Free A Scandalous Lady by Rachelle Morgan

mine, and her stomach ached for want of the stew she’d left behind. The bed she lay on was a far cry from her pallet in the tunnels. Six inches of soft ticking cushioned her body from the drafty floor and a pillow with a genuine slipcover felt like a cloud under her head. Across from her, Millie snored loud enough to jostle the dead while her granddaughter—Lucy, Faith believed was her name—tossed restlessly in her cot. It felt strange sleeping in a room with two women when most of her life she’d shared living quarters with a dozen boys.
    She clutched her ragged doll close to her, and stared at the fancy molding joining wall to ceiling. Never had she slept in such a fine room, never felt such soft, clean fabric against her skin.
    And yet, she was so homesick she could hardly bear it.
    She missed the unruly noise of the band as they gambled on a roll of the dice, argued over chores, or yelled in triumph when one scored big. She missed her antechamber with its rattling pipes, concrete floor, and ratty pallet. But most of all, she missed Scatter. A tear slipped down the side of her nose, and she brushed it away. Why there’d be such an empty longing in her heart for the little leech she couldn’t figure. He’d been nothing but a thorn in her side since the day he’d turned up in Jack’s band.
    Aye, it was utterly mad that she’d pine for the life she’d left behind. How could she miss Bethnal Green for even a moment? God’s teeth, what did she have to mourn? She’d dreamed all her life of escaping poverty; she had that chance now thanks to the baron.
    Except, for all its shabbiness and chaos, the tunnels had been home to her for nearly ten years. At least there, she was accepted. She knew what the rules were and what to expect.
    Here, she knew only a vast isolation. A bone-deep aloneness. Here, she was completely out of her element.
    What had she gotten herself into? Living with a woman who hated her on sight and a man bent on making her his bondsmaid?
    His image filled her mind and the leaden feeling inside her intensified. Oh, God. She couldn’t believe he’d caught her eating off the floor like a dog. She’d never been so humiliated in her life. Even the servants knew better behavior than she did. Bowing and scraping and calling the hoity-toities by their proper titles. He’d never understand that in the real world, manners didn’t exist, and something so simple as eating at the table got a bloke tumbled.
    She ought to resent him for expecting her to be something she wasn’t. For dragging her here against her will. Forcing her into agreeing to live in his fine, fancy house and clean up his muck and obey him without question. She ought to tell him what he could do with his bloody claims of honest employment .
    But despite it all—his judge-and-jury arrogance, his sister’s holier-than-thou haughtiness—a part of her was so bloody grateful to him that she could hardly bear it. If not for the baron, she’d no doubt still be waiting on a soggy street corner like a two-bit strumpet, waiting for crumbs. Or, and it made her cringe to think it, rotting away in a dank, dark prison cell. What makes you think I’m noble? He could easily have hauled her off to Newgate, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d brought her into his home. Given her a true-blue job—even if it was indentured servitude—a clean bed, clean clothes, a clean start.
    Why? What did he want from her? He’d said maid service, but no one extended such a kindness without expecting something greater in return. He’d also said he had no intention of making her lift her skirts. Ha! She believed that like she believed man could fly. He was a man, a nobleman, and an American at that. She knew their kind. Once he realized she wasn’t as young as he’d first assumed, he’d reveal his true colors. They all did.
    Well, she wasn’t about to stick