‘You’re following me,’ Cal said as he limped into the library. ‘Isn’t it time you were heading home?’
‘Miss Smith’s a bit of an armful.’ Owen slumped into the old wing-back armchair. Dinner had finished and the ladies had headed upstairs for an early night. All Cal wanted was another whisky, not more company.
‘Quite the belle of the ball,’ Owen continued. ‘You must have noticed.’ Propping his cane against the side of the chair, he stretched his legs out before him. With his arms behind his head, he cupped the back of his neck with interlaced fingers, looking for all the world like this were his library.
Of course Cal had noticed. He’d been trying not to notice for the last few hours. Companions to elderly grandmothers were not supposed to raise the blood. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, pursing his lips to stop himself saying something he’d regret.
‘Of course you did, don’t try to deny it.’ Owen chuckled. ‘Her style could do with a bit of an intervention though.’ He picked up the closest book, flicked through without interest and let it slide to the floor. ‘Whyever do you think she was so moist?’ he asked with a smirk. ‘Her dress was positively clinging to—’
‘It’s raining.’ Cal stalked across the room and back again. Something crunched underfoot, and he swore. He’d forgotten about the broken glass. That was perfectly good whisky soaking into his Persian rug.
‘Oh, lark. You didn’t make her wait outside, did you, Wood?’
‘No.’ Not for lack of trying. ‘It was her own fault.’ He quickly related the events of the evening, leaving out the bit where he’d bullied her into showing him her bruises. Even he could admit that hadn’t been his most chivalrous moment.
‘Wood!’ Owen laughed. ‘Bested by a slip of a girl. I have so many questions. Why—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’ His head ached. Everything ached. He looked around the library, searching for another glass. No such luck. He took a swing straight from the bottle.
‘All right. All right. Just one quick question. Whyever were you shirtless?’ Owen laughed again, banging his knee with the palm of his hand.
‘Stop being such an arse.’ Cal pinched the bridge of his nose. How had he ended up in this mess? A few hours earlier he’d been blissfully alone. ‘Couldn’t you have suggested Lady F rent a house of her own? She listens to you.’
‘No, she does not. Besides, you should know by now that when she gets an idea into her head, nobody and nothing can stop her.’ Owen lifted Tzar onto his lap, and the old dog pressed his nose into the crook of Owen’s neck. As though Owen was the one who fed him and groomed him and let him sleep on the bed and took him outside every few hours for a piss and a shit.
Little traitor.
‘Wait a moment.’ Cal’s thoughts suddenly caught up with Owen’s words. ‘What do you mean “an idea” What’s she planning?’ He glared at his cousin. ‘What’s she doing in London?’
‘She’s planning to enjoy the Season,’ Owen said, gently rubbing one of Tzar’s ears between two fingers. A couple of stray dog hairs clung to his otherwise perfectly black lapel.
‘Like hell. I can count the times she’s come to Town on the fingers of one hand, and not once has it ever been to enjoy the Season.’
Twenty-three years ago, she’d come into Town announcing her intention to ‘enjoy the Season’ when she’d really come to meet him for the first time. That was back when Cal had only been ten, and his father had brought him to live in London after his grandparents had died. Nineteen years ago ‘enjoy the Season’ had translated to attempting to mediate peace between his father and Grace. They’d barely been speaking by then. Fourteen years ago she’d come to see him off to sea, back when he’d thought it was going to be a great adventure. Four years ago it was for Pierce’s funeral. Not that they’d had a body to bury. Sailors who died at sea were left at sea. Even first lieutenants.
What a poor replacement for a grandson Cal must be. He and Lady F weren’t even related by blood, just marriage, and even that connection was dubious considering Grace loathed the very sight of him.
He stopped before Owen and kicked lightly at the soles of the other man’s shoes. ‘You know more than you’re letting on.’
‘You don’t scare me.’ Owen straightened, drawing his legs in close to the chair, one arm still around the dog. ‘I’ve known you for too long. I remember you in leading strings.’
‘Nay, I remember you in leading strings.’ He suddenly felt very tired. ‘It’s been a long evening, Owen. I don’t have the patience for this conversation.’
‘It’s only early, old man.’
‘For fuck’s sake, just get out of my house.’
Owen blanched, his smile finally disappearing. ‘You can’t stay locked in here forever. Pierce wouldn’t have wanted—’
‘You don’t know what Pierce would’ve wanted. Nobody knows what he would have wanted because he’s rotting at the bottom on the sea.’ He turned his back on his cousin. He was breathing as though he’d just run a race, and he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. He wanted to hit something so much it was like an ache in his arm.
He heard Owen put the dog down and stand up. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘What did you say?’ Dread, like ice, turned him cold.
‘I’ve read the inquisition report, Cal. Your name was cleared of all suspicion. Nobody on that ship, nobody with half a brain, believes you lit that fire. It was very clearly an accident.’
‘And yet I was suspended under investigation.’ He turned back around to face Owen. His cousin wasn’t as tall as him nor was he a fighter. But he was younger, and he wasn’t wounded or scarred.
‘It was only because—
‘What would you know? You didn’t even have the balls to join up,’ he yelled, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
Owen flinched. But Cal didn’t take it back. He didn’t even apologise. It would be better if Owen hated him, if Owen stopped trying to make him feel better.
‘Nobody cares anymore, Wood. You’re the only one who thinks it still matters.’ The pity in Owen’s gaze was like a brick wall between them.
‘Grace— The newspapers—’
‘Grace didn’t know what she was on about. Her son died; she was grief-stricken. And the newspapers haven’t printed a word about you in almost three years. Most of London has forgotten you even exist.’ Moving to the table, Owen swept his hand over the yellowing newspaper clippings, scattering them to the floor. ‘You’re a grumpy old hermit and you’re barely more than thirty.’ He finally turned his back on Cal, heading for the door.
Tzar let out a low cry, following Owen.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ Owen called from the passage. ‘Tell Lizzy I’ll be back in a few days once they’ve settled in. I’m taking the ladies shopping.’ And he left, his footsteps fading as he traipsed down the passage towards the front door. Even the click of his cane against the floorboards soon disappeared, leaving Cal completely and exceedingly alone.
***
By the time Ellen departed Lady Faye’s chamber, the dowager was snoring softly. She suppressed a yawn of her own, moving down the passage to the next door. The knot between her shoulders eased a little—a difficult day was over finally over. She’d survived the wrath of a duke and been accepted by Lady Faye.
As if summoned by her very thoughts, His Grace came padding down the passage towards her. His stockinged feet made barely a sound; his boots were slung over one shoulder.
‘Your Grace.’ She dipped a curtsy.
‘Miss Smith, everywhere I turn, there you are.’ His voice was tinted with the residue of anger. Whatever he’d been arguing about with Mr Tattershall had left him waspish.
‘Not by design,’ she quickly assured him. Spots of light and shadow cast by the three-arm candelabra she held threw his scars into sharp relief. She could easily see the ridges and hollows where they pulled at the skin on the left side of his face.
‘Why exactly are you lurking in the shadows?’
‘I have to argue against your choice of words. I am not lurking. I just saw your grandmother to her bed.” She paused, steeling herself. “I would like to thank you for not telling her ladyship about the window and our earlier…misunderstanding.’
‘If you think that enough to turn Lady F against you, you’re in for a surprise. My grandmother delights in the absurd. If I’d told her, she probably would have adopted you as her own. Not telling her was most definitely to my own benefit.’ He was frowning again—or perhaps that was just his resting face.
‘Thank you all the same. This opportunity is very important to me.’ More than he could ever know.
‘Just because you and Lady F have managed to browbeat your way into my home for an evening, doesn’t mean I’ve admitted defeat. The two of you might have won the battle, but the war has just begun.’
Ellen eyed the obstinate man before her. He had the potential to make the next few months of her life very difficult. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier for the both of us if we simply called a truce?’ And she held out her hand for him to shake.
He scrutinised her offering disdainfully. She taken off her gloves when they’d sat down to dine, but she doubted that was the source of his displeasure. More likely it was the thought of having to be civil for four months—four excruciatingly long months.
His own appearance was less than perfect. He’d haphazardly shrugged on his crumpled jacket over his crumpled shirt. It was the one she’d seen abandoned on the floor of the drawing room earlier that evening. Despite the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the jacket was clearly a little too large, as though he’d recently lost weight. That, along with his too-long hair, gave the impression he hadn’t been looking after himself. In fact, close up, he looked positively exhausted.
She felt a peculiar urge to start feeding him cream and raspberry trifle.
Whoa! Where did that thought come from? Yes, he was devilishly attractive in a dangerous sort of way, but she didn’t even like him. He was an insufferable old grump. And lady’s companions most definitely do not have indecent thoughts about members of their employer’s family. She gave her head a small shake, trying to settle her wayward thoughts. What had they been talking about? She’d just offered him a truce. That was it. ‘Do you accept?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘You haven’t even heard my terms and conditions,’ she insisted, entirely unsurprised by his refusal. ‘It would be well worth your while.’
His already thinly pressed mouth pressed into an even thinner line. Understanding this to be the only indication of his consent to listen, she hurried on. ‘What I mean is, if her ladyship asks me to do anything that will have the potential to interfere with your life, I promise to do as little interfering as possible without disobeying her direct order, if you promise—’
‘I will not make such a vow. Thank you very much, Miss Smith, but I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’ He shifted uncomfortably. His wounded knee must have been paining him again. It was a wonder he didn’t need a walking stick, but maybe that had more to do with this self-sacrificing quest he seemed to be on. Or just sheer stubbornness.
Ellen silently cursed. Now she was fighting the urge not only to feed him but also to rub cooling lotion on his scars and massage the tightness from his leg.
Or ravish him.
Oh, no.
***
Miss Smith was watching him with a curious expression on her face. What was that expression? Attraction? Nay. It had been so long since anyone had looked at him with interest that he must be mistaken.
Lady F: concern.
Owen: pity.
Grace: hatred.
The rest of the world: unmistakable suspicion.
She blinked, and there it was again: attraction. And now she was actually smiling at him. How the deuce was he supposed to conduct a rational conversation when she was smiling at him? His body began to respond.
He brushed past her, limped into his chamber and slammed the door in her surprised face.
Hell and damnation. He wanted her.
He rested his forehead on one post of his four-poster bed, his forearms above his head. In the passage, he heard as she huffed her indignation, and he could easily imagine her glaring at his closed door. A moment later, she retreated down the passage, taking herself off to bed in the guest room furthest from his own.
Miss Smith in bed. In his bed. Naked and beneath him, sweaty and quivering.
Then again, she was a feisty one. Perhaps she’d take charge, toss him onto the bed and take him in hand.
He tried to sink that foolish notion, but already his cock-stand was straining against his breeches, demanding to be taken care of, to no longer be ignored.
Back there in the corridor, his younger self wouldn’t have hesitated to kiss her senseless. His younger self had been untouched by war and loss, his ego controlled entirely by his innocent confidence, his sense of propriety governed only by his desires.
He banged his forehead against the post, and the whole bed shook. He’d been living the life of a hermit for four years, cutting himself off from almost all company, denying himself pleasure; living only with pain and heartbreak.
That’s all I deserve. Because his brother was dead, and it was his fault.
But this sudden need for Ellen driving through his body tonight was like a kind of pain too. So forceful was it. He ground his teeth. What was she doing to him? Just one look and he was ready to melt before her feet.
He unbuttoned his breeches, taking himself in hand.
He didn’t deserve to feel like this. Maybe he was drunker than he’d realised? But his head wasn’t even pounding anymore; all his blood had rushed south.
He tugged, clenching his hand tighter, making himself wince. It was a kind of half torture touching himself like this when he knew no-one else would ever want to, least of all the prim and proper miss just a couple of doors down. A sore reminder that he was alone and would be alone for the rest of his life.
He stuffed his other hand into his mouth, stifling his grunts.
That look she’d given him—not of disgust, not of judgement, not of anger. That look was exactly why he needed her gone from his life.
When his release came, it was anything but freeing.