The Unworthy Duke

by Charlotte Anne

  ***

  Home. She blinked. What did that even mean?

  Geoffrey? Gwen? Maggie? Her parents’ graveside?

  No. She didn’t have a home to go back to. There was nothing for her in Evendale but pain and misery and fear. London, working for Lady Faye—there was hope for her in this great city, where nobody knew who she was or anything of her family’s past.

  Ellen glanced at the bank notes he’d stuffed into her fist. It was a lot of money. More than she’d seen in a very long time. She and Gwen could live off this money for a few months. And she could pay Maggie back for the coach ticket.

  Then what? She’d be without shelter and employment. Gwen was relying on Ellen providing a future for the two of them away from Geoffrey, and she could only start building that future if she could earn some money. And without a new character reference, she was unlikely to find another position. It was a miracle she’d been accepted into Lady Faye’s household in the first place. What the duke was offering was only a temporary solution.

  She opened her fist, and the notes fluttered to the floor.

  ‘You can’t get rid of me that easily, Your Grace. I’m the daughter of a gentleman. I accepted a position with your grandmother and I intend to keep it, so long as she wants me. I won’t go back on my word.’

  ‘Of course ye won’t.’ He scowled down at her.

  The room was small for a library. The old, heavy books lining three of the walls from floor to ceiling seemed to bear down on her.

  She’d stumbled into this corner of the room because it had been the furthest from the door. Now she felt trapped. He was standing uncomfortably close. And the dog was sitting on the rug just inside the door, as though barring her escape.

  She stepped to the side but bumped into the large desk. Something fluttered to the floor, and she glanced down.

  Newsletter cuttings littered the desk top. They were a couple of years old, the pages yellowing and the corners curling. She skimmed her hand over the sheets, catching glimpses of headlines. Shipping Intelligence. Lloyd’s Marine List. Births, Deaths and Marriages. As well as an etching of a ship. According to the caption it was HMS Surus, a fully rigged 80-gun warship.

  ‘Can’t ye mind yer own business for one damn second?’ the duke growled. ‘Get away from my things.’ He took hold of her wrist as though to guide her to the door, and Ellen let out an involuntary cry of pain as his fingers dug into her bruises despite his light hold. She flinched away from him, and he pulled back, startled.

  ‘I hardly touched ye.’

  She wrapped her arms around herself even as the sharp pain faded. ‘But it hurt.’

  ‘Ellen.’ A concerned crease appeared between his brows. ‘Has someone hurt ye?’

  She startled. It was too intimate, the way her name sounded on his tongue. More exotic with his Scottish accent.

  ‘Show me yer arms.’

  She looked about the room again but there was nowhere to run. Where would she go anyway? So Ellen did the only thing she could think of. Straightening her spine to her full height, she filled her voice with as much of Maggie’s forthrightness as she could muster. ‘Of all the ungentlemanly things to demand of a lady, that has to be scrapping the bottom of the barrel, Your Grace.’

  ‘I thought we’d established that I’m no gentleman.’ He sounded considerably less put out than she’d hoped. ‘If ye don’t show me, I’ll pull yer sleeves up myself.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’ She took a step back, bumping up against one of the bookcases.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ His voice deepened with new suspicion. ‘Ye’ve run away. Why else would ye be so determined to stay here with me if ye weren’t already in trouble?’ His eyes narrowed. They weren’t green as she’d predicted, but a deep, dark copper, like the colour of a dying fire, or a sunset right before darkness fell.

  ‘No.’ Ellen tried to laugh it off.

  He looked utterly unconvinced. ‘It’s the only reasonable explanation. Well, ye canna stay here. Ye’ll find no sympathy from me, whatever yer problems are.’

  Her eyes darted to his scars. Day-old stubble littered his uninjured cheek and chin but the other side was bare, the skin too damaged. ‘This is ridiculous.’ She heard the quiver in her own voice. ‘I’m not hiding from anyone. Mrs Verity Nott was kind enough to contact Lady Faye on my behalf as she’d heard that your grandmother was looking for help. Lady Faye agreed to employ me for the upcoming Season. I was to meet her here today.’

  ‘Lass.’ He sighed, sounding for the first time since they’d met less than angry. ‘Show me.’

  Her secret shame. She’d tried so hard to keep the bruises hidden. Even among the gossips and busybodies of Evendale, not one person suspected just how cruel her brother was. Nobody knew that he’d spent the last two years since her father had died constantly grabbing at her wrists, pushing and pulling her, trying to control her every move. Trying to control her every thought. When that hadn’t worked, he’d hit her. Again and again. Nobody knew but Maggie and Verity, and little Gwen, God help her. And now this bad-tempered Scotsman who lived in this big old empty townhouse with crystal glasses and velvet settees and who wasn’t even willing to let her wait for his grandmother out of the rain for fear of them being within sight of each other.

  Well, if Lord Woodhal thought he was the only one who’d suffered just because he had the scars to show for it, he was sorely mistaken. She pressed her lips together, determined not to make a sound as she slowly pulled up the long sleeves of her gown to expose her wrist.

  ‘Who did that to ye, wee lass?’ He spoke through clenched teeth.

  ‘As you said yourself when I asked about your scars,’ she replied curtly, ‘it’s nothing.’

  He remained motionless, his gaze fixed on her bruises. The ticking of the desk clock was the only indication of passing time.

  Ellen too remained motionless, even as humiliation turned her cheeks hot and beads of sweat began to gather on her forehead. Was she daring him to demand more answers or to apologise? She didn’t know. All she knew was that if she tried to move while his eyes were locked on her like that, staring at her as though he couldn’t believe someone had hit her, she might just start crying.

  His expression said it all: disbelief, distress, anger. Seeing his disgusted reaction, she knew this man would never hit her. Then he raised his gaze to meet her eyes and his emotions were abruptly shuttered. ‘This changes nothing.’ And he turned his back on her to pour himself another generous glass of whisky straight from the bottle on the desk.

  ***

  It changed everything.

  A dreadful stillness came over Cal. He clenched his jaw until his mouth ached. The lassie’s wrists were black and blue. He should never have grabbed her like he had.

  He downed his drink in one, quickly pouring himself another. Without turning back around to face her, he raised the glass in a salute. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Her contemptuous tone had returned. She was back to her old self and clearly refusing to talk about what had just happened.

  Ellen Smith as she tried to present herself to the world: a tight-laced pernickety spinster, and thus the perfect lady’s companion. Ellen Smith as he was beginning to suspect she really was: impetuous and decidedly stubborn. And someone clearly held a grudge against her. His mouth turned dry at the thought of someone grabbed at her as they clearly had. Was this the real reason she carried rocks in that wee bag of hers? To ward off unwanted attention?

  No wonder she’d hit him when he’d first caught her.

  ‘Ye should try it sometime.’ The whisky slipped down effortlessly. ‘It really takes the edge off.’

  She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘Just so we’re completely clear, Your Grace: if you drink yourself into a stupor, I’ll not hesitate to drag your unconscious body out the front door and lock it behind you.’

  ‘I’m too heavy.’ Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that she’d covered her arms again and was tapping her foot on the old
red rug. A few loose strands of her damp hair unglued themselves from her neck to dangle over her shoulder in a way that made a man wonder what it would be like to see her without her bonnet, her hair freed of its pins and set loose down her back…

  She tipped her head to one side, contemplating him and then the rug. It was clear as day she was planning to use it as some sort of sled to move his unconscious body.

  He shot her a peevish look then wrenched his gaze away. If anyone was going to be determined enough to drag him through his own house and toss him outside like nothing more than a vagabond, it was surely the woman standing before him.

  ‘It’s no more than you deserve,’ she said. ‘And you would do the same to me. Admit it.’

  ‘Ye’re…’ He spluttered. His house, his rules. ‘Insufferable.’ Admitting defeat—albeit temporarily—he slammed the glass back onto the table. It shattered.

  Tzar scrambled to his feet as fast as his old bones could manage, making a beeline for the shards of glass, undoubtedly searching for spilled food.

  Cal nudged him away with his boot. Tzar gave him a reproachful look before settling down between the lass’s feet.

  Taking sides now, was he? Mangy dog.

  ‘I’m Crazy Calum,’ he reminded her. ‘The creature nightmares are made of.’

  The rest of London believed that particularly juicy piece of gossip so whyever shouldn’t she? Anything to get her out of his house and away from him. She deserved better. The maddening spinster with lips like strawberry jam.

  A long silence. He could almost believe himself to be alone except he hadn’t heard her leave.

  ‘I don’t know, Your Grace. You’re not scary enough to haunt my dreams. In fact, I’m beginning to doubt there are any rumours about you at all. You’re just trying to scare me away from Lady Faye.’

  ‘Ye don’t get it.’ How could she not understand? How could she not see the anguish in his eyes? The guilt? The pain? The rest of the world had—and it had turned its back on him. He tugged his shirt over his head, tearing off a couple of buttons, and stood before the oh-so prim and proper spinster naked from the waist up.

  She moved to turn away from him but he growled a warning. ‘Look. Look at me.’ He turned on the spot so she would take in all the damage. So she could begin to understand just how lonely he deserved to be.

  ***

  Ellen pressed her hands over her mouth. The duke was rippled with muscles—lean and strong. Not an inch of fat to be seen. And scars. His entire left side, from his shoulder, down his arm and chest, was covered in scars. Burns: that’s what they looked like.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ She reached out a hand. Like before, his skin was hot to the touch, and she could feel every one of his scars—jagged, raised. Savage. They weren’t new, probably years old. And completely healed. Although he must be in constant pain because the skin was pulled tight, particularly around his shoulder and neck.

  ‘There was a fire.’ He pulled back. Her hand hung in the empty air between them.

  She tried to pull her thoughts together. He must be in pain. Every time he turned his head. Every time he talked or ate. She could barely comprehend it. No wonder he moved slowly, turned carefully. Each step was calculated and precise. ‘Your limp. Does it, ah, extend all the way down?’ Her eyes dropped to the waist of his breeches. The scars continued down and out of sight.

  ‘Nay, not so far. Though my knee was damaged also. Hit by a piece of shrapnel. Do ye understand now?’ he asked, softly. ‘Do ye understand why ye canna stay here?’

  ‘Shrapnel?’ She looked back at the newspaper clippings scattered over his desk. Every one of them about the Navy, about the war. ‘Were you fighting the French? Was that your ship?’ She pointed to HMS Surus.

  Just two years ago Napoleon had been exiled to St Helena. But before that the war had raged for twelve long years, with countless lives lost. So many mothers and wives of Evendale were now without their sons and husbands. Mourning dress was a common sight.

  The duke made a non-committal sound.

  Even at this distance, she could feel the heat of him seeping through the layers of her clothes. He was like fire, burning hot and wild. He was still bare-chested, and the sight was doing funny things to her knees. She gripped a bookshelf behind her to keep herself upright.

  ‘Ye’re staring again,’ he said roughly. He spoke with intense feeling, craggy and raw like the scars on his face and chest.

  He turned his head to the side, looking out the window, obviously trying to hide the damaged side of his face.

  ‘Why did you show me?’

  ‘Ye need to understand what type of man I am.’

  ‘No.’ She glared at him, a maelstrom of feelings warring for her attention. Chief contenders were anger and attraction. She settled on anger, resolutely ignoring the way his muscles tightened as he crossed his arms. ‘Your scars don’t tell me anything more about who you are than the bruises on my arms. We both know you’re trying to scare me away. But if you thought making me scared of you or making me pity you would get me out of your house, you thought wrong. Nothing and nobody but Lady Faye is going to move me from this library.’

  ‘I could easily carry ye out.’

  ‘You didn’t earlier, and I don’t think you’re going to now.’ Despite his muscular frame, it was unlikely his left arm or even his knee would be quite up to the task of tossing her over his shoulder. It was an ever-so-slightly comforting thought.

  He spluttered for a second, clearly used to giving orders and having people obey him without question. That, more than anything else, confirmed in her mind once and for all that he was indeed a duke. Hammond’s son hadn’t died after all.

  ‘Insufferable woman,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t want yer pity.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’ she demanded. It seemed she was developing a habit for overstepping the mark. Lady’s companions didn’t normally argue with dukes.

  But it was his own fault. Lord Woodhal was pushing her to it. She had to fight fire with fire. Gwen’s safety was her first priority.

  ‘I want ye to understand that this isn’t going to work. Ye being here; none of this is.’

  ‘I understand now that this is your house, but your grandmother invited me here for the duration of the Season. That isn’t so long. Before you know it I’ll be out of your house and out of your life. It’s not as if the two of us are about to be wed or anything so dramatic.’ She determinately kept her gaze locked on his face, refusing to turn away. If she gave him an inch, he’d take a yard.

  ‘I’m half Scottish,’ he scoffed. ‘The Scots are a lot more cantankerous than any wee England lassie.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ She glared. He didn’t look away. She could feel the tension in him, hear each breath and see the rise and fall of his great chest. Awareness raced along her nerve endings. She wanted to feel the ridges of his scars and his muscles. She wanted to circle the tip of her finger around one of his nipples.

  Oh no. That was definitely something a lady’s companion didn’t do.

  ‘Lass…’ he began.

  ‘I’m not moving. Not until I’ve spoken with her ladyship.’ He might not want houseguests, but she had so much more to lose than he did. And she wasn’t giving up. Not after everything she and Maggie and Verity had been through to get her here.

  He fell silent again, his copper coloured eyes narrowing even further. He didn’t even look away a when a key rattled in the front door. A second later someone was traipsing down the passage. Two someones.

  They stopped by the open library door.

  A man’s voice sounded: ‘What the devil is going on here?’

  Ellen didn’t break eye contact. Instead, she smiled up at the duke. ‘I do believe your visitors are referring to the fact that you’re still shirtless, Your Grace.’

  He swore.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Damn, Tattershall.’ Cal broke eye contact with the fearless woman still glaring at him, and groped around for
his discarded shirt. His cousin leaned against the doorframe as he studied Cal and his newly acquired spinster. Cal could only imagine how it looked: a half-naked man towering over a small and rather moist lass. ‘Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?’

  ‘We did.’ His grandmother, Lady Faye, the dowager marchioness, pushed her way into the library, practically toppling Owen over on her way through the door. ‘Nobody answered. Don’t you have any servants?’

  Reaching just over five foot, his grandmother was shorter even than Miss Smith—and round. While she’d always been pale, now her eyelashes were almost invisible and he could see small, broken veins on the side of her nose where her skin had turned almost translucent.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ she snapped at Owen. ‘Light more candles. I refuse to conduct any sort of conversation in the half-dark. Barbarous!’

  Her voice, of course, hadn’t faded. She had a pair of lungs on her that could fan a forge. And it was a voice she put to constant and steady use. A veritable dragon was his grandmother. Any man—soldier, sailor or shoemaker—would quake in their boots if she had a mind to make them.

  Hell, she probably could have won the whole damn war in a single afternoon.

  And now she had in her employ an equally determined companion, a feisty drone to do her bidding. Cal shuddered. He was quickly becoming outnumbered and out manoeuvred, and in his own house of all places.

  ‘Your ladyship.’ The drone curtseyed. ‘I assure you, this isn’t what it looks like.’ She tossed Cal’s bare chest an accusatory glower.

  ‘None other than the glorious ducal warrior in the flesh,’ mocked Owen with an exaggerated bow.

  Cal pulled on his shirt, his fingers fumbling with the remaining buttons. ‘None other than the family’s black sheep in an overabundance of Chinese silk,’ he retorted.

  ‘You must be Miss Smith.’ Lady F interrupted the men, giving Ellen the once-over. She tugged aggressively at the fingers of her kidskin gloves until they came free. ‘Mrs Nott provided me with an excellent character reference, but I have to say that I’m still not completely convinced.’ She slapped her gloves against her other palm.