With a disgruntled grunt, he moved towards the matching dresser on the other side of the room, pulling open more drawers and cupboards.
Ellen turned in her chair slightly, presenting him with her shoulder and hoping he’d take it as an indication of her need to concentrate on the work at hand. It was slow going and she was taking more care than usual, hoping the dowager would admire her neat work.
Suddenly his shadow was blocking her light. He’d abandoned the second dresser as a lost cause and moved to stand behind her. Her heart started racing. How was it possible to be more aware of his presence now she couldn’t see him? She heard his breathing as clearly as if he stood by her ear. She smelled him as clearly as if he kneeled under her nose. And she felt the ghost of his touch on the back of her neck as clearly as if he’d actually brushed his lips against her skin.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose as if in anticipation.
Concentrate on your sewing.
She bowed her head, conscious she was exposing more skin at the back of her neck to him. What would it be like to kiss the back of his neck, to slip her fingers beneath the collar of his shirt?
To ravish him?
Her fingers shook and she crossed her ankles, locking her legs together. Concentrate on anything but that! She lifted her head slightly and searched the room, desperate to distract herself with something else, anything else. It was clear this space hadn’t always been a dining room. It had probably been converted into one when the duchess had the wall built down the centre of the house. Judging by the green and white wallpaper with its border of hibiscus flowers in faded pastels, it used to be a lady’s morning room.
Now it was cramped with dark furniture that overpowered the small space. Sunlight bounced off the crystals in the dusty chandelier, sending little rainbows dancing over the papered walls.
She heard him shuffle from foot to foot and looked at him over her shoulder. She couldn’t have stopped herself from looking no matter how hard she tried.
He wasn’t facing her at all. He had his back to the room and was staring out the open window again.
A knock echoed down the passage from the back door, and he turned towards the sound. He moved like a predator—alert and wary. ‘What was that?’
‘I heard nothing.’
The glare he threw suggested he didn’t believe one word.
‘Or mayhaps it’s a delivery of extra food from the market or the new linens your grandmother ordered. I really couldn’t say.’
‘Och, ye couldn’t, could ye?’ He made the sound at the back of this throat that only the Scottish-born seemed able to do justice. ‘I don’t need new linen or a butler or a cook.’
‘Which is exactly why her ladyship didn’t have me employ a valet for you.’
‘I should be grateful? If I’d known ye were going to be this tyrannical, I really would have tossed ye over my shoulder and thrown ye out the front door the instant ye climbed through my window.’
‘Well, Your Grace, you missed your chance. Your grandmother has set up home here, and I don’t think anything will persuade her to leave now she’s decided to stay for the Season. Eat something for goodness’ sake.’ She pushed the tea things in his direction, including butter sandwiches courtesy of the new cook.
‘Is there anything else ye need to tell me?’ he demanded. ‘Did ye manage to clear out my pantry of all the good cake or are ye saving that task for this afternoon?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Your Grace,’ she scoffed in mock offence, but unable to stop herself glancing out the window. From here it was impossible to see where she’d been working earlier that morning, thankfully.
Lady Faye chose that moment to dignify them with her presence. She strolled into the dining room as though she hadn’t vacated it moments before her grandson’s arrival less than a quarter of an hour ago. ‘Morning, morning,’ she trilled.
‘About the servants—’ Lord Woodhal began.
‘Keep up, dearest. That was absolutely days ago. Miss Smith and I have been working very hard.’ Her ladyship practically waltzed her way around the table. Today she was wearing a burgundy morning gown with an empire waistline. It was a stunning gown; one designed to draw the eye and complement her curves.
Ellen touched a hand to her own dowdy mob cap. Maggie had given it to her before she’d left Evendale. It was the perfect accessory for an unmarried lady’s companion. It only piqued her vanity a little to have to wear it.
What vanity? she scoffed silently. Beggars can’t be choosers.
‘What did you do with my estate papers?’ demanded His Grace. Just like magic, his Scottish accent had disappeared again.
‘I moved them to the library where they should have been in the first place.’ Lady Faye paused right behind Ellen’s chair, looking completely unfazed by his rudish manner. She had one hand behind her back, hiding something from sight.
‘I have a system—’
‘Your system is all wrong. Whyever are you keeping all those old newspaper clippings? If you tossed them away, you could actually do your work at your desk like a normal man of business.’ She clicked her tongue in disapproval. ‘Not that dukes normally run their country estates without stepping outside their London townhouses.’
He opened his mouth to respond, but like the expert she was Lady Faye pressed on without pause. ‘Now, dearest, are you coming with Miss Smith and me to the fireworks tomorrow evening?’
‘We’ve already talked about this.’
‘Just remind me…’
‘No.’
‘Sulking, are we?’ She rested her free hand on Ellen’s shoulder, squeezing lightly as if to share her amusement.
‘No!’ Lord Woodhal straightened his already straight shoulders as though to add gravitas to his words.
‘So you are coming, good. Although you’ll need to get a haircut if you’re to be seen in polite company. It’s far too long at the moment.’
‘I’m not getting a haircut, and I’m not leaving this house.’
‘But you don’t have to leave the house. Miss Smith will cut your hair for you.’ And she produced a pair of shears from behind her back.
‘What? My lady, I’ve never cut anyone’s hair before.’ Ellen scrambled to her feet.
‘No. No. No.’ The duke was practically breathing steam now.
‘Then you’ll be coming to the fireworks. The choice is yours.’ Lady Faye’s voice darkened, taking on a threatening edge. She watched her grandson closely. A smile still played with her lips but her eyes were suddenly serious. She meant business. ‘Stop being such a milksop, Cal, and make up your mind.’
Ellen glanced between them. Apparently it wasn’t his Scottish ancestors who he’d inherited his stubbornness from. It was his five-foot, sixty-eight-year-old English grandmother.
Facing down Lady Faye was like facing down a bull. A very determined, very tenacious bull. With horns. And it seemed Lord Woodhal was beginning to realise this too. He backed up a step, suddenly looking like a man on the run. His eyes locked on his grandmother’s face, begging her to leave him be.
‘There’s absolutely no point running. I’ll just follow you. And now I have help.’ She waved the shears towards Ellen.
‘My lady, I’ve never—’
Lady Faye silenced her with a look then motioned for her grandson to take a seat. For a moment Ellen was sure he’d push his way out of the room, threat or no threat, but he sat back down with a grunt, crossing his gloriously muscular arms before his chest.
Her breath hitched.
She determinately ignored it.
‘See, that wasn’t so bad,’ the dowager cooed, delighted to be getting her own way again. She handed the shears to Ellen, nodding towards His Grace’s too-long hair.
Seeing the danger, he turned his gaze towards Ellen, bestowing her with the full brunt of his gaze. His expression said, ‘touch my hair and I’ll never forgive you.’
Lady Faye clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘Get on with it, gel.’
<
br /> She was trapped between a rock and a hard place, as the saying went. Taking the shears from Lady Faye, she moved around the table to stand behind Lord Woodhal. Even seated, he was so tall his head was level with her shoulders. His neck was corded with muscles and the odd scar that disappeared beneath his cravat.
He sat perfectly still. The tension in shoulders was almost catching.
How hard could cutting the hair of an annoyingly obstinate yet tantalisingly irresistible duke possibly be?
Oh lordy!
***
Cal stiffened as Ellen stopped behind him. He could hear her shifting from foot to foot, her breathing a little fast. Nervous or flustered at having to stand so near him? He bit the inside of his cheek as a growing sense of unease churned in his stomach like waves rushing towards the shoreline.
She smelled of soap and sugar and… And something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something uniquely Ellen. How strange he hadn’t noticed the other night. Then again he’d been a little foxed.
He frowned at this own thoughts. When had she become Ellen and not simply Miss Smith?
Turning his head slightly, he watched her reflection in the old cracked mirror over the sideboard. She was wearing another one of those shapeless gowns she favoured and the same lace cap as the first night they’d met, though a few loose curls had escaped. One grazed her collarbone as though tempting his gaze downwards. Their eyes met in the mirror, and he quickly looked away.
Before him, Lady F was wearing the smile of a well-pleased cat. He could practically feel her gaze on his twisted, scarred face. Expectant. Waiting. He wanted to turn his head and present her with his good side, his untouched side. But that would be showing weakness, and he’d already lost one battle today.
‘Would you just start already!’ His heart was racing and his forehead felt a little clammy. He’d come face to face with Napoleon’s troops at the Battle of Trafalgar when he’d been just twenty-one, and yet he couldn’t even say no to his pocket-sized grandmother and her impetuous companion.
The sooner Ellen started, the sooner this hell would be over.
A moment later, the tie in his hair was pulled free and Ellen’s fingertips brushed his neck so softly it was like the touch of a wisp.
It didn’t take her long to cut his hair. The snip of the shears and her breath heavy with concentration the only sounds to scare away the silence. Her touch was gentle but firm as she sectioned pieces of hair, cutting until it was short enough she was running her fingers over his scalp, testing the length from various angles.
The touch of her fingers sent vibrations down his entire body—his traitorous body, which was quickly beginning to ignore all the common sense he’d just managed to talk himself into.
The deep insatiable hunger of the other night returned, clawing its way up his throat and through his blood. His cock jumped to attention in his breeches like a soldier, eager and ready to please.
A hand in his hair: was that really all it took? He’d never been so grateful for a table in his life. It was doing a fine job of keeping his unruly body hidden from prying eyes.
Prying eyes. He looked around but Lady F was nowhere in sight. When she’d left the room, he couldn’t have said.
He ran his hand up and down his thighs, feeling unbearably restless. If Ellen wasn’t holding a pair of shears to his head, he would have jumped up and starting walking circles around the dining table. He needed to put some space between them, needed a moment to breathe, to clear his mind.
He clenched his fists. And then her fingers brushed against his scalp, sending another wave of desire rushing through his body. He was behaving no better than an untried youth.
She’s a gentleman’s daughter, for goodness sake! A country lass, who’s probably never even been kissed in her life. She deserved to be pampered. To be wooed by a proper gentleman, not a damaged hermit with half a body of scars.
She was too good for him. Ellen Smith, in all her spinsterish ways and wearing that revolting lace cap: too bloody good for the likes of him. And a hundred times too good for the brute who’d laid his hands on her, turning her wrists black and blue.
He pinched his leg, focusing on the pain, wanting to feel anything but the urgent hunger racing through his body like a fire through the undergrowth. Right now he felt as though he was two people. One of those men couldn’t turn his back on Pierce, on everything his brother’s death meant and everything his scars represented. The other man had been alone for so long he wanted nothing more than to pull the feisty, intelligent, window-climbing adventuress into his arms and bury himself so deeply inside her it was impossible to tell where he ended and she began.
‘I’ve finished.’
He heard her back away and tuck the shears into one of the dresser drawers—probably afraid of what his reaction would be.
Instantly suspicious, he stood up, all the better to see his reflection in the mirror. He kept his gaze diverted from his scars, looking only at his hair—or what was left of it. She’d obviously been attempting a style similar to Owen’s—short on the sides and back, slightly longer on the top. What she’d actually achieved was, hands down, the worst haircut he’d ever seen, as though she’d put a bucket on his head and cut a circle. He ground his teeth. Absolutely bloody perfect. Just what he needed: a haircut as hideous as half his face.
‘I never professed to knowing what I was doing,’ she said.
His eyes settled on the crack in the looking glass. It radiated out from a centre point, like a spider’s web. He’d thrown a knife at it a couple of years ago. The mirror had broken but hadn’t fallen from its frame. Ellen shifted from foot to foot, and his gaze focused on her reflection. A dozen or so freckles spotted her nose, so faint he’d missed them until now. Her lips were pressed firmly closed and her eyes danced.
‘You’re laughing at me!’ He turned to face her.
‘I’m not. I swear.’ A giggle escaped her strawberry lips. A blush, the colour high on her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry.’ An apologetic hand on his arm. A flash of surprise in her grey eyes at her own audacity. And, in that instant, for the briefest second, he saw his own hunger reflected back at him. He hadn’t imagined it the other night. She wanted him, as he wanted her.
Cal’s self-resolve died instantaneously. His hand was on her waist, the other behind her neck before he could draw breath or form another coherent thought.
And then she was kissing him.
He blinked in surprise, then surrendered. Pulling her closer, he claimed her mouth just as she was claiming his. She tasted sweet, like the sugary tea she favoured. It should have been too sweet. He’d always preferred a savoury palette, but he suddenly couldn’t get enough.
He kept his eyes open, not wanting to miss a moment of it. Her hands were on either side of his face, pulling him down to her level. Her eyes were pressed closed, her lashes incredibly long. Her back arched and her breasts strained towards him.
His blood was on fire with need more powerful than anything he’d felt these last four years, even as his mind tried to stop him, tried to tell him that he shouldn’t be doing this, that she was off limits. Hell, she was his grandmother’s companion.
With a rip, the top button of his shirt bounced to the floor. His collar opened, letting in cool fingers of air to stroke his burning skin. He staggered to the left a little, his wounded knee giving way, but she held him up, her slight form offering him the stability he craved. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.
She broke away, trailing kissing down his cheek, over his scars.
Cal wrenched back, stumbling on his own two feet until he hit the dresser. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. How could he have done that? How could he have lost control like that? Drawing a shaky breath, he yelled with all his might. ‘Get out!’
Verity
Evendale, Yorkshire
Mrs Verity Nott, once of Hornsby Manor House, now of a small cottage in Evendale, opened her front door to find herself face to face with the man
she’d been dreading meeting for the last few days.
He stood with his hands tucked into his suspenders, his hips thrust forward and his feet firmly planted on her top step. He eyed Verity with open distrust. The eldest Burney child had inherited his family’s grey eyes, but there was nothing of the warmth and kindness of his late parents in them.
‘Geoffrey, I don’t often see you at my threshold.’ She took a step forward, even though this brought them closer, so that she could close the door behind her. She wasn’t about to let Geoffrey into her house; she didn’t want to be in a confined space with him.
‘It’s “my lord” to you,’ Geoffrey snarled.
‘Of course, Lord Blackford. My mistake.’ Verity had been friends with Geoffrey’s mother since girlhood. That was why she’d chosen to resettle in Evendale after her husband’s death many years ago. She’d known Geoffrey his whole life, but never had she suspected he’d grow into such a man as this.
‘Ellen’s missing,’ he grunted.
‘Missing?’ She feigned surprise.
‘Missing. You know: gone, lost, run away.’ The young baron glared at her.
‘Why would you think Ellen ran away?’ She chose her words with care.
‘Because, you fool, she’s not at home where she’s supposed to be. And neither is the mute.’
Verity took a calming breath, determined not to let her emotions get the better of her, lest she say something that betrayed her role in all of this. ‘Ellen’s a grown woman. She has as much right—’
‘She’s a whore!’
Verity grit her teeth. To call any woman a whore was despicable. To call your own sister one was unforgivable. ‘I’m more worried about what you’ve become, Geoffrey.’
‘It’s “my lord”! I know you’re somehow involved. You tell me where she is.’ He pressed a hand to the doorframe, crowding her, which would have worked better had Verity not been over a head taller.
Verity raised her hands before her chest, trying to create some distance. Over his shoulder she could see early morning shoppers at the street market. If she shouted, they would hear. Geoffrey was a coward at heart. He wouldn’t hit her when there was a chance someone would intervene. He only picked fights with those who were weaker than himself or more vulnerable. Why else would he hit a six-year-old?
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