Authors: Samantha Holt
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
Balmead. 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.