by Wendy Vella
He pushed open his office door to find her absorbed in the books. She had removed her bonnet and cast it aside, giving him a view of bountiful blonde curls. They were not as dark as they had once been and gave off a golden sheen. They were still everywhere. He wondered how she walked around with so much hair on her head, but they were somewhat appealing. If he thrust his hands into her hair and pulled out the pins, would the tresses spill all about her, surrounding her like a golden halo? A very sudden, unwanted image hit him. One of naked shoulders and blonde curls.
Coughing, he waited for her to lift her head, but apparently she was absorbed. Some writing paper sat to one side, covered in ink blotches and scrawled writing. Her fingertips were slightly black with ink too.
“Ellie,” he tried again.
She lifted her head and for the briefest moment he thought she saw him as someone other than a scarred ex-rake who once kissed her out of spite. Her smile was brilliant. Blinding even. A flash of perfect teeth amongst berry red lips. His heart did something strange and he greatly feared he was having a heart attack. But it didn’t last. The smile dropped, as did his heart, and she regarded him coolly.
“Are we to tour the mill now?”
“Yes, if you’re ready.”
“I am though I feel I should have looked through this week’s records. I haven’t reached them yet.”
“I doubt one week will make any difference to your...” He waved a hand, searching for a word. “To your work.”
She rose, slid her bonnet on and tied the silk ribbon. The strangest desire to reach over and perfect the bow struck, and he curled his hand at his side.
“Be careful. These machines are extremely fast and dangerous. Do not touch them,” he warned her, “and keep your skirts away from them.”
She nodded and remained blessedly quiet as he led her out of the offices, across the forecourt and into the main building. He had almost expected some bold declaration of how she was not frightened or perhaps even something as foolish as, ‘I have been to the far reaches of the world, my lord, what could a mere machine do to me?’
Bloody hell, if he heard about her travels and how experienced she was and how her husband took her everywhere and spoiled her rotten one more time, he’d throw his hat into the mud and trample on it in a rage.
The noise from the machines still shocked him, even now. It was a grating, rattling, crashing sound that, though rhythmic, was not a noise one could ever get used to. It was the sound of hard graft and of men and women striving for survival in a harsh world. It was the sound of his father’s legacy.
Cotton swirled in the air like light snowfall, thick and clumpy. If one watched it too long, it could become mesmerizing. Children scuttled between the machines, picking up errant bits of fluff, and the rows of the looms all moved in time with each other. He peered back at Ellie to see her wide-eyed expression. In spite of the thick atmosphere and the odor of hard work, oil and smoke, she seemed almost—how could he put it?—rapt?
Underfoot the wooden floor was slippery from the oil that had dripped on it over the years. Lucian cursed himself for not warning her of it and prayed she did not fall and do herself some damage. That would not look good—killing off his main shareholder. Not to mention he needed her money and she had no heirs at present. If he was rich enough, he would buy her out, but that didn’t look likely to happen with the price of cotton still dropping. If things continued the way they were, the buyers would be expecting him to give it away for free.
He strode on several more steps, only to find himself aware she was no longer behind him. She had stopped to talk to one of the workers, though what sort of conversation they could have in this environment he didn’t know. The woman glanced at him, saw him watching and hastily turned back to the loom. Ellie glared at him. He longed to raise his hands and protest his innocence. He hadn’t said anything.
Lucian stiffened as a strange sound broke the steady noise of the looms. He opened his mouth to call Ellie’s name as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, but it was too late. The source of the noise became clear far too rapidly for him to react. A snap. A crack like the sound of a whip. Something flicked into the air and headed towards Ellie. The belt from the machine, he realized. He leaped forward but it struck her with a sickening slap, leaving him to catch her as she fell.
“Turn that bloody machine off!” he yelled and scooped her in his arms. She was boneless and easy to handle, unlike the last time he’d carted her around. It made bile rise in his throat.
The loose belt continued to flap harmlessly while workers scurried around to stop the machine. He did not even look back to see if they’d succeeded when he carried her out of the mill and straight up the steps back into the offices. He didn’t stop until he had her sitting in his office chair, limp and lifeless.
Lucian twisted the chair to face him and knelt in front of her. He grasped her hand and gave it a squeeze. A trickle of blood trailed down her neck.
“Bloody hell.” He released her hand long enough to storm to the open door and yell out, “Someone fetch a bloody doctor!” before returning to her.
He gingerly pulled off her bonnet and lifted the curls away from her neck to find the source of the blood. Yanking a handkerchief out of his coat jacket, he dabbed away the red from her pale neck and began sifting through that endless hair. Damn, what had God been thinking when he had cursed her with so much hair?
She mumbled and leaned away from his touch which allowed his heart to lower out of his throat. But he did not allow himself to believe she was out of danger yet. He should never have let her into the mill. Of course little Ellie Browning would get herself in trouble. When did she not?
Lucian began picking out the pins and flinging them carelessly onto his desk. More and more hair fell about her shoulders. He hoped she paid her maid generously for the time it must take to pin the blasted stuff up.
When he had room for a little movement, he began sifting through the locks again and spotted the source of the blood—a thin red cut. It was not large, but bleeding heavily and he’d wager a pretty sum that it had hit her hard enough to bruise and likely leave a bump. If it had knocked her senseless, it must have hit with some force.
A fragile hand came up to lock around his wrist as he tried to press his handkerchief against the wound. Her grip was surprisingly strong and he darted a look at her.
“Stop,” she grumbled. “Hurts.”
“Of course it bloody well hurts.” He allowed himself a long breath. “Forgive me, but I must stop the bleeding.”
Ellie tried to move but he pressed her back with the lightest of touches. While her grip might be strong, it was clear the injury had sapped the rest of her strength. She succumbed to him pressing the cotton to her head while he lifted her chin to look into her eyes. Though they were half closed, they appeared clear.
“No permanent damage,” he concluded.
Not to her at least. He couldn’t be sure about himself. His heart seemed to be racing like a steam train still and those grey eyes... She lifted her lids a little more and locked her gaze onto his. It was as if someone had slammed the brakes on the train. His heart flung itself against his rib cage. What the hell had got into him?
Well, whatever it was, one good thing would come out of this accident. Lucian didn’t need to get her out from under his feet any longer. The faulty machinery had done the job. Surely she wouldn’t want to visit the factory again after such an occurrence? Hopefully, she would return home to nurse her sore head and stay there where she belonged. She certainly did not belong in his world and he strongly suspected he had no place in hers.
Chapter Seven
Rakes Don’t Do Small Talk
Eleanor winced as Maggie tugged her hair into place and thrust a pin in to secure a curl. Even after a solid night’s sleep, her head pounded. Her doctor was due to visit later and she needed to look presentable—had to appear every inch the elegant countess.
It wasn’t easy. Maggie had a tir
ing job vanquishing her hair. Her fair curls had a mind of their own and would bounce free at any moment. It had taken many years to find a style that suited and she could only be grateful that the endless amounts of lemon juice and sunshine had improved the color. She would never be handsome but she was much more presentable than when she had first married Edward. Not that he ever minded, but as an earl’s wife, it was important she lived up to the task.
She ran a finger along the gold trim of the dressing table and allowed herself a small smile. Being without Edward was an odd sensation. He’d always been a good companion and she enjoyed his conversation. He had taught her much. Not even being eighteen when they were married, he was taking on a lot at his age, but he was always patient and tolerant of her unruly ways. Not that she allowed herself to be carried away after the incident with Lucian.
Eleanor had seen herself through his eyes so clearly after that night. Ugly, annoying, impulsive. Her parents had hopes of a decent marriage and it was never going to happen. At least not until Edward offered to have her. And who could say no? He needed a young companion for his travels and his wife had died a year before. For once in her life, Eleanor was going to make her parents proud.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry, my lady. It’s hard to work around the bump on your head.”
Eleanor lifted her gaze to the ceiling. She supposed her hair was useful for one thing—covering the large and painful egg-like bump on her head. A tiny shiver skipped down her spine when she recalled Lucian’s large hand pressing against her scalp. Drat, why did he cause such a sensation? She still hated him, did she not?
It was so hard to tell. At times she found herself amused by his gruff demeanor, at other times infuriated. Sometimes even sad. Around such a beautiful, graceful man, she felt a bumbling, ungainly creature.
“There we go, my lady.”
Glancing in the mirror, Eleanor nodded with satisfaction. She was back to being relatively well-presented. She didn’t take long to stare in the mirror—she knew what she would find and none of it ever pleased her. Quickly patting on some rouge, she stood, eyed her image in the long gilded mirror and nodded again—this time to herself. Thank goodness for corsets. The pale blue gown was flattering enough to give an impression of a decent figure. Some might even find it attractive, she supposed.
Not Lucian though. He was used to beautiful women hanging off his arm. Mama had kept her apprised of all the happenings while she had been travelling and often availed her of the details of Lucian’s recent conquests. The tales of their beauty had never failed to knot her insides with jealousy. She wanted to be one of those handsome women. She wanted to hang on his arm and have him whisper naughty suggestions in her ear.
Except she did not want that anymore, did she? She had grown up. Foolish, wanton thoughts like that had no place in her life now. When she turned, she realized Maggie had left the room. Eleanor hadn’t even heard her go. Too absorbed in thoughts of Lucian. Lord, she needed to focus her mind where it belonged. On the mill.
She pondered her findings over breakfast. The mill was not making a profit and several customers still owed on their accounts. There were further numbers to be explored but she had not had the time. Before Lucian had deposited her home yesterday, she had reminded him of his promise to let her examine the rest of the records. Whether he would follow through on that promise was another thing. Honor had never been his strong suit.
The loud tick of the clock on the mantelpiece broke through her thoughts and she glanced at it. Nearly midday. While it might be de rigueur to rise late, Eleanor had grown used to waking early on their travels. Even in France, Edward had insisted on early starts. So to be eating breakfast so late was unusual for her. The knock to her head must have fatigued her more than she had realized.
She sighed and peeked at the footman standing to attention by the door before pouring her tea and snatching a slice of toast. Her sips and bites seemed unnaturally loud with only the ticking clock and the odd squeak and footsteps coming from adjoining rooms. This house was too large for just her. No wonder Edward had been eager to take on a young bride and leave on adventures. Years of being in a house like this with only a wife for company and no heirs to speak of had fed his need for adventure, she’d always concluded.
Finishing breakfast quickly, she settled on taking a stroll around the gardens before it was time to meet with the housekeeper and then pour over her notes for the mill. A little fresh air would clear her head. She rose and breezed past the footman.
“Thank you, James.”
The footman nodded, expressionless. As she left the breakfast room she wondered if he pitied her. This lone woman—rich but friendless. Perhaps she should get a companion but the thought of paying for company did not appeal. She would have to write to Mama soon and ask her and Papa to visit. Broadstone Hall received few visitors but her Mama’s presence would draw more.
Eleanor stepped out into the central courtyard and eyed the Palladian house rising up around her. This house needed the life brought back to it. Parties, balls...a family. She smoothed a hand over the waist of her dress as she strolled through to the other side of the house and out onto the terrace. Edward had not been interested enough in her to take the time to make a family and she had never fallen pregnant from the few times they had made love. Perhaps she would never have a family. And what man would wish to take on a barren wife?
She shivered, regretting not bringing a shawl. It didn’t look likely to rain but a wind travelled over the hills and ruffled her curls. Still, she had much. A chance to make a difference in the mill for one.
Ignoring the formal garden with its carefully arranged rows of plants, she followed the graveled path around the outside of the house, running a finger along the grey stone of the house. She followed the path as it led away from the house toward the grand bridge—worthy of the finest parks in England. Blenheim Palace had a similar one she had heard.
Wide enough to fit carriages through, the enclosed bridge provided a fine exit for those staying at Broadstone for long periods as they left to hunt or ride. The formal gardens provided the excitement for anyone arriving to Broadstone. Edward had told her his father had liked surprises, hence why the bridge had been tucked away at the back of the house. To continue amazing guests had been the last earl’s aim according to her husband.
She rested her elbows on the stone and peered out over the river that flowed lazily beneath it. When she looked closely, she saw minnows darting between the reeds. She almost envied them. Swimming about with no concern for rank or duty. The only time she didn’t feel bound by her status was moments like these. She could release a breath, let loose her muscles and not fear she might trip or blurt something foolish.
Eleanor didn’t hear the horse until it was almost upon her. She turned her head to the side only to realize it was Lucian. Hastily, she straightened and waited for him to come to a stop at her side. He slid from the horse with all the ease of a cheetah pouncing on his prey. Reins in hand, he paused a few paces away and scowled at her.
“What are you doing out here?”
Eleanor raised both brows and gave herself a moment to take in the sight of him. One had to be prepared for Lucian, and she was not. She allowed her gaze to travel from his shining black boots, over his doeskin trousers and up to the fine fitting blue waistcoat and matching frock jacket. He peered at her from under his top hat, forehead creased into a scowl. Lord Rushbourne did not like her study of him it seemed. Funny, for once she would have thought he enjoyed every moment of feminine appreciation, even if from a plain creature like herself.
“I am taking some air in my gardens, if that is agreeable to you, my lord.”
“Agreeable to me? Good Lord, Ellie, you were nearly knocked senseless. You should have stayed abed until the doctor arrived.” He tugged out his pocket watch and flicked it open. “When the devil is the man arriving anyway?”
“Not for another three hours. I can’t think what use my lying in bed until th
en would do.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw, but he didn’t respond straight away. Instead, he began to lead the horse to the house, forcing her to follow along beside him.
“Are you expecting guests? Is that why you are up?”
“No. I am up because I would die of boredom being confined to bed when I am perfectly well.”
He kept his gaze ahead as he spoke. “Does it hurt?”
Eleanor fumbled for a response for several moments. He meant her head, yet inside her mind screamed at her to declare a hundred other responses. Yes, it hurt, the words he had said to her all those years ago. Yes, being in his company made her chest ache for the dreamy girl she had once been. Yes, being reminded of her lonely state stabbed at her heart. But if she wanted to make some sort of mark in life, she would tolerate all these agonies and more.
So instead she merely smiled and said, “A little. But not enough to keep me abed. I was hoping to look over my notes today.”
“No rest for the wicked, eh?”
Eleanor peered at him and saw the mischievous glint in his eyes before it vanished. For the briefest moment, she had seen the old, flirtatious Lucian. Of course, he had never turned his flirtations upon her and she hadn’t expected him to now. No amount of lemon juice, rouge and fine fabrics could make him forget the homely girl he knew.
He tugged the brim of his hat down when he caught her peeking at him. It appeared a self-conscious move and she realized she was on his scarred side—something he hadn’t let happen at all yesterday. Did it bother him? He had always been so handsome, perhaps it did, but surely women still fawned all over him, leaving him in no doubt they found him as beautiful as ever?
“What brought you here so early?”
Lucian touched the brim of his hat again. “I wanted to make sure you were well.”
The admission seemed to cost him. His voice took on a strangled tone. Eleanor couldn’t help but smile. “I am well, thank you. I have a lump the size of an egg and I feel like my head might drop sideways at any moment from the weight—”