No more.
Chapter Twelve
The Power of a Damp Shirt
When Lucian did not contact Eleanor about the accounts even a week later, she took it upon herself to ride to Hunston. Let him see if he could ignore her again when she was on his doorstep. Admittedly he had done a fine job of it the first few times she had tried to meet with him, but they were not yet reacquainted at the time. Surely he would not do so again?
He did not, but he seemed in an awful mood when he led her into the study. Lucian’s behaviour had been odd at the ball if she thought about it—the abrupt declarations of wrongdoing and the way he had held her so tenderly as he danced with her. There had even been a softness in his eyes that she’d never seen before. Who was this man?
Though she had to admit, as he thrust a finger towards the stack of books with an almost grunt like sound, she recognised this man. He had been like this with her at their first meeting and then on the train. But why the sudden reversion?
“I will not take long,” she promised as she settled herself behind the mahogany desk and studied the spines.
He snorted. “You have two years’ worth here, my lady. You’ll be lucky if it does not take you more than two years to read through the things.”
Eleanor sighed. Yes, he was probably right, but there were a few things she wanted to look into. Some discrepancies in the latest reports that she needed to compare to the older ones.
Striding over to the window, he turned his back to her. “I don’t see what you think you will find.”
She found herself admiring that back, even if he was being deliberately rude. Her fingers tingled as she remembered what it felt like to touch those wide shoulders and be held practically against him. Lucian’s body spoke of hard work and time in the saddle. He used to fence, she recalled. Did he still do so? And what would that hard body look like out of his frock coat and shirt? The only man she had seen properly unclothed was Edward and there hadn’t been much of him that was hard, though he had been lean. Some of the natives they had met had not worn much but she doubted any looked like Lucian.
“I do not mean to insult your staff, my lord,” she finally replied, feeling the need to dampen the heat rising up her neck.
Eyes narrow, jaw set, he whirled on her. “Goddamn it, Ellie, we have known each other since infancy. I am Lucian. Cease this prim and proper act before I lose my wits. Enough with this ‘my lord’ nonsense.” He mimicked her voice briefly. “You are above me. You could call me a bloody donkey’s arse if you wanted to, but enough with ‘my lord’.”
Eleanor’s ears burned at his coarse language and she was half tempted to shrink into the chair and slide under the table to hide. Drawing her shoulders back, she summoned the courage that had pushed her through the last seven years of her life. No matter what people thought of her, how plain they deemed her to be, she would strive to be the best she could be and that meant behaving with grace and certainty.
“I shall cease calling you my lord when you cease calling me Ellie.”
He glared at her for a long time. She was mighty glad looks could not kill or else she would have been dead in seconds. The ticking of the grandfather clock to her left echoed in her ears.
“I will not cease. It is your name is it not?”
“My name is Lady Eleanor Sedgewick, Countess of Hawthorne. Not Ellie or Ellie Browning or little Ellie or anything of that nature. I beg you to remember that.”
More ticking. More long moments of being stared at and then his shoulders dropped a little. “You’re right, I should remember that. Forgive me, my lady.” He unlatched his hands from behind him and gestured to the bell pull. “Simmons has been instructed to bring you tea and will be attending to you should you need him.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, regret drumming in her chest at his dulled expression. She almost wished he was shouting at her or trying to aggravate her in some manner. This side of Lucian she didn’t know what to do with.
“For a ride. Good day, my lady.”
“Good...” —he was gone, striding out of the door—“day,” she finished softly. “Oh dear.”
Eleanor clutched her hands in front of her on the desk and puzzled over the man. She might not like him, but she had little intention of aggravating him so badly. But she really needed to make sure this mill was running to the best of its abilities. For one, many lives depended on the mill but more importantly she could make life better for the workers. For people like Jane.
Resigning herself to the knowledge she would never understand Lucian, she set about organising the books into piles and setting up some paper. She had a long day ahead and thoughts of the handsome, green-eyed rake would not help her concentration.
Simmons swiftly arrived with tea and biscuits. Handsome and tall, the footman did not have the talkative temperament of Lucian’s housekeeper and she wished it was her attending her instead. Then maybe she could find out what was wrong with Lucian.
Around mid-afternoon, she took herself for a walk around the house to stretch her legs and ease her aching back. Evidence was building but nothing was pointing to anything in particular. There were orders that appeared to have gone unfulfilled and a few errors as if someone was trying to hide something. But what? If someone was embezzling, she doubted it would get past Lucian that easily and he had enough staff for someone to have picked up on it.
As she walked along the gallery that would take her back to the study, she paused to admire the portrait of Lucian. It had to be a few years old, before the fire. That devilish twinkle was still in his eyes. If one compared it to his father’s portrait, which was directly next to his, one saw the difference in attitude between the men. Lucian had an indolent, wicked sort of posture—one that told the world he knew exactly how handsome he was and he was going to take advantage of it. While his father had been handsome too, the man’s stiff lip and stern expression spoke of hard work and not much else. She remembered the viscount had always spoken of the benefits of a hard day’s work.
But what interested her most was she now recognised that look in Lucian. The playfulness sometimes returned—like the night of the ball when she thought he would kiss her—but for the most part there was a seriousness to his brow and an echo of something painful in his eyes.
Had she been dismissing him as nothing but a rake and a philanderer when he really had wanted to make amends with her that night? Did he see her as something other than little Ellie Browning, even if just for a moment? When he had stared down at her, his mouth so close to hers, she had believed so.
With one last look at his portrait, she continued down the gallery. A movement out on the lawns caught her eye and she paused to peer out of the window. The day had grown drizzly and the window panes were spattered with rain drops so she had to practically press her nose to the glass to view Lucian approaching the house on horseback. Where had he been in this weather?
She felt like a child pressing her nose to the window of a sweet shop to eye all the beautiful treats when he dismounted and handed over his reins to the stable hand. His lithe movements made her body ache. Oh, to be pressed against it again.
Eleanor shook her head. Foolish girl. What was wrong with her? Now was not the time to be developing an infatuation with him again. Not that there was ever a time that was appropriate. She hurried along the gallery to the study and sealed herself in the room before he could catch her. Dreaming of Lucian was never a good idea—it had been a mistake seven years ago and it certainly would be a mistake now. Clearly she hadn’t managed to grow up as much as she had hoped.
Rolling her neck, she rang the bell and settled down at the desk. More tea ought to do it. Tea was the cure to everything, as everyone well knew. Her stomach grumbled a little and she hoped Simmons brought her some biscuits too. She stared at the ledger in front of her for several moments but the words had somehow picked up from the page and all swapped places and become nonsense. She rested her chin on her hand and huffed in frustration. S
he could not see the words properly because a certain set of blazing eyes had imprinted themselves in front of her vision.
“Damn him.”
“Something the matter?”
Heat rushed into her cheeks and she snapped her head up to see Lucian entering with a tray of tea. He laid it down on the console table and began pouring himself a cup. Eleanor gaped like a fish. Had he heard her coarse language? Why was he bringing her tea? And what was he thinking coming in here looking like that?
Each breath grew more difficult the longer she looked. He perched himself against the table and languidly sipped his tea. The small cup reminded her of how fragile she had felt in his arms. Much like the china, his hands dwarfed her own tiny ones but she never feared he might break her. She had felt protected in those strong arms.
“Well?”
Eleanor snapped her gaze away from where he had divested himself of his cravat. His hair was damp and curling, as was the front of his shirt. Unwittingly her gaze dropped again. Even the flesh at his collar had a sheen to it. Her fingers twitched and she forced her hands down into her lap to clench them together lest she give into the voice in her head that was screaming at her to touch that damp flesh.
“No...no...” she squeaked and coughed. “Nothing wrong. Have you been riding?” She groaned inwardly. What an inane question.
“Yes.” His gaze fixed on hers and the air around her grew thick and intense, as though she were caught in a storm.
“It is hardly the sort of weather for riding. Did you have something important to do?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Have you made much progress?”
“Pardon?” Eleanor stared at him for several moments before remembering what she was meant to be doing. “Oh, the books. Yes, though I am nowhere near done I’m afraid.”
“Will you not join me for some tea? You could do with a break.”
“I did just take a walk around the house,” she confessed. Though she longed for a warm cup, she didn’t think her legs would cooperate and moving closer to Lucian when he was dressed like that would be a mighty mistake. “You look...damp. Perhaps you should change?”
He lifted a shoulder and placed down the cup of tea to slip off his jacket and hang it over the back of one of the red leather chairs. Next came his waistcoat. Eleanor watched him undo each button, both horrified and fascinated. Good Lord, she hoped he stopped there. And she hoped he did not. To get a look at that wide chest...
She began fanning herself with a sheet of paper and had to slap it down. His lips twitched and she narrowed her gaze at him as he came to settle directly in front of her once more. The damp front of his shirt stuck to his chest and his movements had sent several drips of water trailing down his face and neck. Eleanor’s gaze followed those trails as they vanished under his shirt.
“I hope you don’t mind my state of undress. I’m not one for formality in my home.”
That proved it. He was toying with her. She was not sure what his intention in making her uncomfortable was, but she would not fall foul to his games.
“Not at all.” Her responding smile felt fragile but, regardless, she stood and walked over to help herself to tea.
“Allow me.” His fingers grazed hers as he took the teapot from her and poured. “You have two sugars, if I recall correctly.”
“How do you remember that?”
“I remember many things about you.” Lucian dropped two sugars in her tea and poured the milk without spilling a drop—and without taking his gaze from hers.
A damp curl of dark hair dropped across his forehead when he leaned forwards to place the cup in her hands. Once again, their fingers brushed and tingles raced up her arms. The fragile china cup slipped from her fingers and it seemed to happen slowly. She watched in horror as it dropped to the floor, tea splashing from it, up the hem of her skirt and across the red carpet. The cup rolled to a stop under the table.
“Oh no.” She dropped to her knees, tears of mortification stinging her eyes. Stupid, clumsy, foolish girl. Reaching under the table, she retrieved the cup only to come face to face with Lucian who had come to crouch beside her.
“Forgive me,” she mumbled when he handed her a handkerchief. “Forgive me. I am such a fool. So clumsy.” She began dabbing at the stain on the carpet. “I—”
His hand latched around her wrist and drew it away from the tea stain. “That’s for your gown, not the carpet.”
More tears burned in the corners of her eyes. Would she never do anything right?
“Ellie? Whatever is the matter?” Warm fingers came to settle under her chin and he coaxed her to face him.
Eleanor kept her lids lowered. She would not have him see her cry. No matter what the world had done to her, she never let anyone see her cry. Not even when he had said those cruel words to her. She had spent many days curled up, crying until her lungs were raw, but never had anyone seen those tears.
“Don’t cry. It’s only a carpet. No doubt Grace will like the challenge. I fear I am not nearly enough hard work for her.”
Unable to prevent it, she let out a spluttered laugh. He took the handkerchief from her limp hand and placed it on the table above them. Seeing the stain on the hem of her gown, he used his shirt sleeve to dab away the mark. His fingers were so close to her ankle that heat rushed into her chest. Were it not for her petticoats, he would be able to graze her ankle and then perhaps take those fingers higher...
“There. No harm done.”
She sniffed and offered a weak smile. “I am clumsy. Forgive me.”
“Nought to forgive.” He offered his own smile—a genuine one. There was no seduction or bitterness or wryness behind it. She was not sure she had ever seen such a smile. It made her heart bounce against her chest as though it were on a spring. He had never looked so handsome.
When his thumb came up to brush away the dampness under her eye, she feared her heart might very well burst from her chest. The coarse texture of his thumb, no doubt brought on by the work he did at the factory, sent prickles down the side of her face and she forgot to breathe. All it would take would be for her to shuffle forwards and she would be in his lap. All he had to do was slide his hand down to cup her face and draw her into him. Their lips would then meet and his hands would come to her waist. She would flatten her palms to his chest and smooth them over his shoulders. Only fabric would be between her and those firm muscles.
The door swung open and it was not until Simmons coughed, did either of them look away.
“What is it?” Lucian barked. “Well, man?” he prompted when Simmons continued to swing his puzzled gaze between them both on the floor.
“A letter, my lord. An urgent one. From Caldton.”
“Right. Thank you, Simmons. You may go.”
Simmons deposited the letter on the console table and gave a curt bow before leaving. Eleanor clapped her hands to her cheeks and shook her head. Could today get much worse? The servants would be gossiping about the position Simmons found them in before long and the news would spread quicker than a jack rabbit hopping across a field.
Lucian offered her a hand and helped her to her feet. For a brief instant, they were in front of each other, close enough again to touch and taste—and feel. Eleanor longed to step forwards and at the same time wanted to retreat. Her feet did neither.
He released her hand and picked up the letter. As he tore it open, he eyed her. Was it her imagination or did his green eyes speak of the same need? Surely not?
When he wrenched his gaze from hers to concentrate on the missive, she saw his expression change. No hint of that devastating smile lingered and a grave cast came over his face. His brows furrowed then his jaw clenched. The hand holding the letter tightened until the paper creased.
“Devil take it.”
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
He strode over to pull the bell. “An accident. At the mill.” He studied the letter again and scrunched it into a ball before flingin
g it into the fireplace.
Simmons must have been waiting close by as he arrived at the study promptly.
“Have my horse saddled. With haste.”
“What sort of accident? You intend to go there?”
“One of the looms collapsed. Caught a man under it.”
Eleanor pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh Lord. Was he killed? Does he have a family?”
“How should I know? It’s a letter, not a biography.” He sighed. “I don’t know what happened to him. Mr Elmore does not say.”
Sickness welled in her stomach. Poor man. Had he been crushed? Killed? It did not bear thinking about. “I am coming with you,” she spilled out before thinking.
“Don’t be ridiculous. The train is not due for another two hours so I’ll go on horseback. It’s raining heavily and I won’t have you holding me back.”
“You would be better off taking the carriage anyway. Your horse will not tolerate a hard ride so quickly again.”
Lucian stormed to the door and yelled after Simmons, who must have only reached the hallway as he appeared again after only moments.
“My lord?”
“Have the carriage made ready.”
“Of course, my lord.” The footman’s expression remained impassive but Eleanor noted his heavy breathing and pitied the poor man who had been forced to scurry back and forth.
“You are not coming with me, however.” Lucian thrust a finger her way as he slipped on his waistcoat and punched his hands through his jacket.
“Try to stop me.”
“Bloody hell, Ellie, this is no time for games.”
“I am not playing. This is my mill too. If something has gone wrong, I want to be there.”
“This is not your mill. You own part of it. You have not worked day and night to ensure it turns a profit,” he barked. “You have not invested every spare penny in it and breathed the cotton dust, day in day out. I have no idea what your interest in that place is, but don’t pretend you have some important role. You are the money, nothing else.”
Little Ellie Browning might have cowered away at those words. She might have turned away and quietly curled up somewhere to cry. But she was not little Ellie anymore and Lucian was not quite the rakehell he used to be. She saw now the passion he had for the mill. For reasons unknown, he had thrown himself into running that mill and every word spat in her direction merely spoke of his passion for the place. A passion that she could not help but admire.
Rogues and Ripped Bodices Page 20