Lenore. Her name was Lenore. She hugged the thought tightly.
Finally something of her very own. The drive to the Molyneaux
house was too short, and yet not long enough. She should have
been concocting plans of what to do when Mr. Herring confronted
Mr. Molyneaux with her transgression. Instead, she’d simply
been saying her name over and over in her head.

Which was why Patrick’s kiss was totally unexpected.
And surprisingly pleasurable.

Patrick lifted her from the seat and they stood, locked in an
awkward embrace for a long moment. She gazed up into his eyes,
had seen them spark with some unknown emotion and then darken.
She had the inane thought that she needed to thank him, but
the words fled her mind as his mouth met hers.

Her wanton physical reaction shocked her. His lips, soft at
first, gave hers a tentative caress until she responded. Then, the
kiss hardened, heated with passion. Instead of being appalled at
the stroke of his tongue against the seal of her mouth, she opened
to him. A throb of need pulsed deep in her belly. Her body sought
to betray her as she pressed herself against him, every movement
encouraging him to run his hands through her hair, down her
back, to pull her to him. The heat of his body drew her like a
moth to a flame. It seemed natural to slide her hands under his
coat, to feel the hard bunch of his muscles leap under her fingertips.
He’d moaned and shifted. Something hard pressed into her
thigh. The ridge of his manhood! Part of her had wanted to pull
back in shock. A lady would have—but she didn’t.

Patrick’s mouth slipped away from the carnal dance of their
tongues and traveled down the column of her neck, nibbling
and kissing the tender flesh. She moaned and then gasped as he
sucked on the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat. Desire
flared but her sensibility reigned. She might not be a lady, but
she was no strumpet either. With a sense of regret, she extracted
herself from his arms.

The spell broke. Patrick stammered an apology. Mary’s intent
had been to smile and thank him before walking calmly back to
the house. Instead, a wash of tears filled her eyes and one escaped
to trickle down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb.
Her heart hurt when she looked up into his face, where frustration
vied with dismay.

“Oh, what have I done?” he moaned.

Mistaking his regret, she hastened to assure him nothing had
changed with their bargain. “Don’t worry. I’ll still look for your
sister’s trunk. Stop by tomorrow.”

Please, stop by, she silently begged. With one kiss, he’d turned
from a mere acquaintance into more than just a friend, her first
beau. “Tomorrow, I promise I will have news for you.”

He nodded, his eyes filled with misery. Somewhat reassured,
she turned and scurried up the walk along the side of the house
toward the servants’ entrance.

Once inside the house and away from prying eyes, she savored
the memory of his kisses. She leaned against the door panel waiting
for her sight to adjust to the dark interior of the house. She’d
light a match, but didn’t want to call attention to her late entry
as she should have been tucked up in her bed, asleep.

Mary stood in the kitchen shivering. Cook hadn’t left a light
burning for her return—not that she’d expected any consideration
from him. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the
darkness. Finally, the stove, counters, table and fireplace resolved
out of the shadows. Even the embers from the fire had been allowed
to go out, leaving the room almost as cold as outdoors.

The back stairs creaked and moaned as she mounted them.
Once at her own door, she paused with her hand on the knob.
She couldn’t blithely head to bed and actually sleep. Her insides
knotted up with unfamiliar emotion and every time she thought
about Patrick, his caresses and that unsettling kiss, her heart began
to beat a bit faster. No, sleep would not come. She might as
well take advantage of the time she had, since she had no guarantee
she would still be employed here on the morrow.

Silence permeated the large house like an entity. As it was half
past eleven, she doubted if Mr. Molyneaux had returned. Harris
would be sleeping one floor below, in the dressing room off the
master’s suite. Cook slept in a dark windowless room across from
the kitchen. With the wind whistling in the eaves and the incessant
creaking of the old house’s timbers, no one would take note
of a few extra noises if she crept up to the attic.

She picked up a lamp from the hall table and lit it, adjusting
the wick to decrease the brightness. If anyone asked, she’d
make up a tale of hearing noises and of going upstairs to investigate.
Not that she would ever do such a thing. If she had heard
a noise, she would have pulled the bed sheets over her head and
not come out until morning.

Should she creep or just walk? Best to act as if going to the
attic to investigate strange noises was a common occurrence.
To her relief, the floorboards only sighed as she passed. She rehearsed
the story several times in her head, trying to instill the
proper mix of panic and bravery.

She’d done such a good job concocting her fiction that once
she stood at the entrance to the attic, she suffered a momentary
qualm. Heavens. She wasn’t afraid of dust, old furniture, and a
trunk or two. Hopefully, Shea’s trunk as well. Of course, if the attic
door were locked, she’d have to give up the quest, as it would
be impossible to obtain the key from Harris without rousing
suspicion. To Mary’s relief, the knob turned in her hand and the
door opened with a soft groan.

Her breathing eased, and she held the lamp up with one hand
and gathered her skirts with the other. The steps leading up were
narrow, but despite her fears, no creaking or snapping accompanied
her ascent. Had the stairs conspired to hide her entry? Smiling
at her fanciful notion, she reached the top and lifted the lantern.