Читать книгу Modern Romance Collection: October 2017 5 - 8 - Heidi Rice, Annie West - Страница 14

CHAPTER FIVE

“HIS GRACE WILL not be returning from Spain today as planned,” Mrs. Redding announced one morning, when Eleanor had dropped by the housekeeper’s office off the kitchens to go over Geraldine’s schedule of excursions so the cook and staff could be kept informed.

Eleanor blinked. “Oh?”

Later, Eleanor thought immediately, she’d be furious with herself for sounding something other than blandly disinterested. But all she could do now was gaze back at the disapproving older woman and pretend she hadn’t sounded a little too intrigued.

Maybe more than a little. She hated herself for that, too.

“We expected him in residence today,” Mrs. Redding said matter-of-factly, very much as if she hadn’t heard anything in Eleanor’s voice. Eleanor told herself that of course she hadn’t. It was all in her head, because Eleanor was the one wandering around with the guilty conscience—and the memory of that kiss. Not Mrs. Redding. She hoped. “But his plans have changed, and he will be making a brief trip to Dublin before returning.”

“I didn’t realize he wasn’t in residence now,” Eleanor lied, her voice as bland as she could make it. She punctuated it by taking a calm sip of her tea.

Mrs. Redding eyed her as if she knew the tea was a prop. “When the Duke is in residence, he likes to have Geraldine presented to him at least every other week at dinner. By the child’s current governess, so he can assess both Geraldine’s and the governess’s progress.”

“Well, I suppose that explains why the Duke has appeared so hands-off since I arrived.” Eleanor managed a laugh. “I thought perhaps he didn’t have much interest in his ward.”

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet at that. Eleanor watched Mrs. Redding’s gaze frost over right there before her.

“It would be wiser to put a little less stock in what people say about His Grace from afar,” the housekeeper said, as if each syllable cut the roof of her mouth on the way out. “That tabloid creation bears no resemblance to the man I’ve known since he was a child. A man who took in an orphaned child out of the goodness of his heart and is still painted a villain for it.”

Eleanor took her time placing her cup of tea back in its saucer, surprised at the vehemence in the older woman’s voice.

“Having a ward thrust upon one and being expected to raise them must be something of an adjustment,” she said after a moment.

Mrs. Redding shifted behind her desk, and gazed at Eleanor for a moment over the top of her eyeglasses.

“We are a mite protective of the Duke here,” she said with the same quiet intensity, and Eleanor couldn’t tell if that was a warning or an explanation. “It’s a rare stranger indeed who has his best interests at heart. He has been so long in that spotlight that the spotlight is all anyone sees, but we see the boy who grew up here.” Her gaze edged back into chilly territory. “The whole of England might be dedicated to telling nasty stories about His Grace, but they are never told here. Ever.”

Eleanor couldn’t help feeling as if she’d been slapped again. And harder, this time. As if the fact no one had met her at the train station when she’d arrived had been a test, not an oversight. She wanted to ask Mrs. Redding directly but didn’t quite dare.

It was the same with all the staff in Groves House, she found as the days passed and the weather grew more blustery and grim. Each day was bleaker than the one before. The trees grew ever more stark and the rain fell colder. Icier. And the other members of the household were as uninterested in Eleanor’s presence weeks into her residence as they’d been at the start. She ended up eating her meals alone in her own rooms because when she entered the common staff areas, all conversation stopped, which did not exactly aid the digestion.

“What do you mean they’re all offish?” Vivi asked in one of their phone calls. She sounded distant and preoccupied, the way she often did when Eleanor called her instead of the other way around. As if she had her mobile clamped to her shoulder while she bustled about doing other things. Much more important things, her distracted tone suggested.

Eleanor told herself, brusquely, that it wasn’t entirely fair to attach meaning to Vivi’s tone. They each played their parts, after all. If she had a problem with that, she’d had years to say so. She could have objected years ago when their reluctant, distantly related cousin had eyed the pair of them as adolescents and set the course of their lives.

“Might as well marry a rich man as a poor man,” she’d tutted at them one afternoon. “You two have nothing in this world but Vivi’s pretty face. I’d use it to better yourselves, if I were you.”

“I mean exactly that.” Eleanor said now, scowling at the memory. As if Vivi hadn’t already been a miracle, walking the way she had when the doctors thought she never would. And it wasn’t entirely true that all they had was Vivi’s face, was it? Because what was Vivi’s face without Eleanor’s financial wizardry and prowess with a sewing needle? “They’re a closed group. No newcomers.”

Eleanor had taken to walking in the evenings and tonight she’d taken the back stairs that led from the kitchen into a wing she never been in before. She’d climbed up to the second floor and found herself in a long hallway that doubled as an art gallery. Obvious, recognizable masterpieces worth billions were flung on walls next to what looked like very dour and period-appropriate versions of Hugo. But she concentrated on her phone call, not the wigs and funny hats and companion animals in the portraits before her.

Vivi sighed, which definitely put Eleanor’s back up, and no matter that she tried to pretend otherwise. “Are you there to make friends, Eleanor?”

“Of course not.” She could hear the tension in her voice, and forced herself to take a breath. “I know why I’m here, Vivi. All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a friendly face about the place. That’s all.”

Vivi, clearly no longer feeling guilty or bullying or drunk, sighed again.

“Don’t go moping about the place. No one likes an Eeyore.”

Eleanor found she was scowling at the painting in front of her, biting her tongue. As in, literally pressing it against her teeth to keep from saying something back in the same dismissive tone.

“I should think you ought to feel grateful that you’re not required to work so hard for the friendship of people you won’t know in a year’s time,” Vivi said dismissively.

It hadn’t really occurred to Eleanor to think about the people here—or her position here or whole solitary little life here, really—as temporary. But of course it was. Even if all went well, a girl only needed a governess for so long.

“I think I have a few years before I can happily drift off into the sunset,” she pointed out, and she was proud of herself for sounding as if she was smiling, not scowling. “Geraldine is seven, not seventeen.”

Vivi laughed. “You’re not disappearing into the north forever, Eleanor. You’re supposed to make us enough to cover our bills and then come back.”

“I didn’t realize that was the plan. Especially when the longer I stay, the more I’ll make.”

“Eleanor, please,” Vivi said, her tone light. But there was something beneath it that wedged its way into Eleanor’s stomach and sat there. Heavily. “I can’t possibly do all this without you. You’re on holiday, nothing more.”

Eleanor finished off the call, and found herself staring blankly out one of the windows in this strange art gallery hall, her stomach still not quite right. Because it was tempting to pretend that Vivi couldn’t do without her emotionally, that she missed Eleanor herself, but deep down, Eleanor suspected that wasn’t true. Just yesterday Vivi had been in a panic about how to pay all the bills and get the rent in, and she’d moaned something about what a tip the flat was since there was no one to tidy it up.

Because, of course, the person who usually handled all those things was Eleanor.

It was a good thing Vivi thought Eleanor was suffering in a pile of debris in the middle of a moor. Because if her sister had any idea how luxurious Eleanor’s lifestyle was at present, Eleanor had no doubt Vivi would contrive a way to get herself up to Groves House so she could enjoy it herself.

And Eleanor was obviously far more deeply selfish than she’d ever imagined, because for once in her life, she didn’t want to share something with the sister she’d always loved to the point of distraction.

She stuck her mobile in the pocket of the black trousers she wore and moved over to the windows. The gallery was set up over the back of the house and looked out over the tangle of the back gardens that led straight into the brooding moors. There was a full moon tonight, tossing a spooky sort of silvery light here and there, silently moving in and out of the clouds, and making the whole of Yorkshire seem to gleam.

If gloomily.

Maybe it was because she was tucked away in this desolate old house. Maybe it was because the halls were always empty, the locals were unfriendly, and the nights were already starting to seem as if they lasted three times as long as the day. Maybe it was because she felt a bit too much like a gothic waiting to happen, locked away in here.

But when had she decided that she was so all right with being alone? Her goal had always been Vivi’s great marriage. She’d never thought about what she would do once that happened.

She shivered as she thought about the Duke’s mouth on hers, firm and commanding. And if the highlights of her circumscribed life were the potent, powerful dreams that shook through her every night, all featuring Hugo in searing detail, well. That was more than some people ever had. Maybe it was enough.

Eleanor took a deep breath and vowed it would be. It would have to be.

“Dare I hope that your unexpected appearance outside my private rooms is an invitation, Miss Andrews?”

Eleanor told herself she was hallucinating. Auditory hallucinations, which were really just another part of a regular old haunting, according to all the scary films she’d seen in her time.

She took her time turning to check. And it was worse than any run-of-the-mill haunting.

Hugo stood there at the other end of the long gallery. And this time, he looked exactly like a duke. Exactly like every fantasy Eleanor had ever had of a man that powerful, for that matter. He was dressed all in black and looked vaguely historical. It took her a shattering beat of her heart or two to realize it was because he wore a top hat that should have looked absurd over a long black cloak that did. Or anyway, should have. Would have, even, had another man worn it.

But Eleanor was very much afraid, as her throat went dry and her stomach twisted into something that wasn’t quite anxiety, that there was nothing Hugo could do that was truly absurd. Now when he looked the way he did.

And certainly not when he was looking at her.

“You appear to be dressed as if you’ve been off visiting Regency England,” she said dryly. And only she had to know that the dryness in her mouth was more physical response to him than any attempt on her part to sound indifferent.

“Naturally,” Hugo said, as if an agreement. “I’ve been out terrifying the tenants and topping barmaids in my stagecoach.” He raised a brow. “Or possibly I was attending a Halloween party, complete with fancy dress. You must be aware that it’s the end of October.”

She was aware of almost nothing but him. That was the terrifying truth that seared its way through her then, making her entire body feel...different. As if there was a fire in her bones, and it was changing her. Or had already done so, dream by dream, without her realizing it.

Hugo moved toward her in that graceful way of his, as if he was half liquid. When he drew too close, Eleanor desperately wanted to think of something appropriately boring and dampening to say—but instead found that she still couldn’t seem to think of anything at all but the sensation of his mouth on hers.

His gaze darkened, as if her thoughts were written all over her face, but if they were he didn’t say a word. He only kept moving, brushing past her and indicating that she should follow him with nothing more than a supremely arrogant tilt of his chin. And yet Eleanor found herself obeying.

As if this was as close to happy as she was likely to get.

Hugo stopped at the door at the far end of the gallery and looked back over his shoulder.

“Come,” he said, and Eleanor didn’t know if she was tempted or terrified. Or some far more potent combination of both.

All she knew was that she picked up her pace, on command.

And Hugo’s dangerous mouth curved. “Perhaps it’s time I conducted that interview, after all.”

* * *

Hugo felt like the big, bad wolf.

It was not exactly unpleasant. God knew he’d had nothing to do these past years save sharpen his fangs.

And the distance he’d put between him and this governess who shouldn’t have tempted him hadn’t dulled a thing. Not the impossible lushness of her curves or that tiny waist that mesmerized him. Not her apparent inability to cower before him like almost every other person he encountered in this house.

Above all, it had failed to dull his reaction to her.

He was hard and needy in an instant, and inviting her into his private library was only going to make it worse. He knew he shouldn’t do it. He knew better than to tempt himself—because when had he ever resisted temptation?

But when his hand was on the door, she stopped, and she looked at him as if she was fighting her way out of a magic spell.

“I can’t... Is that your bedroom?”

Hugo was merely a man. And not a good one. It took everything he had not to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to his actual bedroom.

“That tone of voice would be so much more effective if you were clutching a strand of pearls, I think,” he said instead, like a bloody saint. Maybe that was why he sounded so gruff. “As it is, the offended virgin act needs a little bit of work.”

Eleanor blinked, and straightened. “So I should take that as a yes, this is in fact your bedchamber.”

There was no earthly reason why Hugo should be baring his teeth in a poor semblance of a smile, far too much wolf and very, very little of him—even that less than stellar man he usually was.

“If you are so eager to take to my bed, you need only ask. These games are so unbecoming, Miss Andrews. Do you not think?”

“Your Grace...”

But she didn’t turn tail and run.

Hugo smirked at her, because it was that or touch her, and once he started he doubted he’d stop for at least a week. Maybe three. She’d haunted him across the planet, with her defiant gaze and her unimpressed mouth and all of her mouthwatering curves. He’d decided that if she was going to torture him, she might as well do it in person.

“Relax. This is my library. Not a den of iniquity.” His lips twitched. “Depending, I suppose, on what books you choose to read.”

He threw the door open and strode through. He did not look behind him to see if she followed because that, too, was tempting fate.

If she was walking away from him, he didn’t know what he’d do.

The very thought appalled him. Who hadn’t walked away from England’s most reviled man? He welcomed it. He thrived on it. He certainly shouldn’t care in the least what this governess did.

But once again, she followed him, and he was forced to admit he liked it. And that there was something else simmering in him when she shut the door behind her. It felt a bit too much like relief, though Hugo knew that couldn’t be it. True villains felt nothing, through and through. They were made of stone and had no regrets.

Everybody said so.

He waved his hand at the comfortable leather chair before the crackling fire, and allowed himself a small, triumphant smile when she sat. Obediently. Despite that look in her dark eyes that suggested that at any moment, she might break for it.

Hugo told himself he wouldn’t chase her if she did. Of course he wouldn’t. But as he rid himself of the top hat and his great cloak, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“I’ve been in the grand library downstairs,” Eleanor said after the silence drew out. “This is built on a smaller scale, but is no less impressive.”

“I’m delighted you think so. I did wonder.”

She was looking at his books, not him, but he was sure he saw her lips move as if she was biting back a smile.

“Fat mysteries next to battered paperbacks,” she murmured, gazing around the room. “Ruminations on astral physics and—is that philosophy?—next to the entire series of Harry Potter books.”

“Signed first editions, obviously.”

“Careful,” Eleanor said softly, still not looking at him. “Books tell a whole lot more about a person than the things they say. Or the things others say. Well-worn books tell all manner of inconvenient truths about their owners.”

Something rushed through Hugo then, almost as if he was lightheaded. Or drunk.

Foreboding, he thought grimly.

As if, were she to look too closely at the truths his books told about him, she’d know what was real and what wasn’t. And everything would change. He would change.

And Hugo was perfectly content to stay exactly as he was. Hated and all the more powerful for it. The more they made him into the bogeyman, the happier he was.

Because all those people who had bought Isobel’s act deserved to imagine that the love child she’d made with that idiot Torquil was forced to pay for her parents’ sins in the grip of a monster like him. They deserved to worry themselves sick about it, torturing themselves as they imagined scenes of neglect and abuse, because that was the least that could be expected from the villain Isobel had created.

“Every good story needs a villain, darling,” she’d told him archly that first time.

That being the first time Hugo had woken to find a version of himself he didn’t recognize in the papers. The first time he’d had the sickening realization that the fake version was more believable. That even when he tried to clear his name or at least tell a different side to the story, no one wanted to hear it. Terrible Hugo was far more compelling than the real one ever could have been.

He remembered the time he’d tracked her down across the planet in Santa Barbara, California, to demand that she stop the insanity, years into her game. That she stop telling those lies. That she leave him out of the sick games she liked to play with people’s lives—and not because it bothered him. He’d long passed the point where anything she did could bother him. But his father had still been alive then, and it had wrecked the old man.

“Hurting your lovely old father isn’t my goal, of course,” Isobel had murmured, out by one of those impossibly still and blue California pools, all hipbones and malice in a tiny bikini. She’d smiled at him over her oversized sunglasses. “It’s a happy bonus, that’s all.”

“There is nothing you can do to me, Isobel,” he’d told her fiercely then. “You cannot take my heritage from me. You cannot siphon off a single penny of my fortune. Whether I am liked or I am hated, I will still become the Duke in due course. Grovesmoor will carry on. Don’t you understand? I’m bulletproof.”

But she’d only laughed at him.

“And I’m a better storyteller,” she’d said.

Hugo had borne the brunt of that damned story of hers for years. He still did. But now he had his own weapon in the form of a child everyone assumed he hated and the world’s endless censure.

And he had no intention of giving it up.

Certainly not to a governess with the body of a screen idol and too much uncertain temper in her dark eyes. A woman who looked for truth in his books and didn’t know when to back down from a fight she couldn’t win.

No matter how much he wanted her.