Passion Regency Style

by Wendy Vella

  His surprised look cut her off. She was rambling, speaking like a fool. Warmth rushed up her cheeks but then...then he laughed.

  “You always did recover well from bumps and bruises.”

  She didn’t know whether to shrink into a puddle on the ground until she was nothing but pale muslin skirts or to laugh with him. He referred to her clumsiness—that clumsiness she strove so hard to hide. Knocks and bumps had been commonplace for her and she’d always laughed them off.

  She chose the latter. She laughed. It was freeing and frightening at the same time. She should not be enjoying his company. Lord, she really was lonely if a dissolute rake gave her the most enjoyment she’d had in days.

  “It’s a fine job you still have so much hair.”

  Eleanor clamped her mouth shut and snapped her head forwards as they made their way towards the house. Any joviality was sapped from her. Her hair—her boring, frustrating, ugly hair. Why did he have to mention it? It was bad enough feeling like a giant, unrefined haystack around him but did he have to draw attention to the fact?

  “I’ve never been inside Broadstone,” he mused, oblivious to the seething annoyance she would shoot through her eyes like daggers if she could.

  “Not many have. Edward’s first wife was of a sickly constitution and did not tolerate company well. And, of course, we travelled for much of our marriage so the house was closed up.”

  He paused as they entered the shadow of the house and peered up at the wide sash windows. The house was perfectly square with an extra level on each corner like turrets of a castle. Most of it was new with the exception of the Tudor entrance, though even that had been significantly improved.

  “It’s a fine building. A shame for it to be unoccupied.”

  “Well, it is not anymore. Though I am not sure I count as keeping it occupied.” He glanced down at her, one brow raised and she suspected he’d heard her snippy tone. “Come, Jonathan can take your horse.” She motioned to the gardener who was busying himself trimming a box tree. “Will you take Lord Rushbourne’s mount to the stables, please, Jonathan?”

  “Of course, my lady.” Jonathan took the reins from Lucian and led the horse around to the rear of the house.

  Eleanor led Lucian up onto the terrace and through the courtyard. She had the oddest feeling of being watched closely, though why he should be looking at her and not the house, she did not know. It made her acutely aware of every footstep and she felt the urge to clutch her skirts and hasten along.

  Instead, she forced herself to keep her hands clasped in front of her and her pace leisurely. Graceful and poised, she reminded herself. Everything a countess should be.

  The scent of leather and old paper suffused the air when she guided him into the library. It was neither the largest nor the grandest library in England and that was precisely why Eleanor liked it and often used it for meeting visitors. Not that she had many. All the Sedgewick men had been adventurous sorts—preferring to experience things rather than read about them—and as such the collection of books at Broadstone was small, only occupying one wall. The rest of the walls were taken up with Edward and his father’s mounted insect collection.

  Lucian held his hat in both hands behind his back and strode over to inspect the collection. Eleanor found herself twining her hands together, wondering what he thought of her late-husband’s hobby. Did he deem it a great waste of time? Why did it matter to her what he thought?

  “A fine collection,” he murmured.

  “I did not think insects interested you.”

  “I have little time for such things but I admire those who have these passions. Without men like your late husband, we would be without much of the knowledge that shapes the modern world.”

  “Well, I’m not sure the study of insects has done much for our world today but I appreciate the sentiment.” She found herself letting slip a smile. Why did he have to be so agreeable today? She was in dangerous peril of liking the man again and she did not want that to happen.

  “If we are to understand our world, we must investigate every aspect of it, no matter how small.” He strolled over to view several photographs sitting on her writing desk. “You look happy in these.”

  “I was.”

  Eleanor swallowed the knot in her throat. She had been happy enough. Edward was a kind man, intent on looking after her and had opened her eyes to the world. It was a lot for a young girl to take on but she had been determined to prove her worth and had assisted him in his studies as best as she could. She could only ever be grateful for everything he’d taught her.

  She joined Lucian to study the photographs. They documented her transition, she always thought, from awkward young girl to a refined lady. Or at least as refined as one could be when your legs refused to cooperate in a reasonable manner and you had hay for hair.

  Lucian twisted to view her. Something dark sat in his green eyes as he gazed at her. Some reflection of pain, perhaps, yet why would anything to do with her pain him? And when had Lucian ever felt any deeper emotions? His world had been one of fun and decadence. She had begun to doubt he really was capable of feeling anything deeply after the night he had kissed her.

  “I am glad. I did not like the thought...”

  She heard his teeth grind and the long expel of a breath. He did not like the thought of what? Her being unhappy? Did he really care that her parents had arranged a marriage because they had seen her kissing Lucian and feared for their daughter’s virtue? That the opportunity to find a man she loved had been taken away from her because of his behavior?

  He leaned in a little. Eleanor felt her breath stick in her throat, and was it her imagination or had she just swayed forwards? The gap between them was growing smaller by the second. The heavy thump of her heart grew deafening and for the life of her, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. His breath touched her face and she saw the dark brown flecks in his green eyes. Her skin grew hot and prickly. He was going to kiss her, was he not?

  So why was she not retreating and scolding him?

  The gap didn’t shrink any further and it felt like they remained close, staring at one another for hours. He took in her features for she saw his gaze drop down to her lips several times. She waited to see repulsion but instead his pupils widened, darkening his gaze further. Her own gaze skipped to the scarred skin on his cheek. It must have been so painful. And dangerous. The fire could have cost him his life if it had come so close as to burn him.

  Coldness shuttered his gaze suddenly and he snapped back. Eleanor almost released a squeak of disappointment—a foolish reaction on her behalf. Perhaps he had suddenly realized exactly who he was going to kiss, or perhaps she was simply so lacking in knowledge about men that he had never intended to kiss her in the first place. Either way, she should not have been feeling acute disappointment. She certainly did not want Lucian to kiss her.

  Not now. Not seven years ago. Not ever.

  Chapter Eight

  The Cliché

  He’d been about to kiss her. What in the devil was going on? Lucian retreated quickly and made a show of studying the prospect from the window. Looking out onto the open expanse of grass that led down to the bridge he remembered the sight he had come across—a young lady leaning against the stone, her curls blowing in the breeze. For several moments, she had appeared...interesting. Riveting almost. With the sun glinting off her blonde tresses and her shapely figure shown to great advantage, his heart had done some sort of strange flip.

  And again in the library. After studying the pictures of her, he had turned to find the sight of her oddly arresting. Even with those straight eyebrows and that too long nose, there was something wholly fascinating to her features. As though she were a painting simply viewed from the wrong angle and when one caught her from the right side, she became completely enchanting. He considered those black and white images of her and how she had seemed so unlike the scarecrow he had remembered her to be. Yes, she was certainly not as graceful as she was now but radia
nce shone from her.

  Lucian groaned inwardly. Hell, he would be spouting poetic words of her beauty before long and little Ellie Browning had never been beautiful. And he had never spouted poetry. Not even in the pursuit of attractive widows.

  “I hear the state rooms rival that of some of the palaces in England,” he muttered, keeping his gaze latched onto the view though not really seeing the lush lawns.

  He was too aware of her movement behind him. Of the crinkle of her skirts and the slight sigh of the fabric as she sat, somewhere in the periphery of his vision. All he saw was a blur of blue. Against the dark wood of the room and the red and gold wallpaper, she was like a beacon of light. Like a sunny sky breaking a storm. Devil take it, there he went with the poetic thoughts again. Her accident had affected him worse than he’d realized. He’d hardly slept a wink.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turned to face the room and slipped onto the chair facing the fireplace. He had a good view of the photos and her husband’s vast collection of bugs and insects. He hadn’t been humoring her with his compliments of her husband’s interest but bugs did not do anything for him. How she had tolerated years of looking at the blasted things and travelling to God knows where just to catch a glimpse of one was beyond him.

  “Shall I ring for some tea?” she asked.

  Lucian frowned at her for too long. He knew he’d taken too long about it because she began to fidget. “Yes, do,” he finally managed to spit out.

  It had been so long since he’d taken tea with someone, he hardly knew what to do. Not that sitting around drinking tea had ever been his style. He was more likely to indulge in some fine spirits, but still he had been known to play the gentleman when needs be. No longer though. Since the fire, he had all but become a recluse. He smirked to himself as Ellie rose to ring the bell and he tracked her movements with his gaze.

  He had become a cliché. The grizzled old man hiding away in his grand old house. Before long he would live in only one room and the vines would grow across the building, blocking out the daylight and keeping away the visitors. Perhaps he would even affect a shuffling walk. If he was very lucky, he would grow a hump to complete the picture.

  He could not help but let his lips twitch at the image. Very well, he had not come that far, but no doubt many would picture him that way—as if the sight of him was not bad enough. Better to let them have their gossip and tall tales of the reclusive Lord Rushbourne than to re-enter society and let them see the truth.

  A footman arrived swiftly, saving him from summoning his meagre knowledge of polite conversation. What the bloody hell had he been thinking in coming here? He should have known he couldn’t very well turn up, check she was still alive and vanish again.

  Once the tea was set down and poured, Ellie dismissed the footman and eyed Lucian over the brim of her cup. “I hope you have not forgotten your promise to have the records sent to me.”

  “I have not. I will not be at the mill for several more days due to estate issues but I’ll have them sent by carriage.”

  Anything to keep her away from the mill. He begrudged having to go to the trouble of sending over the accounts, but what better way of keeping her busy than burying her under a load of books. Goodness knows what she hoped to find.

  “I never pictured you playing the master at a mill.”

  “I do not play,” he responded, aware of the bitter tone to his voice.

  The mill had slowly become his world. He wasn’t sure his lungs could cope without the dusty, smoky air of the mill anymore. The noise had become commonplace. The silence at Balmead was deafening. At the mill, no one cared if he was still an upstanding member of society. As long as they got paid, that was all they cared for. No one stared at him like some hideous disfigured beast. Most were too concerned for their own affairs.

  “I did not mean to imply you did. I just didn’t think cotton interested you.”

  “It didn’t, but when my father died, I had little choice but to become interested.”

  “Yet you must have other affairs that take your attention? Why not simply leave it in the hands of the foremen? Or, if you are concerned, hire someone to keep a close eye. I’m not sure you would see many viscounts rolling up their sleeves and all but living in a mill.”

  “Why should it bother you what I do with my time and where the devil are you pulling all this from?”

  “I only say what I hear.” She took a small sip of tea. “And it bothers me because I have money tied up in your mill, remember? I must make sure my money is in good hands. There are few people who would have trusted you with a penny when we were younger.”

  Lucian clutched the cup in his hand, aware of the fragile china and how easily it could be crushed—a little like seventeen-year-old Ellie. He had made his best attempt at crushing her. Sometimes he had thought he had done a fine job of it but now to see her grown up and throwing her bold words at him, he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps he could let a little of the guilt slip away and tell himself he’d made a decent contribution to helping Ellie see the truth of the world.

  Unlikely. He would just bury it as usual. That had served him well these past years. Bury and forget anything he did not wish to think on.

  “As I am sure you’re aware, Ellie, things have changed. I have changed. The mill needs me.”

  The mill simply couldn’t go under, for what else would he do with his time? He had a capable estate manager and many other hands taking care of everything else.

  “Or you need it?”

  He failed to stop his eyebrows darting up in surprise at her observation. She simply let slip a sly smile as she lifted the cup to her lips once more. He found himself entranced by the purse of those cherry lips as the rim of the cup touched them. His fingers tingled with the desire to do the same. Would she taste good still? They looked softer now and altogether more tempting.

  The cup in his hand slipped while he stared on and he fumbled to keep it from falling from his fingers completely.

  “Blast.”

  Tea sloshed over the side of the cup and soaked the cuff of his shirt and the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Oh dear.”

  Ellie was on her feet before he could protest and had pulled a handkerchief from God knows where to begin dabbing at the sleeve. The handkerchief was warm and had likely been pressed against her skin. Soft, pale skin...

  She crouched before him and pressed the cotton to the stained cuff. “I always think these cups are too small for a man’s hands,” she said sweetly.

  Lucian rolled his eyes and tried to tug his arm back. How like her to blame the china rather than him. “That will do,” he said gruffly.

  To see her crouched before him was too much. Heat burgeoned through him and if he wasn’t careful he’d be pushing her back to the floor and seeing if she really did taste the same as he remembered.

  Except...except this was little Ellie Browning. Why the devil should he want to do a thing like that to her?

  “Let me just... Oh.” She stopped dabbing.

  He glanced down to see some of the red, ugly skin on his arm had been revealed. He yanked his arm back and the movement nearly sent her tumbling. Snatching her arm, he righted her. His hand remained wrapped around her thin arm for several moments while he became aware of the warmth of her skin through the muslin and how fragile she felt.

  “I am sorry. I heard of the fire and...and everything but I did not realize...”

  That he was a ruined beast of a man? That he repulsed himself when he looked in the mirror? He, who had spent so long pondering her looks and appeal—or lack of it—was one hundred times uglier than any scarecrow. Lucian dropped her arm as though it were she who was the source of the fire and she sat.

  “You could have been killed,” she said, her voice hushed.

  “I could have been, but I was not, as you can see.” He lifted his arms as if to demonstrate just how alive he was and regretted it.

  The scarred tissue on his arm pulled and reminded him of th
e touch of flames, the agonizing burning sensation that would not leave for weeks on end. Even now he awoke in pain, as though his skin remembered the flames catching his clothes and crawling quickly up his sleeve to touch his face. Had it not been for the quick actions of one of the foremen to throw a blanket over him, he might have lost more than some of his good looks. He was damned lucky it did not reach his eyes or singe more than the edge of an eyebrow.

  But when the pain was as fresh and as raw as ever and he awoke alone, in an empty house, he did not feel so lucky.

  “Do they know how the fire started?”

  “No. Though it was suggested a cigarette started it. Cotton fluff burns like the devil. No right-minded mill owner lets their workers smoke in the mill but there will always be those who chance it.”

  “I...I am so sorry.”

  Lucian stared at her for a good while. Regret sat deep in those grey eyes—eyes that drew him in like a whirlpool. She, of all people, offering him sincere sympathy. He did not deserve it. She reached over and he snatched his hand away before she could touch him, forcing her to fist her hands in her lap.

  “I suppose you think I deserve as much,” he muttered when he had finally managed to drag his gaze from hers and fix it upon the tea cup.

  “Of course I do not!”

  He shook himself from his thoughts and allowed a grim smile. “No, of course you do not. You, little Ellie Browning, are a far better person than I.” Lucian released a long breath and took some amusement in her open-mouthed expression as he rose. “Forgive me, but I’m glad to see you are well. I will not keep you any longer. No doubt you need some rest.”

  “I’m quite well and have no need of rest, I can assure you.”

  Well, he did not expect her to stay quiet and shocked forever he supposed, but to have her dumfounded for a little longer might have been nice.

  Ellie rose too, adopting that regal posture of hers that never quite seemed to suit. He almost missed the days she was carefree and as loose with her movements as she was with her tongue.