The Unworthy Duke

by Charlotte Anne

  ‘My name is Sophy. Sophy Calder. Maybe you remember my brother, Sherborne Calder. He’s a sailor—’ Her voice was rising in desperation, drawing the eyes of passersby.

  ‘I don’t know any sailors,’ Ellen interjected, trying to quieten her. ‘I’ve never even travelled as far London before now. I’m from Evendale.’ Even as the words left her mouth, Ellen realised her mistake.

  Sophy’s eyes widened. ‘Evendale?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but Lady Faye has moved on and I really must catch up before her party leaves without me.’ She pushed her advantage, this time persistently ignoring the stranger’s attempts to block her, and hurried after the dowager.

  Dew seeped into the worn soles of her half-boots until her stockings were soaked and her feet began to freeze. Ellen stumbled on the uneven path but didn’t slow as she hurried to the entrance. The dowager and Owen were nowhere to be seen. She glanced over her shoulder, searching for Miss Calder in the shadows.

  Why had she told her about Evendale? It had been a silly slip of the tongue. You won’t ever see her again. There’s no way she could know who you really are—who your brother is. Her heart started racing.

  ‘Miss Smith!’ Someone grabbed her arm, and Ellen swung around, flinging her reticule towards their face.

  Owen ducked easily out of the way. For a man who insisted on carrying a cane, he moved like a dancer.

  ‘Mr Tattershall!’ She let out a shuddering breath. ‘I’m sorry. I got lost and then—’ There she was. Sophy had been following her.

  ‘Lady Faye is waiting in the carriage. We worried when we realised you were no longer with us.’ Owen ducked his head to bring their faces more to a level. ‘What happened? You’re as white as a ghost.’

  ‘I couldn’t find you.’ She linked arms with Owen before he even offered. He preened, and, like the gentleman he was, graciously guided her to the waiting carriage. Ellen sped up, putting as much smoke and darkness as possible between herself and the mysterious woman.

  Chapter Nine

  Ellen barely slept that night. She dreamed of Gwen and Maggie and a great looming shadow that had chased them around the garden to the sound of firing canons until her counterpane was so tangled around her legs she could barely clamber out of bed.

  She pushed open the curtains and window, breathing in the morning air. It smelled of smog and grit. Of course that woman she’d met last night wasn’t a spy for Geoffrey. The idea was ridiculously absurd in the light of a new day. There was no way he could have followed her to London—or hired someone to follow her. For starters, he didn’t have that kind of money. What money his crumbling estate did make went straight to covering his gambling debts and bribes.

  She gripped the windowsill.

  Gwen was safe. Maggie was safe. Even Verity was safe. Everything was going according to plan.

  She repeated it to herself like a mantra.

  Gwen is safe.

  Geoffrey mightn’t come to London, but Gwen wasn’t in London, said that niggling voice at the back of her mind. Gwen was much closer to home. Much closer to Geoffrey.

  Maggie is safe.

  Her sister-in-law’s cottage was almost impossible to find unless you already knew where it was. And it had been years and years since Geoffrey had even spared a thought for Maggie’s family. He would not think to look there.

  Unless, of course, someone else reminded him. Evendale was a small community and people liked to talk.

  They’re safe!

  For now.

  She took a shaky breath. The best thing she could do for Gwen was to concentrate on her position with Lady Faye.

  Church bells sounded the hour, carrying their cries across the city. It was still very early, even the servants would only just be rising. But Ellen couldn’t bear the idea of climbing back under the suffocating counterpane, so, after tending to her personal needs, she wandered outside into the mess of a garden.

  By the far wall, overgrown gooseberries, ivy and honeysuckle had tangled themselves into one big mass. Using a pair of only slightly rusty shears she’d found in a spider-ridden shed, she rolled up her sleeves and set to work. It filled her chest with a happy buzz. Her mother had taught her to garden, although Ellen hadn’t really had a chance to get her hands dirty these last few years.

  She redoubled her efforts, humming softly under her breath even as the gooseberry bushes caught at her skirts. With the high walls completely surrounding the house, she could almost imagine she was back in the country. It was almost as though the rest of London didn’t exist just a few feet away.

  In no time at all, she had a satisfyingly large pile of clippings at her feet. Looking up, she caught sight of Calum watching her through one of the first-storey windows. Her stomach backflipped.

  She had yet to explore that part of the house, having only seen the ground floor and the second-storey guest bedrooms where she and Lady Faye were staying. It had taken them days just to get those two floors into some semblance of order; she hadn’t had any free time to explore.

  Fustian! She should have hidden around the side of the house like she had the other mornings. Out of sight, out of mind.

  He tucked his hands behind his back, staring unashamedly. She raised a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the morning sun.

  His hair hadn’t looked half that good last night. Either she was better at hairdressing than she’d realised or someone had fixed it for him. Her gaze flickered to his burn scars, and her heart skipped a beat. They were even more visible now his hair was short. The twisted side of his face, the slight turn to the corner of his mouth. How close he’d come to losing his left eye! There was something so very unique about his scars. They added an air of wildness, of untamed danger. A man not to be taken lightly.

  Whyever did he have to be so very handsome? In a dark and brooding sort of way. For all he claimed to be no gentleman, he certainly looked the part. She could remember the feel of his arms; the hardness of him. Something resembling a statue, but not cold like marble. His skin always burned hot.

  Oh lordy, he was the last man on earth about whom she should be having such ideas.

  Remember Rule No 2. Remember Rule No. 2! No kissing Calum Callaghan ever again.

  Don’t even think about kissing Calum ever again. That should be Rule No. 4… Or maybe she was up to five?

  Either way, no kissing and no thinking about kissing.

  He still wore yesterday’s wrinkled clothes. Her eyes lingered on the inch of flesh just below his crumpled cravat where the button was missing from his shirt. Heat flushed her cheeks. She’d done that. For just a few moments, he’d responded in kind. And then he’d pulled back and yelled at her.

  She dropped her gaze and caught sight of the Keep Out! sign he was wearing around his neck. It was the sign from the front gates.

  Maybe he looked a little less like a gentleman than she’d first thought…

  ***

  Tzar was sleeping on the middle of Cal’s bed, snoring as loud as a racing curricle. The cook was in the kitchen, reorganising his cupboards. The butler was milling around the front door as through expecting actual visitors to come calling here, of all places. And Lady F’s abigail was bustling up and down the stairs with the new housemaid, airing out the guest bedrooms and chattering in high-pitched over-excited voices that had the thumping in Cal’s head redoubling its efforts to make his life miserable. He shuffled from room to room, trying to find somewhere quiet to work, lamenting, for the first time, that his house was half-sized.

  ‘Calum!’

  He winced. Lady F’s voice was getting louder and louder, demanding the attention of everyone within a twenty-foot radius. He hurriedly limped out the kitchen door and ducked behind a particularly vicious looking rosebush that had seen better days.

  ‘Returning the sign to the gate, Your Grace? I thought it rather suited you.’

  He jumped sky high, spinning around to find Ellen watching him from the other side of what used to be a small lawn but which w
as now knee-high weeds.

  She curtseyed in greeting. He eyed her suspiciously. How had he forgotten she was out here? She’d rolled up the sleeves of her faded dress to her elbows. The bruises on her wrists were beginning to fade but it would still be many days, maybe weeks, before they’d disappear completely.

  Noticing the direction of his gaze, she tugged her sleeves back down with jerky movements. ‘Your Grace.’ Her greeting was cooling.

  There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek as through she’d wiped her hand across her face. She’d also abandoned her bonnet; it hung hostage in a rather determined but frazzled honeysuckle, as though lady’s companion and climbing plant had been waging war.

  He pitied the honeysuckle. It didn’t stand a chance.

  Neither did he if Lady F found out he was hiding from her.

  ‘Go away before someone sees you,’ he hissed, glancing back around the rosebush and through the kitchen window.

  He’d been right. Lady F was on a rampage. She was now rushing around the kitchen, the servants at her heels. If he’d taken a second longer, he wouldn’t have made it out in time.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ellen stepped in front of him and bent at the waist so she could lean around the rosebush for a better view. ‘Ah, you’re hiding.’

  He glanced down. It was a most improved view. The curve from waist to hip was exaggerated, despite the drab, spinsterish gown she was wearing. She’d also—thankfully!—abandoned her self-righteous lace cap, and he had his first real look at her uncovered hair. It wasn’t light enough to be called brown or dark enough to be called black. It was… Och, he couldn’t quite put his finger on the right word.

  She shuffled from foot to foot. Her skirts swished around her ankles, and his eyes were drawn to her arse as though they had a mind of their own. His cock stirred. Apparently it had a mind of its own as well, one that was all too aware of Ellen’s curves.

  He pressed his eyes closed, willing himself not to close the small distance between them. It didn’t help. His imagination was suddenly running wild. Hellfire! With her leaning over like that he could close the distance between them with a single step and they’d be—

  ‘Cal!’ Lady F’s screech could not be contained by the four walls of Yew Tree House. ‘Calum McKenna Callaghan, get in here this instant!’

  Well, that was certainly one very effectively way to kill the mood. He grabbed Ellen by her waist, tugging her further behind the rosebush and out of sight. Thank goodness it was so overgrown; it provided the perfect cover.

  She was so close now her scent infiltrated his every breath. A heady combination of soap and honeysuckle and damp earth.

  Ye gods he wanted to sink into her hot, slick centre. But it was more than that. He wanted to rub her back and massage the tension from her shoulders. He wanted to learn the shape of her face with his lips and memorise the curves of her body with his hands.

  She turned to face him, but he pressed a finger to her lips before she could speak. ‘If you so much as think about giving me up, I’ll…’ He faltered, his thoughts unable to think of a single punishment worthy of such a despicable crime.

  ‘You’ll hang that sign about my neck?’ she suggested lightly, brushing his hand away. ‘My earlier idea for a truce doesn’t seem so ridiculous now does it, Your Grace?’

  That damned sign. He took it off and tossed it to the ground. ‘That’s a rather long bow to draw,’ he snapped, attempting to save face. God only knew what he’d been doing with it yesterday. The latter part of the afternoon was completely hazy. Something about the kitchen and the dark bitter taste of whisky. Whatever he’d done, he could distinctly remember feeling particularly cunning. Now, with this proper little miss standing before him, hands on hips as if preparing to wage war with him, he wasn’t so sure.

  He glared down at her. She was so petite. Her head was barely level with his shoulder. He would have to bow his head to kiss her again.

  Or perhaps she could stand on a stool…

  Better yet, he could toss her onto the damp earth she seemed to love so much. And then he could see if her scent was as good when mingled with the sugary taste of her lips.

  Nay! Yesterday he’d proven once and for all kissing Miss Ellen Smith was a spectacularly bad idea. It led to dangerous feelings of desire and need and—shudder!—self-worth.

  Kissing Ellen couldn’t happen again. He couldn’t open that door, not when he’d spent so many years desperately keeping it locked firmly behind him.

  His cock was less inclined to agree.

  Ellen brushed a wayward strand of hair from her face, leaving behind another trail of dirt. The light scattering of freckles adorned her nose and cheeks had darkened somewhat—a secret only sunlight revealed. He reached out, brushing the pad of his thumb down her cheek. Her skin was beautifully soft.

  Her mouth opened in surprise. He snatched his hand back. What was he doing?

  Every part of Cal, his very being, wanted the woman standing before him, his hands were practically twitching with the need to take hold of her. He shoved them deep into his pockets.

  ‘Your Grace.’ She raised her own hands, trying to put a little space between them, although with the rosebush at her back she couldn’t move away. ‘I’ve been thinking about yesterday, and I’ve decided that I really, really shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m your grandmother’s companion. I have a reputation to uphold. And I can’t go around kissing dukes. It’s not right, and it certainly isn’t proper. What if we were seen? Or what if…’

  She was lecturing him. Him! Calum McKenna Callaghan, the stuff of nightmares. Just like the other night when she’d tried to make a truce with him, she didn’t seem repulsed by his nearness or scared or even particularly angry, not that he’d blame her if she was. She just did seem determined to finish her speech, like she’d planned it ahead of time.

  She pressed her hands to her hips and stood straighter. The movement pulled the fabric of her dress tighter across her chest, further revealing the flush creeping up from the milky-cream flesh of her neck.

  She looked like nothing less than a soldier on a battlefield. Resolute and courageous. If about a thousand times more attractive.

  Deadly to behold.

  He glanced around, seeking an escape route. But if he moved from behind the rosebush Lady F was sure to see. He was stuck between a rock and hard place.

  Not that Ellen was hard. Hot blood rushed through his veins. He’d held her in his arms for long enough to know that she absolutely wasn’t hard. ‘Curvaceous’ was more the word he’d use. If he had paper and ink, he’d have written that word down, right next to ‘intriguing’.

  His List of Everything Ellen Smith was growing momentum.

  ‘…proper. I don’t know what you were thinking yesterday. I know I wasn’t thinking, but I’ve thought about it since then, and I know what we did was wrong…’

  Wrong…not proper… He didn’t give two figs about ‘proper’. Proper wasn’t the reason he’d sworn off kissing lady’s companions. Yesterday he’d listed every reason under the sun why kissing Ellen Smith was a bad idea, and propriety wasn’t one of them.

  He focused on that list now to keep his attention from her curves.

  1. She was too good for him.

  2. He owed Pierce.

  3. She was hiding from someone and very determined to keep her own secrets. Family, enemy, lover…husband. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  4. And…something…about something else…

  Hell, she was biting that bottom lip of hers. And then she was off again, waving her arms in the air, chattering away at full speed. He supposed whatever she was saying was important. And he was probably supposed to be listening. There was a mad glint in her eyes.

  ‘…a duke and a lady’s companion. That’s not how the world works—’

  ‘How the world works?’ He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to keep his voice to a low whisper even as his temper flared. ‘Ellie, nothing about this is how the world is supposed
to work.’ Pierce wasn’t supposed to have died. Cal wasn’t supposed to be a duke. He glanced around, grappling for another example and his gaze caught on her arms.

  ‘Yer bruises,’ he said harshly, accidently slipping back into his Scottish accent in his temper. ‘Nobody should hit a woman. Not ever. There isn’t an excuse for it. That’s not the way the world is supposed to work.’

  ‘Hush, please.’ Ellen’s confidence slipped from her face, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

  His voice had risen in anger despite his efforts.

  ‘Are ye ashamed, wee lass?’ He whispered the question though his voice still sounded harsh. Or perhaps it was the question that was harsh. ‘The person who did this to ye should be ashamed.’ The coward. ‘Not ye.’

  ‘Is that your argument?’ She was still scared but her confidence was quickly returning. ‘Tell me about your scars if everything is so black and white.’

  He stumbled back a step, his wounded leg buckling at little under his weight.

  Her mouth opened in surprise, and she reached out towards him. ‘I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, Calum. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  There was a long moment of silence. The confines of the garden seemed to grow smaller. And then he caught sight of the look in her eye.

  Turning on his heel, he limped through the long grass to retrieve her bonnet. Anything to get away from her pity. He had to stretch above his head to reach it. Hell only knew how she’d managed to get it tangled so high.

  She followed him cautiously to the boundary wall, her hands tucked behind her back and keeping more than a respectable distance between them.

  ‘Your hair looks different,’ she said, eventually breaking the stilted silence.

  He handed over her bonnet. ‘The butler’s father was a barber back in Calcutta, so he fixed it for me.’ Before Cal had gotten sloshed.

  ‘Then I wish Lady Faye had asked him to cut it for you last night.’