She stared at the thick shrubbery where the nail had disappeared. For the first time in her life, Arabella was at a loss. She had never felt so pursued, so hunted, and so out of control. Lucien Devereaux may have fooled her aunts, but he had not fooled her. She knew he was not visiting the taverns in Whitby to sample the ale.
Why was he still here? It was the first thought she awoke to and the last she had before falling to sleep, and she was determined to discover his underhanded reasons for herself.
Arabella glanced over her shoulder to find his gaze hooded and intent. He leaned against the railing, his arms crossed as if he planned to stay till doomsday.
He quirked his brows. “Shall I hold the ladder for you? I wouldn’t wish you to fall.”
The idea of him standing so close made her stomach tighten into a knot. “I am fine, but Satan won’t be if you keep him waiting.”
“What? And miss this lovely horizen? This breathtaking display of—”
“The barn has just as impressive a landscape. You can tell me about it when you return.”
“You are much too modest. I’ve never seen a more impressive—”
“Don’t say it.” Another nail slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground, joining a half a dozen of his slippery fellows. Arabella felt an urge to just toss everything—the hammer, nails, her whole wretched life—onto the ground and leave it all there to rot. She focused her ire on the nearest object. “Lucien, I wish you would quit standing there with that idiotic grin on your face.”
“I cannot leave; the scenery holds me captive.” His gaze ran over her, lingering on her face and hair, then returned lower. “Well rounded, full and complete…”
Arabella could just imagine his strong, lean hands on her, touching, seeking, causing her to burn as they once had. His fingers were long and elegant, his skin always warm as if an inner fire simmered just beneath the skin. Strange that she should remember that about him—the constant warmth of him even in the cold. Stranger still that he could heat her from three feet away.
A tremor shook the stepladder, and Arabella grabbed the edge and glanced down. Lucien’s foot rested on the bottom rung, his knee grazing the back of her calf. He flashed a grin, his face just below hers. “It is certainly taking you a long time to fix that. Shall I help?”
She had a sudden image of his body pressed intimately against hers, of their legs entwined—“No,” she said, so firmly his lips quirked into a grin. “Move, Lucien. I need more nails.” Indeed, she only had two left, hardly enough to complete the job.
Lucien shrugged and removed his foot from the ladder, though he did not step away. Arabella almost cursed aloud; there was no way to climb down without ending up quite literally in his arms. It was maddening.
Determined to ignore such impertinence, Arabella climbed down and immediately rounded on him. “Isn’t there something else you should be doing? Something inside the house, perhaps?”
Humor lit his gaze and he grasped the edge of the ladder with his other hand until he held her within a cage made of his strong arms. She leaned away, the rungs pressing into her back.
Lucien gave her a slow, lazy smile, his eyes gleaming the green of a moss-filled stream. “Poor Aunt Jane has sent me away for tangling her yarn. I am completely at your disposal.”
“Lovely. A worthless duke. Just what I need.”
“I am not worthless.” He lowered his chin and whispered, “Just untried.”
She choked. “In house repairs, perhaps.”
“True,” he replied. “In other areas, I am more capable.”
“Yes—in philandering, worthless prattle, and being an alarming nuisance, I would say you are indeed a master.”
His mouth hovered at her temple, his breath warm against her skin. “Don’t forget kissing, holding, touching…. Would you like a demonstration of the areas I truly excel in?”
“Just fix the blasted shutter. I am not interested in anything except the work I have to do today.”
His hand closed over hers, around the wooden handle of the hammer. “No?” His voice deepened a notch. “I remember a time when you were interested in many other things. When you begged me to show you more.”
Embarrassment closed her throat. She yanked her hand away and he caught the hammer just as it fell. “I cannot believe you would mention that to me.”
“Why not? Not all of our memories were bad.” His gaze rested on her mouth. “Some of them have become my fondest dreams.”
He was more stubborn than she remembered. And definitely more skilled in seduction. But not more trustworthy. She hunched a shoulder, refusing to look at him as he gave her one last smile, then turned and climbed the ladder.
“What am I to do up here, sweet? Just bang about until I hit something?”
Reluctantly, she told him what to do. It was already well past noon and she had a list of other repairs to see to before dinner. As he worked, she gathered her scattered tools and placed them back in the workbox. Perhaps Lucien’s continued presence had something to do with his late-night journeys into town. If she could discover his true reason for lingering in Yorkshire, she might find the key to convince Robert to send him packing.
Lucien glanced down, his hair falling across his brow. “Are there any more nails?”
Arabella gathered the last of the fallen nails from the shrubbery and handed them up to him. A distinct jolt ran down her arm when his fingers closed over hers.
“Thank you,” he said, glinting a smile that shook her to her toes.
She managed a brief nod, then moved away to watch him, mulling over his late-night trips. Most nights, he returned early enough to play chess with Robert. But each time, he reeked of smoke and stale ale. Almost as if he’d been visiting a lowly tavern.
Could that be it? Had he begun a flirtation with a tavern maid to while away the times he was not at Rosemont? She crossed her arms, an inexplicable wave of anger rising. It would serve her right for letting her imagination get the best of her, for occasionally daring to think that perhaps he was different, that perhaps she’d never before seen such a look of intensity in his eyes. Damn the man.
But she had to admit that Lucien was right about one thing: The view from the ground was exceptional. His strong thighs were braced against the rungs of the ladder, his backside outlined against the blue of the sky. She had always loved the strength of his legs, and the raw power of his corded thighs sent a shiver through her, tightening her breasts and heating her in the most unsuitable places. She unbuttoned her coat and tugged at her knotted neckcloth as Lucien hammered, his back muscles shifting beneath his shirt.
Lord, she was beginning to love linen shirts. Lucien had ruined at least half a dozen, and was ruining yet another as she watched. A pity he could cast aside hearts as easily as he cast aside his dirty linen.
He climbed down. “There. That should keep it in place for another hundred years or so.”
“I have to refasten that shutter almost every year. The winds blow hard over the cliffs.”
“Then I shall just have to refasten it.”
“You won’t be here.” She took the hammer out of his hand. It would be good for her to remember that fact, too.
His brows drew low. “Bella, we need to talk about our past. About what happened before.”
“There is nothing to discuss. I made a mistake, that is all.”
“It wasn’t a mistake, Bella. It was love.”
“You don’t leave someone you love, Lucien. You stay, no matter how much money you inherit. No matter what lofty title you win.”
“You don’t understand. You don’t know what it was like—”
“Nor do you. You weren’t the one left behind, with everyone watching you, wondering what had happened, your reputation in tatters.”
His jaw tensed. “Bella, I didn’t realize you would pay so dearly when I left.”
“How could you not know?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I suppose I didn’t want to think a
bout it, that it was easier if I just imagined you were happy somewhere, married to someone far better for you than I.”
Arabella tucked the hammer into the wooden workbox, then hefted it with both hands, carrying it to the front step. There, she set it down and eyed the broken railing as if absorbed. But all the while, she was acutely conscious of Lucien standing behind her.
His voice broke the quiet. “You need to know what happened, Bella. For your peace of mind, if nothing else.”
“There is no sense in dredging up a past neither of us can fix.” She pulled the vise out of the box and set to work loosening the broken railing.
“I truly cared for you, Bella,” he said in a quiet, insistent voice. “More than you know.”
She sent him a flat stare. “There was a time when that one sentence would have cured everything. But it has long passed.” She managed a casual shrug. “And I don’t care to speak of it again.”
He grabbed her arm and yanked her to face him, the vise she held clanging to the flagstone. His face was carved in hard lines. “I care, Bella, even if you do not. And I want you to know the truth. I had every intention of returning the next morning and asking for your hand in marriage. But when I returned to the lodge, I discovered my father had been in a carriage accident. I had to return to London immediately. I planned to write once I knew more, but he died within an hour of my reaching London. And then…”
He took a long, shuddering breath, as if the memory haunted him still. “And then I discovered the extent of his folly, the true state of our family affairs.” His green gaze shifted across her face. “We were completely ruined, Bella. The house, the lands, all of it was encumbered. Due to his bad management, he’d squandered what investments my grandfather had established and placed everything in jeopardy. And all for his own amusement.”
Arabella tried to still the harsh pounding of her heart. Though she wished it were otherwise, she believed every word he said. It all made perfect sense; even to the point of explaining his marriage to an heiress. The anger she’d shored up in her heart still burned hotly, but the tiniest bit of the bitterness dispersed, set loose from a heart that knew all too well the pain of poverty.
If anyone could understand the burden of financial ruin, it was she. How many nights had she lain awake, wondering how to find the money to pay the bills, even put food on the table? More than she could count. Still, she pulled herself free and met his gaze with a direct one of her own. “Why didn’t you write to me and tell me that?”
A huge band tightened about Lucien’s chest. “I tried to, once or twice, but I couldn’t find the words. Then, once I married Sabrina, I knew you’d want nothing more to do with me.”
Anger sparkled in her eyes. “So you just left me to wonder? To worry that perhaps I had done something wrong? Left me here to think that I wasn’t good enough to…” She turned away and grabbed up the vise, setting to work on the loose railing with abrupt, angry motions.
Lucien took a startled step forward. “Good God, Bella! My leaving had nothing to do with you. I was suddenly responsible for my sister and I hadn’t a feather to fly with. Worse than that, we owed thousands of pounds.”
“You should have written,” she snapped. “I deserved that much.”
She had deserved far more than that. He longed to touch her, to wipe away some of her pain, but he couldn’t. What was done, was done. “I was a fool and I know it now. But I want you to realize that I—”
She dropped the vise and grabbed up the heavy tool-box. “Good day, Lucien. I have work to do.” Without sparing him another glance, she marched toward the shed, her body tilted to one side to balance the weight of the tools.
Lucien looked down at his empty hands and sighed. He could fix the railing in an hour, maybe less. But how long would it take to mend Arabella’s trust?
The thought made him frown. He would be leaving soon; his contact at the Red Rooster Inn was only a few days from giving him the names he needed. Once he had those, there would be nothing to keep him in Yorkshire.
Lucien watched as Arabella opened the shed door, only to slam it closed behind her. The latch missed and the door bounced against the frame, then swung drunkenly on its hinges. Lucien commiserated with the splintered wood.
Sadly, he had the feeling that this was just the beginning. Somehow, some way, he would set things right with Arabella.
Chapter 12
Dinner that night was grueling for Arabella. Lucien took every opportunity possible to torment her. She could not reach for the cream pitcher without encountering his long fingers placed there just a second before hers. She could neither say a word nor sit in silence without his dark green eyes resting on her, assessing her, caressing in their intent.
To Arabella’s chagrin, Aunt Jane seemed pleased, her jovial banter encouraging the duke to new heights of flirtation, to new levels of delicious impropriety. Arabella could only wish she’d had the presence of mind to wear her boots to the table. At least then he’d feel it when she kicked his shins.
As soon as she could, she escaped to the privacy of the library. There, she settled at the desk and opened the ledger. Perhaps if she immersed herself in a sea of figures, the events of the past two weeks would fade away.
She propped her elbow on the desk and rested her chin in her hand, staring blankly at the page before her. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the sensuous rub of his chin against her cheek when he’d wrested the shovel from her hands. The memory sparked other, more intimate memories. Intimacy means nothing to a man like him.
To make sure she didn’t forget it, she repeated the words aloud and added, “He is a duke, and he will never forget that. He is just amusing himself at your expense.”
The words sounded much stronger when spoken aloud. But before she could form another bracing statement, the terrace door burst open and Wilson tromped in.
A line of snow skittered across the rug as he pushed the door shut. “Gor’, but ’tis as cold as the devil’s arse today.”
“Just how cold is a devil’s arse? I’m curious.”
A slow blush rose up his neck and covered his already red-nipped cheeks. “Sorry, missus. That jus’ slipped out.”
She chuckled and pulled her shawl more tightly about her. “Did you make the deliveries?”
He removed his cap and stuffed it into a pocket, then dug into his coat and produced a hefty purse. “I only wisht we could get as much with every shipment.”
Arabella tugged the leather string free. A stream of glittering coins poured into her hand. “Well! Almost twice what we expected.”
“’Tis the cognac, missus. They can’t get enough of it.”
“Neither can Aunt Emma.”
His weathered face creased into a grin. “She has a fine taste fer spirits.”
“Indeed she does.” Arabella returned to the desk and pulled out a small brass studded box and an iron key. The cask opened with a loud click and the lantern light caught the glitter of neatly stacked coins.
All she needed was seven hundred more pounds and they would have enough to pay Lord Harlbrook’s debt in its entirety. She rubbed a fingertip over one of the coins in her hand. That would be a day of celebration indeed. The intolerable man had been a constant thorn in her side since the day she’d taken over Rosemont.
She remembered his irritation on discovering Lucien in the coach, and smiled grimly at his outrage when Lucien had so neatly cut the blustering man out. She would have paid twice her debt just to be rid of Harlbrook’s obnoxious presence once and for all. Yet something told her that even after she paid the debt, he would try to force his way into Rosemont. Well, she would see about that.
“Ye look like the old master when ye smile.”
“Pish-posh. Robert inherited Father’s handsomeness, not I.” She looked more like the portrait of her mother that adorned the morning room—small and unremarkable except for her large eyes, though even those fell short of perfection as they were plain brown, and not a romantic c
olor like…. She had an immediate vision of Lucien’s glimmering gaze, as green as new grass after a spring rain.
God help her, Lucien was every bit as handsome now as he had been all those years ago. She couldn’t count all the times she’d imagined him older; his face lined and harsh, a bit of a paunch to his stomach from his debauched lifestyle, his hair sadly thinning. It had been one of her chief amusements, especially in the years immediately after his abandonment.
She scowled. The least he could have done was to have the decency to grow a few gray hairs.
Wilson pulled out a kerchief and blew his nose loudly. Brought back to the present, Arabella placed the new coins into the box and smoothed the stacks until they were all even. If all went according to schedule, she would have everything paid off within the next twelve months, with the exception of Robert’s doctor bills. All she had to do was continue to pad the family coffers a while longer.
A sense of loss seeped into her at the thought. What would she do then? If she were honest, she would admit she was the tiniest bit addicted to the excitement. She loved the smell of the ocean, the unfettered freedom, and the knowledge that she was good at her chosen profession. Good? She smiled; she was better than good.
By God, let other women brag about their embroidery patterns and their ability to render a good watercolor—she was a first rate smuggler. Even Wilson had to admit that much, and he hated her being involved at all. She glanced at the groom who stood before the fire.
He wiped his nose one last time and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “How is yer duke this evenin’?”
She closed the box with a snap and twisted the key in the lock. “He is not my duke.”
“Sorry, missus. It was jus’ a turn of phrase.”
Embarrassed at her overreaction, Arabella crossed to the hearth. “We must order another shipment of cognac. I will—”
“No, you won’t,” he said bluntly. “If there’s more orderin’ to be done, I’ll do it.” He shook his grizzled head.
“Ye shouldn’t have anythin’ to do with this business, missus.”
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