Undone by the Billionaire Duke

by Caitlin Crews

  All Geraldine did was blink. Once, then again. But that was enough. Eleanor started unzipping her big coat.

  “She’s not any more disobedient than any other small human creature,” came a male voice Eleanor wished she didn’t recognize, wafting down the length of the hall as if it, too, was made of gold. And was set to shine. “She’s seven. Let’s not put the child in a cage so quickly, shall we?”

  It took her a moment to find Hugo in all the dizzy brilliance of the bright foyer. But then there he was, sauntering out of one of the connected rooms toward the front door as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Because of course, he didn’t.

  He looked nothing like a duke should, Eleanor thought darkly. No Hooray Henry red trousers or Barbour slung just so for the most hated man in all of England. Not for Hugo. He came towards her in an old, battered pair of jeans. He had his hands thrust into the pockets like some kind of slumming American celebrity. He wore a T-shirt, cleverly ripped here and there, like those Eleanor had seen in the posh shops that Vivi preferred. It was the sort of T-shirt that would’ve looked like a soiled tissue on a lesser man. But Hugo hadn’t been lying about his metabolism. Or anyway, that was how Eleanor tried to view the magnificent specimen of male beauty walking toward her then: in terms of his metabolism.

  Because everything on Hugo Grovesmoor’s body was cut to perfection as if he was another piece of statuary in his own hall. His chest was ridiculous, broad at the top and narrow near his hips and stunningly ridged in between. He looked as if he should be racing about in a loincloth, banging on about Sparta. Instead, his dark eyes were the precise shade of a lazy glass of whiskey, his dark hair looked very much as if he’d been galloping around in a bedchamber instead of on horseback, and that little curl in the corner of his mouth was nothing short of disastrous.

  Because Eleanor could feel it everywhere. Lighting her up in places she’d long since forgotten about.

  She didn’t know what that dark, edgy thing was that wound around inside of her then. What she did know was that it was Hugo’s fault.

  “The child is already in a cage,” Eleanor retorted before she could think better of it. She flicked a glance around the vast hall, which was even bigger and more magnificent at a second glance, and just as dizzying, from the plump chandeliers to the acrobatic sconces on the walls. “A large one, I grant you.”

  Hugo kept moving toward her, eventually coming to a stop a few feet away. And then they were all three standing there in various degrees of awkwardness, right in front of the big front door.

  It was worse when he was close, Eleanor was forced to admit. It made her feel raw and unsteady inside. It had been bad enough when he was up on the back of that giant horse, hooves flailing every which way and that mocking voice of his like a weapon, but Hugo even closer was confusing. Eleanor eyed him balefully, as if that might do something about that bright nonsense sloshing around inside of her and making her feel...things.

  Way too many things.

  In entirely too many places.

  She told herself that it was only that she still had her big, heavy coat on. The coat was the reason she was flushed. Too warm. Almost itchy, somehow. It had nothing at all to do with him.

  Next to her, Hugo did nothing to change the impression she’d had of him from across the hall. Or up on that horse, for that matter. And once the shock of his astonishing male beauty wore off—or, if she was more precise, dimmed a slight bit when she managed to breathe—she found that what really exuded from him like his own, very rich and unmistakable scent was all that arrogance.

  That smile of his only deepened then. It was as if he could read her mind.

  But he directed his attention to Geraldine. “Well?”

  The little girl only shrugged, a sullen look on her cute little face.

  “No point letting this one settle in like the others, if you’re only going to complain about it later.” Hugo’s voice was...different, Eleanor thought. Not exactly softer, but more careful.

  She was so busy trying to figure out what the difference was that she almost missed what he’d said.

  “I beg your pardon. Are we discussing my employment?”

  Hugo slid that gaze of his back to her. Too lazy. Too hot. She could feel it in too many places. More than before, and hotter.

  “We are.” He raised a dark brow. “It appears you’re doing nothing but eavesdropping.”

  Eleanor’s teeth hurt, and she unclenched them. “It would be eavesdropping if I was hid behind one of the flower arrangements, blending into all this feverish decor.” She forced herself to smile, and the fact that it was difficult made her uneasy. More than uneasy, but she did it anyway. “I am not eavesdropping. But you are being remarkably inappropriate.”

  “It’s a bit of bad form to hurl accusations like that at an innocent child, don’t you think?” Hugo asked lazily, and Eleanor had the strangest thought that he was teasing her.

  But why would the Duke of Grovesmoor tease anyone, much less someone as insignificant as Eleanor, a governess he apparently no longer wished to hire? She thrust that aside and concentrated on the only part of this bizarre interaction that she could control. Or try to control, anyway.

  “I think all three of us are perfectly aware who I’m speaking to.” Eleanor gazed down at Geraldine then, and this time her smile was genuine. “It won’t hurt my feelings if you’d like me to leave, Geraldine. And I don’t mind it if you say so to my face. But the Duke is very deliberately putting you in a position where you can act out his bad impulses, and that isn’t fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair,” Hugo murmured, a bit too dark and smooth for Eleanor’s peace of mind.

  Eleanor ignored that, wishing it was as easy to ignore him. “It’s also perfectly okay not to know,” she told the little girl. “We met all of five minutes ago. If you’d like to take a little bit longer to make up your mind, that’s fine.”

  “You say that with such authority,” Hugo said. “Almost as if we stand in your house instead of mine.”

  Then he looked around as if he’d never laid eyes on the hall before in his life, when Eleanor knew full well that he’d been born here. Apparently, the Duke liked a bit of theater. She filed that away.

  “But no,” he continued, as if anyone had argued with him. “It’s the same hall I remember from the whole of my benighted childhood, when governesses far stricter than you failed entirely to make me into a decent man. Portraits of my dreary ancestors lining the walls. Pedigrees as far as the eye can see. Grovesmoors in every direction and back again. Which would suggest that the authority lies with me and not you, would it not?”

  “Funny,” Eleanor said coolly, keeping her gaze fixed to his as if she wasn’t the least bit intimidated. Because she certainly shouldn’t have been, and why should it matter to her that his gaze felt as intoxicating as it looked? “The agency is under the impression that in this situation, Geraldine has the authority.”

  “Do you think so?” Hugo asked with a dangerous sort of laziness in his voice, then.

  She didn’t know what he might have said then. Something like temper stormed about in that gaze of his, making her breath feel heavy and tight in her chest.

  But she knew, somehow, that it wasn’t temper. Not quite.

  “I like her,” Geraldine chimed in then. “I want her to stay.”

  The Duke didn’t shift his eyes from Eleanor’s.

  “Your wish is my command, my favorite ward,” he said in that same careful tone, and maybe Eleanor was the only one who could hear all those undercurrents. Or feel them, anyway. Swishing around inside of her as if she’d had entirely too much to drink.

  As if he was a new brand of spirit served in far more than the usual measures.

  Everything felt hot. Entirely too sharp, as if there were some unseen hand clenched around them, gripping them tight. This close, Eleanor was sure that she could feel the heat of the Duke’s body, making that T-shirt of his seem sensible. Making her feel that much
warmer and uncomfortable in her own skin.

  It’s only the coat, she told herself desperately, but he was still so close. And much too tall. He towered over her the same way he had on that damned horse, and she assured herself there was no particular reason she should have the image of its flailing hooves, rearing up over her, when it was only a man standing in front of her in an entryway. Just a man. No dangerous animal in sight.

  She was sure he almost said something, but he didn’t. Instead, he shifted. He pulled one hand out of his jeans pocket, and lifted it. That was all. If she’d seen a stranger do it on the street, she wouldn’t have thought of it as any kind of gesture. It seemed accidental.

  But it wasn’t, she realized the next moment, because suddenly the hall was filled with people.

  Geraldine was swept away in the care of two clucking nannies. Someone took Eleanor’s bags, another person took her coat, and then suddenly there was a very neatly dressed, efficient-looking older woman bearing down on her with a tight smile on her mouth and her steel gray hair tucked back in a bun that looked a great deal like Eleanor’s own.

  “Mrs. Redding, I presume,” Eleanor said as the woman drew close.

  “Miss Andrews.” The woman greeted her in the same briskly matter-of-fact tone Eleanor recognized from the telephone calls they’d had. “If you’ll come with me.”

  As Eleanor followed her deeper into the depths of the great house, she realized that the Duke was nowhere to be seen. Then he’d disappeared in all the commotion.

  She told herself she was relieved.

  “I do apologize that there was no one waiting to collect you from the station,” the housekeeper said as she strode through the maze of halls, not pausing for an instant to give Eleanor a glimpse of the splendor closing in on all sides. Eleanor found she was grateful. She was afraid that if she stopped or stared for too long at any one thing, in any of the many beautiful rooms they hurried past, she’d be mesmerized for days. “It was an oversight.”

  Eleanor doubted that, for some reason. Or she doubted that this woman made any oversights, perhaps. But this was her first day, and she had the distinct impression she’d already irritated her employer, so there was no reason to dig that ditch any deeper.

  “I had a lovely walk,” she said instead. “It was a nice chance to take in the area. And quite atmospheric.”

  “The moors are nothing if not filled with atmosphere,” the housekeeper said, an undercurrent in her voice that made Eleanor’s ears prick up. “You’ll want to be careful of the winds, however. They crop up out of nowhere and howl terribly wherever they go. They have a way of getting under your skin, you’ll find. Whether you’re aware of it or not.”

  Eleanor didn’t think Mrs. Redding was talking about the Yorkshire wind. Or not only about the Yorkshire wind.

  “I’ll be certain to dress appropriately for the elements, then,” Eleanor said after a moment, her tone even.

  The woman led her down an endless hallway, then stopped at the far end.

  “These are your rooms,” Mrs. Redding said, waving Eleanor into the waiting suite. “I hope it will be sufficient. I’m afraid it’s a bit less spacious than some of the previous governesses were hoping for.”

  Eleanor wanted to tell the woman she had been expecting a closet, or perhaps a cot down in a basement. Wherever the servants were kept in a place like this.

  But she couldn’t get the words out of her mouth, because she was too busy being overwhelmed. Again.

  Mrs. Redding had said rooms not room, and she hadn’t misspoken.

  The flat she shared with Vivi could easily have fit into one part of the large room she walked into first, and it took her long, stunned moments to realize that it was, in fact, her own sitting room. And Mrs. Redding was still going, straight into the next room, which it took Eleanor another long beat to realize was a great closet. For the grand wardrobe she didn’t possess.

  The bedroom itself was on the far side of a huge bathroom that looked like a spa to Eleanor’s untutored eyes, and as she walked into it, trailing behind Mrs. Redding, Eleanor was certain that this was the biggest dwelling space she’d ever been in.

  One side of the room was dominated by a massive four-poster bed with carved wood posts and more carved wood as a canopy over top, like some kind of queen’s bower. There was another fireplace, and more places to sit around it, as if the whole sitting room wasn’t enough.

  Eleanor’s breathing had gone a bit shallow. But she pulled it together, and smiled serenely at Mrs. Redding.

  “It will do,” she murmured, trying her best to sound dry and sophisticated and professional. Instead of like an overexcited child in a candy store.

  After the older woman left her, with instructions about where and when Eleanor was to present herself later for a tour and a breakdown of her duties, Eleanor found herself standing in the middle of this bedroom she couldn’t imagine ever calling her own. If possible, she felt more out of place than she had downstairs, where somehow the Duke’s arrogance had made her forget herself and Geraldine’s fierce, obvious loneliness had caught at her.

  But here in these sumptuous rooms, she had nothing to fight. No one to defend. Only elegant emptiness all around.

  Nothing but herself.

  Whoever the hell that was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HUGO HAD NO idea what had gotten into him.

  He didn’t know what it was about starchy, overly puffy-coated Eleanor Andrews that scraped beneath his skin. But there was no denying the fact that he, Hugo Grovesmoor, who had never chased a woman in his entire life, had been lying in wait for this one.

  It was extraordinary.

  Hugo told himself he needed to see what on earth was hidden beneath that enormous coat of hers, that was all. That not knowing might keep him up at night. Was she a marshmallow creature like the monster in that old movie? Or had she hid her true, svelte form away in a billowy suit of armor?

  And he knew when she didn’t back down in the foyer or unzip that great horror of a coat more than an inch or two that he needed to retreat back to his part of the house, carry on living the life of ease and leisure and loathing the whole of the world begrudged him these days, and forget all about his ward and the governess she’d decided to favor on sight. He knew it.

  So he had no explanation for why he found himself lurking about in the wing he’d given over to Geraldine because he knew Mrs. Redding was giving Eleanor a tour and showing her where and how she’d be expected to do her work. The governess’s quarters were in this same wing, one floor above, right up the nearby stairs—a fact that there was absolutely no reason at all for Hugo to keep reciting to himself.

  “I didn’t expect to see you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Redding said when she swept out of the nursery that was now a playroom and found Hugo inspecting the rather horrifying paintings hanging on the walls in the hall that he remembered from his own childhood.

  “I can’t imagine why not, Mrs. Redding.” Hugo kept studying the garish painting in front of him as he spoke. “I do own the house and am known to be in residence. Surely I could be expected to turn up sooner or later.”

  “In the child’s wing? Unlikely.” The older woman could still manage to infuse every syllable with genteel condemnation. A true skill, he’d always thought. “And yet here you are.”

  Hugo turned then, smiling faintly at Mrs. Redding as he looked behind her to where Eleanor stood.

  And he understood in an instant that he’d made a terrible mistake.

  Because Eleanor was not as puffy and large as her coat had suggested. Nor was she as whipcord-skinny as a gazelle’s thigh, as many of her predecessors had been, eyes gleaming with avarice and ambition.

  Quite the opposite, god help him.

  The damned woman had the body of a goddess. A naughty fertility goddess. Eleanor had lush hips and generous breasts, sweetly separated by a tiny waist that made him hunger to test the span of it with his own hands. She was dressed in a perfectly conservative and appropr
iately opaque blouse over sensible trousers with a cardigan tossed on besides, and she still looked like an old pinup model. Her body was so markedly opulent that it made her harshly scraped back hair all the more intriguing—in that Hugo wanted to get his hands in it. Or feel it all over his naked body while she was engaged in other things, none of them involving any sort of harsh scraping at all.

  Hugo knew he needed to stop. Now.

  He needed to turn around this minute and get himself away from her, especially when she frowned at him from behind Mrs. Redding, and from beneath that fringe of hers. The legions of other women who had come this house and tried it on with him had pouted at him. They’d simpered and giggled. They’d made eyes at him over his ward’s head and had dressed in preposterously inappropriate clothing while supposedly out taking walks on the grounds in the middle of rainstorms in the hope of attracting his notice.

  Eleanor Andrews, on the other hand, barreled about in the ugliest coat he’d ever beheld in his life as if she didn’t care whether or not she was found attractive, made no secret of the fact she held Hugo in rather low regard, and aimed disapproving frowns at him while she stood on his property as if she didn’t expect to receive her salary from his accounts.

  It was almost as if she didn’t want anything from him.

  That notion was so revolutionary it shook him a little. He found himself very nearly frowning himself, but caught it just in time. Hugo Grovesmoor did not frown. That might indicate he had thoughts, and that would never do. He was considered nothing more than a vessel of pointless and predatory evil, sent to earth to ruin every good thing in it at will.

  He’d learned his place a long time ago.

  And yet, “I’ll finish giving Miss Andrews her tour of the premises,” he heard himself say.