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the feathers of its breast.
    “Mr. Hodges,” the housekeeper repeated, much louder this time.
    The butler started violently, shaking himself awake. “Teatime, is it? I’ll just go fetch the cart.” He sprang to his feet and went bolting from the room, leaving the rest of them staring after him.
    Max arched one brow. Apparently the man wasn’t a mute as he had first feared, but simply a garden-variety lunatic.
    In the time it took for Mrs. Spencer to turn back to Max, she had recovered both her composure and her smile. Folding her hands in front of her like some sort of beatific Buddha, she said, “You must be terribly weary after such a long journey, my lord. Dickon would be delighted to show you to the master chamber.”
    Judging by his sullen scowl, the young footman would be even more delighted to shove Max over the nearest cliff. Or out the nearest open window.
    “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Spencer,” Max said. “I’d prefer that you escort me to my chamber.”
    Although Max would have thought it impossible, Dickon’s scowl darkened.
    Mrs. Spencer’s expression remained carefully bland. “I can assure you young Dickon is perfectly capable of—”
    Max took a step toward her, using the advantage of his size and his physical presence to underscore his words. “I insist.”
    The housekeeper’s crisp smile wavered. Although Max could tell it displeased her, she had no choice but to respect his wishes or risk defying him in front of the other servants, which would set a poor example indeed.
    Her smile returned. As her lips parted, he was reminded of a cornered creature baring its teeth at him. Teeth that weren’t bad after all, but were small and white and impressively even except for the winsome gap between the two in the front.
    “Very well, my lord,” she said stiffly, retrieving from the pier table the heavy candlestick the butler had abandoned. For some reason, Max had a sudden image of it coming down on the back of his head.
    She started toward the entrance hall, tossing a look over her shoulder that could easily have been mistaken for a challenge had they met as equals instead of master and servant. “Shall we proceed?”
    M AX FOLLOWED HIS NEW housekeeper up the shadowy staircase toward the deeper gloom of the second story. He knew he ought to be ashamed of himself. He had always had his autocratic tendencies, but he had never been a bully. So why was he taking suchmean-spirited pleasure in baiting a stranger—and an inferior at that?
    He could hardly fault Mrs. Spencer for trying to foist him off on Dickon. Max had been a willing slave to propriety for most of his life. He was well aware there was nothing proper about a lone woman escorting a man to his bedchamber, especially a man she had just met. Perhaps he had simply wanted to see if the composure the woman wore like a suit of armor had any chinks.
    Judging by the stiff angle of her neck, the rigid set of her shoulders, and the almost-military cadence of her half boots on each tread of the stairs, it did not. Her determination was so unyielding she might have been marching along behind Hannibal and his elephants as they crossed the Alps during the Second Punic War.
    Max’s gaze strayed lower, finding a vulnerability he had not anticipated in the subtle sway and roll of her hips. Something unsettling lay in imagining any hint of womanly softness beneath those crisp layers of starched linen. She stole a glance over her shoulder at him; he jerked his gaze back to her face. He was also not in the habit of ogling women’s derrieres, especially women in his employ.
    “Am I to assume that was the entire staff on display down there?” he asked, hoping to remind them both of his new role as lord of the manor.
    “I should say not!” Mrs. Spencer exclaimed, as if the very notion was nonsense. But her next words quenched Max’s swell of relief. “There’s also Nana the cook. I saw no need to disturb her since she has to rise so early to