Читать книгу Modern Romance Collection: October 2017 5 - 8 - Heidi Rice, Annie West - Страница 15

CHAPTER SIX

ELEANOR COULD ONLY stare at the Duke’s book collection for so long before it became awkward. Or rather, a little too obvious that she was going out of her way to avoid looking at him directly.

She told herself she was simply appreciating the amount of literature he kept on his shelves and at hand at all times, that was all. The truth was she’d never lived in a place where she could keep more than her absolute most favorite books on what little shelf space she could spare. She wouldn’t have minded spending a few hours getting lost in this place.

But, of course, her employer had not called her into his library to offer her the chance to browse.

Pull yourself together, Eleanor, she chided herself.

She sat on the edge of a buttery soft leather chair, afraid to let herself sink back into it. Afraid she’d never pull herself out again. But when she was finally sure that her expression was nothing but serene and dared to look at him again, everything had gotten much worse.

Much, much worse.

Because while Hugo had removed that top hat and cloak that made him look like something out of the sort of fantasies Eleanor had never had before coming to Groves House, Hugo in nothing but exquisitely fitted dark trousers and a white shirt that opened at the neck was infinitely more dangerous.

And tempting in all kinds of ways she’d never experienced before in her life.

She could feel each and every temptation as if it was a separate strand of heat, swirling around inside of her and making her feel like a stranger to herself.

Hugo moved from the great desk where he’d carelessly tossed his coat and hat, and stalked across the room toward her. Of course he wasn’t stalking, Eleanor told herself sharply. The man was simply walking from one end of the library to the other. The way people did when they wished to cross a space.

There was no reason at all that she should find herself holding her breath the way she was. Or clenching tight every single muscle in her body as she perched on the edge of that heavy chair, until she thought she might snap in half.

Hugo dropped himself down into the leather chair across from hers. He did not exactly sit nicely. Instead, of course, he sprawled. He was bigger every time she looked at him, it seemed, and his solidly built body covered more than simply the chair. His legs were long and he thrust them out before him, eating up the thick rug that was all that sat between their chairs.

He wasn’t simply sitting there, Eleanor thought, with a mounting sense of unease. He seemed to claim the entire room with that offhanded masculine grace of his. As if he was the hazard, not the fire, which crackled away beside them and yet seemed to dim everything that wasn’t Hugo.

It would be a lot easier, Eleanor reflected with no little hysteria, if the man was as seedy and dissolute as he’d always seemed in the tabloids. Instead of finely chiseled everywhere and exuding entirely too much sheer, powerful certainty the way other men reeked of cologne.

“How fares my ward?” Hugo asked.

So politely, so mildly, that Eleanor thought she must have been imagining the strange currents that seemed to fill the room—and her—with such an odd, electric sensation. It was clearly her, she told herself sternly. She was the one who was having some kind of allergic reaction to being in this man’s presence. Or perhaps it was all those centuries of Grovesmoor influence and authority that he wore so easily when he was meant to be nothing but a layabout. Eleanor supposed it could even be the broad span of his shoulders, entirely too sculpted and athletic for a man so famously devoted to his own leisure.

But when she met his gaze, she understood that she wasn’t suffering from some allergy to the aristocracy. Or if she was, he was too. Because his dark eyes burned with a bright, intent fire Eleanor didn’t recognize, but could feel. Everywhere.

“Geraldine is very well,” she said before she forgot to respond. Which wouldn’t do at all.

Thinking about the little girl was the way to survive this, clearly. Eleanor made her spine as much of a straight line she could bear without actually hurting herself, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. She found that if she gazed at Hugo’s chin instead of directly into his overwhelming, challenging gaze, she could pretend to be looking at him without actually risking too much direct eye contact.

And that little disconnection made it possible for her to catch her breath. To keep her heart from beating entirely too fast. Or anyway, pretend that she had herself under control, which would have to be enough.

“She’s quite intelligent. And funny, it turns out. Not all little girls are funny, of course.” Eleanor felt herself flush slightly, because she sounded a great deal as if she was babbling. And she never babbled. “Not that I have vast experience with seven-year-old girls, but I was one.”

Hugo looked boneless and hungry, and the combination made Eleanor’s pulse dance.

“Some time ago, if I’m not mistaken,” he said.

“A lady does not discuss her age, Your Grace.”

“You’re a governess, are you not? Not a lady in the classic sense, if you will excuse the pedantry. But more to the point, you’re entirely too young to become missish and coy about your age. Surely that is the province of women significantly longer in the tooth than you.”

Eleanor found she was meeting his gaze, and had no idea when she’d given up the chin offensive. It was a mistake. She felt as if she’d sat out in the sun too long and was now a miserable prickle everywhere she had skin.

“I’m twenty-seven, if that’s what you’re asking. And I hope that you’re not asking that. Because that would be unpardonably rude.”

Hugo’s lips twitched. “The horror.”

“And I’m surprised that a duke of England should bother himself to pull rank. Surely in the absence of a Windsor lurking about, that’s a bit redundant.”

“You cannot be surprised, Miss Andrews.” The corner of Hugo’s mouth tipped up, but if that was a smile, it was entirely too dark. “I have yet to encounter a single story ever told about me that did not make it clear I am the worst kind of person. A stain upon the nation.”

“Are you suggesting that I believe everything I’ve read about you? My understanding—” culled entirely from books and television and supermarket checkout queues, which she did not plan to share with him “—was that most celebrities claim that the things that are written about them in places like the tabloids are lies.”

Something in his expression shifted. Eleanor couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as if he turned quietly to stone, everywhere, even as his gaze changed. Melted, she would have said, if she were the fanciful sort. Into a far more powerful spirit, more intense than his usual whiskey.

“And if I were to tell you that, indeed, nearly everything that has ever been written about me in the press is a lie, you would believe that?”

Hugo wasn’t exactly smirking, but there was no mistaking the challenge he’d thrown at her or the way he lounged there in the chair opposite her while he did it. His oddly intent gaze was taut on hers while one long finger tapped the side of his jaw, rough now instead of clean-shaven.

He looked decadent. Sinful.

Eleanor had absolutely no trouble believing every wicked thing she’d ever heard about him. Ever.

And it did absolutely nothing to diminish his appeal.

“Your reputation precedes you, of course, Your Grace,” she said briskly, fighting to keep her wits about her when she couldn’t seem to pull in a full breath. “But it is not your reputation that concerns me. It is your ward’s education.”

“A clever dodge, Miss Andrews, but I’d prefer it if you answered the question.”

Eleanor reminded herself that this was not a situation that required her honesty. This man was not interested in her frank opinion of him. How could he be? Hugo was the Duke of Grovesmoor. And her employer. If he wanted to pretend that the stories about him were lies, it was only in Eleanor’s best interest to agree.

Because, as her sister reminded her almost every night, this was about the money. It was most certainly not about that odd weight in her chest that urged her to do the exact opposite of what she knew to be necessary. And smart.

She ignored that weight. She shoved it aside and pretended she couldn’t feel it. She made herself smile. Politely.

“Everyone knows the tabloids are filled with lies,” she murmured, hoping that placated him. “All smoke, no fire.”

Hugo shook his head as if he were disappointed in her. “I believe you are lying, Miss Andrews, and I am shocked onto my soul.” That curve in the corner of his mouth deepened. “And yes, I do have one. Clouded and murky though it may be.”

It was entirely too easy to drift off, staring at this man in all his dark, threatening beauty, as if he was an approaching storm and the worst that could happen to her was that she’d get a bit wet. But she had to stop thinking of him that way. She had to do something about the strange signals her body sent off that made her entirely too nervous. That tightness in her breasts. The knotted thing in her belly. And that odd, melting sensation lower still.

She had to remember what she was doing here. It was about the money and it was about Geraldine, and all these strange electrical moments were distractions, nothing more.

Because of course they couldn’t be anything more.

“I’ve given Geraldine a series of tests and have found she’s well above her year in most areas. Whatever the previous fourteen governesses might have lacked, they were clearly decent tutors. She’s very bright and quite advanced.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.” He did not sound delighted.

“I believe she will make you proud,” Eleanor said, and realized almost instantly that it was the wrong thing to say. Of course it was the wrong thing to say. The child was not his. Geraldine was his ward, not his daughter. It was entirely possible that the only proud day of his life would be the day she reached her majority and was no longer his responsibility.

And none of that was her business, as Mrs. Redding had suggested.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, before he could respond. Then, as if the apology needed explanation, she pushed on. “I always wanted to be a teacher when I was younger, but then I took a little bit of a detour.”

“Into a number of office positions in London,” he said, without consulting any notes. Meaning he just knew that. Eleanor told herself that wasn’t strange at all, and there was absolutely no reason that prickling feeling should intensify until she felt goose bumps on her arms.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “This governess position is new to me. Perhaps in my enthusiasm, I’ve overstepped.”

For a long moment, Hugo said nothing. But it wasn’t as if his silences were empty. On the contrary, everything felt thick. The air. That raw thing that kept expanding inside her chest, until once again, she didn’t think she could pull in a full breath. But the longer she stared at his mesmerizing face, and those unholy eyes of his, the less she cared.

“You do not treat me like a monster, Miss Andrews.” Hugo’s voice was a smooth lick against the quiet that surrounded them. “I find it disconcerting that you do not, when everyone else does. Why don’t you?”

Eleanor felt her lips part at that, and quickly snapped her mouth shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. Women normally approach me in one of two ways. They either fling themselves at me, desperate for my touch and my attention. Or they cower, certain that a stray graze of my finger will ruin their reputations forever, and more importantly, leave them mere, shivering wrecks of their former selves thanks to my supposed evil powers—but not in any fun way. Yet you do neither.”

There was a note in his voice that she didn’t understand, but it seemed to wind its way through her like honey. Or something far more intoxicating.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” she managed to say. “I was unaware that a certain reaction was called for the part of the job. To you, I mean. Perhaps it’s silly of me, but I thought my relationship with Geraldine was the point.”

“No one takes this job for the child. One way or another, they always take it for me. The fact that you do not wish to admit this only makes you more curious. And I should not have to tell you that making yourself the focus of my attention...has consequences.”

Eleanor was clenching her hands together entirely too tightly, something she only noticed when they went numb. She forced herself to unlace her fingers and sensation came back in a rush. She ignored it when they began to sting.

“I would prefer not to be crass, Your Grace, but you give me no choice.”

“I am all ears, of course. I enjoy crassness very much. You must realize this.”

“I’m sure you’re a very nice man. Deep down,” she added at his snort. “But of course you must realize that the position’s salary is what’s attractive. While you have a certain charm, I suppose, that really isn’t why I came. I told you before. I was assured—repeatedly—that I would never see you.”

“I have a very large and extraordinarily healthy ego, Miss Andrews, and yet it withers before you. Most women would scramble up the Cliffs of Dover if they imagined they might catch a glimpse of me.”

“I suspect your ego is quite robust and will survive handily. And I am not most women.”

“You most certainly are not.”

Eleanor caught herself before she flung something back at him. There was no call to come over all caustic and acerbic, which seemed to be her happy place where the Duke was concerned. It wouldn’t help her in any way to actively antagonize him. Hugo might have been eyeing her in very much the same way a large, indolent house cat might an extremely foolish mouse. But that didn’t mean she should scamper out there of her own volition and show him her belly.

Think of the money, she told herself sternly. Think of Vivi.

She surged up and onto her feet at that. “It’s late, Your Grace.”

“It is not yet midnight.” He didn’t bother to glance at the watch on his wrist, which Eleanor could tell must have cost a fortune or two, since it looked like it belonged on the side of an old town hall in Prague. “It is scarcely ten.”

“Which is late for those of us who rise with small children in the morning.”

“There it is,” he said softly and, if she was not mistaken, with some satisfaction. “There is that fear of me I recognize.”

“It’s not fear, it’s anxiety,” she corrected him. “It makes me anxious to have these confusing conversations. Surely you can understand that. I work for you.”

“Of course I can’t understand any such thing. I’ve never worked for anyone in all my days.”

Eleanor waved a hand at the stuffed shelves on all sides. “Thank goodness you have all these books, then, to allow you a different perspective than your own.”

“I think you’re lying again, Miss Andrews,” Hugo said, and his voice had gone silky. Dark. Something much worse than simply decadent.

And it shuddered through Eleanor. It made her ache. Everywhere.

Her pulse fluttered about weakly and she thought perhaps she shouldn’t have had those prawns for her tea. Then she wondered what had become of her that she was standing here, actively wishing she was ill. Instead of the alternative.

“You’ve lost me once again,” she told him. Faintly.

“What you’re feeling right now is not fear,” Hugo told her, and there was that certainty again. Pouring out of him as if he’d never suffered a moment’s doubt about anything in his charmed life. “Or anxiety about speaking to your employer. You can feel how quickly your heart beats, can you not? And that hot and restless yearning in the pit of your stomach?”

She flushed hot and, she feared, red. “No.”

“The funny thing about a man like me is that I cannot abide lies to my face. There are too many in print.” He smiled. “Try again.”

“I’m a bit overtired, actually. I’d like to be excused so I can take to my bed, please.”

“Bed is the cure, Miss Andrews, but I’m not talking about sleeping. And I think you know it.”

Eleanor found she was gaping at him. Again. And this time, she didn’t have it in her to do anything about it.

“Are you... You can’t...”

And Hugo laughed, stealing the heat from the fire and the air from the room.

Then, worse, he unfolded himself from his chair and rose to his feet. And suddenly, the library seemed like a closed fist—a vicious and unbreakable grip all around her. Forget breathing—Eleanor wasn’t sure she could stand. But she also couldn’t seem to move away the way everything in her screamed she should. It was as if she was frozen in place, though there wasn’t a single part of her that was cold.

Not one.

“You look very much like a woman who can think of nothing at all but the way I might kiss you,” Hugo said softly.

“That can’t happen,” Eleanor breathed.

“It already has. It will again. I’m afraid it is inevitable.”

He reached over and fit his hands to her cheeks. And as if that was not bad enough, he used one thumb to trace slowly, lazily over her mouth, as if he was learning the contours of her lips.

If he’d doused her in gasoline and lit a match, she could not have burned hotter. Or brighter. And god help her, it was all so wrong.

“See?” His voice was so low, so sure, it seemed to interfere with her ribs. “Not fear at all.”

He shifted, lifting her chin and her face toward his, and Eleanor panicked. Or anyway, that was what she thought that was, that blinding rush of sensation that was too electric and too impossible to be borne.

“I’m asexual,” she blurted out.

She expected that announcement to stop him. To stop everything. To make all of this stop pulsing and whirling and make a little sense again.

But Hugo made a noise, deep in his throat, that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a sort of growl. He didn’t let her go. If anything, his hands held her faster. And she felt them in even more places.

“Are you?” He didn’t sound particularly fussed.

“Well, yes.” This close, it was almost impossible to remember what she meant to say—it was those eyes of his. And worse, his mouth. His lush, wicked mouth, that hovered far too close to hers and made everything in her a molten sort of heat. “I always have been, I suppose.”

“Have you?”

“Yes,” she said, with a bit more asperity. She would have kicked herself if she could. And if she could remember how to operate her legs. “I don’t feel things, you see. I’m sorry if that makes things awkward.”

“It would,” Hugo agreed. He moved closer to her, making his impossibly well-formed chest part of the whole...problem. “But I think you feel quite a lot.”

“I most certainly do not,” Eleanor retorted, despite the fact that she did indeed feel entirely too much. Everywhere. And constantly. And she couldn’t tell if she was sick or panicked or something in between. But she was certain there was some other explanation than the heat she could see in his whiskey-colored eyes.

“I suspect that what you’ve been, little one,” Hugo murmured, his voice a low rumble that she could feel inside of her like a kind of earthquake, “is bored.”

And then he set his mouth to hers, and proved it.