Chapter Three
Cal was not intrigued by the lass who’d climbed through his front window. Absolutely, irrefutably not. He didn’t want her in his house. It was best he be left alone. It was no more than he deserved. Dammit, it would be better for the both of them if she just left!
‘Did you hear me, Your G-Grace?’ She faltered over his title as though she still didn’t quite believe him. A small part of him hated her for it, though a bigger part didn’t blame her. Hadn’t he heard enough times from his stepmother that he wasn’t worthy of his father’s title and property? That his brother should have inherited instead? That Cal didn’t act like a duke or speak like one—or even look like one?
And the gossip rags had wasted no time agreeing with her. What was it they’d written about him when his father and brother had died four years ago? Who was he fooling? He could recite all the articles by heart.
Nothing more than a rough-and-tumble Scotsman … The man who has prospered from the bad fortune that has haunted his family … Murderer …
‘Aye, I heard ye, lass. Doesn’t mean I’m going to let ye stay just because ye’re threatening a temper tantrum.’ A flash of lightning momentarily lit up the sky behind her, casting a bright light around her head like a halo. Cal almost laughed. Like hell she was an angel. Angels didn’t have plain old English names like Ellen Smith. Companions to elderly grandmothers did. Spinsters did.
He shuddered. God forbid there should be a spinster in his house, even a pretty, curvaceous one. Crazy, bossy things, spinsters were.
As if to prove his point, the wee devil marched back to the chaise longue and sat down. ‘Temper tantrum,’ she repeated. ‘Hardly!’ Swishing her skirts into place as much as she could in their sodden state, she crossed her hands in her lap, looking exactly like a respectable lady who’d come to call during visiting hours.
He crossed the room in three mismatched steps, stopping before her knees. Despite the wear and tear of her clothes, she was very well put together. Before her, he suddenly felt cumbersome, like his body was too big for the room. A lummox of a man.
She didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, she examined one gloved hand as if she had nothing in the world to worry about. And that miniature bag of hers hung innocently from her wrist as if he hadn’t been hit over the head with it less than a quarter hour ago.
What did she even keep in there? More to the point, however did she fit anything in there? It was positively tiny. Like herself.
‘I’ll throw ye out,’ he threatened.
Still she didn’t bother looking up at him. ‘Empty threats, Your Grace.’
Anger boiled in the pit of his stomach. He was many things, but a liar wasn’t one of them. Yet she was right, damn her. Unless he was going to drag her bodily from the room, he didn’t think there was any way he could get her off that chaise longue. She was like a terrier with a bone—stubborn and self-bloody-righteous. So much for her being in awe of him because he was a duke. That had lasted all of three short seconds.
Hellfire and damnation. Bossy spinsters. Give him a choice and he’d never go near them. He limped back to the fireplace, accidentally kicking the empty whisky bottle as he went. It skidded across the floor away from him. What he wouldn’t do for a drink right now.
***
Footsteps sounded as the Scotsman retreated back across the room, and Ellen let out an inaudible sigh. For a second she’d thought he’d actually toss her over his shoulder and march her out the front door like a sack of flour at a mill.
Now he stood before the fire with his hands tucked into his pockets and his feet firmly planted like a solid, immovable mountain of a man. He had none of the fine airs her brother was forever trying to exude but had never obtained. What he did have was the confidence that came with years of giving orders that were obeyed and never questioned.
Of course he was no footman. She should have realised that at once.
Behind him hung a portrait of another man whose features she could see more clearly in the flicking firelight than the duke’s own. It was probably one of Lord Woodhal’s long-dead ancestors. He had something of the fair-haired, sweet-faced Hermes about him for all that he was dressed in elaborate turn-of-the-century frills. She was hard-pressed to see how anyone could have taken him seriously.
Ellen dropped her gaze back to the man standing before her. His hair was more ordinary brown than gold, and he didn’t strike her as someone who’d wear the colour asparagus even if his eyes turned out to be green as his ancestor’s.
Ellen wriggled on the chaise longue. She was hungry, cold and wet. Her backside ached after two long days sitting on the wooden bench of the mail coach and all she really wanted to do was sleep. She glanced towards the clock on the writing desk: a quarter to seven. Was that all?
Her body longed to move to the fireside where the warmth would chase away the chill creeping into her bones. Not that she would ever give His Grace the satisfaction of knowing just how tired and cold she really was. If she had to, she’d sit here all night.
A dark shape by her foot snuffled. Ellen jumped. It was an old dog, sound asleep. His fur was decidedly scruffy and there was a crinkle in his tail like it had been broken and healed crooked.
Ellen shifted an inch or two further away. He was the ugliest dog she’d ever seen. Mr Walter back in Evendale had dogs that were more pleasing to the eye and they were notoriously bad tempered. The one sleeping at her feet had scars on his snout and one of his ears was missing a chunk as if something had taken a bite out of it. If the saying about dogs being like their masters was true, this one would probably attack if she got too close.
‘He’s deaf,’ grunted the duke, as if that explained everything.
She looked away. Thank goodness the dog hadn’t been able to hear her tumble through the window. An angry Scotsman was more than enough to deal with.
Before her, said Scotsman swayed on the spot.
‘I do believe you’re drunk,’ she said. ‘I can smell the whisky from here.’ Perhaps the alcohol went some way to explaining his behaviour tonight. Perhaps he wasn’t normally this…much.
‘Drunk?’ He shoved a hand through his too-long mane of dark hair, looking startlingly like a wild man. ‘Lass, I’m not even sure I’m awake.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘This is certainly no dream, Your Grace.’ If anything, it was a nightmare.
Unbidden, Geoffrey surfaced to the front of her thoughts. He’d be looking for her by now, although there was no way he’d be able to find her in London. The city was too big. Verity and Maggie were the only two who knew exactly where she was, and they’d never tell her secret.
‘You’re shaking.’ The duke sounded decidedly unimpressed.
‘Yes, well…’ He could not know of Geoffrey or Gwen. If he found out about them, he’d surely tell his grandmother, and Ellen couldn’t risk anyone knowing. She needed this position. ‘Don’t think I didn’t see you kick that empty bottle across the room a few moments ago,’ she snapped, on the defensive. ‘And this.’ She’d caught sight of something that had been pushed haphazardly between the back of the golden chaise longue and an embroidered cushion and pulled it out. It was an empty crystal glass. ‘At least you were sober enough at the beginning of the evening to pour yourself a drink.’
‘Lass, that’s been there since last week. Tonight I drank straight from the bottle.’
‘I don’t doubt that, Your Grace.’ She placed the glass on the small table by the settee.
What would it be like to be so wealthy that you could treat a crystal glass in such a fashion? She didn’t doubt the set was worth more than a year’s pin money.
His attention had settled on something over her shoulder and with a decisive nod he started towards the window.
‘What are you doing?’ Her eyes widened in alarm.
‘Don’t want anyone else climbing in. Ye’re enough trouble to last me a lifetime.’
‘But my luggage is still outside.’
‘So?’
‘No key,’ he said predictably. Reaching up, he grasped the sash window.
She rushed to his side. ‘My portmanteau!’ They couldn’t leave it outside. All her remaining worldly goods were in that truck. Her clothes, Gwen’s first baby tooth, a fragment of her father’s handwriting, a lock of her mother’s hair. Nothing of her brother’s.
‘I don’t care. It cannot come inside.’ And he turned his head to glare down at her.
Ellen’s breath caught in her chest. This close to the window she could see his face: straight nose, proud forehead, strong chin and… It was a scar, as she’d suspected. It slashed down the left side of his face, cutting through his eyebrow and cheekbone.
A warning rumble reverberated up his chest, but Ellen couldn’t take her eyes off his face. It wasn’t just one scar. It was many scars, all twisted together, heedless of pattern or shape, contorting the left side of his face. It was as though someone had whipped his cheek again and again until his skin had split and bled.
He looked nothing like the ancestor hanging over the fireplace. Where the man in the painting was pale and insipid, Lord Woodhal was dark and stormy like the rain outside.
‘Do ye always stare?’ His voice was dangerously low.
‘N-no, Your Grace. I’m sorry.’ She tore her gaze from his face but almost immediately she was looking at him again. His scars were wild. They ran any which way, with no distinction between cheek or forehead or chin. He was lucky to have escaped with his eye.
Lucky? Balderdash!
‘What happened to you?’
‘Nothing.’ Brusque. Abrupt. End-of-conversation style. And this time he really meant business. He was watching her through hooded eyes, the lines tight around his mouth. He looked…ashamed? Yes. That was it. And tired. Like he hadn’t slept in years and years.
‘Crazy Calum,’ he grunted into the silence.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The bastard with the bad leg and the scars ugly enough to give children nightmares.’ The self-mocking tone was undeniable.
‘Who told you that?’ Her words were barely more than a whisper, but they were standing so close there was no way he couldn’t have heard, even though he didn’t reply.
Was this the reason he didn’t want her in his house—because he didn’t want her to see his face? Was this why she’d found him asleep on the settee at twilight, an empty bottle of whisky on the ground? She had so many questions. When had it happened? Was it an accident or had someone done this to him?
Without thinking, she brushed her fingertips down his cheek. He flinched but didn’t pull back.
His skin was hot; his whole body radiated heat. She could feel it seeping into her hands, warming her chilled fingers.
His gaze was locked on her slightly parted lips. She snapped her mouth shut and snatched her hand back. As she moved, her reticule swung back and forth, still dangling from her wrist.
He cleared his throat. ‘What do ye even have in there? Rocks?’
She raised her chin, defensibly. ‘Maybe.’
‘Rocks,’ he repeated, his eyebrows raising and a hand jumping to his head where she’d hit him. ‘Ye’ve got to be fooling me!’
She shrugged, clutching the reticule to her chest. She couldn’t very well tell him that she’d starting carrying pebbles in her bag to use as a weapon to protect herself the day Geoffrey had first hit her. She couldn’t possibly tell him that she’d never been brave enough to actually defend herself against her brother’s fists. That when he’d finally turned his attention towards Gwen, the only thing she managed to do was scream and beg, and that the instant he’d left the house, she’d packed their bags and sent that beautiful, sweet little girl off with Maggie and run away to London.
‘I’m unchaperoned,’ she said instead. It was all she could think to say. ‘I don’t want anyone thinking they can take advantage of me.’
He pulled back half an inch to examine her expression more closely, and that was all the cue she needed. Knocking his hand out of the way, Ellen reached through the window to feel for the portmanteau that she had dragged with her along to the window. Unfortunately this would be a whole lot easier if she could climb outside and lift her portmanteau in that way—assuming she could even lift it by herself—but she was sure the duke would take the opportunity to lock the window behind her.
‘Give over!’ he demanded, his voice back to its usual loud and angry resonance.
She ignored him. Her fingertips brushed the top of her portmanteau. Thankfully, the eaves overhead had protected it from the worst of the rain. If she just leaned a little further, she should be able to reach the side handle. She raised herself up onto her tippy toes. And then something wet touched the back of her leg.
She startled in surprise and her feet left the floor as she pitched forward.
Chapter Four
For the second time that evening, Cal found himself with his hands around Miss Smith’s slim waist. He’d caught her before he even realised he’d moved. Turning her to face him, he set her before the hearth, a safe distance from the window. She clutched at the front of his wrinkled shirt, her face pale.
Her hold sent sparks skittering over his chest.
The top of her head was scarcely level with his shoulders. He could have tucked her under his arm for a perfect fit.
She was uncommonly pretty, even though her soaking bonnet had sagged low and a wet strand of hair had glued itself to her cheek. It was difficult to be sure when she was so wet, but the darkness of her hair, eyebrows and eyelashes made him think she had some Mediterranean heritage—Italian, most likely. And she had a rather sharp jaw with a small chin that drew attention to the curve of her mouth. She was also older than he’d first supposed, maybe four and twenty.
And her lips, he realised with a start, were the same colour as his favourite strawberry jam. Delicious. And distinctly…irresistible.
He gave his head a shake to dislodge such rogue thoughts. ‘T’was just the dog nosing the back of yer leg that frightened ye.’
Tzar had finally decided to show a little interest in the lass, and she’d almost fallen out the window in surprise. Finding the whole event entirely satisfying, Tzar was now staring up at Miss Smith as though hoping she’d do something else to entertain.
‘I was startled, not frightened.’
There was barely an inch of space between them. He could feel her chest move with each breath, and when he looked down he saw where her damp gown had stuck to his shirt.
Following the direction of his gaze, she tensed. ‘You can let go of me now, Your Grace.’
‘I will,’ he countered, ‘if ye let go of me first.’
A deep blush crept up her throat to stain her cheeks, and she snatched her hands back.
He released her, immediately hating himself for wanting to pull her closer. It had been more than four long years since he’d held a woman. Four years since the fire; four years since his brave, kind half-brother had died, leaving Cal the sole heir to an estate and title he neither desired nor deserved.
Pierce shouldn’t have died. Not like he had. Not when Cal had survived.
He shoved his hands under his arms. He deserved nothing more than to be left alone in this empty house with his memories and guilt, his drink and his father’s old books as his only companions. His gaze fixed on the woman standing before him, the woman who should not have been there. ‘Leave. Me. Alone!’
Silence met his shout. Then she turned on her heel and darted from the room. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway, in the opposite direction to the entrance. An inner door opened and closed.
‘Nay! Don’t go further inside.’ He looked down at Tzar, who’d been watching the drama unfold, and the tip of his tail waged. ‘Women,’ scoffed Cal.
The dog just blinked up at him, as if to say, ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
&nbs
p; ‘Reinforcements.’ Ha! If only that were true. He limped down the dark, narrow hallway. The sound of his mismatched footsteps echoed like the beat of a regimental drum. Behind him came the sharp clicks of Tzar’s nails on the floorboards as the old dog laboriously followed.
The next room down was the library. The curtains were closed. He couldn’t see anything but the dark outline of the bookshelves. He crossed the room intending to rip the curtains open, but a quick intake of breath stopped him mid-stride.
‘I know ye’re in here, wee lass. Ye canna hide from me.’ At least she hadn’t gotten very far. If she’d run upstairs, he’d would have been searching half a dozen empty bedrooms. And downstairs was a maze of cold, dank cellars rarely used.
‘I’m not hiding,’ she snapped. ‘I vacated the front parlour in favour of leaving your ungentlemanly presence.’
‘Ungentlemanly?’ Back to that already, were they? Well, he’d heard worse insults. A hundred of them. ‘Would a gentleman have let ye fall to your death?’
‘I wouldn’t have died. It was only a few feet.’
‘Ye would have hit yer head on the edge of yer trunk.’ He turned towards her voice. She must be standing behind his father’s desk, closer to the towering bookshelves lining the far wall than to the door he’d just entered through.
He stepped over the red-velvet footrest he couldn’t see but knew was there. His wounded knee throbbed like an old man’s.
‘Don’t come any closer.’
‘’Tis my own library. I can come and go as I please.’
Ignoring the incessant thumping in his head, he lit the candles standing sentry on either corner of the mantel. He was right: she was standing just a few feet from the window, with her back to the books. Stepping before her, he pulled out a small bundle of bank notes from the top drawer of the desk.
‘Here.’ He pushed them into her hand. ‘This should be more than enough to cover the fee Lady F promised ye. Take it and go back to wherever ye came from. Go home.’
The Unworthy Duke Page 3