Once Ruined, Twice Shy

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  Something flickered to life in her belly. The man really was attractive, his eyepatch giving him a dashing, rakish air. What did his face look like beneath it? Was there a blind eye, or no eye at all?

  “Do you find something wanting?” His coal-black eye glittered at her, and the dimples that framed his mouth deepened. Her attention clamped on his lips. Eminently kissable. What wonders did this man hold in his store of sensuality? She’d only ever known the touch of Frederick. It confused her that she could find any other man alluring.

  “Nothing at all, my lord. It is only that I’ve not been able to take your measure before now, having always been in a prone or supine position.”

  He smiled again, and her heart lurched. “I like the idea of you taking my measure. Come.”

  To her astonishment, he drew her close to him and rested his chin on the top of her head. He smelt clean and sharp, of fresh air. What time was it? Yes, the clocks had already struck three. He must have done his rounds of the estate before coming to fetch her. What part of his schedule was being axed in order to accommodate her now?

  “There now. My measure is a full head over yours. But be not alarmed. I shan’t expect you to strain your neck talking to me—I will address your right ear as we walk, and you needn’t look at me at all.”

  “I have no objection to looking at you.”

  She flushed. Where had that come from? If anything sounded forward, that did. An inexperienced, innocent miss would never say something like that to a man she barely knew. This was what living in sin for almost a year had done—made her fit only to be a mistress, never a wife. Unless Frederick held to his promise and married her.

  Methuen stepped away, and she heard the hiss of his breath. “You look downcast, Miss Feelings. Have we got you out of bed too soon?”

  “Oh, no, not at all, Mr Facts. I think being an invalid can cast one’s thoughts low at times.”

  “Shall we dispense with the foolish names we’ve given one another? I should very much like to call you Hestia if you would call me Conall.”

  “That will do very well, sir.” She accepted the walking cane he held out to her, and realised from the carved dog’s head on the handle it must be one of his own. He offered his arm and she accepted it, then took her first steps beyond the Tapestry Room.

  The walk around the first floor of the house was a great success. She made it through an entire wing without stumbling, and made no errors in conversation that might reveal her true purpose in being here—she hoped.

  He then insisted on carrying her downstairs, so they could examine the ground floor as well. She had to make an effort to breathe throughout that journey, distracted as she was by the feel of such strong male arms around her.

  Her fingers tightened on Conall’s sleeve when he set her down and opened the door into his study, informing her this was where he conducted all his business dealings. She covered up her error by appearing to trip and clutching at him harder.

  “I’m tiring you. It may be little more than a fortnight since you were able to walk any distance perfectly well, but you’ll ache like the devil if we overdo it now. I recall when I was trying to regain the use of my fingers—”

  They’d been strong enough to support her when he’d carried her down the stairs. Would he perform the same service to get her back up again, or call for a sturdy footman?

  She felt herself blushing. “Your fingers work well enough now, but must have been very painful to begin with. You are right-handed, I take it?”

  “Indeed. It was a damnable nuisance when I hurt my hand, but I try not to think about it now. Here’s the old ballroom. Regrettably unused since last century, when I was but a babe. I always enjoyed going over to Thatcham for balls when I was younger.”

  A shadow clouded his face, and she squeezed his arm. “Your mama told me what happened to your fiancée.”

  “Indeed.” He turned his dark gaze on her. “I shouldn’t imagine she told you everything. At least, I hope not.”

  “Your secrets are safe, sir.” Feeling uncomfortable, she looked around the ballroom. It was extremely grand—she’d only ever been in such a place when attending regimental balls with her parents. It was at one of these she’d met Frederick, though they hadn’t danced together. Their affair had been one of whispers behind potted palms, trysts in alcoves, and stolen moments when he climbed the wall into the garden of her home. So thrilling, so exciting—he’d quite turned her head with his appetite for danger.

  But that was a long time ago. She was much changed, and alas, not for the better.

  “I pray, don’t let my wounds—either internal or external—depress you, Hestia. I’ve been managing, as you can see.”

  His voice, low, moderate, and warm, shook her out of her reverie. “You have some enormous paintings,” she said, indicating a vast battle scene on one wall. “But where are the mirrors in which the guests can admire themselves?”

  There was a moment’s silence before he answered. “My steward had them removed. Every mirror in the house in fact—except those in mama’s room—was put away after my accident. I have not yet thought to have them replaced.”

  She spun to face him. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I wasn’t thinking.” Oh heavens, here she was, concerned to spare this man’s feelings, when he was supposed to be the enemy, allegedly a ruthless monster. Frederick’s portrayal of him couldn’t have been further from the truth. Although she understood some men could be totally implacable when roused.

  “So, you don’t know how much damage was done to your face?”

  “I do. I’ve seen it. They gave me a glass eye to admire, but it’s very uncomfortable. If one can’t see through it, what’s the point of revealing it? I can’t swivel it when I move my gaze, and people talking to me won’t know at which eye to look. So, you see, I keep the patch on for altruistic reasons, not selfish ones.”

  She raised a hand to his cheek, and the air around them stilled. Her focus narrowed to the the rapid rhythm of her heart and the shallowness of her breathing.

  “May I see?”

  He placed his gloved hand over hers, his gaze intense, his mouth quirking up at the corners.

  “You’re very courageous. But I promise you, Hestia—the last thing you’ll ever get off me will be my eyepatch.”

  The noise and movement of the day returned in a rush. The clocks were ticking, a blackbird whistled from a shrub outside, and in the passageway, one of the servants rattled by with a tray.

  Conall was examining the stitching on his glove, his high cheekbones suffused with colour, and the heat rose in her body as she found herself imagining him naked. But for the eyepatch.

  He recovered first. “A poor choice of words. Forgive me. Are you ready to return to your room?”

  They were back to formal again. She took his arm and a firm grip of the walking cane, and they made their way back to the foot of the stairwell. Suddenly, she felt tired. Her back ached, and her mind was confused, panicked by her reaction to his suggestive remark, albeit unintentional, and terrified that she might have somehow given away the fact she was not as innocent as she wanted him to think.

  Her hesitation spurred Conall into hefting her into his arms once more and holding her across his body. The next few moments were an exquisite torture as he carried her up the two flights of stairs, and along the passageway to her room. The muscles of his chest and stomach flexed against her flank as he walked, and his bicep bulged at her back. He was every bit as powerful as his broad shoulders suggested. What would he be like as a lover? Tireless, no doubt.

  Her pulse quickened. Frederick had said she might use seduction to vanquish their enemy, and she’d been horrified he should value her so little that he was prepared to share her with another man. Especially when he’d already described that man as a disfigured monster.

  She ought to hate Frederick for his lies and manipulation. But she belonged to him—he’d ruined her for anyone else. The primal urges of her body, awakened by his volati
le lovemaking, must be quelled. If she was to rescue herself and her future husband from penury, she must keep a clear head, and keep Conall Methuen at a distance.

  All the same, when he set her gently down on her bed and rang for her maid to undress her, she conjured up a vision in which he first kissed her thoroughly, then removed her clothes himself.

  This awakening to his touch, this awareness of him as a man, would make the remainder of her time at Spyle Court a cruel torment. She must invade his study and get those papers for Frederick at the earliest opportunity.

  Otherwise, she could end up doing something thoroughly reprehensible.

  Chapter 8

  “I can’t deny that girl has done you a world of good.”

  Conall raised an eyebrow at his mama. “Would it surprise you to learn that I agree with you? Hestia is a pleasant and amusing young woman.” One who fired his blood, but that wasn’t the kind of thing one told one’s mother.

  “Will she go to Thatcham, do you think, or return to Bath when she’s fit?”

  He stroked the wrought iron arm of the garden seat where he and Mama were enjoying a cup of tea. It had been three weeks now since Hestia’s dramatic entrance into his existence, and she had become a fixture. The idea of her leaving him for the Danceys was unthinkable. Even if he did attempt to bury the hatchet with that family, they wouldn’t allow him any privacy with Hestia—and that would drive him mad.

  He swallowed. “She has had a couple of communications from her brother in Bath, she tells me. Her mother is much better, but I suspect Miss Norton will want to return to her side as soon as possible.”

  “That will be very soon, I expect. She made a circuit of the knot garden unaided on Tuesday, and on the following day, went halfway down the avenue and back.”

  “I know. I was with her, Mama, if you recall.”

  “But you didn’t need to be. She is barely putting any weight on that cane. I would say she could manage the coach journey to Bath very well. Especially as the roads are good at present.”

  Conall suppressed a grimace. At one moment, she was telling him Hestia had done him good. The next, she was planning the young woman’s departure.

  The long and the short of it was, he didn’t want Hestia to go. He had even contemplated accompanying her to Bath, and proceeding with his courtship of her there.

  Courtship? What was he thinking? His heart was still severely bruised after Josephine had deserted him for Ebbworth. He was too damaged to make any sensible decisions regarding matrimony so soon. He must go out into the world a bit more, meet other women, have an affair or two with a lonely widow, or purchase himself a mistress. One needed to know what was available before making one’s choice.

  Deuce take it. It sounded like going to a cattle market. Hestia had labelled him Mr Facts, but quite incorrectly. He was being driven by his feelings now, and, like powerful lodestones, they all pointed to Hestia Norton as the only woman who could make him happy.

  “You’ve gone quiet, Conall.”

  “I apologise. I was just thinking about that soldier Josephine was about to run off with.”

  “Are you still brooding over Frederick Ebbworth? I know it hurts you to hear it, but he lost her too when Josephine fell from her horse.”

  “He didn’t lose his eye, or the use of his hand for several months.”

  “Nor would you have done, if you hadn’t fought that ludicrous duel. Oh, I was so afraid for you when they brought you back on that hurdle. I thought I’d lost you!”

  He reached for her hand. “It was, indeed, a foolish thing to do. But Josephine had broken both our hearts, and we were full of rage and misery.” He was full of rage still, but he was alleviating it through very different channels.

  “I agree that Frederick should not have approached her when she was already engaged to you, even if he did have a prior claim. It would have been better for everyone had he remained dead.”

  Conall took a deep draught of his tea. “One thing puzzles me about that man. There was one occasion—when I came upon them unnoticed—when she called him Andrew. I found that odd. In my presence, he was always referred to as Frederick—and that is what he calls himself to this day.”

  His mother shot him a piercing look. “How would you know that? Are you having him watched? Not planning to duel again, or commit a murder, I hope.”

  He laughed. “Of course not. I like to know what’s what, that’s all. It is always best to keep track of one’s enemies.”

  She made a harrumphing sound. “You gentlemen have the strangest conceits.”

  He finished his tea. This talk of Ebbworth had set his teeth on edge. Now that he had a new interest in his life—namely the intriguing Miss Hestia Norton—his campaign against Ebbworth seemed tawdry, and unnecessary. Yet if he gave up his pursuit of his enemy, he’d consider himself spineless. No. What he must do was to proceed apace, buy up all Ebbworth’s remaining debts, then have Stapleton call them in—and break the man.

  Ignoring the prick of conscience created by his mother’s words, he replaced his cup on the tray and rose.

  “Excuse me. I didn’t manage to conclude all the business I intended to do this morning. If you don’t mind, I shall have to cut our conversation short and go back to it.”

  He gave his outraged mother a brisk kiss on the cheek, then swung away and strode back to the house. An hour or so’s work in his study would bring his campaign against his enemy to a very satisfactory conclusion.

  Chapter 9

  It took a tremendous amount of courage for Hestia to penetrate the privacy of Conall’s study. Her fingers trembled, and her breath came in short bursts as she drew open the drawers of his desk, leafed through papers, and read the titles of his various notebooks and ledgers. This was just an initial foray to see what there was—she’d come back tomorrow and conduct a more targeted search.

  Two items, in particular, held her interest. One was a small locked box. This she placed on top of the desk with a view to hunting down the key in a little while. It was still only half-past eleven—Conall wouldn’t emerge from having tea with Lady Corsbury until almost twelve. He was a man of set habits—he’d informed her of that during one of their walks together.

  The other item was a large oval locket with an ornate cover. Flipping it open, she discovered a painting depicting the face, neck, and shoulders of a beautiful woman. The artist had shown her with translucent skin, like porcelain, and dark hair styled elegantly in an upward bun.

  If this was Josephine, Conall’s dead fiancée, it was a tragedy so much beauty should be lost so young. Tears pricked her eyes, and her heart was speared by pity for him.

  She was just about to return the miniature to the drawer when a sound froze her to the marrow.

  The click of an opening door.

  She went numb, unable to move as Conall’s gaze scanned the desk, taking in first the little box, and then her, where she knelt with a hand in one of the desk drawers. His face grew thunderous.

  “I’m surprised to find you here, Miss Norton. I thought you already had writing materials available in your room.” His voice was moderate, but, if anything, that very quietness unsettled her more than if he were shouting.

  She could just say she was hunting for a pencil. But that little box stood on the desktop, evidence of her guilt. He took a step closer, and she was grateful the desk was between them. Then, in a tone surprisingly soft, he asked, “Why do you weep?”

  “I—” Well, she could at least tell the truth about that. “I found a miniature portrait and assumed it was Josephine. She was so young, a nonpareil. It is a great loss you have suffered.”

  “You are very compassionate. Now, what about this?” He held the box out to her. “Are you going to tell me you got this box out so you could search further in the drawer for a pencil, or whatever you were going to say you were looking for? Because I know there is nothing else in that particular place besides the box.”

  Oh, this was terrible! Could there not be an
earthquake or some sudden flood? Anything to rescue her from a situation which made guilt coil around her insides like a constricting snake. He was a broken-hearted man, a man who’d been kind to her. And she’d betrayed his trust in the most hideous way.

  No, not yet. She’d only planned to betray him.

  “I want to tell you.” Her voice rasped in her throat.

  “Then pray, sit down. I’m listening.”

  Oh, why was he being so calm about this? The twitching muscle in his jaw, the pallor of his skin, were sure indications of his fury, yet he kept it contained. How unlike Frederick he was. Frederick would have thrown a tantrum by now.

  Conall edged his thigh onto the opposite side of the desk and folded his arms, making his shoulders look even broader.

  She must be brave. She owed him the truth, whatever the consequences. “You will hate me when I tell you.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Perhaps. But I won’t harm you. I have long suspected there was something you were concealing from me.”

  She leaned forward, pressing her head into her hands. She wanted to tell him everything. If she did, perhaps by appealing to his better nature, she could convince him to cease hounding Frederick.

  Where to start? “I should begin by telling you I am not acquainted with the Danceys, and never was due at Thatcham Hall.”

  His dark gaze bored into her. “That is a point in your favour. Go on.”

  “I was due to be married to a gentleman, but he never held to his promise. I’m still waiting for him to make good on it, so I may regain my position in society and start a family.”

  “Eloped, did you? A prime piece of folly.”

  She blinked away another tear. “You don’t need to tell me how foolish I’ve been. Anyway, you know the gentleman in question. You’ve been stalking him through the financial markets, he says, with a view to breaking him. All resulting from a quarrel over some woman.”

  He pushed away from the desk and strode behind her to gaze out the window. The only clue to the strength of his feelings was the tightening and loosening of his clasped hands behind his back.