He had the sinking, lowering notion that all this time, he’d never known real ruin at all.
“You didn’t fire her, did you?” Geraldine demanded, reminding him he was not alone with his brooding.
Hugo eyed her. The little girl had moved further into the room. Now she stood near the fireplace, her hands on her little hips, glaring at her guardian without a seeming care in the world. As if she thought, should there be an altercation, she could take him.
He had tried so hard these past three years, since the accident that had taken Isobel and Torquil. He’d kept his distance from this child. He had tended to Geraldine’s needs, but not in a way that could ever hurt her. Or compromise her. He’d been certain—as certain as his critics, if not more so—that left to his own devices, he could only do harm.
That was what he did, he knew. Harm.
He certainly hadn’t allowed himself to like Gerladine. Or anyone.
But all he could see was Eleanor, then. Her face, so lovely and so fierce, as she’d stood up for Geraldine. It’s not her fault, she’d told him.
And Hugo knew that. He’d gone out of his way to make sure he never brought his feelings about Isobel into any interaction he had with Geraldine. But it hadn’t occurred to him until today—until Eleanor—that he hadn’t let his feelings enter into anything in a very long time.
Because the fact of the matter was, he rather liked this little girl. He liked how unafraid she was. He liked the fact that she was seven years old and yet had no apparent second thoughts about walking straight into her guardian’s library and confronting him. And the more he stared at her, the less she seemed to care. Her little chin tilted up. She even sniffed, as if impatient.
She was a fighter. How could he not adore her for it?
Especially when he’d stopped fighting so long ago.
“If I did fire her, that would be my decision as your guardian and would not require a consultation, Geraldine,” Hugo said reprovingly. But when her face looked stormy, he relented. “But I didn’t let her go.”
He crooked his finger and then pointed to the leather chair across from him. Geraldine made a huffing sound that did not bode well for her teen years, but she obeyed him. With perhaps a little too much stomping, and more attitude than he would have thought possible from a sweet little child, she moved from the fireplace to climb up into the big leather chair. The big piece of furniture seemed to swallow her whole, but that didn’t bother Geraldine. She slid back, stuck her feet out straight in front of her, and crossed her arms over her chest.
Mutinously.
“Where is she if you didn’t get rid of her?” Geraldine asked as if she’d caught Hugo out in a dirty lie.
“I feel certain Miss Andrews told you that she was taking a few days’ break. She does get one, you know. We can’t lock her away in a cage and force her to stay here all the time.”
Though the idea held some appeal.
The little girl’s chin jutted out. “Why not?”
“Excellent question.”
“We should go get her back, then,” Geraldine said, with a wide gesture of one hand, as if Hugo really was an idiot and she was leading him to the right answer because he was taking too long to get there himself.
And the damnedest thing was, Hugo admired that, too.
Geraldine was not yet ten and yet she was showing more fight than he had in the past fifteen years.
Why had he allowed Isobel to paint him the way she had? Of course there was no fighting a slanted story or a nasty rumor, but he hadn’t tried and he hadn’t done anything else, either. He hadn’t pointedly lived a life completely opposed to the one Isobel claimed he did. He’d never even defended himself. He’d told himself it was because he was too proud to dignify her claims with a response, but was that truly it? Or was it the same sort of martyrdom he’d always abhorred when Isobel faked it?
Had he been waiting all this time for someone to look at him and see him and believe that he wasn’t the things that had been said about him?
Maybe there was some virtue in that. Or there could have been—had his father not died believing the very worst of him.
The fact of the matter was, Hugo had never seen the point of fighting battles he’d decided in advance that he couldn’t win. He’d never righted a single wrong. He’d simply sat here and taken it. And to what end?
Whether the public loved him or hated him, he was the only parental influence in this child’s life. And despite that handicap, Geraldine appeared to be thriving. She was flushed with indignation, and if he wasn’t mistaken, love.
Love.
It thudded into him. Then again. Like another fight he was destined to lose. But this time, he didn’t intend to go down alone.
Was it virtue to act as if he was a punching bag for all these years or was it an especially noxious version of self-pity?
Hugo didn’t know. But he did know this. He was a creature of temper and mood, unable to control himself at any time, the tabloids said.
So he saw no reason to start now.
“Yes,” he said slowly, smiling at Geraldine. Until she smiled back, as if they were together in this. Because they were. “We really should get her back. What an excellent idea.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RETURNING TO LONDON was like being slapped in the face with the pitiless palm of a little too much reality. But there was nothing to do but grin and bear it.
Eleanor gritted her teeth, figuratively and literally, and set about cleaning up Vivi’s mess.
Not the big mess, of course. Not the mess that haunted her, making her feel sick and small and ashamed. Or shaky every time she saw the Daily Mail in a newsstand. Not the mess that rolled around inside of her, making her feel as oily and greasy and horrid as what Vivi had done, every time she drew breath—
No, there was no fixing that. Vivi had sold Eleanor’s story as her own and asserted, repeatedly and proudly, that she would do it again. She claimed it was for both of their own good, though that prickly, ugly thing inside of Eleanor thought different and left marks every time it did. But it made no difference. It was done.
And Eleanor was just one more scar Hugo would add to his collection. One more lie to add to the rest.
Eleanor concentrated on the things she could fix.
She placated their landlord, pleading their case as sweetly as she could. She did not take Vivi’s advice to simply tell the suspicious old woman where she could stuff it, because all that money that Vivi had been promised had yet to come through. She cleaned. Everything. From what passed for baseboards in their tiny tip of a flat to the windows and back. She cleaned every cup and saucer, plate and utensil. She even cleaned out the terrifying old tea mugs, coated in tannins as evidence of their long years of use.
She cleaned as if she was on a mission.
As if it was penance.
And none of that seemed to do a single thing to make her feel better.
Eleanor suspected that there would be no feeling better. That there would be no recovering from this. It didn’t matter how she’d come to betray Hugo, surely. It only mattered that she had. Not only had she betrayed him, she hadn’t even had the decency to look him in the face and let him know she’d done it.
She hadn’t even said goodbye.
Instead, she’d snuck off into the gathering fall evening with her case and her sister, like some kind of thief in reverse.
That was the part she didn’t think she could live with. That was the part that scraped to her belly like some ravenous beast with sharp claws. Over and over again.
“You’re being a bit dramatic, no?” Vivi asked one evening.
The way she had back in that other life, when Eleanor had never met Hugo Grovesmoor and hadn’t had the faintest idea how he would upend her life. The way she did with a little too much frequency, to Eleanor’s mind, given her penchant for making an opera out of all and sundry.
Eleanor eyed her sister over the pile of mending that she’d been ruthlessly
going through for days now that the flat fairly sparkled. Vivi’s trousers. Vivi’s poncey skirts. Vivi’s lovely and expensive clothes that Vivi herself didn’t bother to treat with anything resembling reverence. Or even the bare minimum of care, it appeared.
“While tending to your sewing?” Eleanor asked mildly, which was getting harder to do all the time. “I didn’t realize it was possible to be theatrical while mending.”
Vivi lifted herself up from the bit of floor in front of the telly, where she’d been flinging herself this way and that to a DVD of some shiny-toothed and alarmingly narrow American celebrity trainer.
“Everyone’s obsessed with this workout,” she’d informed Eleanor as she’d contorted about.
Eleanor had responded by finishing off the last packet of chocolate biscuits. At her.
Now Vivi plunked herself down on the small sofa next to Eleanor, making the cushion dip alarmingly and a pile of her waiting mending tip over. Eleanor thought she’d switch the telly over to a show and drown her mood out, as she been doing since they’d returned, but instead she twisted her body around so she could look her sister straight in the face.
“I know you think you hate me,” Vivi said, her voice serious and an unexpected wallop. “I understand that. I even accept it. You don’t have any experience with these things.”
Eleanor’s teeth ached. She made herself unclench her jaw.
“If you mean making up tawdry stories and selling them to the highest bidder, then no. I certainly don’t.”
“I mean Hugo.” Vivi’s voice was soft. Worse, kind. “I mean men.”
Eleanor bent her head to the blouse she was attempting to repair. She kept her attention furiously focused on her needle. But she was sure that it was no use, that Vivi could see the flush that crept up the back of her neck and threatened her cheeks as well. She didn’t understand how a topic that she’d been so pleased to discuss with Hugo—or not discuss, as the case might be, because he’d known and he’d handled it—she had no desire at all to discuss with her sister.
“I think I’d prefer to skip the ‘poor, sad Eleanor’ discussion tonight, thanks.” Eleanor had to order herself to unclench her jaw. Again. And do something with her shoulders before she lifted them over the top of her head. “I think it’s possible that the only thing worse than the story you sold might be your pity.”
“I don’t pity you, Eleanor,” Vivi said, and her voice was different. Almost unrecognizable. It made Eleanor uneasy. “I envy you. I don’t think I’ve ever been soft or dewy-eyed about anything. Not even way back when you cried over me in the hospital and I didn’t.”
Eleanor paused. She very carefully put down her sewing. And then she turned and held her sister’s gaze.
“Vivi. Please tell me you’re not about to give me ‘the talk.’”
Vivi’s eyes gleamed then, and they really did look like shiny gold coins, something that Eleanor wished she could find more annoying than she did.
“You spent all night with Hugo Grovesmoor. I think any attempt at a sex talk at this point would be a waste of breath, don’t you?”
Eleanor tried to hide the pain that flashed over her. Or that near-reflexive urge to draw in a sharp breath, as if that would ease it.
“I don’t want to talk about Hugo.”
It was more that she didn’t want to talk about Hugo with Vivi, if she was honest. But either way, thinking about him was painful enough.
“I know you’re not going to believe me.” Vivi reached over and put her hand on Eleanor’s leg, and all Eleanor could seem to do was stare at it. “I know that I’m too selfish and take you for granted and anything else you want to accuse me of. It’s all true. I know it’s true. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Eleanor. And I get to protect you, too.”
Eleanor frowned at that hand on her leg. Hard. “Is that what you were doing, Vivi? Protecting me? Are you sure?”
Eleanor didn’t know how she dared ask that—especially because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. Beside her, Vivi blew out a breath. And when Eleanor looked up, something else glittered in her gaze.
“That’s fair enough. I can’t deny that I reacted a bit poorly when I arrived at Groves House. I guess it all took me by surprise.”
“You were jealous.” Eleanor held her sister’s gaze, and dared her to refute it.
But Vivi only shrugged, making the curls she’d piled on the top of her head bob a bit. “I don’t know what I was. I’ve worked hard, for years.”
Eleanor wanted to argue that, but something made her hold her tongue. Vivi’s gaze darkened.
“I’ve put up with people you wouldn’t tolerate for the length of a simple conversation, thank you. I thought we were on the same page. I thought we had specific roles to play. And then it looked as if maybe everything I was doing was beside the point and I didn’t know how to handle that.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry I’m not as perfect as you are.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You could have told me how much you liked him.” Vivi’s voice cracked slightly, startling them both. “You could have told me that, Eleanor.”
“I didn’t think you would have listened if I had.”
Vivi shook her head, as if that had hurt her and she was reeling. “Of course I would have listened. You’re my sister. It’s you and me against the world, remember?”
“I remember,” Eleanor whispered. “Of course I remember.”
They sat there for a moment, and something shifted inside of Eleanor as they did. That ugly, clawed weight seemed to dissipate a little.
“But this is what I wanted to talk to you about even if it makes you turn red. You don’t know about men like Hugo, Eleanor. I do.”
“I was under the impression that there were no men like Hugo.”
She knew that was true for her. She thought it might also be true for the world, given the way they talked about him as if he’d rounded them all up, abused them horribly and personally, and then booted them out of a speeding vehicle.
“Men are more alike than not.” And there was a weariness in Vivi’s voice that pricked at Eleanor. She’d been so concentrated on herself. So focused on all the ways she felt overlooked. Taken advantage of. Why had it never occurred to her to wonder if her sister felt the same way? “Keen to take what they can get. No matter what. But it doesn’t necessarily mean more than that.”
And Eleanor wanted to argue. She wanted to tell Vivi that she was wrong. That she didn’t know Hugo. But the fact was... Neither did Eleanor. She’d lived in his house, true. He’d flirted with her, she’d given him her virginity—but despite what that meant to her, it was likely all in a day’s work for the likes of Hugo.
She believed that he wasn’t the monster the tabloids had made him out to be. But that didn’t make him a monk. It didn’t make her any less of a fool. She felt her eyes fill up, and ducked her head to hide it. And blink the tears back before they could fall.
“I feel like such a fool,” she whispered.
“I can’t think of a woman who wouldn’t fall for Hugo Grovesmoor,” Vivi said, distinctly. “Not one. He’s gorgeous and evil and everyone knows he’s wild in bed. You never stood a chance.”
She could talk about more of this than she’d thought, it turned out. But she couldn’t talk about Hugo’s reputation in bed. There was only so much she could be expected to handle, surely. Without cracking apart into little pieces, all over the floor, that she knew her careless sister would never sweep up.
“And what now?” Eleanor asked instead, lifting up her hands and then letting them drop back to her lap. “What am I supposed to do now?” She moved one hand in a lazy, circular motion that encompassed the whole of her chest. “With all of this.”
Vivi laughed, then. It was that merry laugh of hers that still warmed up the room. It astonished Eleanor how welcoming she found the sound.
“That I can help with.” Vivi got to her feet and reached out her hand, beckoning for Eleanor to join
her. “Come on, then. The night is young and filled with trouble for us to throw ourselves into.”
“Oh, no,” Eleanor said then, with a frown. “I don’t get into trouble. I—”
“You don’t have a job that you have to go to bed early for. You have nowhere to be in the morning.”
“Well—”
“And unless I’m mistaken, you’re a bit of a scarlet woman, fresh from a shocking affair with the most hated man in England.”
“But it’s a Wednesday,” Eleanor said. Scandalized.
“Ah, grasshopper,” Vivi replied mischievously. “I have so much to teach you.”
And that was how Eleanor found herself out at one of those desperately chic clubs that Vivi spent so much of her time in. This one was so new it was considered a coup to get in, Vivi informed Eleanor as she got them waved past the line that snaked off down the block and around the corner. On a blustery Wednesday.
Inside, it was a cavernous place, filled with too many dizzying lights and far too many people dressed sleek and sharp. Not exactly the sort of crowd Eleanor felt at home in. But Vivi had asked Eleanor to trust that she knew what she was doing, and Eleanor had agreed to do it.
That was how she’d ended up in the ridiculous outfit her sister picked out for her, sourced more from Vivi’s closet than her own.
“I told you it would fit,” Vivi had said with great satisfaction when she’d finished her handiwork back at the flat. “It’s quite Cinderella, isn’t it?”
“If Cinderella was a bit of a tart.”
Eleanor ran her hands over the slinky, stretchy dress that gave her curves absolutely nowhere to hide. For the seventeenth time, and it still accomplished nothing. She was still all breasts and hips. There was only one person alive who had ever made her feel beautiful—
But there was no use thinking about Hugo. The sooner she accepted that, the better. He wouldn’t have wanted to deal with an overly sentimental virgin for long anyway. That was what Eleanor kept telling herself. No one liked clingy, especially in an employee. Vivi’s tabloid story had only hastened the inevitable.
Undone by the Billionaire Duke Page 14