What a poor replacement for a grandson Cal must be. He and Lady F weren’t even related by blood, just marriage, and even that connection was dubious considering Grace loathed the very sight of him.
He stopped before Owen and kicked lightly at the soles of the other man’s shoes. ‘You know more than you’re letting on.’
‘You don’t scare me.’ Owen straightened, drawing his legs in close to the chair, one arm still around the dog. ‘I’ve known you for too long. I remember you in leading strings.’
‘Nay, I remember you in leading strings.’ He suddenly felt very tired. ‘It’s been a long evening, Owen. I don’t have the patience for this conversation.’
‘It’s only early, old man.’
‘For fuck’s sake, just get out of my house.’
Owen blanched, his smile finally disappearing. ‘You can’t stay locked in here forever. Pierce wouldn’t have wanted—’
‘You don’t know what Pierce would’ve wanted. Nobody knows what he would have wanted because he’s rotting at the bottom on the sea.’ He turned his back on his cousin. He was breathing as though he’d just run a race, and he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. He wanted to hit something so much it was like an ache in his arm.
He heard Owen put the dog down and stand up. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘What did you say?’ Dread, like ice, turned him cold.
‘I’ve read the inquisition report, Cal. Your name was cleared of all suspicion. Nobody on that ship, nobody with half a brain, believes you lit that fire. It was very clearly an accident.’
‘And yet I was suspended under investigation.’ He turned back around to face Owen. His cousin wasn’t as tall as him nor was he a fighter. But he was younger, and he wasn’t wounded or scarred.
‘It was only because—
‘What would you know? You didn’t even have the balls to join up,’ he yelled, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
Owen flinched. But Cal didn’t take it back. He didn’t even apologise. It would be better if Owen hated him, if Owen stopped trying to make him feel better.
‘Nobody cares anymore, Wood. You’re the only one who thinks it still matters.’ The pity in Owen’s gaze was like a brick wall between them.
‘Grace— The newspapers—’
‘Grace didn’t know what she was on about. Her son died; she was grief-stricken. And the newspapers haven’t printed a word about you in almost three years. Most of London has forgotten you even exist.’ Moving to the table, Owen swept his hand over the yellowing newspaper clippings, scattering them to the floor. ‘You’re a grumpy old hermit and you’re barely more than thirty.’ He finally turned his back on Cal, heading for the door.
Tzar let out a low cry, following Owen.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ Owen called from the passage. ‘Tell Lizzy I’ll be back in a few days once they’ve settled in. I’m taking the ladies shopping.’ And he left, his footsteps fading as he traipsed down the passage towards the front door. Even the click of his cane against the floorboards soon disappeared, leaving Cal completely and exceedingly alone.
***
By the time Ellen departed Lady Faye’s chamber, the dowager was snoring softly. She suppressed a yawn of her own, moving down the passage to the next door. The knot between her shoulders eased a little—a difficult day was over finally over. She’d survived the wrath of a duke and been accepted by Lady Faye.
As if summoned by her very thoughts, His Grace came padding down the passage towards her. His stockinged feet made barely a sound; his boots were slung over one shoulder.
‘Your Grace.’ She dipped a curtsy.
‘Miss Smith, everywhere I turn, there you are.’ His voice was tinted with the residue of anger. Whatever he’d been arguing about with Mr Tattershall had left him waspish.
‘Not by design,’ she quickly assured him. Spots of light and shadow cast by the three-arm candelabra she held threw his scars into sharp relief. She could easily see the ridges and hollows where they pulled at the skin on the left side of his face.
‘Why exactly are you lurking in the shadows?’
‘I have to argue against your choice of words. I am not lurking. I just saw your grandmother to her bed.” She paused, steeling herself. “I would like to thank you for not telling her ladyship about the window and our earlier…misunderstanding.’
‘If you think that enough to turn Lady F against you, you’re in for a surprise. My grandmother delights in the absurd. If I’d told her, she probably would have adopted you as her own. Not telling her was most definitely to my own benefit.’ He was frowning again—or perhaps that was just his resting face.
‘Thank you all the same. This opportunity is very important to me.’ More than he could ever know.
‘Just because you and Lady F have managed to browbeat your way into my home for an evening, doesn’t mean I’ve admitted defeat. The two of you might have won the battle, but the war has just begun.’
Ellen eyed the obstinate man before her. He had the potential to make the next few months of her life very difficult. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier for the both of us if we simply called a truce?’ And she held out her hand for him to shake.
He scrutinised her offering disdainfully. She taken off her gloves when they’d sat down to dine, but she doubted that was the source of his displeasure. More likely it was the thought of having to be civil for four months—four excruciatingly long months.
His own appearance was less than perfect. He’d haphazardly shrugged on his crumpled jacket over his crumpled shirt. It was the one she’d seen abandoned on the floor of the drawing room earlier that evening. Despite the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the jacket was clearly a little too large, as though he’d recently lost weight. That, along with his too-long hair, gave the impression he hadn’t been looking after himself. In fact, close up, he looked positively exhausted.
She felt a peculiar urge to start feeding him cream and raspberry trifle.
Or ravish him.
Whoa! Where did that thought come from? Yes, he was devilishly attractive in a dangerous sort of way, but she didn’t even like him. He was an insufferable old grump. And lady’s companions most definitely do not have indecent thoughts about members of their employer’s family. She gave her head a small shake, trying to settle her wayward thoughts. What had they been talking about? She’d just offered him a truce. That was it. ‘Do you accept?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You haven’t even heard my terms and conditions,’ she insisted, entirely unsurprised by his refusal. ‘It would be well worth your while.’
His already thinly pressed mouth pressed into an even thinner line. Understanding this to be the only indication of his consent to listen, she hurried on. ‘What I mean is, if her ladyship asks me to do anything that will have the potential to interfere with your life, I promise to do as little interfering as possible without disobeying her direct order, if you promise—’
‘I will not make such a vow. Thank you very much, Miss Smith, but I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’ He shifted uncomfortably. His wounded knee must have been paining him again. It was a wonder he didn’t need a walking stick, but maybe that had more to do with this self-sacrificing quest he seemed to be on. Or just sheer stubbornness.
Ellen silently cursed. Now she was fighting the urge not only to feed him but also to rub cooling lotion on his scars and massage the tightness from his leg.
Or ravish him.
Oh, no.
***
Miss Smith was watching him with a curious expression on her face. What was that expression? Attraction? Nay. It had been so long since anyone had looked at him with interest that he must be mistaken.
Lady F: concern.
Owen: pity.
Grace: hatred.
The rest of the world: unmistakable suspicion.
She blinked, and there it was again: attraction. And now she was actually smiling at him. How
the deuce was he supposed to conduct a rational conversation when she was smiling at him? His body began to respond.
He brushed past her, limped into his chamber and slammed the door in her surprised face.
Hell and damnation. He wanted her.
He rested his forehead on one post of his four-poster bed, his forearms above his head. In the passage, he heard as she huffed her indignation, and he could easily imagine her glaring at his closed door. A moment later, she retreated down the passage, taking herself off to bed in the guest room furthest from his own.
Miss Smith in bed. In his bed. Naked and beneath him, sweaty and quivering.
Then again, she was a feisty one. Perhaps she’d take charge, toss him onto the bed and take him in hand.
He tried to sink that foolish notion, but already his cock-stand was straining against his breeches, demanding to be taken care of, to no longer be ignored.
Back there in the corridor, his younger self wouldn’t have hesitated to kiss her senseless. His younger self had been untouched by war and loss, his ego controlled entirely by his innocent confidence, his sense of propriety governed only by his desires.
He banged his forehead against the post, and the whole bed shook. He’d been living the life of a hermit for four years, cutting himself off from almost all company, denying himself pleasure; living only with pain and heartbreak.
That’s all I deserve. Because his brother was dead, and it was his fault.
But this sudden need for Ellen driving through his body tonight was like a kind of pain too. So forceful was it. He ground his teeth. What was she doing to him? Just one look and he was ready to melt before her feet.
He unbuttoned his breeches, taking himself in hand.
He didn’t deserve to feel like this. Maybe he was drunker than he’d realised? But his head wasn’t even pounding anymore; all his blood had rushed south.
He tugged, clenching his hand tighter, making himself wince. It was a kind of half torture touching himself like this when he knew no-one else would ever want to, least of all the prim and proper miss just a couple of doors down. A sore reminder that he was alone and would be alone for the rest of his life.
He stuffed his other hand into his mouth, stifling his grunts.
That look she’d given him—not of disgust, not of judgement, not of anger. That look was exactly why he needed her gone from his life.
When his release came, it was anything but freeing.
Chapter Seven
Calum Callaghan, the new Duke of Woodhal and once notorious rake, lately returned from sea, last night was rejected by every eligible debutante at the Hunt’s private ball. It was his first social outing since being acquitted of lighting the fire that killed his half-brother. How will he dare show his scarred face in public again?
—The Daily Tatler, 15 April 1813
‘Why is there a butler, a cook and two maids in my kitchen?’
Ellen put down her sewing as the duke marched into the dining room. He was scowling. Surprise, surprise.
She, on the other hand, was calm. She was serene. She was the perfect lady’s companion. Her new No. 1 rule: to behave, even when being provoked by a vexatious, self-righteous duke.
Rising to her feet, she bestowed upon him her most gracious curtsy. A curtsy that clearly said: ‘I work for your grandmother and don’t answer to you, especially as you didn’t accept my very chivalrous offer of a truce.’
‘Good morning, Your Grace.’
It was the first time she’d seen him since that first night three days ago. He’d locked himself in his bedchamber, refusing to admit even his personal secretary. He’d also ignored the trays of food they’d left by his door, raiding the kitchen during the night when everyone was sleeping.
‘Don’t “good morning” me, Miss Smith. I want to know why there’s a cook in my kitchen.’
Even the tone of his voice was a scowl. It was no wonder Lady Faye had made herself scarce the moment they’d heard the duke’s mismatched footsteps on the stairs. Ellen wished she’d run away too but she hadn’t been quick enough to realise what was happening, and now there was a six-foot-something Scotsman who’d clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed blocking the only exit.
She regained her seat, taking a sip of near-cold tea as she collected her thoughts. The pause only angered him further. If His Grace were a kettle, he’d have steam billowing from his ears.
‘Her ladyship thought it a good idea to employ more staff for the duration of her stay in London.’ Unwittingly, her gaze flickered to his scars. Light against his otherwise tanned skin, some so fine they could have been the threads of a spider’s web but others so deep they twisted and pulled at the left side of his face.
This morning he was actually wearing a waistcoat, cravat and jacket. He’d also tied his shoulder-length hair back in a simple queue at the nape of his neck, similar in style to the look favoured by men of the militia. Her gaze travelled down to his footwear—black topped boots with brown bonding and worn-down heels. Unlike Mr Owen Tattershall’s shoes, which she’d describe as shoes fit for a dandy, Lord Woodhal’s were scuffed and scraped and perfectly practical.
In fact, Calum Callaghan looked halfway decent.
Not that it was any concern of hers how he looked.
‘Are ye trying to imply ye had naught to do with it?’
‘I suppose, mayhaps, it might have been me who hired the servants. But her ladyship instructed me to,’ she said, deciding on the spot not to mention the two downstairs maids he obviously hadn’t yet encountered. That would be a pleasant surprise for another time.
Ellen had paid a call to Miss Steele’s Respectable Household Servants registry before breakfast two days ago with a missive in Lady Faye’s own hand setting out exacting instructions. The servants had arrived that afternoon and had been hard at work ever since, trying to return the duke’s house to some sort of order.
It was a wonder Lord Woodhal hadn’t noticed earlier. Even locked in his room, it would have been impossible not to hear the hustle and bustle of cleaning. Unless, of course, he’d had another bottle of whisky in his room and had drunk himself into his cups.
She eyed him suspiciously, but there was no look of the sloshed about his person this morning.
There was a suspicious look of his upon his face. ‘Wait a moment…’ He turned a full circle, scanning the room. ‘Where are all my papers? The estate papers I had laid out on the table?’
She glanced down at the ten-seat table, empty save for her stitching and tea. ‘I’m not sure. I believe her ladyship moved some things out of this room.’ Lady Faye had been working just as hard as the rest of them. For a woman of advanced years, she didn’t hold back. ‘She might have moved them when I was out.’ Hiring the servants, she added silently. She placed her hands on the table, intending to rise. ‘Would you like me to ask her?’
‘Nay, you’ve caused enough trouble as it is.’ His mouth pursed into another one of his thin frowns. He had so many frowns. Angry frowns. Disapproving frowns. Sulking frowns. About-to-start-yelling frowns. Now he was giving her one of his displeased frowns.
Moving to one of the mahogany dressers, he started searching. This brought him closer to where she was sitting, and she suddenly caught his scent. It definitely wasn’t whisky, but he still smelled of heather. Like a breath of fresh air after a long and stuffy carriage ride.
She returned to her tea and stitching, determinedly ignoring the impressive framework of muscles beneath his suit. His jacket might be a little too large, but that did nothing to hide the power of his arms.
She made another small stitch. Her hands trembled. His nearness was unnerving. She could hear the tap, thump, tap, thump of his limp as he slowly moved down the length of the dresser and the rustle of his plain grey jacket as he slid open another drawer.
She peeked at him from under her lashes. There were wrinkles in the back of his carelessly tired cravat. He pushed the drawer shut and bent at the waist to open the cupboard b
elow, one hand resting on the top of the dresser to take a little weight off his wounded knee.
Her gaze locked on the taut stretch of his breeches over his muscular thighs and backside. Not that a lady’s companion would notice such a thing. Certainly not! She tried to look away, to focus on her work, but her gaze felt paralysed. He was like every improper fantasy she’d imagined in her lonely bed after dark.
Slamming the cupboard shut, he opened another. There was tension in his movements. He was worried. And still sulking. ‘How, pray, did ye manage to find any servants willing to work for me?’ he inquired, without bothering to glance her way.
She wrinkled her nose. Another question he wasn’t going to like the answer to. ‘They aren’t exactly working for you.’ Lady Faye was the one paying their wages.
He straightened, turning to face her. ‘And?’
‘And…’ Was she really that obvious? Or did he really think so little of himself? ‘I made a couple of concessions. Chakrabarti used to be a footman but I promoted him to butler.’ She stumbled a little over his unfamiliar name but was determined to get it right. ‘Adelynn is the new housemaid, but Pamela is teaching her to be a lady’s maid so after this she’ll be able to find an elevated position.’ And the two downstairs maids didn’t yet have character references so were unable to find work anywhere else half so respectable.
She blinked at him innocently, daring him to say something, to object. He didn’t, just drummed his fingers on the dresser, glaring over her shoulder at the open bay windows, which were letting in the glorious rays of spring sunshine, as if they’d done him a personal injury.
The Unworthy Duke Page 7