Rogues and Ripped Bodices

by Samantha Holt

  And now she was a countess. A wealthy one at that. More important and powerful than himself. Talk of the Countess of Hawthorne’s return from France had spread like wildfire across the county, and he had indeed been refusing to meet with her. The last thing he needed was some interfering woman prying into his business affairs.

  Had he been prone to amusement, the situation might have made him laugh.

  “Well, Lady Hawthorne, it has been a pleasure.” He touched his forehead in lieu of tipping his hat. “I see that you are now well and I bid you good day.”

  Her hands came to her hips, ruining her ladylike posture. It was quite astonishing, if he thought about it, how different Ellie was now. Being a countess and marrying that old stick of an earl—God rest his soul—must have done her some good.

  Her lips curled in disgust. “You always were arrogant, but never this rude. At least not until...”

  “Fine,” he snapped. He certainly wasn’t going to listen to her berate him about those events all those years ago. He had done his level best to forget ever kissing Ellie Browning and he had been doing an admirably good job, thank you very much. “Come with me. I shall send a man for your horse. We can discuss business at the house.”

  Though what Ellie—no, the Countess of Hawthorne— wanted to discuss was beyond him. Her late husband had never shown any interest in the mill in spite of owning a large share in it. He’d been too busy gallivanting across the world with his young wife in tow.

  Where had he heard they were last time his mother availed him of all her news? Timbuktu? Bermuda? Some obscure place in India that no one had ever heard of and no one in their right mind would want to visit? Meanwhile he’d been buried under the responsibility of his newly inherited title and struggling to combat the dropping price of cotton, while increasing productivity at the mills.

  But now she was back. And putting her interfering nose where it did not belong. He had enough problems to deal with since the fire at the mill in Manchester without some busybody woman prying through his business dealings. What did she know of cotton anyway? How to wear it? That would be the vast sum of her knowledge, he concluded.

  He held out a hand to help her into the cabriolet and tried to avert his eyes from the flash of stockinged ankle. He snorted inwardly. Ladies and their petticoats. The wider they got, the more likely they were to show off something indecent. Not that he’d ever really thought of ankles as indecent but there was something wildly distracting about little Ellie’s slender ankle encased in a stocking. His mind was taking him further up that stocking and imagining where it stopped. Imagining the pale flesh of her thigh...

  He shook his head and realised she had slipped her gloved hand into his and was waiting for him to aid her in. What in the devil was he thinking of Ellie’s thighs for? It had been too long since he’d tumbled a woman, clearly.

  Lucian stared at those slender fingers in gloves just a shade darker than her riding dress, and tried not to think about how warm they were. The God-awful fear something was stirring where he did not want it to—in his damned trousers—made him a little abrupt with his movements and he released her hand quickly, and she nearly spilled back into him. He found himself with an armful of mauve wool and a mouthful of blonde curls. Ellie squeaked and shoved away from him to right herself in the carriage. He could not help but let his lips tilt at her flustered expression as she tried to right her hat on those endless curls. No matter how hard she tried, it would not sit properly.

  Before he could be further amused, he climbed into the carriage and directed the horses out onto the country road. She gripped the side as if he might take off at any second. He might be careless, but he was not so foolish as to put her life at risk for the sake of scaring her, so he kept the pace slow, though her grip didn’t seem to lessen. He imagined her knuckles were white under the dark fabric of her gloves.

  Perhaps he disconcerted her. Now why did that thought please him? Because it would be an opportunity to frighten her away? But, no, he had done that once before and what had happened? She had been practically sold to some old earl thanks to his behaviour. He would keep his distance—not easily done in the close confines of his vehicle he had to admit—and simply tell her that she had no place interfering in business. Lucian would reassure her that her shares were in safe hands and he would continue to provide a healthy profit.

  He hoped.

  With the new machinery, productivity was up—everywhere. That meant more cotton and lower prices. It was a race to keep up and with the fire at the other mill, he could not fulfil all his orders on time. Several buyers had already gone elsewhere.

  And now he had little Ellie to worry about. Damnation.

  The wheels of the carriage seemed to hit every rut and bump as they travelled across the dales, meaning her arm constantly brushed his and her body jostled against him. Even through the layers of both of their clothing, he was aware of the slender body he had been holding in his arms only moments before.

  She had filled out, he admitted. No longer a scrawny little thing. Her waist was still slender, no doubt helped by some God-awful contraption of a corset, but there was no mistaking she had some curves there. Of course, he preferred ample curves. Something to hold onto. Ellie was still tall and long limbed. He didn’t need a glimpse of her legs to know that or to imagine how they might wrap around—

  A large dip almost threw her into his lap and he cursed aloud as she righted herself. If his language bothered her, she said nothing. It was fine timing, however. Stopped him from imagining things he had no right to imagine and he certainly did not want to picture Ellie in any other position except far away from his person. The girl had been a bother as a child and now she looked to be a bother as a woman. If he could even call her that. That curving figure was only marginally woman-like and her face still held all the innocence of a child.

  Hunston Manor came into view, the great chimneystacks rising out from the valley like a train from a tunnel. Smoke plumed from several of them. His family home was smaller than Ellie’s current abode, but still one of the finest in Yorkshire. Though a lot of it was built in medieval times, his family had added to it over the years and the most recent addition in his father’s time was sympathetic to the medieval tower that still stood, if a little more comfortable and elegant.

  The crenulations were for show, not defence and the windows were wide, unlike that of the old tower, but from a distance it still reminded him of an old fortress. He wouldn’t be adding anything to it in his time, sadly, not that he needed the space, but it had become something of a tradition to add that little personal touch each generation.

  Unfortunately simply keeping the place from crumbling was expensive enough. Perhaps his cousin would do something to it. He was a staid, steady type, who would likely have better control of finances than Lucian did—or at least had. He had learned quickly how and where to make savings after the fire. His skin prickled at the remembrance of heat.

  A gloved hand rested briefly on his wrist.

  “I was sorry to hear of your father. He was a good man. I should have liked to have been there for his funeral.”

  “Thank you,” he replied solemnly.

  His father, the late viscount, had been dead for two years now and he was used to accepting peoples’ sympathies. Everyone had loved his father. He was one of the better ones, Lucian had to admit. He suspected his rakish ways had always disappointed him slightly. How would he feel about his son now? He couldn’t be further from a rake nowadays.

  He coughed to clear the tightness from his throat. “You were in India at the time?”

  “No, Egypt.”

  “Egypt! Pray tell what the earl found of interest in Egypt? It hardly seems the sort of place to drag a well-bred lady and he was hardly young.”

  “I was not dragged. I enjoyed our travels very much and Edward had a lot of energy for an elderly gentleman.”

  Lucian scowled and tried not think how he might have used his energies. He shuddered.r />
  “We were there to look at a scarab.”

  “A bug? You travelled to Egypt for a bug?”

  “Well, and I longed to see the pyramids. It’s a fascinating country, I can assure you. Sadly our trip was cut short by Edward’s declining health and we came back to Europe.”

  “Ah, oui, Paris. I forgot my mother mentioned you had settled there. Why come back to drab old England?”

  “It is my home,” she said with a barely suppressed sigh. “How is your mother?” she asked, her voice becoming overly bright. “Is she well?”

  “Well indeed. She is married.”

  “I had heard. Mama wrote to me and told me all. I suppose it was quite quick but I don’t see the harm if she is happy.”

  “She is,” he confirmed.

  He too had been surprised at the engagement of his mother only three months after coming out of mourning but he never doubted she loved his father. His mother was the sort of woman who needed a man at all times, and he was grateful she had managed to find another one for her to cling onto. As much as he loved her, he didn’t wish to be that man.

  “She still lives in Yorkshire?”

  Lucian tried not to roll his eyes. He tried not to groan. He failed on both parts and she probably noticed if the stiffening of her shoulders were anything to go by. From the corner of his eye he saw her turn wooden. He found himself innately aware of each movement of hers. But, damnation, did she not realise from his short answers he hated small talk. He’d never enjoyed it during his years in London and he certainly didn’t relish it now he was away from all that and out of practice.

  The men at the inn had no use for small talk and nor did his factory workers or those he paid to run it so that was where he divided his time. If they found their owner’s interference annoying, none had the gall to say as much. Most men preferred to leave it in their foreman’s hands, but heck, he needed something to keep him occupied if he was not lauding it up with high society in the dales.

  “Yes, she still lives in Yorkshire, though she spends much time in Lancashire on the coast these days. She is in Blackpool at present.”

  “Oh, I hear they are building a promenade there now.”

  He nodded. “It is quite the up and coming place, I hear.”

  “You have not been there yourself?”

  Lucian tried not to smirk. As if he had the time or the inclination. Did she not see the scars on his face? Who would want to promenade along the seaside and garner stares from every direction? Not him, to be sure.

  “No. I’ve been busy.”

  He released a long breath as he directed the horses up the long private road towards the house. There was no gate marking the entrance to the front, only two tall brick pillars. His stable hands must have seen him coming down the drive as they were ready to take the horses and put the carriage away before he had even stepped from it.

  Lucian held out a hand to Ellie and kept his face expressionless when she slipped her fingers into his. He released her hand as soon as humanly possible before striding up the steep set of stairs into the entrance hall. Though the house was modelled on a medieval abode on the outside, inside it was every inch a fine, modern home with marvelled pillars, and black and white tiled floors.

  He paused to signal to a nearby maid to bring drinks. He didn’t need to say anything—his staff knew what was expected of them. He had a strong routine though his early return and being accompanied by a lady no doubt would give them all something to gossip about. He even caught the maid’s quick glance at Ellie as his guest paused to view the bust of his father set into a recess at the back of the room.

  With the light streaming in through the front door and highlighting the side of her face, he realised just how much little Ellie Browning had grown. He’d been thrown off by those young eyes and innocent features, but her posture and elegance told him much of the change in her. Seven years ago she had been as awkward as a new-born lamb with no posture to speak of.

  The image was spoiled when she turned and her hat spilled from her head. She snatched it up and shoved some of those loose curls from her face. Perhaps not everything had changed, though, if he thought about it, she was a darned sight more pleasing to look at. Not a beauty however, he reminded himself sharply.

  “Will you come into the drawing room?”

  “Certainly.”

  She followed him in a regal manner but he saw the dark spots staining her cheeks and knew the hat incident had cost her. She eyed him as if waiting for him to comment on the faux pas. Perhaps her stuffy old husband had scolded her for any clumsiness. Poor girl. She hadn’t even been eighteen when she had married the old codger.

  But what did he care?

  Oh, yes, he didn’t, remember?

  He indicated to a seat and went to stand by the window. He waited until she had sat before turning to face her. “Now, Ellie, what is it you want and why have you been so eager to see me that you would risk being robbed and Lord knows what else? I hope it is a good reason indeed.”

  Chapter Three

  Tea for Two

  Eleanor peered up at him, noting the dip between his brows as if he was indeed very angry with her. Perhaps he was, though why he should care what happened to her person, she did not know. Likely it was her intrusion on his time that annoyed him most. Mama had said that Lord Rushbourne was rarely seen outside of his mills in the next county and his home.

  Why the sudden dislike of society though? The Lucian she had known relished spending time at parties and balls. She had realised rather too late that it was so he could get foxed and find some enjoyable company. She, in her foolishness, had thought him a great deal of fun and had even harboured hopes he came to see her. After all, their families had known one another for years. The match had been in her mind long before she had even thought of Lucian as anything other than a friend.

  “If you had read my letters, you would know why I wished to speak with you,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

  It was hard in the presence of such a man. He had a way of looking at her that made her feel small and silly. It didn’t help that she had fallen into his arms twice now and had embarrassed herself with her ridiculous hat and hair.

  It had been seven years since she had seen Lucian and he was still as handsome as ever. Not even the raised, red scar on the side of his face detracted from that. Time had done him many favours. The tiny lines knitting his brow removed any suggestion of the boyish demeanour he’d once had and she spotted a few silver threads in the dark brown hair at his temples. With his dark brows, long lashes and glinting green eyes, there was no mistaking Lucian for anything other than a thoroughly handsome man.

  One way above her reach. She laughed inwardly. That scar likely worked in his favour, garnering many a sympathetic touch from ladies. She wished her mama had told her the accident had scarred him though. It had taken her by surprise.

  “Well, I did not read your letters so you shall have to tell me yourself.”

  Eleanor smiled her thanks to the maid who poured the tea in front of her and desperately hoped Lucian would sit on one of the pale blue chairs in the centre of the room. He was some distance from her, with his hands clasped behind his back, yet having him standing made her stomach churn with apprehension. She would feel much more confident if he would but sit.

  Maybe he found her repellent. He had made that clear once before. She tried her hardest to be beautiful. Copious amounts of sunshine and lemon juice had improved her hair and complexion, but what was a woman to do about one’s features? That might explain his eagerness to keep his distance.

  Filling her lungs, she ignored the tea on the gilded table and secured her gaze on the portrait of the late viscount. She had visited Hunston Manor many times during her childhood and nothing had changed. Strange, for she had always expected Lucian to modernise the old house almost as soon as he’d inherited the title, but it seemed he had done nothing to it yet.

  “I wish to speak of my shares in your mill
in Lancashire. As you may have heard, my late husband signed over his un-entailed estates and fortune to me. That included any business arrangements and stocks.” Eleanor clenched her hands together, aware of the slight tremble in them. “Lord Rushbourne, I wish to have a hand in the mill.”

  He stared at her for several long moments, his lashes lowering and lifting quickly in surprise. A short burst of laughter came from him and she felt heat surge into her cheeks.

  “Forgive me. You wish to come and work for me? Operate the machinery perhaps?”

  “No! In the running of it, I mean.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  The words were sharp and quick, like a gunshot. Suddenly, she was seventeen again and being told her girlish dreams were ludicrous and no man like Lucian could ever want her. Or she was nine and her governess, Miss Pettigrew, was scolding her for staring out the window and dreaming of great adventures. The tired voice of her governess ran through her head. Well-bred girls did not run off on adventures and why could she not be more refined? Why did she have to be so awkward? Miss Pettigrew was sure she would never marry well, she had warned Eleanor’s mother, for who would want to marry such an uncouth girl?

  “I have no intention of interfering as such but my lawyers tell me the mill’s profits are dropping and I should like to come and see it for myself.”

  He strode over and paused by the chair opposite. Eleanor had to lift her chin to view him. His lips had twisted and his handsome features grew bitter. “You have come to laud it over me, I suppose. Here you are, a wealthy, beautiful countess, and here I am, a mere viscount with a failing business. You have seen exotic creatures and far off lands, while I have been fighting to save what’s left of my father’s legacy. I breathe in the thick smoke of Caldton, while you enjoy the fresh air of Paris or some other far flung place that no one in their right mind would want to visit.”

  The verbal attack might have sent her reeling had it not been for the plush cushions supporting her back. Such anger. Where did it come from? She didn’t think she had said or done anything offensive. Was it so far-fetched that someone whose money was tied up in a business should want to see that it was being invested well? Would he even be questioning such a demand if she were a man?