Rebecca nodded her agreement.
“And good morning to you too,” their host replied with a wry smirk that somehow made him even more boyishly handsome. The morning stubble on his dimpled chin only enhanced his rakish charm.
Rubbish!
“Really, Halliwell,” she blustered, wishing she had a fan.
He held up his hands in surrender. “I know, I know. It’s intolerable. And, please, call me Griff.”
He was making an effort to be nice, but did she want to be on such familiar terms with him? “No breakfast yet, Griff,” she muttered, crumpling her napkin as she stood. “I’m off to the kitchen.”
Having no idea how to find said kitchen, she was relieved when he rose. “I’ll accompany you,” he said. “Though I don’t recall ever visiting Cook’s lair before.”
Exasperation threatened to boil over as she strode out of the morning room, once more wondering how it had come about that men ruled the world.
*
Having finally locatedthe servants’ staircase, and acknowledged Susan’s justified outrage over the dilapidated condition of the risers, banisters and plastered walls, Griff was further angered to find Fothersgill sitting at the large wooden table in the kitchen.
Clearly taken off guard, the fellow stood too quickly for Griff to shove his face into the remains of the hearty cooked breakfast he’d been enjoying.
“My lord,” he rasped. “I didn’t realize…”
“Of course you didn’t,” Griff roared, grabbing hold of Fothersgill’s lapels. “Perhaps if you spent more time doing your job…”
It was tempting to use his fists and throw the man out on his ear, but he became aware a silence had fallen. The cook, the housekeeper, the butler and Lady Susan Crompton all stood with mouths agape. He’d never been a violent man, but this was outside of enough. Still, an earl had to be dignified. Hadn’t his father drummed that into his head?
Susan’s calm, authoritative voice broke the silence. “Why has his lordship’s breakfast not yet been served?” she asked the cook.
Apparently struck dumb by the steely tone of the question, the rotund, red-faced woman scurried to the pantry.
His outrage abating, Griff let go of Fothersgill’s coat.
Susan turned to Andrews. “It’s a butler’s responsibility to keep the household staff on their toes.”
“Yes, my lady,” he allowed, though his sulk deepened.
Susan clearly didn’t care for his demeanor. “We’ll talk further,” she warned. “As for you,” she said, turning to Mrs. Brass, “if you are the housekeeper, you should be ashamed of the state of the guest bedrooms. Find fresh linens and see to it at once.”
By the time only Fothersgill remained to be dealt with, Griff’s anger had subsided and he accepted what had to be done. “You’re dismissed. Be off the premises within the hour.”
He proffered an arm to Susan, wondering, as he escorted her from the kitchen, if he’d truly invited her to call him Griff.
*
Waiting for thelong-awaited breakfast to be served in the morning room, Rebecca continued her meaningless chatter. Susan sat across from her silent host, regretting the impulse that had driven her to act as if she were the lady of the manor. Halliwell had a right to be offended, though he’d encouraged her to call him Griff, which must mean—truly she had no idea what it meant. No man had ever invited her to address him with such familiarity. It was as if he considered her a friend. Did she want to be friends with such an irresponsible man? Perhaps honey might achieve what marching weavers could not. “I apologize, my lord,” she began. “It wasn’t my place…”
“Not at all,” he replied, shaking his head. “You did what I should have done long ago.”
Rebecca stopped talking. The silent minutes crawled by.
Halliwell played with his fork, squaring his shoulders when a scowling Andrews ushered in a footman Susan recognized.
“This is Frederick,” Halliwell explained. “I brought him with me from London.”
Frederick proceeded to unload plates of food from his tray. Appetizing aromas filled the air. Protocol demanded the butler remain to oversee the footman, but he disappeared without excusing himself, leaving Frederick to serve the meals.
Susan couldn’t keep quiet. “Where do you think Andrews is off to in such a hurry, Frederick?” she asked, hoping the London footman’s loyalty lay with his master.