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Crossbridge Manor… Somehow
Manor
seemed such a pitiful bit of pretension when comparing her home with that of the Rivards. The main house at Crossbridge was only a third of the size of the central portion of Rosewind alone.
    Claire arched a brow, remembering the expenses that had been required to maintain her small home. The costs Devon Rivard bore for running his had to be staggering. It was little wonder that he was so generally ill-tempered. And it was equally clear how he'd come by his lordly demeanor; Rosewind was a castle. Claire smiled ruefully, wondering when the man planned to dig the moat and install the drawbridge.
    “Impressed?”
    She tore her attention away from the house and gave him both a smile and an honest answer. “I'm relieved that I'm not really the mistress of Rosewind. If I were, I'd be slightly overwhelmed by the responsibilities looming ahead.”
    “Only slightly?” he asked, clearly surprised.
    “And only for a while,” she added as the carriage eased to a stop. “Eventually I'd meet even your most outrageous expectations.”
    “I'd be content, madam,” he said as he opened the carriage door, “if someone could meet even the most minimal.”
    Claire, wondering whether his words were a confession of impossibly high standards or an admission that the household affairs were largely mismanaged, watched him gracefully unfold his huge frame and smoothly exit the carriage. To her surprise, he turned back and offered his hand in assistance. She took it and tried not to rely on it overly much as she climbed out to stand beside him in front of the snow-covered steps. The wind was whipping in hard from the west, stinging her cheeks and cutting through her cloak to arrow into the center of her bones. The snow came in small, icy pellets that crackled and bounced on the stones at her feet, clung to and melted on the warmth of her wool-covered shoulders.
    “Mind your step,” he said, using his foot to clear a narrow pathway up the steps and drawing her along behind him. “It's slippery. And I can't afford to pay a doctor to set broken limbs.”
    He simply couldn't be pleasant, Claire silently groused; to be kind and considerate just for the sake of being kind and considerate. For a brief moment he'd been a decent human being, concerned for the welfare of another. And then he'd destroyed the illusion by admitting to his own selfish motives for caring. It would serve him right if she did fall. With just the tiniest bit of luck she could break her neck and be put out of
his
misery.
    As he reached the top of the stairs and drew her onto the porch and ahead of him, the massive front door opened as if by itself. Claire started and then recalled the first—and only—time she'd been permitted to use the front door of the Seaton-Smythe house. A servant stoodinvisibly on the back side, waiting to take their coats. Given all that she'd been told of the family's dire financial straits, it was surprising to realize that they could justify the expense. But then, her beastly husband had made it quite clear that maintaining appearances was vitally important to their survival. Not to mention comfort, Claire added as she was guided into a white marble tiled foyer.
    Her hand was abruptly released and, from behind her, she heard the door close and Devon Rivard say, “Good evening, Ephram.”
    “Good evening, sir.”
    She turned toward the voice and then froze, stunned by realization. Ephram was a Negro; more accurately, given the lightness of his skin and his features, a mulatto. Even as she blinked in shock, the impeccably dressed Ephram accepted Devon's coat and then bowed in a courtly manner to acknowledge her presence. She dipped her chin in return greeting, her mind reeling. The Rivards didn't have servants; they had slaves. There was a significant difference between the two statuses, and despite all of the traveling she'd done for her uncle and all the places it had taken her, she had never been able to