Rescued By a Lady's Love (Lords of Honor, #3) (9 page)

The young duke stepped aside, daring her with that slight movement to enter his lair.

What he could never realize is she’d spent the past years in a hell of her own making, so what was one more foray into the devil’s den? In a desperate bid for control, with her chin held high, she yanked her skirts and swept past him.

The door closed with a soft, ominous click and she jumped, wheeling back around. The Duke of Blackthorne stood with his face in profile.

Did he seek to deliberately shield that marred half of his once perfect, chiseled features? Another mocking grin formed on his partially-scarred lips. Unnerved by his icy blue stare, she dropped her gaze—to the gold-headed serpent under his gloved hand.

Lily took in the cane for a long moment. If she required the assistance of a cane, she’d not find that support from a slithering serpent—

“You are suddenly shy, Miss Bennett?”

Miss Bennett?
Her mind stalled. Hadn’t she used the false name she’d adopted all these years? Surely she’d not been so careless!

Oh, God. A loud buzzing filled her ears. He knew. Her thoughts spiraled out of control like a too-fast moving carriage careening out of control. Except...as the moments ticked on, she peered at him, searching for any hint of recognition from this man whose brother had ruined her life through one lie and that one shameful, forbidden act. But there was none.

“Is there something wrong with your vision?”

That taunting whisper jerked her head up and she blinked back her earlier fear. A giddy relief slammed into her. He didn’t know who she, in fact, was. Just as he saw Harris as Harrison, he’d commandeered ownership of her name. “There is nothing wrong with my vision,” she said, her voice faintly breathless from the force of her relief. He stood but a handful of feet away. For one of his size and strength, and... She looked to his cane once more, and of his condition, he moved with a remarkable grace. “And I am not shy,” she blurted, warming at those inane, useless words. Still, she was three and twenty, a woman past the prime of her first youth. Seasoned by his late brother’s betrayal.

He presented his back. “I do not care what you are or what you aren’t,” he said with a chilling aloofness that set her teeth on edge. No, one cut of the same proverbial cloth as George would not care about her or others—in any way.

With that reminder slipping to the forefront, she drew on the purpose that had driven her into this dark, miserable home. Back still presented to her, the arrogant duke could not even deign to look at her. Then, she’d always been invisible to his vile family. If only that had been the case for his blighter of a brother. God rot his soul. At the protracted silence, she snapped. “My name is Lily Benedict,” she said firmly. Lilliana Bennett had died long, long ago.

At that, he turned his face and met her gaze squarely. She swallowed hard. With the barrier of the door from their first meeting now gone and no effort made by him to obscure his face from scrutiny, she stared with something akin to horror, wonder, and regret.

Half his face was the chiseled beauty of that famed David. The other appeared a horrified masterpiece thrown hastily together by the artist, Michelangelo. On one side, the olive hue of his rugged features hinted at his Roman roots. The other side, a collection of angry scars; the skin whitened and yellow from those burns. A black patch over his left eye lent him the look of a menacing pirate. She swallowed. Yet, for his scars, there was a splendorous power to him. Her heart quickened to a dangerous rhythm that had nothing to do with fear of him, but rather an awareness of this broad, powerful man who, with his unassailable strength, harkened back to warriors of old. In that strength, he was so unlike any she’d known before...and all the more terrifying for it.

He leaned down, sticking his face so close, their noses brushed, and she who’d long believed herself past blushing, went warm under his scrutiny. “Did you have a good look?” he jeered.

In her haste to get away from the great, hulking stranger, Lily took a hurried step backward and stumbled against a mahogany side table. She shot her hands out and found purchase on the top of the leather sofa. “I daresay your foul temper is merely a means of protecting yourself, but all the same, you don’t have to be so rude.”

“Protecting myself?” He stalked over and for a moment she contemplated retreat. Instead, she rooted her feet to the floor and met his challenging stare. He leaned close, forcing the vicious scars into her direct line of vision.

A twinge pulled at her heart. The man was odious to his servants. He was kin to the man who’d ruined her. And yet, she still would never wish the kind of horror and pain forever memorialized upon the duke’s face.

He snapped black eyebrows together in a flat, angry line. “Do you think I need protecting from a slip of a lady such as yourself?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that she was under no one’s terms or standards, a lady, but that would be as extraneous as mentioning the whole “I’m-not-shy-business”, particularly when one was seeking the post of governess to his ward. She bit her lower lip.

He sent one black eyebrow up in a devilish arc that roused terror in her breast. “Is something wrong with your hearing as well as your mind, Miss Benedict?”

The brute made it nigh impossible to feel sympathy or pity or anything less than mild disdain for him. “Is something wrong with your manners?” she demanded, the question exploding from her lips.

His Grace went still and her heart climbed into her throat as she braced to be tossed bodily from his office.
What will you do now, you stupid chit...?
But the duke limped past her. The thump-thump-thump of his cane marked his progress over to his desk chair. He slid his powerful frame within the folds and after he’d rested his cane against the mahogany and brass side table, he spread his arms wide. “You stormed my home and my office; get on with whatever is of such importance to you.”

Lily sidled over to the desk, all the while keeping a close eye on the volatile duke, as she took the seat opposite him. She fished around her reticule and withdrew her false references. “I am here seeking employ—”

“I didn’t give you leave to sit.” He wrapped those words in a lethal edge.

Arm frozen mid-movement with the documents clenched between her fingers, she lowered the pages to her lap. Her mind ran. Hadn’t he? She wrinkled her brow. Well, no. She rather supposed he hadn’t. She searched his face for any hint of warmth; some slight penetrable crack that indicated he was not solely the harsh monster who’d scared the butler into a near run. Of their own volition, her eyes lingered on the planes of his cheeks. Regret struck her. He’d truly been a remarkable man, the manner of man a vicar’s young daughter would toss her virtue away for.

The duke rested his elbows on the desktop and leaned closer. “Do I meet with your approval, madam?” He peeled his lip back in a sneer.

Then, an unexpected twinge of compassion pulled at her heart. For a moment, she forgot the subterfuge that brought her into his home. This man’s surly bid to terrify was merely a means of protecting himself from cruelties he’d, no doubt, encountered. As one who’d sought to protect herself from hurt through the years, she recognized that attempt in another.

A hard, knowing glint lit his eye and he sat swiftly back in his chair. “I do not need your pity.”

She snorted. Just then, it was hard to feel anything but annoyance at a foul fiend like the duke. “Well, that is all well and fine. You don’t have it.” Terror, however, was an altogether different matter. That she knew plenty of around the Duke of Blackthorne.

He sat forward in his seat once again. “For even scarred as I am, Miss Benedict, I’d still not put my co...”

A shocked gasp escaped her and ate into the remainder of his crude words. Lily flew from her seat and slapped him into silence. The echo of her vicious blow blared like the firing of a pistol in the quiet. No doubt he sought to be rid of her with his vile innuendos and crude words. Even in her role as gentleman’s plaything, she’d not been spoken to in such a manner.

His Grace froze. Then, as if he delighted in that crack in her veneer, a jeering grin marred his lips.

Her chest heaved and she shook, partly from fear of crossing such a black-hearted soul, partly with shame for having put her hands to his face, partly with embarrassment for the vile words she’d cut short with her well-timed slap. Still, she’d not look away and give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d shaken her. She tossed her tresses and made a show of studying him.

“You do like what you see, then,” he said on a jeering whisper.

She narrowed her eyes. “Hardly.” The great lummox was a beast, but such had nothing to do with the marks upon his skin and everything to do with the words on his lips.

He stiffened and then came slowly to his feet.

Lily swallowed hard and inched her gaze up his towering frame. Goodness, the man was a veritable mountain. Weren’t there rules on the frame and form of these pompous dukes? Weren’t they supposed to sport monocles and stuff their garments with padding the way Sir Henry had? Or douse themselves in fragrant cologne and oil their hair like George? The hint of sandalwood that clung to this duke was potent, and masculine, and muddled her senses.

“Oh?” he whispered.

Do not say anything.
There was the whole matter of the diamond and her future...
Focus on that
. Anything but on how this man set her teeth on edge and roused this peculiar stirring in her belly, all at the same time. Alas, she’d never been known for her self-control. “You’re about four inches too tall and a stone too wide—”

The Duke of Blackthorne took a step around the desk. “Are you calling me fat, Miss Bennett?”

“Mrs. Benedict.” She took a hasty step back. “No,” she said hurriedly. There was not an ounce of fat to his muscle-hewn frame. “Your nose is crooked.” As though it had been broken, and not just once. No doubt deserved.

He snapped black eyebrows together. “Are you finished?”

D
o not say anything. Do not say anything.
She shook her head. “And your hair is too long.” In an untamed, primitive way that gave him the look of a warrior of old. A shameful urge gripped her; a need to run her fingers through those midnight strands.

“Is it now?”

He sounded so thoroughly bored she wished she had another charge to level against his miserable countenance but came up remarkably empty. “D-Did I mention your crooked nose?”

“You did.”

Did she imagine the ghost of a smile on his lips? Surely she didn’t. Men such as this one did not smile or laugh or express any cheer. “Well, it bore repeating. Twice.” For the evidence of multiple breaks indicated he’d made a bother of himself on more than one occasion, which was not in the very least surprising. Except his inscrutable expression said her attempt at needling had little effect on the uncouth stranger who’d shout at his servants and curse and speak coarse words in front of young women.

The towering duke folded his arms at his chest. “Is that all, Miss Benedict?” No, there was still the matter of the post she now sought. Then, this hardly seemed the appropriate time to bring up as much.

She wet her lips. Goodness, he was imposing. There should be fear and yet, her heart fluttered wildly, instead.

“Would you care to see my teeth?”

To still the tremble racking her frame, she folded her arms in a like manner and eyed him contemplatively. “I believe I would.”

He peeled back his lips to display two perfect rows of even, white teeth.

Glorious
. He was a glorious model of masculinity, harshly beautiful for the imperfections he bore. She’d die before even so much as hinting at that unfathomable truth. “Hmm,” she said noncommittally. It was a sin he should hide himself from the world.

“You approve, then?”

“All but the bottom front right.” She tipped her index finger at a slight angle. It was a blatant lie. “It is crooked.” But she’d be damned if she allowed him the final word in their duel of words.

With a glower, the stranger snapped his mouth closed. At that dark, menacing look, a shiver stole through her. For her brashness moments ago, logic settled around her brain. This was not a man to be trifled with. Perhaps she’d gone just a tad bit too far in taunting this hulking stranger, a stranger whose aid she now sought. His silver-flecked gaze followed her subtle movement and lingered upon her breasts.

She swallowed; registering too late she’d drawn attention to the deep décolletage of her sapphire blue gown. She folded her arms about her chest, hiding herself from his intense gaze. “Do
you
approve then?” she shot back, not knowing where she found the courage to toss those bold words at his smug face.

“All but the right—”

She jabbed her finger at him. “Don’t you dare.” She’d not be made light of. Not by this insolent stranger. Not by anyone. It was entirely awful enough she’d been found lacking on more scores than she cared to admit. She’d not be mocked by this scowling beast.

“Are you issuing me a threat, Mrs. Benedict?”

Again
, Mrs. Benedict. Not Miss Bennett. And she suspected that substituted name was, in some way, a slight show of respect from this man. “No.” And as she’d never been one to prevaricate, she chose to get to the heart of it. “I am here to discuss my responsibilities for your ward.”

O
ccasionally, at the oddest, most unexpected times, Derek’s ear would ring with the old echo of gunfire and cannon charge. At those moments, sounds—a person’s voice, the tick of a clock, the rattle of a carriage—would come as though down a long corridor. With that bold demand from the insolent chit who’d invaded his sanctuary, this was one of those muffled moments.

Derek passed his gaze over the young woman; the tempting siren in the street who’d stolen into his office and proved herself a harpy more than anything else. The midnight black of her tresses, so dark it bore the trace of blue, the green-blue of her eyes. She could rob a lesser man of his logic. But he’d ceased to be that man who could or would be swayed by a woman’s charms. “
You
as a governess?” he asked, and for the pain radiating up his thigh, propped his hip on the edge of the desk. “You are here for the post of governess?” One with a captivating beauty such as hers belonged in ballrooms, attired in fine satins, not in a nursery with a motherless child.