Rogues and Ripped Bodices (22 page)

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. She 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.