Only One Bed

Victor Ashford wanted to see the maid. Alone.

Which meant my whole life was about to depend on a man who could not scrub a toilet.

"I am not going," Lucien said from under the blanket.

"You are going."

"He will eat me alive."

"He is your father."

"That is exactly why he will eat me alive!" He poked his head out. My own messy brown hair stuck up in all directions. "I have been avoiding that study since I was twelve. There is a chair in there that is designed to make you feel small."

"You are already small. You are in my body."

"That was unnecessary."

"So was the blanket." I pulled it off him. "Listen. He called for the maid, not for you. If you do not show up, he will start asking why the maid is hiding in the master bedroom. Then the press will ask. Then it will be in the newspaper that Lucien Ashford is carrying a maid and then hiding her under his blanket."

"That is not what..."

"It is exactly what it looks like."

He stared at me. Then he groaned and slid off the bed.

"Fine. What do I do?"

"Rule one. Bow your head."

"I do not bow."

"You will today. Rule two. When he speaks, say, 'Yes, sir.' Do not argue. Do not joke."

"I am a naturally funny person."

"You are naturally an idiot who thinks he is funny."

He glared at me with my own gray eyes. It was strange how well I could read them. "Rule three?"

"Rule three. Stand with your hands folded in front of you. Like this."

I showed him. Then I remembered one more. "Rule four. Do not stare at him."

"What if he stares at my chest?"

"He will not."

"Why not?"

"Because he is sixty and has manners."

He nodded, as if that proved nothing.

He copied my pose. It was like watching a flamingo try to hold a tea tray.

"No," I said. "Your shoulders are up near your ears."

"They are your shoulders!"

"They look like yours."

"They are not mine, they are..." He stopped and put his head in his hands. "This is the worst day of my life."

"It is not even lunchtime."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he lifted his head. His eyes, my eyes, were very serious.

"What if he asks about you?"

"He is not going to."

"What if he asks me about Lucien? About what happened out there? About why I, the maid, was carried out by the groom?"

"Say you fainted. Say you do not remember. Say you are very sorry."

"I never say I am sorry."

"You said it to me twenty minutes ago."

He went red. In my face, the blush was very pink. I looked away before I could stop myself from noticing how it suited me.

"Go," I said.

He went.

I followed him out of the room, and into the long marble hallway, and down the grand staircase. Mrs. Hargrove waited at the bottom with her hands folded, small and straight and silent. When I passed her, she spoke without turning her head.

"Mr. Lucien."

"Yes, Mrs. Hargrove?"

"I have worked in this house for thirty years. In all that time, I have never seen you hold a door for a servant. Today you held three."

I did not know what to say. "I am turning over a new leaf."

"Hmm," she said. She still did not look at me. "Your mother used to say that, when she wanted to be kind and did not want anyone to notice."

My heart dropped into my shoes. I did not answer, and she did not wait for one.

The study was at the end of the east hallway, behind a heavy oak door with a brass handle. Lucien stopped in front of it. His hands, my hands, were shaking at his sides.

"I cannot," he whispered.

"You can."

"I really cannot."

"You can," I said, and, before I thought about it, I took his small hand in mine and squeezed. It was warm and rough with chemical burns. "You are a lot braver than you think. You fainted in front of the entire press and lived."

"I was unconscious."

"You still lived."

His mouth twitched. Then he pulled his hand out of mine, knocked twice, and went inside. The door shut.

I did not mean to listen. Not even a little bit.

That is a lie. I put my ear against the wood so fast that I almost broke Lucien's nose.

"Miss Vale," Victor said. His voice was smooth and calm, the kind of voice that never needs to be loud. "Sit."

A chair creaked. Lucien's voice, my voice, came out thin. "Yes, sir."

"You are the maid who has served my son for two years."

"Yes, sir."

"You are paid by the hour."

"Yes, sir."

"And what do you think of him?"

There was a long silence. I held my breath.

"He is," Lucien said slowly, "difficult."

"Is that all?"

"He is... loud. And spoiled. And he has thrown papers at me." Another pause. "But he is not cruel on purpose. I think he is afraid of being quiet."

My eyes went wide.

"Afraid," Victor said, with a short, cold laugh. "My son is afraid of nothing. He is a disappointment, Miss Vale. He drinks, he gambles, he spends. For twenty-eight years I have tried to teach him that a man must work for what he owns. It has been a very poor lesson."

"Sir..."

"But he has one useful quality. He is a Lucien Ashford. Which means he is a name, and a name can be sold." Papers rustled. "On Saturday, he will marry Camille Dupont. It will bring the Dupont fortune into Ashford Group, and I will not let a maid ruin it."

"I would never..."

"I saw how he looked at you in that room. And I saw how you looked at him." A small, dry pause. "I have been married twice, Miss Vale. I know what it looks like when a woman starts to want something."

I almost burst through the door. Beside the wood, my fingers curled into a fist.

"I do not want anything," Lucien said. His voice shook. "I only want to do my work. May I ask one question, sir?"

"You may."

"Why must Mr. Lucien marry for money?"

"Because he has never earned any," Victor said.

Lucien did not answer. I heard the silence stretch, and I knew exactly how it felt to be on the other side of it.

"Then you will have no trouble with my offer." A drawer opened, and something thudded on the desk. "Fifty thousand dollars. Cash. You will leave this penthouse today, quietly, and never speak to him again."

Fifty thousand.

It was more money than I had ever seen. It would pay for months of my mother's care.

I heard Lucien's breath catch. I waited for him to say yes.

"No," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No, sir." His voice trembled, but it did not break. "Thank you. But no."

"Everyone has a price, Miss Vale."

"Maybe. But I think mine is higher than you can afford."

Outside the door, I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.

"Your mother's treatment is partly funded by the Ashford Charitable Foundation," Victor said softly. "Did you know that? A single phone call from me, and it ends tomorrow."

The world stopped.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I wanted to scream. I wanted to burst in, grab that man by his expensive tie, and tell him exactly what I thought of his charity.

But Lucien was still talking.

"Then make the call," he said. "My mother will not take money from a man who threatens her."

Something warm and dangerous bloomed in my chest. A man wearing my body was defending my mother better than I ever could have, and he had only known her for two hours.

There was a terrible silence.

Then Victor Ashford began to laugh, low and slow.

"You have spirit, Miss Vale. I am sorry I did not notice it sooner." A chair scraped. "Very well. I will not fire you. I have a better idea."

"Sir?"

"Starting tonight, you will be Camille's personal maid. She has asked for you specifically. After all, she says you are the only servant who ever looked at her without fear."

The door opened so suddenly that I fell forward into the hall.

Lucien stood in the doorway, white as paper, my small body trembling from head to toe. Behind him, Victor lifted his eyes and met mine.

"Mr. Ashford," he said pleasantly. "I hope you were not listening."

"No, Father," I lied.

"Good." He smiled. "Because Camille's bags are already in your bedroom, Lucien. She is moving in tonight. After all, you are engaged."

We stared at each other. There was only one bed.