Bella and the Beast (17 page)

“Tea with the servants, Miss Jones?” A tinkle of ladylike laughter floated down the steps. “Oh, but I quite forgot.
You
are the hired help, too. Do excuse me now.”

Helen did not withdraw from the doorway to let Bella out into the upper corridor. Instead, she barged down the narrow staircase, forcing Bella to squeeze back against the wall while shrouding her in a blanket of cloying perfume.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

As the woman surged past, she ground her heel down hard on Bella's instep. The sharp pain wrested a gasp from her.

Unmindful of any injury she might have caused, Helen continued blithely down to the cellars, leaving Bella no choice but to limp up the remaining few steps to the main floor.

She clenched her teeth against a throbbing soreness in the upper portion of her foot. Her mind reeled with astonishment and belated anger. What had been the motive for Helen's viciousness?

For one thing was absolutely certain. The woman's action had been no accident. It had been a deliberate attack.

Helen Grayson despised her.

 

Chapter 13

A short while later, seated on an overturned wooden crate amid the piles of broken artifacts, Bella was examining the welt on her instep when the door opened and Miles strode into the drawing room.

She tensed, her gaze riveted to him. A ray of late afternoon sunlight slanted through one window to illuminate his starkly handsome features. He looked as informal as usual in dark trousers and white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. No smile animated his taut expression. Yet his aura of masculine vitality seemed to enliven the entire room.

Her wayward heart leaped against her breastbone.

It was the first time she'd seen him since their passionate kiss, and the abruptness of his entry here irritated Bella. That had to be the reason for her sudden attack of breathlessness. She had just removed her shoe and stocking, and propped her ankle on her other knee in order to get a closer look at the bruise that was beginning to show. Her skirts were hiked up and Miles likely had a spectacular view of her petticoats.

She lowered her bare foot at once, flattening it on the dusty wood floor. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. It would have been polite to knock first.”

He ignored the testy comment and stopped in front of her. His frowning gaze dropped to her hem. “What's wrong? Have you injured yourself?”

Bella rearranged the blue skirt to hide her toes. “It's nothing.”

“It's something, or you wouldn't have removed your shoe and stocking to examine it.” He dropped to one knee in front of her. “Let me take a look.”

She scooted back on the crate. “No! Leave it be.”

“Don't be coy.” One corner of his mouth crooked ever so slightly. “It's nothing I haven't seen before.”

On that, he caught hold of her ankle and lifted it onto his knee. Just as the time when he had examined her tattoos, his touch on her bare skin sparked a flare of heat up her leg and straight into her core. Only now, her awareness of him as a man was even stronger. Now, she remembered the feel of his hands on other parts of her body, including her bosom. And now, she was plagued by the memory of his kiss.

As if oblivious to her inner turmoil, he held lightly to her foot, his large fingers cupping her heel as he turned her foot to and fro, studying the reddened welt. “It's already bruising. What the devil did you do? Drop a chunk of granite on your foot?”

His critical tone raised her hackles. Bella would rather choke than tattle to him about Helen Grayson. “Something like that.”

“It may need binding. I'll summon a physician.”

She wrested her foot from his hold. “You needn't bother, for I shall refuse to see him.”

Bella stuffed the white silk stocking into her pocket rather than put it back on in front of Miles. Then she wriggled her bare toes back into the beaded garnet shoe. At least Lady Milford's slipper hadn't been harmed by Helen's spiteful act. Bella had promised to return the pair when she left Aylwin House.

Anxiety vibrated inside her. Maybe she would be going home sooner than the agreed-upon fortnight. Maybe Miles had come to the drawing room to send her away. The previous evening, she had threatened to kill him. She had held the sharp blade of her dagger to his throat to stop him from seducing her.

The look in his eyes had been furious. Clearly, the Duke of Aylwin was not accustomed to being bested by a woman.

What if he had thought it over and decided to dismiss her?

As she rose rather unsteadily from the crate, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm to provide assistance. “You'll need a crutch,” he decreed.

“No. No, thank you, I won't.” His nearness made her giddy and she quickly stepped away, shaking out her wrinkled skirts. Bella didn't want to give him any more ammunition to prove she was unfit for service. “See? I'm not even limping.”

To demonstrate, she walked around the rubble of several broken statues, following a path past the box of scarabs. Her foot still throbbed, though not as much as initially. She caught his sharp gaze tracking her progress. Not for the life of her would she allow even a trace of a hobble.

To distract him, she said, “By the by, I passed Mrs. Grayson on the stairs a short while ago. Does she often visit here?”

Miles shrugged. “Helen sometimes takes it upon herself to check the menus or the linens or such. It matters naught to me so long as she stays out of my way. Why do you ask?”

“I merely wondered if she would be sending a maid in here to sweep up the dust.”

“Absolutely not. The staff has strict orders to stay away from my artifacts.” His hands on his hips, he stalked behind Bella as she strolled. “Enough with this blather. Where were you earlier? I came here twice. You were gone for the better part of an hour.”

His cold dictatorial manner put Bella on familiar ground. It felt invigorating, too, as if they were gearing up for battle. A battle for her right to stay here and find the treasure map.

She turned to confront him. “I was having a cup of tea. Do you have a rule against your employees taking refreshment?”

He subjected her to the Ducal Stare. “Next time, leave a note. None of the servants knew your whereabouts.”

“Actually, I was downstairs with Mrs. Witheridge in her parlor. Mr. Pinkerton was there, too. So at least
two
servants knew exactly where I was.” Taking a deep breath, Bella crossed her arms. “I have work to finish before sunset, Your Grace. I presume you came here for a purpose.”

His scowl deepened. “I want a report on your progress.”

“My progress?”

“You've been here for several days now. All I can see is that a few crates have been moved around here and there.”

Her worries lifted with the hope of a reprieve. Perhaps he wouldn't discharge her if he saw how hard she'd been laboring. “Then pray look more closely. I spent two whole days sorting broken bits of pottery. Those have all been individually boxed, fifty-two in total. Allow me to show you.”

Bella proceeded to a corner where a number of small wooden boxes were neatly stacked. She pried off the top of one. “All of the pieces stored in here belong to a single vessel. They are now ready to be glued back together should you wish it.”

She turned to find Miles directly beside her. The air snagged in her chest. He stood so close that he could bend his head and kiss her if he chose. Not that she would permit him, of course. And his attention wasn't on her, anyway. He was peering into the crate.

“Each box contains the shards of one pot or jar?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He shot her a suspicious glance. “You're certain you put the correct fragments together?”

“Absolutely. I often helped my father sort bits of broken pottery such as these. It's like assembling the pieces of a puzzle.” If only Miles with his tantalizing lips would move away instead of blocking her in the corner. Flustered by his proximity, she found herself babbling. “I have plans for the other artifacts in this room, too. Many of them could be cleaned and repaired. The scarabs in particular. I'd like to put them on display.”

Miles straightened up to glower at her. “Display?”

“They oughtn't be all jumbled in a crate. No one can appreciate them that way. If you were to provide me with a length of fine white silk, I could lay them out neatly on a table so that people could view the individual scarabs. There are other small objects, too, that could be better exhibited—”

“No.”

The duke stalked away, and she stalked after him. “Why not?” she asked, surprised that he would reject such a sensible suggestion. “If each scarab was labeled with a description, then people could actually see and appreciate their beauty.”

He turned to snap over his shoulder, “What do you want, that I should invite the public inside to tramp all over my house and gawk at my artifacts? No, absolutely not.”

She gritted her teeth. How arrogant of him to think that one man had the right to own such treasures and never share them with ordinary folk. But that issue was none of her concern.

“Not the public necessarily,” she clarified. “I was referring to scholars like yourself. Mr. Banbury-Davis, for instance. Surely there are others, as well.”

Miles snorted. “What is it about women? They always want to move things into storage and redecorate. The next thing you know, they're nagging you to host fancy balls and society parties.”

His reaction was so absurd that she laughed. “Who said that?”

“Helen, for one. My mother, too, before she died. And every other lady who's ever set foot in this house. There was a young chit just a few months ago who proposed to refurbish the place on half an hour's acquaintance with me.”

Bella watched him pace back and forth. She could see why he had never married and it wasn't just his cantankerous nature. He valued the Egyptian artifacts above all else—even love and family. He guarded them as jealously as a child guarded his marbles.

Why? Granted, the ancient relics were priceless, but why keep them hidden away in this great mausoleum of a house?

Bella wanted to dismiss it as selfishness. Yet she sensed that a deeper motive ruled him. A motive that he kept locked up as tightly as the artifacts themselves. Might it have something to do with the death of his father? She certainly wouldn't ask him, not in his present state of ill humor.

“Well,” she said, striving for a lighter tone, “you may rest assured that
I
have no desire to redecorate Aylwin House. I know nothing of the latest styles, anyway. And as for putting these artifacts into storage, it seems to me that you've already done that yourself.”

“What the devil does that mean?”

“Look at this scarab.” She picked up a stone beetle, half the size of her palm, and gently brushed off the dirt and dust. “It's beautifully carved with an inlay of lapis lazuli. Yet you've left it forgotten in a box with a hundred others. It might as well still be buried beneath the sands of an Egyptian desert.”

His dark brows lowered in a scowl. He looked so thunderous that Bella deemed it prudent not to add that he kept more than mere artifacts concealed. Miles also had barricaded himself from the outside world. He took no part in society and preferred to work alone, suffering company only when absolutely necessary.

Yet he had hired her—despite his animosity toward her father. Miles had allowed her to handle his precious relics, too, although only the broken ones. Most curious of all, he had not dismissed her from his employ even though she had drawn a knife on him.

She carefully replaced the scarab atop the pile in the crate. Perhaps it only went to prove how keenly he craved an explanation for Papa's abrupt departure from Egypt. Miles wanted her to remember something significant. If it would give him peace, Bella wished she could oblige him.

“Fine,” he growled suddenly. “I'll grant you permission to rearrange this one room as you like.”

A thrill eddied through Bella, for she had not expected him to yield. Her lips curved in an irrepressible smile. “Truly? That's marvelous.”

His moody gaze dipped to her mouth as if he found her expression of pleasure objectionable. “Just leave the rest of the house alone,” he snapped. “I won't have you creating an uproar by shifting things hither and yon. Is that clear?”

“Yes, of course, and may I say—”

In the midst of her speech, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door of the drawing room.

Bella was taken aback. Even for such a pigheaded nobleman, his behavior was exceptionally rude. Irked, she hastened after him, ignoring the twinge in her foot. “Wait, Your Grace! Please.”

He turned, one dark eyebrow cocked, his displeasure palpable. “What is it now? Do you need a crew of footmen to help you move these things? Use the staff as you wish, just don't bother me about it.”

She gritted her teeth. He was insufferable, a completely different man from the ardent lover who had whispered sweet nothings in her ear. The mere memory of his silken voice made her insides melt.
We belong together.

What rot. He'd probably uttered that same hackneyed phrase to scores of women.

But none of his other women had ever stopped him with a knife to his throat. No doubt he was still smarting from the blow to his pride. And since they had to live together under the same roof, perhaps it was best to clear the air.

“I merely wished to thank you,” she said stiffly. “And I'm sorry if you're still angry … about last night.”

A muscle clenched in his jaw. He stared down at her, his dark eyes so stony that Bella instantly regretted mentioning their thwarted embrace. Oh, why had she not kept her mouth shut? Why had she felt compelled to remind him of such a thorn in his conceit? Better she should lie low and stay out of his path—