Chapter Two

Instinct kicked in and Ellen swung her reticule towards her attacker’s face. It hit, and he cursed, his words coloured by a strong Scottish accent.

‘Let me go.’ She tried to break free, but his fingers dug into her upper arm with painful force. Her heart started stampeding in her chest. ‘You’re hurting me.’

Pulling her back towards the window, her attacker shoved the heavy curtain aside so the muted light touched her face.

‘Not a bairn,’ he said, his voice rising slightly in surprise. ‘A lass.’

Ellen raised her most ferocious scowl. She could hardly see the bounder’s face; her eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the near complete darkness inside, and it was difficult to make out more than the size of him. He was tall—taller than the average Englishman. And wide—his shoulders broad and straight.

The room smelled neglected, like dust and the dark aroma of alcohol.

His grip on her arm wasn’t loosening, and she tried to shrug away from him. ‘You’re still hurting me.’

He released her like she’d burned him, and Ellen scuttled across the room, putting the chaise longue between them. ‘I’m not a lass,’ she said, rubbing her arm. At the very least, he hadn’t grabbed her already bruised wrists. ‘I’m the daughter of a respectable gentleman, and I’m expected.’

‘Like hell ye’re expected.’ His voice was rapidly gathering volume. ‘Get out!’

She moved back another half step and tripped over something lying on the floor. It was a pair of men’s boots, causally abandoned beside a dark mass she guessed could only be the man’s jacket and neckcloth. Had he been sleeping here? Most likely he was the footman who was supposed to have opened the door for her. Whatever was the matter with him?

‘Her ladyship is expecting me.’ She spoke using slow, clear words. Perhaps he was hard of hearing. Across the room he was nothing more than a dark shape against an even darker backdrop of brocade curtain. ‘I’m to be the dowager’s new companion.’

‘Eh?’

‘I’m to meet Lady Faye here. She’s engaged me for the Season.’ A full four months at thirty pounds per annum plus a letter of recommendation. Such a letter would guarantee Ellen long-term employment in another respectable establishment under the safety of her new alias. Such employment would mean Ellen could afford the expense of a boarding school in Bath for Gwen so that she would have a chance at a proper education and a new life. Perhaps they would even be able to spend the holidays together.

‘Lady Faye?’

‘Yes,’ she practically yelled. People who were hard of hearing could often read lips, but there wasn’t enough light for him to see her clearly and she most certainly wasn’t moving any closer. Not until she knew exactly who this man was and where the dowager was.

She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her racing heart. You are calm; you are collected; you are a lady’s companion of impeccable propriety. ‘When do you expect her ladyship to return? I’m anxious to finally meet her.’

A breeze from the window at his back carried his aroma across the room. A heady mix of peat, heather and smoke. And more than a trace of strong spirits. Had he been drinking? The last thing she needed was a deaf, inebriated footman with a negligent work ethic.

He let out a bark of humourless laugher, limping across the room to the fireplace and throwing more coal onto the burned-out embers.

Ellen circled around the chaise longue, careful to keep the seat between them, and eyed the dark shape of his back as the flames caught light. He wore smart enough breeches, and he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to show off decidedly muscular forearms.

She was instantly reminded of the illustrations she’d seen of Heracles—a Greek hero with muscles she never would have believed could exist on a human if she hadn’t been looking at them with her own eyes. What else was this footman hiding beneath his crumpled shirt?

A lady’s companion of impeccable propriety, remember?

As he turned back to face her, he crossed those gloriously muscular arms over his chest. She raised her gaze to scrutinise his face, but now the firelight was behind him she still couldn’t make out the finer features of his appearance. She could tell he had a nose, two eyes, a mouth, a rather square jaw and hair much too long for a gentleman of the first order, but that was about all. She couldn’t have picked him out of a crowd. Except that he probably towered over most other men.

‘Whyever did ye climb through the window?’ he demanded, not bothering to mince his words. ‘’Tis the middle the bloody night.’

He might have the body of a Greek hero, but he had the temper of…well, the temper of a grumpy Scotsman. It was she who should be demanding answers.

‘It isn’t the middle of the night; it’s barely twilight. And I climbed through the window because you didn’t open the front door when I knocked. And it’s raining,’ she added unnecessarily. She could feel escaped strands of hair plastered to the back of her neck. Her bonnet was a soggy mess, the brim drooping low over her forehead, and her simple muslin day dress, already wearing thin because her brother refused to spare coin for new clothes, clung to her body with indecent familiarity. She didn’t even have her threadbare pelisse to cover herself, having left it behind in the mail coach in her distraction.

Perhaps it was providence the dowager wasn’t home to see her in such a state. A soaking gown was hardly the way to make a good first impression. She needed to dry off.

She fixed her gaze on the footman. So far he’d demonstrated no inclination towards an obliging manner. If she pleaded with him to help, he might take it as weakness and report it back to Lady Faye. The less the dowager knew of the window incident, the better.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself for falling asleep on her ladyship’s chaise longue,’ she said, giving him her best glower. ‘You should count yourself lucky that I’ve decided not to tell Lady Faye. Now, if you’d show me to my room, I’m rather tired after a long day of travel and wish to change out of these wet clothes. My trunk is outside the window.’

‘I don’t care if yer trunk is in Edinburgh.’ He raked a hand through his long hair. ‘Ye’re not coming any further into my house.’

Your house?’ Did he think she was really going to believe that blatant lie? She was no fool. Silently, she congratulated herself for doing her research. ‘You are mistaken, sir. This is the house of the Marchioness of Faye.’

‘Lass, ‘tis my house. I’m the bloody duke.’

***

She blinked up at him as though Cal had fired a cannonball at her.

He crossed his arms, waiting for his words to sink in. There was a lass in his front room where a lass should not be. A rather mutton-headed one as it was transpiring.

‘Your house?’

‘Aye.’ Of course this was his damn house. ‘It certainly ain’t Buckingham Palace.’ He shot her a sardonic look.

‘I don’t understand. Is her ladyship renting this house from you?’

‘Nay. Her ladyship certainly is not. Her ladyship is my grandmother.’ His busybody grandmother. She’d written him letter after letter, inviting him to stay at her country estate, but he’d ignored every one. What was she up to now? She hated London.

The lass shook her head, her eyes flashing with conviction. ‘That, sir, is a Banbury tale, and don’t try to tell me otherwise. I know Lady Faye doesn’t have any living grandchildren. Debrett’s told me so.’ She scrunched up her nose. ‘Admittedly, my copy was a little out of date, but not—’ she waved an elegant hand in his general direction ‘—by thirty years.’

‘I don’t give a damn about your book.’ If she took her information from the gossip rags like everybody else, they wouldn’t be having this waste-of-a-time conversation. In fact, if she’d read the gossip rags, she wouldn’t have dared climb through his front window in the first place.

Echoes of old headlines seemed to swirl about his head.

The new duke … publicly humiliated by his stepmother … Is the duchess right? … Did he really kill his own half-brother?

The wee lass was either brave or foolish. Or just foolishly brave.

She raised her petite nose even further into the air. Though so much shorter she somehow still managed to talk down to him. Considering the state of her attire, it made the entire experience all that more bizarre. She couldn’t have been wetter if she’d been swimming in a loch.

Dry, her gown could probably be more accurately described as a sack. Wet, it was a masterpiece. Practically scandalous. A gentleman would have offered her his jacket. Cal’s jacket was bundled on the floor along with the dust and the dog hair, and there it was going to stay.

She pressed hands to hips. She really wasn’t going to make this easy, for either of them. ‘If you don’t tell me who you really are this instant, I’ll call the Bow Street Runners.’

‘Ye’re ruining my rug,’ he said shortly. Of course he couldn’t see her legs through the settee, but he could hear the steady drip of water. When Tzar actually bothered to wake up again, he wouldn’t be happy to find his favourite sleeping spot damp.

‘Your carpet!’ She let out a contemptuous laugh but gave herself away by running her hands self-consciously down her soaking dress. His eyes followed their descent from shoulder to midriff. The fabric clung to every curve, leaving little to the imagination. This shapely but sodden lass was anything but intimidating. If his head wasn’t thumping so loudly he might have been able to think of the word opposite to intimidating.

Infuriating?

‘Aye, lass. ‘Tis my rug. ‘Tis my whole damn house.’ He scowled at her, determined not to let his admiration of her finer qualities distract him.

She glanced towards the open window but otherwise stayed put. ‘I’m not leaving. I’m waiting right here for her ladyship to return.’

‘And why should I believe Lady Faye is expecting ye? Last I heard my grandmother was still in Gloucester, where she’s been for the last four years.’

Four years since Cal had returned from sea without his half-brother by his side. Four years since Pierce’s funeral, though they hadn’t even had a body to bury.

The lass spluttered with indignation. Pulling a folded piece of paper from the tiny bag hanging at her wrist, she waved it at him. ‘Here’s my proof, sir. Which is more than I can say for your claims.’ She waved the dratted paper again, moving it too fast for him to get a good look.

Her hands were shaking. She was more nervous than she was pretending to be. Cal felt a stab of admiration but pushed it aside. His eyes had started watering, and there were about fifty other things he would prefer to be doing right now. Like attempting to drink away his bad memories.

‘Give over.’ He limped closer and snatched the letter from her grasp before she could stop him. He opened out the single page, moving to the fire to read it by the flicking flames.

A low groan rumbled up his chest. There was no denying his grandmother’s bold hand. She was indeed coming to Town. And, from the sound of it, she was expecting to stay in his house, with him.

One thing he knew for sure: she wasn’t coming all the way to London just because he’d ignored a couple of letters. She hardly ever left her precious country estate, and she absolutely didn’t come to Town without an ulterior motive.

‘I should have known ye weren’t lying, Miss Ellen Smith,’ he conceded, reading her name from the letter. It was an altogether boring and very English name. ‘Ye’re exactly the type of impetuous lass my grandmother would employ.’ He cast the letter into the fire.

‘No!’ The window adventuress dived around the chaise longue, reaching for the paper even as it caught light.

He wrapped an arm about her waist, pulling her back. Easy, considering how small she was. She was more wisp than woman. Yet he couldn’t fail to notice how her perfect little backside pressed against him as she leaned forward, trying to struggle free of his hold. Quickly tossing her onto the chaise longue before he started noticing anything more, he watched her bounce, the old springs squeaking.

Why did a shapely arse have to be his greatest weakness?

‘What did you do that for? It wasn’t yours to burn.’ She leaped to her feet, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement tightened the already indecently clingy fabric of her damp gown.

Intriguing, that was the word he’d been search for. Dangerously intriguing.

***

‘You’re staring.’ Ellen plucked at her bodice, trying to pry the clinging fabric loose. It was he who should be embarrassed. Fancy telling lies about being the dowager’s grandson, about being a duke! Surely that was a criminal offence. ‘That’s it, I’m fetching the Runners.’ Exactly how one did that, she wasn’t precisely sure, this being her first time in London. But the Runners he deserved.

‘Hold yer horses, lass.’ He raised his hands as if imploring the heavens to give him patience. ‘I’ll get ye proof.’ He limped to the desk in the far corner and started riffling through one of the drawers.

Ellen tapped her foot, the heel of her half boot clicking with satisfactory impatience against the floorboards. There was nothing he could pull out of that desk that could possibly persuade her he’d been telling the truth.

The wretched Scotsman withdrew a fumble of documents and shoved them into her hands. ‘I am the duke, and this is my house.’

He’d handed her some very official looking paperwork. She couldn’t quite make it all out in the half-dark and she started towards the fire but realised that would bring her closer to him. Changing direction, she moved closer to the darkening window and quickly scanned their contents. They seemed to be the entitlement deeds to the Woodhal privilege.

Calum Callaghaneldest son of Hammond, late duke of Woodhalducal heir

But that meant… Her stomach dropped. No. It couldn’t be. The duke’s son had died. Debrett’s had told her so.

But the document in her hand was irrefutable. The man before her was…

Had Debrett’s really gotten it so wrong? People lived their entire lives by that book.

‘But that makes you…’ A duke. A peer. One of the Upper Ten Thousand. Maybe even a friend of the Prince Regent himself. In short, Society!

She looked back down at the papers in her hand.

The Most Noble Calum McKenna Callaghan: Duke of Woodhal, Marquess of Holliway, Earl of Eyles, Baron Summerhayes and Gleeson.

‘Son to the devil himself,’ he finished aggressively. ‘Aye, lass, that I am.’

‘But…’ She examined the documents more closely, searching for any clue that this was all a big mistake. Aside from this London townhouse, he’d also inherited his family’s vast country estate and a number of smaller country properties scattered throughout England. She turned the page to find the former duke, Hammond Callaghan’s personal will, bequeathing his son and heir an additional hunting lodge in Gloucester and a small but profitable distillery in Scotland.

That at least explained the smell of whisky permeating the air as if it were engrained into the very walls of the house.

‘I concede I may have jumped to conclusions rather too quickly,’ she said, the words catching in her throat. ‘But this bequest doesn’t prove you’re the duke. You could be an impostor.’ An impostor who knew exactly where the deeds were kept?

Why wasn’t he dead? Hammond’s son had died. Debrett’s had said so!

She cast a desperate eye down his form. A flicker of light from the fire momentarily chased the shadows from his face. She caught a glimpse of a prickly scatting of unshaven beard over cheek and chin, and a faint shadow that might have been a scar cutting through his left temple and disappearing into his hairline.

Calum. A Scottish name. It rather suited him, she admitted to herself reluctantly. But Duke? Your Grace?

‘Duke of Woodhal? Are you quite sure?’

‘Aye, last time I checked.’ He scowled down at her. Despite his distinctly dishevelled appearance, he cut a rather fine figure.

And then he bowed. It was the most on-point, elegant, self-righteous, disdainful bow she’d ever seen a gentleman make. How he managed to look both respectable and disgruntled, she couldn’t comprehend. It absolutely wasn’t the bow of a footman.

Oh lordy. Forget butterflies, an army of frogs leaped around her stomach. ‘It appears I may have made a small mistake.’

‘An understatement if ever I heard one,’ he sneered.

‘I beg your pardon.’ It was a mistake anyone could have made. For goodness’ sake, he wasn’t even wearing a cravat. ‘It was a mistake not entirely of my construction,’ she hastened to remind him. ‘You should have made yourself known the moment I climbed through your window.’

‘I should have made myself known when you climbed through my window?’ His skepticism was almost palpable. ‘Now you know the truth, what are you going to do about it?’

She probably couldn’t call the Bow Street Runners on a peer of the realm. Could she?

‘Well,’ she said, thinking fast. ‘I’m still going to wait for Lady Faye. She’s expecting me, even if she didn’t tell you of my employ.’ Was that a bad sign? Why hadn’t the dowager told her grandson?

Ellen just had to hope for the best. Returning to Evendale was not an option. There was no knowing what Geoffrey would do to her.

‘Ye’re not waiting inside my house.’

‘But this is the drawing room. It’s where the guests wait.’ When it wasn’t being used as a duke’s bedroom, apparently. ‘Besides, it’s still storming outside. I could catch my death out there.’

‘Ye should have thought of that before ye barged into my house.’

She baulked. ‘That’s not very gentlemanly, Your Grace.’

‘Lass, I might be a duke, but I’m certainly no gentleman.’

‘I see that now. I’ll have you know that, if you make me leave, my death will forever be on your conscience.’

He laughed—a single, humourless grunt of laugher. ‘If ye actually read the gossip rags like everyone else, ye’d already know I don’t have a conscience.’

‘Well…’ She floundered for a second, startled by his response. ‘If that’s the case…if you make me leave, I promise my spirit will haunt you for the rest of your life. And I have to warn you, Your Grace: I’m very persistent.’