Was she?” Sebastian rose and went to the washstand. He was up and dressed himself, but not because he intended to join them. Indeed, riding out onto the estate, exposing his scarred face to the unforgiving morning sunlight, was the very last thing he wished to do.

Besides, he thought as he splashed his face with cold water and dried it roughly with a towel, he had no interest in renewing his relationship with Miss Stafford.

“She was looking uncommonly handsome, if I may say so,” Milsom remarked from his place at the dressing table.

Sebastian shot his valet a ferocious glare. “No, Milsom. You may not say so.”