A Scandalous Lady by Rachelle Morgan

sending her emotions spinning. He seemed to find the most degrading experiences of her life amusing. And though he had a glorious laugh, she didn’t like that laughter being at her expense.
    Determined to find something to keep her mind otherwise occupied, Faith had just grabbed a crate of baking goods intended for one of the fancy black carriages waiting out front when a floor-throbbing crash shook the foundation beneath her feet. She dropped the crate and sprinted up the flying staircase.
    A man old as Moses stood in the center of the hall, scratching his head, staring at a leather-wrapped trunk that barred a bedchamber doorway at a cross angle. He let out a stream of curses in a cadence so familiar that Faith almost wept.
    â€œÂ â€™Aving a bit o’ trouble, are ye?” The missing consonants and misshapen vowels of her upbringing filled her mouth and bridged the air between them like a dear friend.
    The old man straightened and spun about, pinning her with a curious stare. His silvery hair, what was left on his head, stuck out every which way. “Who ye be, moll?”
    â€œFan—Faith Jervais, the new maid.” Even now the name she’d been born with felt foreign to her ears, but like everything else lately, she figured she would adjust to it with time. “And you?”
    â€œChadwick, ’is lordship’s man.”
    At last! A possible ally!
    â€œWell don’t jus’ stand there, moll. ’Elp me get this bit of fluff back in its box before ’er ladyship ’as me flogged.”
    Relieved to finally be of use, Faith didn’t hesitate. She situated herself between the doorframe and the fallen trunk. One of the hinges was bent, and fabrics of all shades and textures scattered from the broken lid to the glossy, hardwood floor.
    â€œI best find me some tools to repair the latch.”
    Faith nodded. After Chadwick left, she knelt on the floor in a puddle of slippery, fuzzy, and gauzy fabrics that would make the queen herself drool. Faith plucked a bony contraption from the mound and it spread out before her. It looked like a falcon’s skeleton. “God’s teeth, how does this even go on?” Her imagination took wing, and she giggled. She knew women wore them under their clothes to enhance their figures, though she couldn’t imagine why. Who would purposely truss themselves up in something so stiff and tight? No wonder the duchess was always in a snit.
    She dropped the stays and began folding shifts and skirts, petticoats and shirtwaists, piling them neatly on the floor until the old man returned to repair the trunk. Most everything was in shades of gray, black, charcoal, or pewter—sad, somber colors that made Faith think of the wreath on the door and wonder who had passed away. Then, near the bottom of the spillage, a splash of color caught her eye. She couldn’t help a delighted gasp of surprise. It was a silk gown the brilliant red of a cardinal’s wing and the most beautiful thing Faith had ever laid eyes on. She shook it out and held it up to the starched front of her maid’s uniform. Thanks to the baron’s audacity in pitching her clothes in the fire, she’d had no choice but to accept one of Lucy’s castoffs. The bodice was too tight and the hem too long, but it was still the nicest outfit Faith had ever felt against her skin.
    Until now.
    She ran her fingers across the ivory lace trimming the neckline of the dress—she assumed it belonged to Lady Brayton—and stroked the shimmery panels of the skirt. She sighed in bliss. What would it be like to own such fine clothes? To live in a fancy house such as this and have folks greet you with half curtsies and address you with pretty titles like “my lady” or “Your Grace”?
    Faith slowly rose to her feet, the dress falling in glorious crimson ripples down her apron. “Why, how do you do, sir,” she said in her best blue-blood imitation.