Authors: Samantha Holt
Then the strangest thing
happened. A set of muscular, warm arms scooped her up.
Not a Scarecrow
The woman was light, in spite of her endless skirts that
crunched against his arm. He snatched the mauve hat from the laughing fellow and
glared at them all. They knew him well enough to back off. Lucian frequented
The Eight Bells whenever he needed a break. No gentleman’s club would welcome
him now, not after the accident. Not that he had ever tried. He’d have to be
mad to step foot in one of those places with a face like his.
He carried her outside, the
hat hanging from one finger. Her blonde curls tickled his face as they stuck
out at all angles. He could not see her features properly, but she appeared
young from what little he had seen of her and she was dressed in the latest
fashions. He knew fabrics well and this was no poor woman. A lady most likely.
But what in the devil was she doing in an establishment like the Eights?
Lucian jostled her in his
arms and was able to make out the fluttering of her lashes. Thank the Lord she
could only see one side of his face or she might swoon all over again. He
didn’t think she had actually fallen into a full swoon. Some air would see to
her health and he could return to his game of cards, and the fine hand he had.
There were no fortunes being wagered in the Eights, but he relished the small
victories anyhow.
Lowering her onto the
crumbling wall, he did not remove his arms from her until he was satisfied she
wouldn’t topple backwards. She took several moments to draw in breaths and he
saw the rise and fall of some nicely rounded breasts against the jacket of her
riding habit. Inwardly, he cursed himself. In his state, he did not need to be
considering a lady’s figure. No woman would go near him now, only the cheap
whores at the town brothels and even he had not sunk that low.
Yet.
He kept his face lowered and
to one side but she would see the scarring soon enough. He wasn’t wearing a hat
and now he longed for one to draw it over his face. He ought to just leave her.
Her gaze lifted to his and
her eyes widened. Lucian tensed and waited for some exclamation or repulsion.
She drew in several more breaths and her lips parted. They were red—berry red.
A little thin, but succulent looking.
Rosiness tinged her cheeks
and her grey eyes were wide and innocent. It made her age indeterminable.
“Girl,” he prompted, “are
you well?”
“Girl?” Those berry red lips
twisted. “I am no girl.” The smile vanished and her gaze landed on his scar. “I
am a lady. A countess. And you are the Viscount of Rushbourne.”
He resisted the urge to
snarl. She had probably figured out as much when she had spotted his scar. He
didn’t realise the gossip had reached the country. Lucian spied the stable hand
lingering around the corner of the building and signalled to him.
“Have my horses made ready!”
he commanded.
“I am well,” the countess
insisted. “You do not need to take me anywhere.”
“I have little intention of
doing so,” he replied dryly. “You interrupted a winning hand and I find myself
suddenly tired of cards.”
Her disgust at his
appearance was enough to do that. All Lucian wished to do now was to return
home. He should never have come to see what the ruckus was about after someone
mentioned a fine lady was looking for him.
“You mean to leave me here?”
“Yes, my lady, I do.” He
thrust out her hat, gave a mocking tip of an invisible on of his own and strode
off towards the stables, all but abandoning the mauve lady and her succulent
lips.
Who was she and how did she
know of him? Clearly he had not kept himself as hidden away as he’d have liked,
but he supposed his business acquaintances probably spread tales of the
grizzled, scarred viscount.
She must have sat on that
wall, likely gaping like a fish for several moments, while two men readied the
carriage. By the time she had caught up with him, he was standing by his
cabriolet, tapping his foot impatiently.
“You will not leave me
here,” she said breathlessly.
“Did you not say you had no
need of going anywhere?”
He didn’t look at her. Well,
he stole the briefest of glances out of the corner of his eye. Her hat now
firmly on her head, it did little to squash those bouncing curls. They were
rather wild, he supposed and a little like a... He shook his head. The last
time he had likened someone’s hair to a haystack it had all gone dreadfully
wrong and he wouldn’t allow himself to be drawn into thoughts like that again.
“I have been trying to meet
with you for many months now, Lord Rushbourne.”
“Have you indeed?”
He sifted through his mind
for some recollection of any requests for meetings with a woman. An
uncomfortable ache jabbed his gut and he turned to face her properly. Could it
be? She was a countess after all, and likely local if she had travelled by
horse. At least he assumed that fine mare in the stalls was hers. But her hair
was lighter, her skin less wan and those grey eyes didn’t appear at all dull.
Was this really little Ellie Browning?
“You know well I have!”
She looked to be on the
verge of stomping her feet. Those small lips were now tightly pursed to the
point of almost vanishing and the blush in her cheeks increased. Ellie Browning
was still no great beauty, but there was something innately appealing about
her. The strong lines to her face had softened over the years, as had her
figure and those damned eyes...
He shoved aside inane
thoughts of getting lost in pools of grey. The entire county would tell tales
of how unromantic and un-poetic he was. Ridiculous. He turned his attention
back to the vehicle, arms folded, and proceeded to tap his foot once more.
“Lord Rushbourne, I have
come to your house several times only to be turned away and my letters to you
go unans—”
“Lucian,” he prompted
without looking at her. A test. It had to be her, surely?
“Pardon?”
“You used to call me Lucian,
Ellie. I see no reason to revert back to formalities.”
She bristled. He saw her
skirts do a sort of shake as she straightened and gained her composure. “That
may be so but it has been many years. I am Lady Hawthorne and I would prefer
that you address me as such.”
“Not Ellie?”
“Not Ellie,” she confirmed
tightly. “My friends call me Eleanor.”
“But we are not friends,” he
said, filling the obvious gap to her statement.
“Precisely, Lord
Rushbourne.”
Lucian supposed he deserved that.
He had destroyed any idea of friendship between them that night at her parents’
home. Not that he’d ever really considered her a friend—more an annoyance—but
he’d never intended to let things go as far as they did. No doubt, she still
felt bitterly towards him.
And now she was a countess.
A wealthy one at that. More important and powerful than himself. Talk of the
Countess of Hawthorne’s return from France had spread like wildfire across the
county, and he had indeed been refusing to meet with her. The last thing he
needed was some interfering woman prying into his business affairs.
Had he been prone to
amusement, the situation might have made him laugh.
“Well, Lady Hawthorne, it
has been a pleasure.” He touched his forehead in lieu of tipping his hat. “I
see that you are now well and I bid you good day.”
Her hands came to her hips,
ruining her ladylike posture. It was quite astonishing, if he thought about it,
how different Ellie was now. Being a countess and marrying that old stick of an
earl—God rest his soul—must have done her some good.
Her lips curled in disgust.
“You always were arrogant, but never this rude. At least not until...”
“Fine,” he snapped. He
certainly wasn’t going to listen to her berate him about those events all those
years ago. He had done his level best to forget ever kissing Ellie Browning and
he had been doing an admirably good job, thank you very much. “Come with me. I
shall send a man for your horse. We can discuss business at the house.”
Though what Ellie—no, the
Countess
of Hawthorne— wanted to discuss was beyond him. Her late husband had never
shown any interest in the mill in spite of owning a large share in it. He’d
been too busy gallivanting across the world with his young wife in tow.
Where had he heard they were
last time his mother availed him of all her news? Timbuktu? Bermuda? Some
obscure place in India that no one had ever heard of and no one in their right
mind would want to visit? Meanwhile he’d been buried under the responsibility
of his newly inherited title and struggling to combat the dropping price of
cotton, while increasing productivity at the mills.
But now she was back. And
putting her interfering nose where it did not belong. He had enough problems to
deal with since the fire at the mill in Manchester without some busybody woman
prying through his business dealings. What did she know of cotton anyway? How
to wear it? That would be the vast sum of her knowledge, he concluded.
He held out a hand to help
her into the cabriolet and tried to avert his eyes from the flash of stockinged
ankle. He snorted inwardly. Ladies and their petticoats. The wider they got,
the more likely they were to show off something indecent. Not that he’d ever
really thought of ankles as indecent but there was something wildly distracting
about little Ellie’s slender ankle encased in a stocking. His mind was taking
him further up that stocking and imagining where it stopped. Imagining the pale
flesh of her thigh...
He shook his head and
realised she had slipped her gloved hand into his and was waiting for him to
aid her in. What in the devil was he thinking of Ellie’s thighs for? It had
been too long since he’d tumbled a woman, clearly.
Lucian stared at those
slender fingers in gloves just a shade darker than her riding dress, and tried
not to think about how warm they were. The God-awful fear something was
stirring where he did not want it to—in his damned trousers—made him a little
abrupt with his movements and he released her hand quickly, and she nearly
spilled back into him. He found himself with an armful of mauve wool and a
mouthful of blonde curls. Ellie squeaked and shoved away from him to right
herself in the carriage. He could not help but let his lips tilt at her
flustered expression as she tried to right her hat on those endless curls. No
matter how hard she tried, it would not sit properly.
Before he could be further
amused, he climbed into the carriage and directed the horses out onto the
country road. She gripped the side as if he might take off at any second. He
might be careless, but he was not so foolish as to put her life at risk for the
sake of scaring her, so he kept the pace slow, though her grip didn’t seem to
lessen. He imagined her knuckles were white under the dark fabric of her
gloves.
Perhaps he disconcerted her.
Now why did that thought please him? Because it would be an opportunity to
frighten her away? But, no, he had done that once before and what had happened?
She had been practically sold to some old earl thanks to his behaviour. He
would keep his distance—not easily done in the close confines of his vehicle he
had to admit—and simply tell her that she had no place interfering in business.
Lucian would reassure her that her shares were in safe hands and he would
continue to provide a healthy profit.
He hoped.
With the new machinery,
productivity was up—everywhere. That meant more cotton and lower prices. It was
a race to keep up and with the fire at the other mill, he could not fulfil all
his orders on time. Several buyers had already gone elsewhere.
And now he had little Ellie
to worry about. Damnation.
The wheels of the carriage
seemed to hit every rut and bump as they travelled across the dales, meaning
her arm constantly brushed his and her body jostled against him. Even through
the layers of both of their clothing, he was aware of the slender body he had
been holding in his arms only moments before.
She had filled out, he
admitted. No longer a scrawny little thing. Her waist was still slender, no
doubt helped by some God-awful contraption of a corset, but there was no
mistaking she had some curves there. Of course, he preferred ample curves.
Something to hold onto. Ellie was still tall and long limbed. He didn’t need a
glimpse of her legs to know that or to imagine how they might wrap around—
A large dip almost threw her
into his lap and he cursed aloud as she righted herself. If his language
bothered her, she said nothing. It was fine timing, however. Stopped him from
imagining things he had no right to imagine and he certainly did not want to
picture Ellie in any other position except far away from his person. The girl
had been a bother as a child and now she looked to be a bother as a woman. If
he could even call her that. That curving figure was only marginally woman-like
and her face still held all the innocence of a child.
Balmead Manor came into
view, the great chimney stacks rising out from the valley like a train from a
tunnel. Smoke plumed from several of them. His family home was smaller than
Ellie’s current abode, but still one of the finest in Yorkshire. Though a lot
of it was built in medieval times, his family had added to it over the years
and the most recent addition in his father’s time was sympathetic to the
medieval tower that still stood, if a little more comfortable and elegant.