Coldness shuttered his gaze suddenly and he snapped back. Eleanor almost released a squeak of disappointment—a foolish reaction on her behalf. Perhaps he had suddenly realised exactly who he was going to kiss, or perhaps she was simply so lacking in knowledge about men that he had never intended to kiss her in the first place. Either way, she should not have been feeling acute disappointment. She certainly did not want Lucian to kiss her.
Not now. Not seven years ago. Not ever.
Chapter Eight
The Cliché
He’d been about to kiss her. What in the devil was going on? Lucian retreated quickly and made a show of studying the prospect from the window. Looking out onto the open expanse of grass that led down to the bridge he remembered the sight he had come across—a young lady leaning against the stone, her curls blowing in the breeze. For several moments, she had appeared...interesting. Riveting almost. With the sun glinting off her blonde tresses and her shapely figure shown to great advantage, his heart had done some sort of strange flip.
And again in the library. After studying the pictures of her, he had turned to find the sight of her oddly arresting. Even with those straight eyebrows and that too long nose, there was something wholly fascinating to her features. As though she were a painting simply viewed from the wrong angle and when one caught her from the right side, she became completely enchanting. He considered those black and white images of her and how she had seemed so unlike the scarecrow he had remembered her to be. Yes, she was certainly not as graceful as she was now but radiance shone from her.
Lucian groaned inwardly. Hell, he would be spouting poetic words of her beauty before long and little Ellie Browning had never been beautiful. And he had never spouted poetry. Not even in the pursuit of attractive widows.
“I hear the state rooms rival that of some of the palaces in England,” he muttered, keeping his gaze latched onto the view though not really seeing the lush lawns.
He was too aware of her movement behind him. Of the crinkle of her skirts and the slight sigh of the fabric as she sat, somewhere in the periphery of his vision. All he saw was a blur of blue. Against the dark wood of the room and the red and gold wallpaper, she was like a beacon of light. Like a sunny sky breaking a storm. Devil take it, there he went with the poetic thoughts again. Her accident had affected him worse than he’d realised. He’d hardly slept a wink.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turned to face the room and slipped onto the chair facing the fireplace. He had a good view of the photos and her husband’s vast collection of bugs and insects. He hadn’t been humouring her with his compliments of her husband’s interest but bugs did not do anything for him. How she had tolerated years of looking at the blasted things and travelling to God knows where just to catch a glimpse of one was beyond him.
“Shall I ring for some tea?” she asked.
Lucian frowned at her for too long. He knew he’d taken too long about it because she began to fidget. “Yes, do,” he finally managed to spit out.
It had been so long since he’d taken tea with someone, he hardly knew what to do. Not that sitting around drinking tea had ever been his style. He was more likely to indulge in some fine spirits, but still he had been known to play the gentleman when needs be. No longer though. Since the fire, he had all but become a recluse. He smirked to himself as Ellie rose to ring the bell and he tracked her movements with his gaze.
He had become a cliché. The grizzled old man hiding away in his grand old house. Before long he would live in only one room and the vines would grow across the building, blocking out the daylight and keeping away the visitors. Perhaps he would even affect a shuffling walk. If he was very lucky, he would grow a hump to complete the picture.
He could not help but let his lips twitch at the image. Very well, he had not come that far, but no doubt many would picture him that way—as if the sight of him was not bad enough. Better to let them have their gossip and tall tales of the reclusive Lord Rushbourne than to re-enter society and let them see the truth.
A footman arrived swiftly, saving him from summoning his meagre knowledge of polite conversation. What the bloody hell had he been thinking in coming here? He should have known he couldn’t very well turn up, check she was still alive and vanish again.
Once the tea was set down and poured, Ellie dismissed the footman and eyed Lucian over the brim of her cup. “I hope you have not forgotten your promise to have the records sent to me.”
“I have not. I will not be at the mill for several more days due to estate issues but I’ll have them sent by carriage.”
Anything to keep her away from the mill. He begrudged having to go to the trouble of sending over the accounts, but what better way of keeping her busy than burying her under a load of books. Goodness knows what she hoped to find.
“I never pictured you playing the master at a mill.”
“I do not play,” he responded, aware of the bitter tone to his voice.
The mill had slowly become his world. He wasn’t sure his lungs could cope without the dusty, smoky air of the mill anymore. The noise had become commonplace. The silence at Hunston was deafening. At the mill, no one cared if he was still an upstanding member of society. As long as they got paid, that was all they cared for. No one stared at him like some hideous disfigured beast. Most were too concerned for their own affairs.
“I did not mean to imply you did. I just didn’t think cotton interested you.”
“It didn’t, but when my father died, I had little choice but to become interested.”
“Yet you must have other affairs that take your attention? Why not simply leave it in the hands of the foremen? Or, if you are concerned, hire someone to keep a close eye. I’m not sure you would see many viscounts rolling up their sleeves and all but living in a mill.”
“Why should it bother you what I do with my time and where the devil are you pulling all this from?”
“I only say what I hear.” She took a small sip of tea. “And it bothers me because I have money tied up in your mill, remember? I must make sure my money is in good hands. There are few people who would have trusted you with a penny when we were younger.”
Lucian clutched the cup in his hand, aware of the fragile china and how easily it could be crushed—a little like seventeen year old Ellie. He had made his best attempt at crushing her. Sometimes he had thought he had done a fine job of it but now to see her grown up and throwing her bold words at him, he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps he could let a little of the guilt slip away and tell himself he’d made a decent contribution to helping Ellie see the truth of the world.
Unlikely. He would just bury it as usual. That had served him well these past years. Bury and forget anything he did not wish to think on.
“As I am sure you’re aware, Ellie, things have changed. I have changed. The mill needs me.”
The mill simply couldn’t go under, for what else would he do with his time? He had a capable estate manager and many other hands taking care of everything else.
“Or you need it?”
He failed to stop his eyebrows darting up in surprise at her observation. She simply let slip a sly smile as she lifted the cup to her lips once more. He found himself entranced by the purse of those cherry lips as the rim of the cup touched them. His fingers tingled with the desire to do the same. Would she taste good still? They looked softer now and altogether more tempting.
The cup in his hand slipped while he stared on and he fumbled to keep it from falling from his fingers completely.
“Blast.”
Tea sloshed over the side of the cup and soaked the cuff of his shirt and the sleeve of his jacket.
“Oh dear.”
Ellie was on her feet before he could protest and had pulled a handkerchief from God knows where to begin dabbing at the sleeve. The handkerchief was warm and had likely been pressed against her skin. Soft, pale skin...
She crouched before him and pressed the cotton to the stained cuff. “I always think th
ese cups are too small for a man’s hands,” she said sweetly.
Lucian rolled his eyes and tried to tug his arm back. How like her to blame the china rather than him. “That will do,” he said gruffly.
To see her crouched before him was too much. Heat burgeoned through him and if he wasn’t careful he’d be pushing her back to the floor and seeing if she really did taste the same as he remembered.
Except...except this was little Ellie Browning. Why the devil should he want to do a thing like that to her?
“Let me just... Oh.” She stopped dabbing.
He glanced down to see some of the red, ugly skin on his arm had been revealed. He yanked his arm back and the movement nearly sent her tumbling. Snatching her arm, he righted her. His hand remained wrapped around her thin arm for several moments while he became aware of the warmth of her skin through the muslin and how fragile she felt.
“I am sorry. I heard of the fire and...and everything but I did not realise...”
That he was a ruined beast of a man? That he repulsed himself when he looked in the mirror? He, who had spent so long pondering her looks and appeal—or lack of it—was one hundred times uglier than any scarecrow. Lucian dropped her arm as though it were she who was the source of the fire and she sat.
“You could have been killed,” she said, her voice hushed.
“I could have been, but I was not, as you can see.” He lifted his arms as if to demonstrate just how alive he was and regretted it.
The scarred tissue on his arm pulled and reminded him of the touch of flames, the agonising burning sensation that would not leave for weeks on end. Even now he awoke in pain, as though his skin remembered the flames catching his clothes and crawling quickly up his sleeve to touch his face. Had it not been for the quick actions of one of the foremen to throw a blanket over him, he might have lost more than some of his good looks. He was damned lucky it did not reach his eyes or singe more than the edge of an eyebrow.
But when the pain was as fresh and as raw as ever and he awoke alone, in an empty house, he did not feel so lucky.
“Do they know how the fire started?”
“No. Though it was suggested a cigarette started it. Cotton fluff burns like the devil. No right-minded mill owner lets their workers smoke in the mill but there will always be those who chance it.”
“I...I am so sorry.”
Lucian stared at her for a good while. Regret sat deep in those grey eyes—eyes that drew him in like a whirlpool. She, of all people, offering him sincere sympathy. He did not deserve it. She reached over and he snatched his hand away before she could touch him, forcing her to fist her hands in her lap.
“I suppose you think I deserve as much,” he muttered when he had finally managed to drag his gaze from hers and fix it upon the tea cup.
“Of course I do not!”
He shook himself from his thoughts and allowed a grim smile. “No, of course you do not. You, little Ellie Browning, are a far better person than I.” Lucian released a long breath and took some amusement in her open-mouthed expression as he rose. “Forgive me, but I’m glad to see you are well. I will not keep you any longer. No doubt you need some rest.”
“I’m quite well and have no need of rest, I can assure you.”
Well, he did not expect her to stay quiet and shocked forever he supposed, but to have her dumfounded for a little longer might have been nice.
Ellie rose too, adopting that regal posture of hers that never quite seemed to suit. He almost missed the days she was carefree and as loose with her movements as she was with her tongue.
“The doctor is coming soon, yes?” he asked as she led him through the house to the front entrance.
“Yes, my lord, though I am sure I have no need of him.”
“You took a heavy blow to the head. You have need of him,” he told her.
“Do you know why it happened?”
He paused by a pillar in the entrance hall and placed his hat on his head. “The belt must have become worn. These incidents are not unheard of.”
“I only hope it does not happen again to anyone else.”
He scowled. “I keep my machinery well maintained. I am not a miserly master, whatever you may think, Ellie. I have little intention of letting it happen again.”
But he had to admit, the incident puzzled him. Accidents might happen but it rarely involved faulty machinery. An incident like that slowed down production and cost him far more than simply ensuring the machinery ran well and all was up to scratch. He could not fathom how a worn belt had slipped past the foreman.
“I do not blame you for it, Lucian.”
Her habit of slipping his name in her softer moments was beginning to grate on his nerves. He far preferred being addressed by his name, but not when it was used tactically.
“Of course you do not. As I just said, you are a far better person than I. Yet you should. I’m to blame for much I fear. Now if you will excuse me. Your doctor shall be along soon, I am sure, and I see that you are well, so there’s no need for me to stay. Good day.”
Lucian tipped his hat and hurried out of the hall as fast as he could. How that woman forced these words from his lips was beyond him. Little Ellie was a mystery. Soft and tender one moment, while declaring bold intentions the next. Forgiving and soft then shooting daggers of annoyance his way. A portrait of plainness with berry lips and soft skin. Even his body didn’t know what to do with itself. Just the thought of those lips made his blood boil.
It was no good, he thought, as he strode down the steps and in what he hoped was the direction of the stables. He’d not even stopped to ask for his horse to be fetched. He would simply have to behave more a cad than he already was. Scare her off completely. It had worked last time. Hell, she had gone and travelled the world after he had kissed her. Maybe she would take off and do it again if only he managed to keep his wits about him and make her realise she had no place in the world of cotton. Or even in his world.
Chapter Nine
Mama is Always Right
Two days later, a letter had arrived from Eleanor’s mama, announcing her imminent arrival. Now, on the third day, Eleanor had finished her meeting with the housekeeper and the butler and they were just about ready for the Baroness’s visit. Her father was to stay in London it seemed, but Mama had tired of it now that the season was coming to an end and after all she had not seen her daughter in over a year. The last time had been at Edward’s funeral and there had been no time to catch up. Both their lives were busy but Eleanor had to admit, she had missed her mother’s positive presence.
Now that enough food had been bought in for mama and her entourage—her Aunt Sylvia, two lady’s maids and a handful of other servants—the menus had been planned and the guest rooms had been prepared, there was nothing left to do but wait.
Eleanor peered out of the window of the Box Room, so called because of its shape, and twined her hands together. Heavy clouds hung in the sky and she prayed they did not bring rain. Being trapped indoors didn’t appeal, even if they did have much to catch up on. She had hoped to give Mama a proper tour of the estate, particularly as her previous stays had only been brief on her and Edward’s infrequent stays in England, and Aunt Sylvia had not visited Broadstone Hall at all as she usually remained in Scotland for much of the year.
She allowed herself a smile. Aunt Sylvia had probably seen her opportunity to poke around the hall and spend time with her niece, the countess, and had thus made the effort to travel to the south in the hopes of the baroness arranging a visit. Eleanor did not know her aunt all that well with her reluctance to travel to England but, as with her mama, she had been told she was prodigiously proud of her niece’s accomplishment at gaining such a rank. What sort of achievement it was to gain a rank by marrying an old man, she didn’t know.
And still Lucian had not sent the accounts. A fine thing, probably, with all she had to deal with now, but she suspected he was delaying. If she had time, she would ride over to Hunston and demand
to know what the delay was, but alas she did not have time.
Not to mention his odd behaviour the other day. He had seemed concerned for her, then snappish and then out came these strange admissions... It was all very vexing. How was she to continue nurturing her dislike of him when he spoke of her being the better person? It was untrue. Oh, morally, she might be, but in looks and manner, and achievement, he was far better. Whatever she thought of his past antics, she had to admit he seemed to work hard at keeping his father’s businesses thriving and from what she had heard, he took care of his estates well. What could she say for herself? She had travelled the world, hanging onto the coattails of her husband and achieved a rank merely by being available and a sort of unfussy type of woman. Edward had admitted in the past that her lack of ‘pomp and prissiness’ appealed to him because he knew he would have no trouble travelling with her.
What he meant was she was plain and dull, and would not worry should her hair get messy or her dress get crinkled. Not that he had ever said as much. Edward had been a kind man—more than many ladies could say of their husbands.
The sight of a carriage rounding the corner made her straighten. Butterflies filled her stomach, ready to take off. It was so important Mama enjoyed her stay at Broadstone. She had always harboured big dreams for her daughter, dreams Eleanor feared she would never achieve. She still recalled her mama’s beaming smile on her wedding day. That, and the proud look on her father’s face had been the best moments of that day.
The closed carriage drew close, travelling up through the pruned trees and carefully plotted gardens. Eleanor was out on the front step before the carriage had come to a halt. The two footmen came forward to open the door and pull down the stairs and four women alighted from the vehicle.
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