by Wendy Vella
He carried her outside, the hat hanging from one finger. Her blonde curls tickled his face as they stuck out at all angles. He could not see her features properly, but she appeared young from what little he had seen of her and she was dressed in the latest fashions. He knew fabrics well and this was no poor woman. A lady most likely. But what in the devil was she doing in an establishment like the Eights?
Lucian jostled her in his arms and was able to make out the fluttering of her lashes. Thank the Lord she could only see one side of his face or she might swoon all over again. He didn’t think she had actually fallen into a full swoon. Some air would see to her health and he could return to his game of cards, and the fine hand he had. There were no fortunes being wagered in the Eights, but he relished the small victories anyhow.
Lowering her onto the crumbling wall, he did not remove his arms from her until he was satisfied she wouldn’t topple backwards. She took several moments to draw in breaths and he saw the rise and fall of some nicely rounded breasts against the jacket of her riding habit. Inwardly, he cursed himself. In his state, he did not need to be considering a lady’s figure. No woman would go near him now, only the cheap whores at the town brothels and even he had not sunk that low.
Yet.
He kept his face lowered and to one side but she would see the scarring soon enough. He wasn’t wearing a hat and now he longed for one to draw it over his face. He ought to just leave her.
Her gaze lifted to his and her eyes widened. Lucian tensed and waited for some exclamation or repulsion. She drew in several more breaths and her lips parted. They were red—berry red. A little thin, but succulent looking.
Rosiness tinged her cheeks and her grey eyes were wide and innocent. It made her age indeterminable.
“Girl,” he prompted, “are you well?”
“Girl?” Those berry red lips twisted. “I am no girl.” The smile vanished and her gaze landed on his scar. “I am a lady. A countess. And you are the Viscount of Rushbourne.”
He resisted the urge to snarl. She had probably figured out as much when she had spotted his scar. He didn’t realize the gossip had reached the country. Lucian spied the stable hand lingering around the corner of the building and signaled to him.
“Have my horses made ready!” he commanded.
“I am well,” the countess insisted. “You do not need to take me anywhere.”
“I have little intention of doing so,” he replied dryly. “You interrupted a winning hand and I find myself suddenly tired of cards.”
Her disgust at his appearance was enough to do that. All Lucian wished to do now was to return home. He should never have come to see what the ruckus was about after someone mentioned a fine lady was looking for him.
“You mean to leave me here?”
“Yes, my lady, I do.” He thrust out her hat, gave a mocking tip of an invisible on of his own and strode off towards the stables, all but abandoning the mauve lady and her succulent lips.
Who was she and how did she know of him? Clearly he had not kept himself as hidden away as he’d have liked, but he supposed his business acquaintances probably spread tales of the grizzled, scarred viscount.
She must have sat on that wall, likely gaping like a fish for several moments, while two men readied the carriage. By the time she had caught up with him, he was standing by his cabriolet, tapping his foot impatiently.
“You will not leave me here,” she said breathlessly.
“Did you not say you had no need of going anywhere?”
He didn’t look at her. Well, he stole the briefest of glances out of the corner of his eye. Her hat now firmly on her head, it did little to squash those bouncing curls. They were rather wild, he supposed and a little like a... He shook his head. The last time he had likened someone’s hair to a haystack it had all gone dreadfully wrong and he wouldn’t allow himself to be drawn into thoughts like that again.
“I have been trying to meet with you for many months now, Lord Rushbourne.”
“Have you indeed?”
He sifted through his mind for some recollection of any requests for meetings with a woman. An uncomfortable ache jabbed his gut and he turned to face her properly. Could it be? She was a countess after all, and likely local if she had travelled by horse. At least he assumed that fine mare in the stalls was hers. But her hair was lighter, her skin less wan and those grey eyes didn’t appear at all dull. Was this really little Ellie Browning?
“You know well I have!”
She looked to be on the verge of stomping her feet. Those small lips were now tightly pursed to the point of almost vanishing and the blush in her cheeks increased. Ellie Browning was still no great beauty, but there was something innately appealing about her. The strong lines to her face had softened over the years, as had her figure and those damned eyes...
He shoved aside inane thoughts of getting lost in pools of grey. The entire county would tell tales of how unromantic and un-poetic he was. Ridiculous. He turned his attention back to the vehicle, arms folded, and proceeded to tap his foot once more.
“Lord Rushbourne, I have come to your house several times only to be turned away and my letters to you go unans—”
“Lucian,” he prompted without looking at her. A test. It had to be her, surely?
“Pardon?”
“You used to call me Lucian, Ellie. I see no reason to revert back to formalities.”
She bristled. He saw her skirts do a sort of shake as she straightened and gained her composure. “That may be so but it has been many years. I am Lady Hawthorne and I would prefer that you address me as such.”
“Not Ellie?”
“Not Ellie,” she confirmed tightly. “My friends call me Eleanor.”
“But we are not friends,” he said, filling the obvious gap to her statement.
“Precisely, Lord Rushbourne.”
Lucian supposed he deserved that. He had destroyed any idea of friendship between them that night at her parents’ home. Not that he’d ever really considered her a friend—more an annoyance—but he’d never intended to let things go as far as they did. No doubt, she still felt bitterly towards him.
And now she was a countess. A wealthy one at that. More important and powerful than himself. Talk of the Countess of Hawthorne’s return from France had spread like wildfire across the county, and he had indeed been refusing to meet with her. The last thing he needed was some interfering woman prying into his business affairs.
Had he been prone to amusement, the situation might have made him laugh.
“Well, Lady Hawthorne, it has been a pleasure.” He touched his forehead in lieu of tipping his hat. “I see that you are now well and I bid you good day.”
Her hands came to her hips, ruining her ladylike posture. It was quite astonishing, if he thought about it, how different Ellie was now. Being a countess and marrying that old stick of an earl—God rest his soul—must have done her some good.
Her lips curled in disgust. “You always were arrogant, but never this rude. At least not until...”
“Fine,” he snapped. He certainly wasn’t going to listen to her berate him about those events all those years ago. He had done his level best to forget ever kissing Ellie Browning and he had been doing an admirably good job, thank you very much. “Come with me. I shall send a man for your horse. We can discuss business at the house.”
Though what Ellie—no, the Countess of Hawthorne— wanted to discuss was beyond him. Her late husband had never shown any interest in the mill in spite of owning a large share in it. He’d been too busy gallivanting across the world with his young wife in tow.
Where had he heard they were last time his mother availed him of all her news? Timbuktu? Bermuda? Some obscure place in India that no one had ever heard of and no one in their right mind would want to visit? Meanwhile he’d been buried under the responsibility of his newly inherited title and struggling to combat the dropping price of cotton, while increasing productivity at the mills.
&n
bsp; But now she was back. And putting her interfering nose where it did not belong. He had enough problems to deal with since the fire at the mill in Manchester without some busybody woman prying through his business dealings. What did she know of cotton anyway? How to wear it? That would be the vast sum of her knowledge, he concluded.
He held out a hand to help her into the cabriolet and tried to avert his eyes from the flash of stockinged ankle. He snorted inwardly. Ladies and their petticoats. The wider they got, the more likely they were to show off something indecent. Not that he’d ever really thought of ankles as indecent but there was something wildly distracting about little Ellie’s slender ankle encased in a stocking. His mind was taking him further up that stocking and imagining where it stopped. Imagining the pale flesh of her thigh...
He shook his head and realized she had slipped her gloved hand into his and was waiting for him to aid her in. What in the devil was he thinking of Ellie’s thighs for? It had been too long since he’d tumbled a woman, clearly.
Lucian stared at those slender fingers in gloves just a shade darker than her riding dress, and tried not to think about how warm they were. The God-awful fear something was stirring where he did not want it to—in his damned trousers—made him a little abrupt with his movements and he released her hand quickly, and she nearly spilled back into him. He found himself with an armful of mauve wool and a mouthful of blonde curls. Ellie squeaked and shoved away from him to right herself in the carriage. He could not help but let his lips tilt at her flustered expression as she tried to right her hat on those endless curls. No matter how hard she tried, it would not sit properly.
Before he could be further amused, he climbed into the carriage and directed the horses out onto the country road. She gripped the side as if he might take off at any second. He might be careless, but he was not so foolish as to put her life at risk for the sake of scaring her, so he kept the pace slow, though her grip didn’t seem to lessen. He imagined her knuckles were white under the dark fabric of her gloves.
Perhaps he disconcerted her. Now why did that thought please him? Because it would be an opportunity to frighten her away? But, no, he had done that once before and what had happened? She had been practically sold to some old earl thanks to his behavior. He would keep his distance—not easily done in the close confines of his vehicle he had to admit—and simply tell her that she had no place interfering in business. Lucian would reassure her that her shares were in safe hands and he would continue to provide a healthy profit.
He hoped.
With the new machinery, productivity was up—everywhere. That meant more cotton and lower prices. It was a race to keep up and with the fire at the other mill, he could not fulfil all his orders on time. Several buyers had already gone elsewhere.
And now he had little Ellie to worry about. Damnation.
The wheels of the carriage seemed to hit every rut and bump as they travelled across the dales, meaning her arm constantly brushed his and her body jostled against him. Even through the layers of both of their clothing, he was aware of the slender body he had been holding in his arms only moments before.
She had filled out, he admitted. No longer a scrawny little thing. Her waist was still slender, no doubt helped by some God-awful contraption of a corset, but there was no mistaking she had some curves there. Of course, he preferred ample curves. Something to hold onto. Ellie was still tall and long limbed. He didn’t need a glimpse of her legs to know that or to imagine how they might wrap around—
A large dip almost threw her into his lap and he cursed aloud as she righted herself. If his language bothered her, she said nothing. It was fine timing, however. Stopped him from imagining things he had no right to imagine and he certainly did not want to picture Ellie in any other position except far away from his person. The girl had been a bother as a child and now she looked to be a bother as a woman. If he could even call her that. That curving figure was only marginally woman-like and her face still held all the innocence of a child.
Balmead Manor came into view, the great chimneystacks rising out from the valley like a train from a tunnel. Smoke plumed from several of them. His family home was smaller than Ellie’s current abode, but still one of the finest in Yorkshire. Though a lot of it was built in medieval times, his family had added to it over the years and the most recent addition in his father’s time was sympathetic to the medieval tower that still stood, if a little more comfortable and elegant.
The crenulations were for show, not defense and the windows were wide, unlike that of the old tower, but from a distance it still reminded him of an old fortress. He wouldn’t be adding anything to it in his time, sadly, not that he needed the space, but it had become something of a tradition to add that little personal touch each generation.
Unfortunately, simply keeping the place from crumbling was expensive enough. Perhaps his cousin would do something to it. He was a staid, steady type, who would likely have better control of finances than Lucian did—or at least had. He had learned quickly how and where to make savings after the fire. His skin prickled at the remembrance of heat.
A gloved hand rested briefly on his wrist.
“I was sorry to hear of your father. He was a good man. I should have liked to have been there for his funeral.”
“Thank you,” he replied solemnly.
His father, the late viscount, had been dead for two years now and he was used to accepting peoples’ sympathies. Everyone had loved his father. He was one of the better ones, Lucian had to admit. He suspected his rakish ways had always disappointed him slightly. How would he feel about his son now? He couldn’t be further from a rake nowadays.
He coughed to clear the tightness from his throat. “You were in India at the time?”
“No, Egypt.”
“Egypt! Pray tell what the earl found of interest in Egypt? It hardly seems the sort of place to drag a well-bred lady and he was hardly young.”
“I was not dragged. I enjoyed our travels very much and Edward had a lot of energy for an elderly gentleman.”
Lucian scowled and tried not think how he might have used his energies. He shuddered.
“We were there to look at a scarab.”
“A bug? You travelled to Egypt for a bug?”
“Well, and I longed to see the pyramids. It’s a fascinating country, I can assure you. Sadly, our trip was cut short by Edward’s declining health and we came back to Europe.”
“Ah, oui, Paris. I forgot my mother mentioned you had settled there. Why come back to drab old England?”
“It is my home,” she said with a barely suppressed sigh. “How is your mother?” she asked, her voice becoming overly bright. “Is she well?”
“Well indeed. She is married.”
“I had heard. Mama wrote to me and told me all. I suppose it was quite quick but I don’t see the harm if she is happy.”
“She is,” he confirmed.
He too had been surprised at the engagement of his mother only three months after coming out of mourning but he never doubted she loved his father. His mother was the sort of woman who needed a man at all times, and he was grateful she had managed to find another one for her to cling onto. As much as he loved her, he didn’t wish to be that man.
“She still lives in Yorkshire?”
Lucian tried not to roll his eyes. He tried not to groan. He failed on both parts and she probably noticed if the stiffening of her shoulders were anything to go by. From the corner of his eye he saw her turn wooden. He found himself innately aware of each movement of hers. But, damnation, did she not realize from his short answers he hated small talk. He’d never enjoyed it during his years in London and he certainly didn’t relish it now he was away from all that and out of practice.
The men at the inn had no use for small talk and nor did his factory workers or those he paid to run it so that was where he divided his time. If they found their owner’s interference annoying, none had the gall to say as much. Most men preferred to l
eave it in their foreman’s hands, but heck, he needed something to keep him occupied if he was not lauding it up with high society in the dales.
“Yes, she still lives in Yorkshire, though she spends much time in Lancashire on the coast these days. She is in Blackpool at present.”
“Oh, I hear they are building a promenade there now.”
He nodded. “It is quite the up and coming place, I hear.”
“You have not been there yourself?”
Lucian tried not to smirk. As if he had the time or the inclination. Did she not see the scars on his face? Who would want to promenade along the seaside and garner stares from every direction? Not him, to be sure.
“No. I’ve been busy.”
He released a long breath as he directed the horses up the long private road towards the house. There was no gate marking the entrance to the front, only two tall brick pillars. His stable hands must have seen him coming down the drive as they were ready to take the horses and put the carriage away before he had even stepped from it.
Lucian held out a hand to Ellie and kept his face expressionless when she slipped her fingers into his. He released her hand as soon as humanly possible before striding up the steep set of stairs into the entrance hall. Though the house was modelled on a medieval abode on the outside, inside it was every inch a fine, modern home with marbled pillars, and black and white tiled floors.
He paused to signal to a nearby maid to bring drinks. He didn’t need to say anything—his staff knew what was expected of them. He had a strong routine though his early return and being accompanied by a lady no doubt would give them all something to gossip about. He even caught the maid’s quick glance at Ellie as his guest paused to view the bust of his father set into a recess at the back of the room.
With the light streaming in through the front door and highlighting the side of her face, he realized just how much little Ellie Browning had grown. He’d been thrown off by those young eyes and innocent features, but her posture and elegance told him much of the change in her. Seven years ago she had been as awkward as a new-born lamb with no posture to speak of.