by Wendy Vella
Yes, he was being uncharitable, he admitted, but damnation, the widow could be here at any moment. Weeks of work were about to be destroyed by this silly little girl.
“Ellie,” he said more calmly, in the hopes she might see reason, “it is improper for you to be out here with me. Go inside before either of our mothers catch us.”
“I should not like to leave you if you’re sickening.”
“Ellie...” This time he didn’t even manage to hide his growl of frustration. The word came out like a curse. “Did it not occur to you that you are putting your innocence at risk by being out here with me?”
“My innocence?” She gaped up at him.
Ah, now he had her attention. He leaned over her, gradually pressing her back with his mere presence. She stumbled back—one step, then two.
“The night is dark and beautiful.” He lowered his voice. “Flowers scent the air and the stars twinkle overhead. I have indulged in wine and my veins run warm with it.” He urged her further until she gasped when her back met the outside wall of the building.
She put a hand to his chest to hold him back. “I am not afraid of you.” Ellie smiled but he saw the nervous flicker on her lips. “I know you, Lucian. You may act the rake but you’re honorable at heart.”
“I am nothing of the sort.” He swiped aside her hand and closed the gap, flattening himself against her. He felt the sharp intake of breath and the way her body quivered. “You should not tempt a man like me.”
“T-tempt?”
“If you’re not careful, I shall have no choice but to kiss you. I suggest you leave now, before I do something we shall both regret.”
He noted the way her throat worked. Really he should back off and release her, but something in him wanted her to wriggle against him and work her way out. Why the devil should he want that bony body squirming against his? Perhaps he really was a little foxed.
And then he saw the change in her eyes. They grew smoky. No longer dull. Her lips parted in silent invitation. Damnation. This was not how this was meant to happen.
Lucian bore over her, affecting his darkest, most viscount-like look. One that told a person they were nought more than a speck of dust on his dinner jacket. He’d seen his father use it to full effect and occasionally used it himself to frighten away any ladies who thought they might join him in his bed for longer than a few nights.
“Do not mistake me, Ellie. If I kiss you it would be from mere boredom.” There. The smoky haze had vanished. She was back to being an annoying child who had insisted on tugging at his sleeve for too many years. Better she see him for the person he was now rather than later.
“Lucian?”
“I am no more attracted to you than I am to my...my horse,” he declared, getting into the spirit of things. “I make no habit of kissing or even bedding innocents, particularly not ones like yourself. So be a good girl and run along. Go find another man to pester. May I suggest one who is particularly foxed?”
Ellie gasped, pain radiated from her expression. If he thought about it, the odd sensation pulling at his gut was too close to guilt. But he was saving her from himself. She saw him as some sort of hero. A knight in shining armor. Really he was doing her a favor. Now she would be wary of all rakes and find herself a gentleman who might appreciate her for whatever redeeming features she had. There had to be something about her someone would like, surely?
Still she stared and still he hadn’t backed away. Her chest rose and fell against his. He spied dampness in her eyes before she lowered her lids to try to hide it. Lucian pressed a hand to the sandstone wall, ready to push away and then...
Then the strangest thing happened. She lifted her lashes, which were surprisingly thick and curly if he thought about it, and secured that drab grey gaze of hers on his. But he could not stare for long. For some inexplicable reason, his gaze fell to her lips.
And he leaned in.
And kissed her.
Ellie drew in a breath as his lips met hers. He tasted sugar on her lips. They were soft, small, fragile. His hand came away from the wall and clasped the back of her neck to hold her in place. Vaguely, he noted her fingers had come up to curl into the lapels of his dinner jacket. Was she trying to push him away? His mind had shut down. What was this scarecrow’s lips doing to him?
That skinny body began squirming, breaking the spell and he heard his name—a muffled protest against his lips. He had to stop. And he did, but it was too late.
“What the deuce do you think you are doing?” a gruff, very angry sounding voice rang out.
Lucian lifted his head to the see the Baron—her father—striding towards him. He swung his gaze to Ellie, whose cheeks were flushed and whose hands were trembling, and back to her furious father, whose face was red enough to match the color of the strawberry jelly they had been served that evening.
His insides shriveled a little. Now he was in big trouble. He was going to be forced to marry a scrawny scarecrow. Damn his luck.
Chapter One
A Reckless Rake
Seven Years Later
The cabriolet barreled along the old country road, a blur of yellow and black against the green hills, seeming to hit every stone and bump. It kicked up dust as it went. Eleanor found her heart in her throat as she pushed her horse to keep up. The weather had stayed dry for over a week now, leaving the roads solid and powdery. Would the occupant push the vehicle so recklessly on wet ground?
Knowing the occupant, likely so. He had always been reckless. She doubted seven years had changed him. Drawing in a breath and giving Blossom a tap to her flanks, she urged the horse on and prayed her riding hat did not fly from her head. If any of her acquaintances saw her now, they would not believe their eyes. Of course, she had left them all behind in France. None of her old friends from England would be surprised to see her in disarray with her hat falling from her head and her curls springing from her head like a jack-in-the-box.
Nor would Lord Lucian Deverill, Viscount of Rushbourne. He had always thought her a mess, she knew that much. What a shame it had taken her so long to realize that all those long looks had been looks of disgust, and not admiration. And now fate had thrown them together once more by way of her late husband’s business dealings.
If she ever caught up with him. She was at a disadvantage with her side saddle and only one horse. His two horses could outrace her with ease, but she had it on good authority that Lord Rushbourne liked to stop at a pub at the crossroads on his journeys out. The housekeeper had taken pity on her when she had been turned away from the Rushbourne estate for the third time with claims the viscount was not around. More likely, he refused to see her. He would not even answer her letters.
She wouldn’t be dismissed so easily this time.
The ramshackle tavern—The Eight Bells, the housekeeper had informed her—came into view. From far away, it was pretty. Perhaps even twee. But as she drew closer, signs of neglect began to show. The stone wall around it was worn and crumbling. The windows needed new paint and the sign only had two bells on it. The rest were worn away by poor weather, leaving no more than a few flecks of paint.
Such was the unforgiving nature of the Yorkshire countryside. While the rare spot of sunshine warmed her through her mauve riding jacket, nothing could keep out the winds that normally blustered along the open stretches of land. It smoothed the rocks and pushed the dust into hills. Not even nature could compete with such weather, let alone an inn created by man’s hands.
Eleanor’s sense of misgiving vanished as she spotted the cabriolet parked around the side of the building near the stables. The horses were gone, presumably being tended to by a stable hand. Lucian had to be inside.
She spotted the stable boy whose brows rose under his flat cap when he saw her. He hastily pulled out a set of steps and placed them beside her as she brought her horse around the dilapidated wall. Shoulders straight, chin lifted, she pretended she had an audience of thousands and slid from the horse with grace.
It took every ounce of her concentration to do so. None of it came naturally to her. Every movement had to be carefully planned or it was likely she would spill onto the ground at any moment. A task as simple as walking proved difficult for Eleanor. Not even a title such as countess could change her clumsy temperament. One would think after seven years of pretending to be elegant and graceful, it would be second nature, but alas it was not.
“Will you feed and water her, please?” she asked the boy before digging into her purse and withdrawing a shilling to press into his grubby palm.
His eyes widened at the sight of the money and Eleanor concluded the patrons of the inn were likely usually travelers on foot or locals. She had spied no other horses around, indicating most customers were poor and this was not on a well-travelled route. Those journeying down the country to London would take the better roads whilst those on foot might prefer the direct cut across the moors.
Blossom didn’t really need any food or water. The inn was only some three miles from Hawthorne Hall, but who knew how long she might be here. If she tracked down Lucian, she had high hopes of speaking with him about the shares she had in his printing factory and how she might play a role in the business. Her late husband owned a large percentage of his business in Lancashire and as such, she hoped her opinion might be heard now those shares had been passed over to her.
A wave of grief washed over her at the thought of Edward being gone. She had been out of mourning for five months now and in England for three of those. It had taken her a while to make arrangements to tie up all her loose ends in France. She had let their home in Paris, not seeing a reason to keep it empty. She couldn’t see herself returning to the place where she had nursed Edward through the last months of his life. He had been a dear old man and a good friend. Life without him seemed really quite lonely.
Eleanor huffed out a breath and eyed the open doorway of the inn. Low rumbling voices and the occasional burst of male laughter reverberated from inside. Shadows haunted that chipped doorway. Scuffs of wood had splintered off the doorframe and she suspected the damage could well be from brawling and customers being thrown out, rather than mere weather damage.
Her heart thrummed in her chest, making her legs jelly-like and threatening to send her feet out from underneath her as they were so often want to do. She checked her hat, adjusted her jacket and tightened the loop of her purse around her wrist. Eleanor, she told herself, you have travelled far and wide. She had seen the deserts and the mountains, encountered people from all walks of life. A few shabby patrons would not daunt her.
And nor would the viscount.
The odor of ale and unwashed bodies washed over her as she stepped inside. She fought to keep from wrinkling her nose. This was a two room establishment by the looks of it with no separate dining area. Just two rooms—one to the left and one to the right. She could see in both from the doorway and both looked as drab as the other. Which one would Lucian be in and why was he stepping foot in such a place?
Why was she?
Because she had no other choice, she reminded herself. How else was she to speak with the man?
On an impulse, she stepped left, ducking beneath the old wooden beam that had tattered old notes pinned across it. She eyed the currency, noting many of them were from places far and wide. She recognized some of them from her travels.
Before Eleanor could wonder at the people who had brought these notes from all over the world, someone knocked into her. The stout man doffed his cap and grinned before swaying past her. He sloshed some ale on the floor and it splashed her shoe. She tried not to utter an exclamation for fear of drawing attention to herself, but apparently it was too late. When she peered around the dimly light room, she noted every set of eyes were upon her.
She swallowed the knot in her throat that was trying to strangle her and clutched her purse tighter. Then she brushed past the men at the wooden bar in the hopes of reaching the back of the room to see if Lucian was there. Disappointment weighted her heart when she managed to ease herself to the rear of the bar and gaze around. He was not even sitting by the lit fire or at any of the several benches lining the room. She squinted at the occupants in case she had mistakenly discounted one of them and saw them all staring back. None of them were Lucian to be sure. They were all hunched, grubby looking fellows in shabby clothes, and with expressions of varying degrees of exhaustion on their faces. It might have been a few years, but even time could not have spoiled Lucian’s looks to that degree. The man always had been a handsome devil—something of which he was thoroughly aware.
“Can I get you a drink, miss?”
Eleanor jolted as the innkeeper appeared at her side, only separated from her by the scratched wooden bar. He wiped his hands down his apron and smiled. She smiled hesitantly back. There was nothing untoward in his expression. Most likely he saw a profit in her, but they both knew she didn’t belong here and really should not have even stepped foot in the pub.
“I...” What did one drink in such a place? Was it even safe to drink the ale? “An ale?”
He nodded with satisfaction and drew her an ale. The drink sloshed over the sides of the dented tankard and she handed over a coin. His grin widened as he pocketed it. She had no idea how much one paid for a drink in these sorts of places but apparently she had paid too much.
The innkeeper waited and Eleanor realized she’d have to take a drink. Gingerly clasping the pewter handle, she lifted the drink to her lips and tried not to grimace. She took the tiniest sip and in spite of the bitterness of the drink, she used her finest acting skills to pretend it was the best drink she had ever tasted.
“Thank you,” she said quietly as he nodded with satisfaction. “Tell me, have you seen Lord Rushbourne? I thought I saw his vehicle outside.”
“I’ve not seen ‘im, miss, but he may be in the backroom.” He thrust a finger towards the room behind him. The room on the right. “My wife is serving in there today.”
She nodded and contemplated the ale. Should she leave it? Take it with her? She lifted her gaze to the innkeeper to see he had gone and was serving another man at the end of the bar. She knew everything there was to know about etiquette in the finest households but the etiquette of a simple traveler’s inn was far beyond her.
Before she could make her decision, a whiff of an unwashed body reached her nose. She failed to stop the automatic wrinkling of her nose. A man, his cap worn and battered and his shirt tied loosely at the neck to reveal a great chest of hair, propped himself on the bar next to her. His arm brushed hers and he winked.
While she was trying to school her reaction, another man came to the other side of her and hemmed her in. She backed away only to smack into a solid wall of muscle. Quivering, she turned and had to close her eyes briefly and pray it was the body of a savior.
This was no hero but a tall, wide-set man with brawny arms and crooked teeth. He grinned down at her, and she had to crane her neck to eye him. Had she not learned long ago that heroes did not exist? Foolish girl. He stepped forwards so that she was slotted between all three of them. She clutched her purse and mentally counted how much money she had. If they wanted it, fine, as long as they left her person be.
She tried to peer over the man beside her to get the innkeeper’s attention but apparently he had found somewhere else to be at that point. Intentionally? Or had the men been waiting for him to go before striking?
“W-what do you want?” Lord, she hated how fragile her voice sounded. Years of travelling the world and she still quaked like a leaf in the wind when confronted by strangers.
“Are you lost, miss?” the man to her right asked and plucked at a button on the sleeve of her jacket.
“N-no, not lost, but I fear I should be going.” Eleanor clutched her arm to herself. “If you would not mind stepping aside...” she said to the tall man blocking her path.
He remained in front of her, his arms folded across his chest. “I don’t think so. Not often we get a fine lookin’ lad
y like yourself in the Eights. We wouldn’t mind enjoying your company for a little longer.”
Eleanor pressed her hands to her stomach in a bid to quell the nervous butterflies. Butterflies? No, more like bees. A swarm of angry, stinging bees, just jabbing at her insides. She had to get out of here before she did something foolish like swoon. Her corset had already grown too tight and greyness began to cloud her vision.
“I really must be leaving. I bid you good day.” She tried to step past the wall of muscle that counted for a man but found herself pushed back.
Eleanor stumbled into the man at the end of the bar and he laughed before snatching her hat from her head. It tore the pins from her head and her hair spilled around her in crazed curls. She whirled and tried to snatch it from him but he only laughed and held it away from her.
“This will do nicely for my missus,” he said. “I’m sure a fine lady like yourself has plenty of other hats.”
“That is mine,” she replied. “Give it back.”
Her words might have sounded petulant or even angry were it not for the breathless quality to her voice. Then the larger man closed in on her and dots began to swim in front of her eyes. Oh no. She was going to faint. She’d suffered the hottest climates, the roughest seas, and the most frightening encounters with natives, yet she had never fainted. Now, here, in a small English inn, she was going to faint and these men would be able to do whatever they wanted with her. She put a hand to the bar and swayed forwards, fully expecting the floor to rush up and meet her.
Then the strangest thing happened. A set of muscular, warm arms scooped her up.
Chapter Two
Not a Scarecrow
The woman was light, in spite of her endless skirts that crunched against his arm. He snatched the mauve hat from the laughing fellow and glared at them all. They knew him well enough to back off. Lucian frequented The Eight Bells whenever he needed a break. No gentleman’s club would welcome him now, not after the accident. Not that he had ever tried. He’d have to be mad to step foot in one of those places with a face like his.