by Olivia Drake
“It’s enormous! And it must weigh tons. How did you ever transport it here all the way from Egypt?”
Cyrus hung on every word as Miles launched into a technical description of the system of pulleys and winches and manpower required to convey stone monoliths aboard ships. Without even being aware of walking closer, Bella took up a stance alongside the duke and let his deep voice roll through her. It was an excuse to breathe in his masculine scent, to savor a trace of his body heat. If only she had the right to slide her arm around his lean waist, to tuck her head into the shelter of his shoulder, to feel his strong heartbeat. How she wished he would look at her with the warmth of true love in his eyes …
Lila wandered to a nearby statue of a robed Egyptian wearing a tall crown decorated by a serpent. Even as she tilted her head back, her mind was clearly on other matters. “Have you been to the shops already, Bella?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the time.”
“Then how will we know which ones are the best?” Lila snapped her fingers. “I have an idea! Lady Milford dresses beautifully. We can call on her and ask her advice.”
Miles stopped in mid-sentence. He pivoted on his heel to aim a hard stare at Lila. “Who did you say?”
Bella’s pulse jumped. Why did he look so angry all of a sudden? The relaxed man of a moment ago had vanished behind a rigid mask.
Then a sick sensation assailed the pit of her stomach as she remembered that Lady Milford had issued a warning to Bella. You must never mention my name to Aylwin. The duke is a proud, reclusive man who dislikes being maneuvered.
But it was too late to shush her naïve sister.
“Lady Milford,” Lila repeated. “She came to our cottage shortly before Bella left for London. Do you know her, Your Grace?”
A thunderous expression darkened his eyes. “We’ve met.”
Lila blinked warily at his sharp tone, and when she parted her lips as if to question him further, Bella said quickly, “I’m afraid this tour will have to be delayed. I’ve just remembered that His Grace and I have an important business matter to discuss.”
She shooed her grumbling brother and sister out the door of the ballroom. “The library is straight along the passage and down the stairs. Use your maps if necessary.”
Bella pulled the heavy doors shut and turned to face the duke. Her palms felt damp, and her heart thudded against her rib cage.
His eyes were narrowed in a cold suspicion she hadn’t seen since their first meeting, when he had caught her sneaking through the grand corridor and hiding behind a pillar. At that time, he’d believed her to be a husband hunter on the prowl.
But she couldn’t quite fathom the depth of his wrath this time. Was there some sort of feud between himself and Lady Milford? An unresolved quarrel that the woman had neglected to mention?
Even if he’d guessed that Lady Milford had made behind-the-scenes arrangements so that Bella would have a better chance to be hired, was that really so dreadful a sin? She had wanted to provide for her brother and sister. Now that Miles had met Lila and Cyrus, surely he could be made to see reason.
Of course, he needn’t know the part about her search for the treasure map. That had nothing to do with Lady Milford.
He took a menacing step closer, his hands planted on his lean hips. “You claimed to have known only that Smithers fellow when you moved back to England. You never said a word about Lady Milford.”
Bella swallowed hard. Smithers was the antiquarian who supposedly had purchased artifacts from her father overseas. But she herself had never met the man. The ruse had been entirely Lady Milford’s concoction, and Bella had been so anxious for an excuse to live at Aylwin House that she’d dutifully repeated the story.
“I was only slightly acquainted with her ladyship,” Bella said, tightly gripping her fingers together to stop them from trembling. “A few weeks ago, she came to the cottage in Oxford, hoping to find my father. They had once been friends, you see. When she learned that Papa was … dead, and that I needed to earn a living, she suggested that I apply to you for a position. She thought you might hire me since your father and mine were once business partners.”
“You said that Smithers told you about the position.”
“I … yes, but I only did so on Lady Milford’s recommendation. She cautioned me not to mention her name. She said you were a very private man and might be upset to learn that she’d been meddling.”
“Upset? I’m livid.” His furious gaze raked her up and down. “You entered my house under false pretenses, you lied to me about being alone in the world, you concealed the truth at every turn. It seems you’re nothing more than an accomplished actress.”
A painful knot pulled taut in Bella’s breast. She deserved his censure. Yet he seemed far angrier than the situation warranted.
She put out her hands, palms up in supplication. “Please try to understand, Miles, I needed to earn a living so that I could feed my brother and sister. Lady Milford only meant to help me.”
“Bollocks.” Throwing her a contemptuous look, he paced back and forth in front of the sarcophagus. “I can guess precisely how that woman helped you—by instructing you in how to charm me. You pretended to be coy, you lured me into your bed and then pushed me away, you led me on and tormented me day and night—” He savagely bit off his words and jabbed his forefinger at her. “From the moment you set foot in my house, you’ve been plotting to entrap me.”
Tears blurred her eyes at the viciousness of his accusations. “Entrap you?”
“Don’t pretend ignorance. Everyone in London knows about Lady Milford and her schemes.”
Bella shook her head in bewilderment. “I-I truly don’t know what you mean.”
He plunged his fingers through his hair, tangling the black strands. “Good God, Bella! I’m speaking of marriage. The woman is a damned matchmaker!”
Chapter 23
Miles grabbed hold of the brass knocker and rapped hard on the door of the town house. He had a strong urge to kick in the door. But that would only attract attention from the passersby on the street and spark speculation that he was Lady Milford’s latest dupe.
In an effort to take the edge off his temper, he sucked in a lungful of cool afternoon air. He could not erase the image of Bella’s stricken face as he’d accused her of trying to hoax him into wedlock. She’d claimed not to have known of Lady Milford’s avocation. He had been too enraged to accept Bella’s word before he’d stormed off on this mission.
Yet in retrospect, he had to concede that even the most seasoned actress could not have fabricated her look of shock. It was very likely that Bella had been hoodwinked as well as himself.
The mastermind of the heinous ruse resided in this town house.
He raised his fist, intending to batter the heavy wood panel again. Then the door opened abruptly. A butler with cropped white hair and a sober black suit stood there.
Miles frowned, momentarily distracted by a vague familiarity about the servant’s weathered features. But he had never been to this house before. He didn’t socialize, either, so it was unlikely he’d encountered the fellow at a different residence.
The butler regarded him impassively. “May I help you, sir?”
“I wish to see Lady Milford.” Miles shouldered his way past the servant and into an airy foyer. “At once.”
Not a muscle moved in that stoic face. “I shall check if her ladyship is at home. Have you a calling card?”
“Blast it, no. Just tell her that Aylwin is here.”
On hearing the venerable name, the butler inclined his head in a bow. “Certainly, Your Grace.”
As the man turned, something in the harsh lines of his face struck a stronger chord of recognition. This time, the pieces fell into place. Those now pale cheeks could have been enhanced by rouge, the white hair and eyebrows darkened with soot …
A cold sword of certainty pierced Miles. He grabbed the man’s arm and spun him back around. “You! You’re Smithers.”
Hargrove’s pale blue eyes were steady. A liar would be inclined to shift his gaze away. Unless, of course, he was extremely skillful at artifice. And a master of disguise.
The antiquarian who had come to Aylwin House had been the virtual opposite of this man. Mr. Smithers had been a flashy windbag in a checkered green coat who had spouted glib nonsense like a common street-seller while he’d attempted to convince Miles to purchase a box of cheap scarabs. Smithers also had expressed keen interest in the fact that Miles worked alone. The fellow had listed all the advantages of hiring a curator to assist him.
Not three days later, Bella had arrived with her tale of having known Smithers overseas. She’d said that he had told her of the position of curator. Today, she’d admitted that she’d never met the man.
Lady Milford had orchestrated the scheme with the assistance of Hargrove. The bastard was loyal to his mistress and would not admit to his role in the scam. It would give Miles great satisfaction to plant a hard right hook into the man’s square jaw.
But Hargrove was merely an underling. Miles craved to confront the main player, the spider spinning her web of deceit.
Fueled by cold fury, he stalked to the staircase and started up the marble steps, taking them two at a time.
Hargrove hurried after him. “Your Grace! Her ladyship is dressing for a drive in the park and cannot be disturbed.”
“Then make haste to warn her. I’ll allow you half a minute to announce me.”
Miles let the butler take the lead up the flight of stairs and then along a corridor with yellow striped wallpaper and a thick carpet that cushioned their footfalls. Hargrove rapped on a door near the end of the passage. His sober gaze flicked to Miles before someone opened the door and he stepped inside.
Miles prowled back and forth, counting off thirty seconds. At twenty-eight, the door opened again and the butler stood back to allow him entry. Hargrove gave him a hard stare this time. There was nothing subservient in that look, Miles noted. He was right to think the man devoted to Lady Milford.
As Miles went in, the door behind him closed with a quiet click, and he found himself in a small sitting room attached to a larger bedchamber that was visible through an arched doorway. Here, white-painted bookshelves lined the walls and late afternoon sunshine poured through the double windows. Lady Milford stood there, one hand on the sill, gazing outside. Her coal-black hair was drawn up in a knot, and a lavender silk dressing gown draped her slender form.
She turned to him and smiled cordially as if he were an invited guest. “Aylwin,” she said, coming toward him with her hand extended. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He took her dainty fingers without thinking, then let go at once. This meeting would not be on her terms.
“There is nothing in the least pleasant about this visit,” he snapped. “I have just learned of your deception. You planted Isabella Jones in my house on purpose. You’ve been scheming to saddle me with a wife ever since you brought that other brainless chit to Aylwin House a few months ago.”
How well he remembered being subject to another of her matchmaking ploys. To his great misfortune, he had been crossing through the entrance hall at the moment the woman and her protégée had come to call. Lady Milford had been an acquaintance of his mother’s, and he’d felt compelled to show them basic courtesy. But he’d never spent a more irritating half hour, listening to the girl prattle about nonsense. When she had proposed moving the Egyptian relics into storage and redecorating Aylwin House, that had been the final straw to his patience, and he’d sent them on their way.
“The chit, as you describe her, was Lady Beatrice Stratham, daughter of the Earl of Pennington,” Lady Milford said. “And you’re quite right, she isn’t nearly as quick-witted or bright as Miss Jones. Would you care to take a seat?”
She settled herself in one of a pair of pale green chairs by the fireplace and folded her hands in her lap, looking far too serene for a woman confronted by an enraged duke.
Miles had too much pent-up rage to sit. He roamed the confines of the room with its feminine accoutrements and felt the need to hurl one of the china figurines onto the marble hearth.
Instead, he swung toward his nemesis. “So when you failed with the vacuous debutante,” he said darkly, “you set your sights on another type of female. You plotted and conspired and came up with Sir Seymour’s daughter. You even had your butler don a disguise and pretend to be an antiquarian in order to convince me that I needed to hire a damned assistant!”
Lady Milford denied none of his accusations. “I’m pleased that you were kind enough to give Miss Jones a position. Sir Seymour left her only a tiny cottage and no means of subsistence. She struck me as a very intelligent and capable young woman, someone who could be helpful to you in cataloguing and organizing. Has she been helpful?”
“That is irrelevant!” Miles roared, jamming his hands on his hips to keep from throttling the woman. “You meddled in my affairs. You connived behind my back and against my will. All for the purpose of trapping me into marriage!”
A wry smile touched her lips. “I very much doubt that any mere woman could trap you into marriage, Your Grace. You are far too fixed against the institution and a confirmed bachelor of many years. I will confess, nevertheless, to hoping that you might fall in love with Miss Jones. Have you?”
The barefaced question flummoxed Miles. He had not been expecting it. His mind went blank to all but the image of Bella’s face, smiling tenderly at him, whispering “my love” while he’d been buried deeply inside her body. Then just yesterday evening, on their return from Oxford, she had taken hold of his hand and he had hoped …
He snapped out of the fantasy. Love? That was just a pretty word used by poets to describe raw, pounding lust.
Only a damned fool would be deceived into thinking otherwise.
Pacing back and forth, he scowled at Lady Milford. “I assure you, madam, I am not in love. Nor shall I fall prey to your baited snare of wedlock. You have no right to interfere in my life.”
Her shrewd gaze softened. “I was once a dear friend of your parents. Before the duchess died, she asked me to watch over you.”
“The hell you say. You weren’t present at her deathbed.”
Miles shied from the decade-old memory of those long, torturous hours of listening to his mother’s labored breathing. It had been so very wrenching to wait alone for her to slip away …
“She wrote to me shortly before she passed on.” Rising, Lady Milford walked to a small desk and opened a drawer. She rummaged through some papers and brought forth a folded missive, which she handed to him. “She told me that her fondest hope was for you to fall in love and marry someday. You may read it if you like.”
Miles recognized his mother’s neat penmanship. His fingers gripped the paper tightly for a moment before he shoved it back at Lady Milford. The constriction in his chest threatened to squeeze out his righteous anger.
He fixed her with what Bella termed the Ducal Stare. “I don’t give a damn what my mother told you. I alone will dictate the course of my life—with no intrusion from a blasted matchmaker!”
Lady Milford released a small sigh as she replaced the letter in the desk. “Then it seems I must beg forgiveness, Your Grace. It’s just that … I’ve sometimes wondered if your mother might be the very reason why you’ve never married.”
“What?”
“As a young boy, you saw the duchess confined to her bed after many miscarriages. She was too delicate for pregnancy. It was quite difficult for her—and for you to witness her pain. Perhaps you fear putting a wife through that arduous experience.”
Lady Milford could not have been more off the mark. Yes, he’d felt panicked by the prospect of impregnating Bella—only because he would feel compelled to offer for her. But it was penitence over Aylwin’s death that had required Miles to li
ve alone. At a young age, he had vowed to devote himself to preserving his father’s legacy.
This woman had no way of knowing that. Bella was the only other living soul who knew his darkest secret.
“You are mistaken,” he stated coldly. “I’m dedicated to my work—and that will never change. A wife and a family would be a millstone around my neck.”
Her violet eyes turned cool as she regarded him for a moment. “I see. I presume you will be releasing Miss Jones from your employ, then. She is innocent in this matter, and I will not permit you to toss her into the street. Send her here and I shall assist her in finding another post.”
Once again, Lady Milford had managed to dig her claws under his skin. Discharge Bella? Banish her from Aylwin House? Let her go to work for some other man?
No.
Miles clenched his jaw. Everything in him rebelled at the notion of never seeing Bella again. He wanted her to remain under his protection. Then a ghastly thought struck him. He’d chastised her without mercy, made cruel allegations against her character, hurt her intolerably by accusing her of abetting in the plot to ensnare him.
What if she had already packed up and departed?
* * *
After the quarrel with Miles, Bella had escaped to her bedchamber. She’d turned the key in the lock, buried her face in the feather pillows of the canopied bed, and indulged in a bout of cathartic weeping. It was completely unlike her to fall apart. She had always been the strong one in the family, the organizer, the healer, the voice of reason. But never in her life had she felt so desolate as she did now.
She loved Miles. The sentiment had tiptoed into her heart so quietly that she could not point to one particular incident that had won her over. Perhaps it was his rare smile or the way he hid his kind heart behind the façade of a beast. But she had known in the moment that his eyes had turned to ice that she’d wanted his face to soften with love.
When every last tear had been drained, she forced herself to get up and walk woodenly into the dressing chamber. There, she splashed cool water on her face to ease the redness of her eyes. In the mirror, she appeared pallid and ordinary and she couldn’t imagine why a highborn duke had ever deigned to lust for her.