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catching the aroma of alcohol that hung dark and rich in the air. Cook had mentioned Dr. Cole's melancholy. A warning bell clanged in the corner of Darcie’s mind. A man and a brandy glass could be a dangerous combination. She knew that so very well. Her eyes met his and she found them clear, not bleary and red-flecked as Steppy’s had been when he drank too much brandy. She did not dare place much confidence in that.
    In one hand, Dr. Cole held a small gilt framed miniature. She knew it was a picture of a pretty dark-haired girl in a softly ruffled dress for she had dusted it daily since beginning her employment here. For a moment, she was tempted to ask him about her, about the girl who meant enough to him that he kept her picture close at hand.
    She held her tongue. It was not her place to ask such things. And it was not wise to feel such curiosity about Dr. Cole’s personal business.
    Shaking her head, Darcie drew away, dropping her gaze to the floor. She sidled in the direction of the door, but the sound of his voice rolled over her before she could escape.
    “Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I'll leave the tray outside the door when I'm done.”
    Darcie nodded and stepped into the hallway, closing the heavy portal behind her with a soft click. As she descended the stairs on her way back to the kitchen, she could not help but wonder why that brief encounter had left her heart pounding and her thoughts in turmoil, why his quiet request that she stay had thrilled her to the depths of her soul.

 
     
    Chapter Three
    Darcie moved the feather duster back and forth across the window ledge the following morning as she stared fixedly through the glass pane of the large window overlooking the cobbled drive to the rear of the house. She absently cleaned the same spot over and over, her attention focused on Dr. Cole where he lounged beside the carriage house on a small ornamental bench. Next to him, a patch of petunias burst from the stone confines of a small flowerbed like prisoners from a jail.
    The sun glinted off his hair, and as she watched, he shifted his tall, lithe frame as if to redirect the mid-morning glare away from his eyes. She wondered at the book that held his rapt attention. He'd been immersed in it for hours. Not for the first time she pondered his interests, his likes and dislikes, the things that might fascinate him and those he would disdain.
    She knew what it felt like to have his attention turned on her. She could picture his clear gray eyes, focused with unwavering intensity on the object of his interest. He had that way about him, a way of looking at a person and listening to her words as though every syllable was of great concern to him. She felt ambivalent when he looked at her thus, as he did even when he made a simple comment or request. His attention brought her joy. Yet, at the same time, she was terrified of his notice, accustomed as she was to hiding in the shadows.
    With a final glance, Darcie forced herself to turn away. She had lingered overlong as it was. Poole, the butler, would surely rebuke her, just as he had scolded her for washing the dishes too slowly, wasting precious time. Then he took her to task for washing them too quickly, not paying enough attention to the chore. And all the while he watched her with those icy eyes, pale and chilly as a winter morn.
    With deft movements Darcie dusted the desktop. The gilt-framed miniature of the dark-haired young woman sat in one corner. She recalled the expression on Dr. Cole’s face and the way he had held the miniature the previous day, and she wondered who the woman was, what place she held in Dr. Cole's life.
    Turning away, Darcie began to arrange the books on the dark wood shelves that lined the doctor's study. They were in constant disarray. She straightened them daily, but it seemed Dr. Cole came at some point between cleanings and pulled the tomes haphazardly from the shelves, then left them where they fell. Carefully she lifted a