The Lord and his Lady (Forbidden #2)

Chapter Forty Eight

a/n: unedited so please excuse any errors!

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Mrs checked the line and nodded at Belinha. "You cannot sit with His Grace and Her Grace tonight. You are to be treated like help, as you are."

Obediently, she nodded. Ginger went to open her mouth but she nudged her in the rib. The girl squeaked but quickly ducked her head.

Devonport and his uncle were to arrive for dinner and they did not know the arrangements were strange. To avoid any talk in town, being part of the help as any noble family would have, would be the safest way. Even some of the servants whom she didn't know all so well, looked at her with a sneer, or at each other with a frown.

Maybe she could never blend in, never be one of them. If she didn't belong with the nobles or the servants, then where did she belong?

Mrs waved her to the kitchen. The assistant to the head cook was a portly lady with flabby arms that flailed as she sliced onions and diced tomatoes. The smell of boiled fish cast all around them, consuming Belinha. The woman's thin lips curved into disgust, waving her over.

"Take those over to the butler," she demanded over the clambering noise of maids and kitchen boys talking over each other and helping prepare various pots and pans.

Belinha picked up the tray of tea and started over to the butler, and the young butler-in-making, immersed in what looked like a lesson. They paused seeing her approach. "The kitchen assistant woman asked me to give this to you."

The young man looked like he was trying to hold back a laugh. The older butler gave him the bland expression that was so routine with practice, as was normal with butlers, but the eyes told a different story. Even she could tell it said 'Mind your manners'. The boy could tell, too, because he let his features smoothen into stone.

"Very well," the senior said, taking the tray. It carried on like that, with her helping the others with their chores. It reminded her of the duties she'd had as a slave back in Lisbon. Except she knew the routine, the schedule. It was different here.

Now she stood against the wall with Angelica and Ginger on either side again as the guests arrived. They waited for more orders to be given before they were dismissed down to the servant quarters.

Devonport's face as he entered the house, she noted, had a grey complexion to it. It resembled the thunderous mood of the weather that clattered above them, wreaking havoc for workers to clean the next day.

Richard took him aside to speak while Lord Pensbly inclined his head stiffly at His Grace. He raised an arched brow at Belinha, but said nothing. It would never be usual to see a woman of her skin employed. He spoke to the Duke making no attempt at being subtle.

"When the news of your wellbeing spread, I daresay I didn't believe it until I saw you with my own eyes."

"I hope you're now satisfied."

"Oh, I am indeed. Much satisfied."

Their stilted conversation paused so they could be seated at the dining table. Devonport and Richard sat opposite each other. His Grace barked orders at the butler to bring in the first set of dishes—the soup.

"You must be proud of the work your son has done in your absence," said Lord Pensbly. "I know I could not entrust Devonport here with any of the estate matters. Boy has a mind of his own."

"From what I've gathered from his youth, Devonport is the most mature of them all."

Lord Pensbly reddened and Richard murmured his agreement with a grin. She couldn't help but notice Devonport's ever paling tone. There was something wrong. Or at least, he did not find the soup to be settling with him because he wasn't fully immersed in the conversation. Hopefully it didn't have anything to do with Harriet. Belinha could only hope. They loved each other so much, anyone could see it if they looked harder enough.