Rogues and Ripped Bodices (23 page)

“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 flinging 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.

“I am coming with you, Lucian,
and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“Like hell there isn’t. You are
not coming with me, Ellie, and that is final.”

Are We
Nearly There Yet?

“Will we be there soon?”

Lucian gritted his teeth. How
had he let himself get in this situation? His ride had meant to clear his head
and help him avoid her company. Instead he had found himself toying with her
upon his return, hoping his flirtatious manner might drive her away. What a
disaster.

 It was those blasted tears.
They had softened him. The mortification on her face as she had spilled the tea
as if she had just committed some grave sin had eaten into him and turned his
insides to jelly. And now he’d given in to letting her accompany him.

He peered out of the window.
They would be lucky to get there before nightfall and what would he be able to
do then? Nothing. He would have to install Ellie into a hotel and stop at his
own house in town.

“One more stop,” he muttered,
“then another hour.”

An hour. A full hour of sitting
opposite Ellie and watching her chew on that cherry red bottom lip, of hearing
the rustle of her skirts and watching her fiddle with the tip of her gloves.
The air of the carriage smelled of her—of vanilla—like a tempting French
pastry. He imagined darting his tongue over that lip and tasting her. She would
be sweet too. Everything about her was far too alluring.

Lucian ground his teeth and
fixed his gaze on the hills moving by, aware of her little fidgety movements
and each huff of breath. He had nearly kissed her again. Well, maybe not
nearly, but that was what he had been considering on the floor in the study. It
would have been ideal too. He could have pressed her back against the carpet
and slid himself between her legs.

But, damnation, he did not need
to be kissing the lady who was making his life so hard. Besides which, what
would come of it? He could never bed her. Why should she want a scarred,
miserable man with his fortune tied up in cotton and who had behaved like an
utter ass towards her seven years ago?

A smile teased his lips. Oh,
the irony. Once he had been handsome, rich, well sought after. He would never
have deemed to consider bedding the plain daughter of a baron and now here he
was, imagining hitching up her skirts and pressing his fingers into the soft
flesh of her thighs.

When she had transformed into
someone he desired, he was not entirely sure, but there was no denying it now.
That was the only thing that had changed however. He did not want her in his
life and he definitely did not want her interfering with his mill.

“Will they have closed the mill
for the day?”

“Unlikely, though it depends on
the nature of the accident. It must have happened first thing this morning.”

She leaned forwards and placed
a hand over his. Even through the gloves, he felt the warmth of her hand and
was far too comforted by it. He withdrew his own hand from under hers as
quickly as he could.

“Don’t worry, Lucian. All will
be well.”

“We are behind as it is. If
someone has been hurt, the workers will not take well to it. There are some who
believed the fire at the other mill to be my fault. They will think I’m bad
luck.”

“There are other men who will
work for you, surely?”

He shook his head. “These men
are strong together and they well know it. They will support each other to
whatever end, even going as far as going on strike. The unions are powerful,
Ellie, and can command the entire workforce if they so choose.”

“Surely they won’t go on strike
over an accident? These things happen, do they not? I wish they would not, but
they do.”

“They do, but my mill has an
excellent record of safety. Workers grow tired and careless but never has any
of my machinery been at fault.”

“Do not jump to conclusions
before you find out what the situation is. There is no point in racing ahead
with scenarios.”

Lucian sank back against the
seat, the rocking motion of the carriage making him suddenly weary. He had
ridden hard that day in an effort to rid himself of all the energy and tension
Ellie seemed to fill him with. Sadly, it hadn’t worked.

She was right, damn it. His
mill did have an excellent record of safety and a reputation for being one of
the better mills. His workers would stand by him, surely? He could not afford
to lose them now. Losing the mill was unthinkable. What else did he have? Since
the fire he had thought of nothing else but cotton. It was a testament to his
father’s life—one of many—but one of the few enterprises he could have a hand
in. And what better way to hide away from society than by disappearing into a
mill where no upstanding members of society would step?

“We shall have to find you a
room at the Grange Hotel.”

“I am not bothered where I
stay. A simple inn will do.”

“It may do for you, but I would
not sleep a wink. The town inns are not the sort of place a lady should be.”

“You will not sleep a wink
anyway. I can see you are beyond worried.” She tilted her head. “I’m not quite
sure when you became so serious and uptight. It is quite the transformation
from when we were young.”

“We all have to grow up.”

“Rakes do not. Rakes often
remain rakes all their lives.”

“You think me a rake?”

“You were.”

“But I am not now? Too ugly
perhaps?”

She laughed, apparently
oblivious to his bitter tone. She seemed to think he was teasing. “Hardly. But
it seems you have little time for rakish behaviour anymore.”

“What of you, Ellie? You are a
wealthy widow. You have surely earned your right to behave as you wish, yet you
are certainly far more uptight than in our youth.”

“I am not uptight. I have
merely...merely learned how to behave properly.”

“So you won’t be taking a lover
then?” He could not be sure why he had leapt upon this point but at least it
drew the conversation away from him. Besides which, the way she gaped at him
really did amuse him.

“Of course not.”

“It would do you no harm. You
are a wealthy and sought-after countess. No one would even blink should you
take a lover.”

“I do not believe that is true
for one moment, but that is beside the point, I have no intention of indulging
in such behaviour.”

He lifted a shoulder. “You had
enough interest at the ball.”

“Just because my mama persuaded
half the men to dance with me, does not mean they have any interest in being
my...my lover.”

“Your mama did not force them
to dance with you.”

Did she really not realise that
half the population of the county now found her very eligible indeed? And he had
begun to suspect that it was not just to do with her wealth. She had been
really quite attractive that night. A sort of welcome relief from all the same
faces—the little pointed chins and bright blonde curls and pointy noses.

An eyebrow arched. “She forced
you.”

“I am not one for dancing. It
was nothing to do with her choice of dance partner for me, I can assure you.”

“You used to enjoy dancing very
much.”

What could he say? That he did
not want to be a freak show? That the idea of people seeing his scarred face
and pointing and gossiping about him made him want to curl up and hide away
forever? It was cowardice, he knew it well. He should just brave the stares and
the gossip, but it was much easier to avoid it altogether. How did one go from
being admired to seeing revulsion on the faces of one’s friends?

“Well,
you
might enjoy
having a lover. No doubt being married to that dry old stick did not bring much
pleasure.”

Ellie’s mouth dropped open once
more but he did not relish it this time or take any pleasure in her shock. He
wished he had the power to recall his words or to explain to her that it was
not her fault—it was him, all him. It always had been. His inability to control
his mouth or think beyond the next sentence might have been an admirable trait
in a rake but not anymore. And in his foolish need to protect himself he had
disparaged her husband and offended her.

“Ellie, I did not—”

“Edward might have been old,
but he was a fine man. A finer man than many and you would be lucky to be half
as good a man as he.”

Lucian fought the desire to
slap his palm to his forehead. He was gravely aware of that. At present, he
suspected every man in England was a better man than he. “I apologise—”

“Anyway, there is more to life
than bedsport. Something I fear you need to learn.” Ellie threw a dismissive
look his way and turned to peer out of the window.

Lucian studied her profile.
More to life than bedsport? He’d heard women speak in such a way—some of the
beautiful widows he had seduced had made similar declarations. They had
believed as much until he had coaxed them into his bed. Was Ellie like one of
them? An unsatisfied woman, unaware of the pleasure a man and a woman could
share?

Edward had been very old. It
was not surprising Edward could not please her though Lucian thought he would
have to be dead before he did not desire Ellie. Perhaps the man was too
interested in his damn bugs to enjoy his wife.

The thought caused him very
real agony. Such a waste. And the knowledge would no doubt eat into him and make
him madder than he already was around her. It was not his problem.
Ellie
was not his problem. But, bloody hell, did he want her pleasure to be his
problem.

***

Ellie peeled off her gloves and threw them down on the
dressing table. Fury still simmered in her veins as she heard his disparaging
words towards Edward reel through her mind over and over. It was not Edward’s
fault. It had been hers. Her husband had tried his hardest to be a good husband
but if he did not find her attractive, what else could he do?

And besides, how many other
widows were left so well looked after? He had been determined she would be
provided for when they knew he would not survive his ailing health. With only a
few distant female relatives and some cousins he did not trust, Edward had
willed everything that was not entailed over to her.

And now she was one of the
wealthiest ladies in the country. But somehow Lucian managed to make her feel
seventeen again. Yes, he was stressed, but did that mean his awful behaviour
could be excused?

She slapped a palm against the
dressing table and straightened when she heard a knock at the door. “Enter.”

The hotel maid dipped. “The
manager said you were in need of a lady’s maid, my lady.”

“Yes, thank you. I came here in
rather a hurry so I am ill prepared. I shall have to sleep in my chemise. My
other belongings should be along tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lady, Mr Roberts said
you had sent a telegram. I shall be sure to have your belongings stored
properly when they arrive.”

“Thank you.” Eleanor eyed the
girl’s reflection in the mirror. “What is your name?”

“Beth, my lady. Shall I help
you with your hair?”

“If you will.” Eleanor smiled
at the girl who could not have been more than sixteen but appeared confident in
her duties. “Do you often play lady’s maid?”

“Yes, my lady. We often get
travellers stopping by on their way to the coast or up to Scotland and their
households have either gone ahead or have fallen behind. I enjoy it. It is a
pleasant break from my usual duties and of course I get to meet ladies like
yourself.” Beth paused as she pulled out a pin. “I hope you don’t mind me
saying as much, my lady. My mother scolds me for not being able to keep my
mouth shut so if I am bothersome, please say so.”

“Not at all.” Eleanor smothered
a yawn. While she might be tired, she welcomed the distraction of the talkative
maid. It drew her from other thoughts, ones of say, oh, a certain arrogant
Viscount. “I have travelled a lot but my staff always accompanied me.”

“You are lucky. I have never
been out of this town. My brother follows the railways but I have two younger
sisters who need me.” Beth pulled out the last pin and placed it on the
dressing table then began to braid her hair. “You have so much hair, my lady.
It is really quite beautiful.”

Beautiful? Eleanor failed to
keep a laugh back. “It is cumbersome.”

“I imagine it is hard to manage
everyday but I see so many women with fine hair, so fine you can see their
scalps and they insist on pulling it this way and that, and making their heads
look as though they are almost bald. Yours is a lovely golden colour and so
very distinctive.”

Allowing her lips to tilt in
amusement, she let the maid finish the braid before standing to remove her
gown. No one had called her hair beautiful before. Not Maggie, who no doubt dreaded
the task of battling her hair everyday and not even Mama. Distinctive though?
Did she like that? In society, it never did one any good to stand out, as she
well knew. She had spent most of her young life standing out be it by tripping
over, or being ugly or by simply being too gregarious. When had it ever
benefited her to be distinctive? Yet when Beth had said it, it had sounded much
like a compliment.