by Wendy Vella
His insides shriveled. He recognized that look. He had been avoiding it ever since he had turned seventeen. Mothers spotted him and saw a target for which to send their daughters towards.
“Are you well, my dear?” she asked Ellie.
“Quite well, Mama. As Viscount Rushbourne was saying, I had need of some air. It is terribly stifling in there and I have been dancing the entire evening.”
“You have indeed.” Lady Browning glanced at him. “She is quite popular with the local gentleman here. I dare say my little Ellie has gained many admirers tonight.”
Lucian found himself holding onto Ellie’s arm a little tighter. No doubt they were all angling for a shot at her wealth. Damn fools. There was more to life than wealth and more to...well, more to Ellie than that too.
“Will you come in and dance, my lord?” Ellie’s mother asked as they began their stroll back to the house. She slipped her arm through his and he was surrounded by Browning women. Lord, what a fix he had found himself in.
“I seldom dance these days, my lady.”
“But you will make an exception for Ellie, will you not?”
“Mama!” Ellie’s protest came.
“Of course I shall,” he replied through gritted teeth. Good Lord, the last thing he needed was more touching, more staring. He’d had quite enough of Ellie Browning for one night, thank you very much.
It interested him, however, how the baroness did not find him as repulsive a prospect as she had when he had been caught kissing Ellie. He had thought he would be done for. As good as married. But the parents had insisted on her marrying Edward so as to ‘save’ Ellie from him.
The baroness disengaged her arm and waved them towards the dance floor. He was surprised she did not shove him forwards, or better yet, boot him up the arse to ensure he could not back out. A waltz was starting up. He groaned inwardly. Perfect.
Dancers filled the floor and Lucian led Ellie out to join them, her gloved hand tucked into his. He swallowed and felt a trickle of sweat drip down his spine. He’d not danced since the fire and it seemed all eyes were upon him.
Ellie’s grip tightened on his hand. He peeked at her to see her throat work and when he brought her into position, placing his palm on her waist, he noted the frantic flutter of the pulse in her neck. Much as he would have liked to have thought he could claim to have that effect on her, from the rigid tension in her body, he strongly suspected it was nerves.
“Do you not like the waltz? I thought you enjoyed dancing,” he said quietly before the orchestra started up.
“Yes, country dances, and ones where no one was watching me carefully to see me make the wrong moves,” she replied through clenched teeth.
“No one is watching you carefully, Ellie. They are all staring at me. I have not attended a ball since the fire.”
Her eyes widened a little. “So why attend this one?”
He lifted a shoulder. “It would have been impolite for me not to.” The words felt hot on his tongue, as though the lie had scalded him. Yet that had been his reasoning. However, now he was not sure if he had not wanted the excuse to come and see her.
The music began and so did the dancers. Lucian found his feet remembered and he swept her easily around the dance floor. For a while she remained rigid and hard to maneuver, like a stubborn mount, but as she eased into it and began to trust him, her body began to mold to his and their movements became fluid. By halfway through the dance, her cheeks had filled with warmth and a sparkle had entered her gaze.
“See? You did not need to fear.”
“Shhh, I’m concentrating.”
He laughed. “I do not believe that for a moment. You are a natural.”
“Not normally I am not,” she confessed.
Did that mean something? That she became fluid and elegant in his arms? Under the golden light of the chandeliers, her hair glowed like a halo around her head. Vibrancy and a youthful shine emanated from her while he grew aware of the small waist under his palms. He felt the boning of her corset and each rise and fall of her ribs. She shifted a little closer when the music swelled and they nearly danced into another couple. Heat radiated between them and if he was not careful he was going to disgrace himself on the dance floor in front of the entire county.
Damn and blast, what was happening?
When the dance ended, she uttered a breathless, “Thank you.”
The surroundings began to filter in and he noted many sets of eyes were upon them, including eager male eyes. Deep inside, his gut clenched and annoyance knifed through him. He made a great show of leading her off the dance floor as though she were his before dropping a kiss to her gloved fingers.
Ellie’s crimson lips parted when he did so. A tingle raced through him at the touch of fabric to his lips. When had he ever been excited by kissing a blasted glove? Christ, it really must have been far too long. Perhaps it was time to seek out someone to join his bed for the night—most likely a paid companion, for who else would have him now?
Ellie?
Pish, not likely. The woman went rigid in his arms when he tried to kiss her and he could not forget the damage he had done to her. He wouldn’t make it worse by pursuing her. Besides which, she was a wealthy, well-travelled widow. From the looks she was garnering, she had her pick of admirers.
What was the world coming to when he considered tumbling little Ellie Browning and it looked like half the male population of Yorkshire did too?
“Thank you, Lucian,” she said breathlessly. “I enjoyed that.”
“As did I,” he confessed before he could stop himself.
More warmth entered those grey eyes. How had he ever thought them dull? But before he could say anything further, a nearby gentleman requested the next dance from her. Lucian glared at him and wished for the ability to stare holes into the man’s head, but apparently he didn’t have such an ability as the man was still standing.
Ellie consented and bid Lucian good evening, leaving him standing on the edge of the dance floor, powerless to do anything but seethe as she was swept into another man’s arms. It was no good. He would have to try harder to rid himself of Ellie and this peculiar effect she had on him. No more indulging her feminine whims to have some kind of a say in the mill. No more, he promised himself, as he turned away from the sight of her beaming smile and another man’s hands upon her.
No more.
Chapter Twelve
The Power of a Damp Shirt
When Lucian did not contact Eleanor about the accounts even a week later, she took it upon herself to ride to Balmead. Let him see if he could ignore her again when she was on his doorstep. Admittedly he had done a fine job of it the first few times she had tried to meet with him, but they were not yet reacquainted at the time. Surely he would not do so again?
He did not, but he seemed in an awful mood when he led her into the study. Lucian’s behavior had been odd at the ball if she thought about it—the abrupt declarations of wrongdoing and the way he had held her so tenderly as he danced with her. There had even been a softness in his eyes that she’d never seen before. Who was this man?
Though she had to admit, as he thrust a finger towards the stack of books with an almost grunt like sound, she recognized this man. He had been like this with her at their first meeting and then on the train. But why the sudden reversion?
“I will not take long,” she promised as she settled herself behind the mahogany desk and studied the spines.
He snorted. “You have two years’ worth here, my lady. You’ll be lucky if it does not take you more than two years to read through the things.”
Eleanor sighed. Yes, he was probably right, but there were a few things she wanted to look into. Some discrepancies in the latest reports that she needed to compare to the older ones.
Striding over to the window, he turned his back to her. “I don’t see what you think you will find.”
She found herself admiring that back, even if he was being deliberately rude. Her fingers ti
ngled as she remembered what it felt like to touch those wide shoulders and be held practically against him. Lucian’s body spoke of hard work and time in the saddle. He used to fence, she recalled. Did he still do so? And what would that hard body look like out of his frock coat and shirt? The only man she had seen properly unclothed was Edward and there hadn’t been much of him that was hard, though he had been lean. Some of the natives they had met had not worn much but she doubted any looked like Lucian.
“I do not mean to insult your staff, my lord,” she finally replied, feeling the need to dampen the heat rising up her neck.
Eyes narrow, jaw set, he whirled on her. “Goddamn it, Ellie, we have known each other since infancy. I am Lucian. Cease this prim and proper act before I lose my wits. Enough with this ‘my lord’ nonsense.” He mimicked her voice briefly. “You are above me. You could call me a bloody donkey’s arse if you wanted to, but enough with ‘my lord’.”
Eleanor’s ears burned at his coarse language and she was half tempted to shrink into the chair and slide under the table to hide. Drawing her shoulders back, she summoned the courage that had pushed her through the last seven years of her life. No matter what people thought of her, how plain they deemed her to be, she would strive to be the best she could be and that meant behaving with grace and certainty.
“I shall cease calling you my lord when you cease calling me Ellie.”
He glared at her for a long time. She was mighty glad looks could not kill or else she would have been dead in seconds. The ticking of the grandfather clock to her left echoed in her ears.
“I will not cease. It is your name is it not?”
“My name is Lady Eleanor Sedgewick, Countess of Hawthorne. Not Ellie or Ellie Browning or little Ellie or anything of that nature. I beg you to remember that.”
More ticking. More long moments of being stared at and then his shoulders dropped a little. “You’re right, I should remember that. Forgive me, my lady.” He unlatched his hands from behind him and gestured to the bell pull. “Simmons has been instructed to bring you tea and will be attending to you should you need him.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, regret drumming in her chest at his dulled expression. She almost wished he was shouting at her or trying to aggravate her in some manner. This side of Lucian she didn’t know what to do with.
“For a ride. Good day, my lady.”
“Good...” —he was gone, striding out of the door— “day,” she finished softly. “Oh dear.”
Eleanor clutched her hands in front of her on the desk and puzzled over the man. She might not like him, but she had little intention of aggravating him so badly. But she really needed to make sure this mill was running to the best of its abilities. For one, many lives depended on the mill but more importantly she could make life better for the workers. For people like Jane.
Resigning herself to the knowledge she would never understand Lucian, she set about organizing the books into piles and setting up some paper. She had a long day ahead and thoughts of the handsome, green-eyed rake would not help her concentration.
Simmons swiftly arrived with tea and biscuits. Handsome and tall, the footman did not have the talkative temperament of Lucian’s housekeeper and she wished it was her attending her instead. Then maybe she could find out what was wrong with Lucian.
Around mid-afternoon, she took herself for a walk around the house to stretch her legs and ease her aching back. Evidence was building but nothing was pointing to anything in particular. There were orders that appeared to have gone unfulfilled and a few errors as if someone was trying to hide something. But what? If someone was embezzling, she doubted it would get past Lucian that easily and he had enough staff for someone to have picked up on it.
As she walked along the gallery that would take her back to the study, she paused to admire the portrait of Lucian. It had to be a few years old, before the fire. That devilish twinkle was still in his eyes. If one compared it to his father’s portrait, which was directly next to his, one saw the difference in attitude between the men. Lucian had an indolent, wicked sort of posture—one that told the world he knew exactly how handsome he was and he was going to take advantage of it. While his father had been handsome too, the man’s stiff lip and stern expression spoke of hard work and not much else. She remembered the viscount had always spoken of the benefits of a hard day’s work.
But what interested her most was she now recognized that look in Lucian. The playfulness sometimes returned—like the night of the ball when she thought he would kiss her—but for the most part there was a seriousness to his brow and an echo of something painful in his eyes.
Had she been dismissing him as nothing but a rake and a philanderer when he really had wanted to make amends with her that night? Did he see her as something other than little Ellie Browning, even if just for a moment? When he had stared down at her, his mouth so close to hers, she had believed so.
With one last look at his portrait, she continued down the gallery. A movement out on the lawns caught her eye and she paused to peer out of the window. The day had grown drizzly and the window panes were spattered with rain drops so she had to practically press her nose to the glass to view Lucian approaching the house on horseback. Where had he been in this weather?
She felt like a child pressing her nose to the window of a sweet shop to eye all the beautiful treats when he dismounted and handed over his reins to the stable hand. His lithe movements made her body ache. Oh, to be pressed against it again.
Eleanor shook her head. Foolish girl. What was wrong with her? Now was not the time to be developing an infatuation with him again. Not that there was ever a time that was appropriate. She hurried along the gallery to the study and sealed herself in the room before he could catch her. Dreaming of Lucian was never a good idea—it had been a mistake seven years ago and it certainly would be a mistake now. Clearly she hadn’t managed to grow up as much as she had hoped.
Rolling her neck, she rang the bell and settled down at the desk. More tea ought to do it. Tea was the cure to everything, as everyone well knew. Her stomach grumbled a little and she hoped Simmons brought her some biscuits too. She stared at the ledger in front of her for several moments but the words had somehow picked up from the page and all swapped places and become nonsense. She rested her chin on her hand and huffed in frustration. She could not see the words properly because a certain set of blazing eyes had imprinted themselves in front of her vision.
“Damn him.”
“Something the matter?”
Heat rushed into her cheeks and she snapped her head up to see Lucian entering with a tray of tea. He laid it down on the console table and began pouring himself a cup. Eleanor gaped like a fish. Had he heard her coarse language? Why was he bringing her tea? And what was he thinking coming in here looking like that?
Each breath grew more difficult the longer she looked. He perched himself against the table and languidly sipped his tea. The small cup reminded her of how fragile she had felt in his arms. Much like the china, his hands dwarfed her own tiny ones but she never feared he might break her. She had felt protected in those strong arms.
“Well?”
Eleanor snapped her gaze away from where he had divested himself of his cravat. His hair was damp and curling, as was the front of his shirt. Unwittingly her gaze dropped again. Even the flesh at his collar had a sheen to it. Her fingers twitched and she forced her hands down into her lap to clench them together lest she give into the voice in her head that was screaming at her to touch that damp flesh.
“No...no...” she squeaked and coughed. “Nothing wrong. Have you been riding?” She groaned inwardly. What an inane question.
“Yes.” His gaze fixed on hers and the air around her grew thick and intense, as though she were caught in a storm.
“It is hardly the sort of weather for riding. Did you have something important to do?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Have you made much
progress?”
“Pardon?” Eleanor stared at him for several moments before remembering what she was meant to be doing. “Oh, the books. Yes, though I am nowhere near done I’m afraid.”
“Will you not join me for some tea? You could do with a break.”
“I did just take a walk around the house,” she confessed. Though she longed for a warm cup, she didn’t think her legs would cooperate and moving closer to Lucian when he was dressed like that would be a mighty mistake. “You look...damp. Perhaps you should change?”
He lifted a shoulder and placed down the cup of tea to slip off his jacket and hang it over the back of one of the red leather chairs. Next came his waistcoat. Eleanor watched him undo each button, both horrified and fascinated. Good Lord, she hoped he stopped there. And she hoped he did not. To get a look at that wide chest...
She began fanning herself with a sheet of paper and had to slap it down. His lips twitched and she narrowed her gaze at him as he came to settle directly in front of her once more. The damp front of his shirt stuck to his chest and his movements had sent several drips of water trailing down his face and neck. Eleanor’s gaze followed those trails as they vanished under his shirt.
“I hope you don’t mind my state of undress. I’m not one for formality in my home.”
That proved it. He was toying with her. She was not sure what his intention in making her uncomfortable was, but she would not fall foul to his games.
“Not at all.” Her responding smile felt fragile but, regardless, she stood and walked over to help herself to tea.
“Allow me.” His fingers grazed hers as he took the teapot from her and poured. “You have two sugars, if I recall correctly.”
“How do you remember that?”
“I remember many things about you.” Lucian dropped two sugars in her tea and poured the milk without spilling a drop—and without taking his gaze from hers.
A damp curl of dark hair dropped across his forehead when he leaned forwards to place the cup in her hands. Once again, their fingers brushed and tingles raced up her arms. The fragile china cup slipped from her fingers and it seemed to happen slowly. She watched in horror as it dropped to the floor, tea splashing from it, up the hem of her skirt and across the red carpet. The cup rolled to a stop under the table.