Rogues and Ripped Bodices (17 page)

A Head
for Numbers

Two hours later, Lucian returned to fetch Eleanor. He was
surprised she had not tired of pouring over the tiresome records and come in
search of him. Mr Fuller had spent the better half of the first hour
complaining about the workers arriving late and the next hour and a half had
been taken up with trying to establish why one of the machines was not running
as quickly as it should have been.

He pushed open his office door
to find her absorbed in the books. She had removed her bonnet and cast it
aside, giving him a view of bountiful blonde curls. They were not as dark as
they had once been and gave off a golden sheen. They were still
everywhere
.
He wondered how she walked around with so much hair on her head, but they were
somewhat appealing. If he thrust his hands into her hair and pulled out the
pins, would the tresses spill all about her, surrounding her like a golden
halo? A very sudden, unwanted image hit him. One of naked shoulders and blonde
curls.

Coughing, he waited for her to
lift her head, but apparently she was absorbed. Some writing paper sat to one
side, covered in ink blotches and scrawled writing. Her fingertips were
slightly black with ink too.

“Ellie,” he tried again.

She lifted her head and for the
briefest moment he thought she saw him as someone other than a scarred ex-rake
who once kissed her out of spite. Her smile was brilliant. Blinding even. A
flash of perfect teeth amongst berry red lips. His heart did something strange
and he greatly feared he was having a heart attack. But it didn’t last. The
smile dropped, as did his heart, and she regarded him coolly.

“Are we to tour the mill now?”

“Yes, if you’re ready.”

“I am though I feel I should
have looked through this week’s records. I haven’t reached them yet.”

“I doubt one week will make any
difference to your...” He waved a hand, searching for a word. “To your work.”

She rose, slid her bonnet on
and tied the silk ribbon. The strangest desire to reach over and perfect the
bow struck, and he curled his hand at his side.

“Be careful. These machines are
extremely fast and dangerous. Do not touch them,” he warned her, “and keep your
skirts away from them.”

She nodded and remained
blessedly quiet as he led her out of the offices, across the forecourt and into
the main building. He had almost expected some bold declaration of how she was
not frightened or perhaps even something as foolish as
, ‘I have been to the
far reaches of the world, my lord, what could a mere machine do to me?’

Bloody hell, if he heard about
her travels and how experienced she was and how her husband took her everywhere
and spoiled her rotten one more time, he’d throw his hat into the mud and
trample on it in a rage.

The noise from the machines
still shocked him, even now. It was a grating, rattling, crashing sound that,
though rhythmic, was not a noise one could ever get used to. It was the sound
of hard graft and of men and women striving for survival in a harsh world. It was
the sound of his father’s legacy.

Cotton swirled in the air like
light snowfall, thick and clumpy. If one watched it too long, it could become
mesmerising. Children scuttled between the machines, picking up errant bits of
fluff, and the rows of the looms all moved in time with each other. He peered
back at Ellie to see her wide-eyed expression. In spite of the thick atmosphere
and the odour of hard work, oil and smoke, she seemed almost—how could he put
it?—rapt?

Underfoot the wooden floor was
slippery from the oil that had dripped on it over the years. Lucian cursed
himself for not warning her of it and prayed she did not fall and do herself
some damage. That would not look good—killing off his main shareholder. Not to
mention he needed her money and she had no heirs at present. If he was rich
enough, he would buy her out, but that didn’t look likely to happen with the
price of cotton still dropping. If things continued the way they were, the
buyers would be expecting him to give it away for free.

He strode on several more
steps, only to find himself aware she was no longer behind him. She had stopped
to talk to one of the workers, though what sort of conversation they could have
in this environment he didn’t know. The woman glanced at him, saw him watching
and hastily turned back to the loom. Ellie glared at him. He longed to raise
his hands and protest his innocence. He hadn’t said anything.

Lucian stiffened as a strange
sound broke the steady noise of the looms. He opened his mouth to call Ellie’s
name as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, but it was too late.
The source of the noise became clear far too rapidly for him to react. A snap.
A crack like the sound of a whip. Something flicked into the air and headed
towards Ellie. The belt from the machine, he realised. He leaped forward but it
struck her with a sickening slap, leaving him to catch her as she fell.

“Turn that bloody machine off!”
he yelled and scooped her in his arms. She was boneless and easy to handle,
unlike the last time he’d carted her around. It made bile rise in his throat.

The loose belt continued to
flap harmlessly while workers scurried around to stop the machine. He did not
even look back to see if they’d succeeded when he carried her out of the mill
and straight up the steps back into the offices. He didn’t stop until he had
her sitting in his office chair, limp and lifeless.

Lucian twisted the chair to
face him and knelt in front of her. He grasped her hand and gave it a squeeze.
A trickle of blood trailed down her neck.

“Bloody hell.” He released her
hand long enough to storm to the open door and yell out, “Someone fetch a
bloody doctor!” before returning to her.

He gingerly pulled off her
bonnet and lifted the curls away from her neck to find the source of the blood.
Yanking a handkerchief out of his coat jacket, he dabbed away the red from her
pale neck and began sifting through that endless hair. Damn, what had God been
thinking when he had cursed her with so much hair?

She mumbled and leaned away
from his touch which allowed his heart to lower out of his throat. But he did
not allow himself to believe she was out of danger yet. He should never have
let her into the mill. Of course little Ellie Browning would get herself in
trouble. When did she not?

Lucian began picking out the
pins and flinging them carelessly onto his desk. More and more hair fell about
her shoulders. He hoped she paid her maid generously for the time it must take
to pin the blasted stuff up.

When he had room for a little
movement, he began sifting through the locks again and spotted the source of
the blood—a thin red cut. It was not large, but bleeding heavily and he’d wager
a pretty sum that it had hit her hard enough to bruise and likely leave a bump.
If it had knocked her senseless, it must have hit with some force.

A fragile hand came up to lock
around his wrist as he tried to press his handkerchief against the wound. Her
grip was surprisingly strong and he darted a look at her.

“Stop,” she grumbled. “Hurts.”

“Of course it bloody well
hurts.” He allowed himself a long breath. “Forgive me, but I must stop the
bleeding.”

Ellie tried to move but he
pressed her back with the lightest of touches. While her grip might be strong,
it was clear the injury had sapped the rest of her strength. She succumbed to
him pressing the cotton to her head while he lifted her chin to look into her
eyes. Though they were half closed, they appeared clear.

“No permanent damage,” he
concluded.

Not to her at least. He
couldn’t be sure about himself. His heart seemed to be racing like a steam
train still and those grey eyes... She lifted her lids a little more and locked
her gaze onto his. It was as if someone had slammed the brakes on the train.
His heart flung itself against his rib cage. What the hell had got into him?

Well, whatever it was, one good
thing would come out of this accident. Lucian didn’t need to get her out from
under his feet any longer. The faulty machinery had done the job. Surely she
wouldn’t want to visit the factory again after such an occurrence? Hopefully,
she would return home to nurse her sore head and stay there where she belonged.
She certainly did not belong in his world and he strongly suspected he had no
place in hers.

Rakes
Don’t Do Small Talk

Eleanor winced as Maggie tugged
her hair into place and thrust a pin in to secure a curl. Even after a solid
night’s sleep, her head pounded. Her doctor was due to visit later and she
needed to look presentable—had to appear every inch the elegant countess.

It wasn’t easy. Maggie had a tiring
job vanquishing her hair. Her fair curls had a mind of their own and would
bounce free at any moment. It had taken many years to find a style that suited
and she could only be grateful that the endless amounts of lemon juice and
sunshine had improved the colour. She would never be handsome but she was much
more presentable than when she had first married Edward. Not that he ever
minded, but as an earl’s wife, it was important she lived up to the task.

She ran a finger along the gold
trim of the dressing table and allowed herself a small smile. Being without
Edward was an odd sensation. He’d always been a good companion and she enjoyed
his conversation. He had taught her much. Not even being eighteen when they
were married, he was taking on a lot at his age, but he was always patient and
tolerant of her unruly ways. Not that she allowed herself to be carried away
after the incident with Lucian.

Eleanor had seen herself
through his eyes so clearly after that night. Ugly, annoying, impulsive. Her
parents had hopes of a decent marriage and it was never going to happen. At
least not until Edward offered to have her. And who could say no? He needed a
young companion for his travels and his wife had died a year before. For once
in her life, Eleanor was going to make her parents proud.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry, my lady. It’s hard to
work around the bump on your head.”

Eleanor lifted her gaze to the
ceiling. She supposed her hair was useful for one thing—covering the large and
painful egg-like bump on her head. A tiny shiver skipped down her spine when
she recalled Lucian’s large hand pressing against her scalp. Drat, why did he
cause such a sensation? She still hated him, did she not?

It was so hard to tell. At
times she found herself amused by his gruff demeanour, at other times
infuriated. Sometimes even sad. Around such a beautiful, graceful man, she felt
a bumbling, ungainly creature.

“There we go, my lady.”

Glancing in the mirror, Eleanor
nodded with satisfaction. She was back to being relatively well-presented. She
didn’t take long to stare in the mirror—she knew what she would find and none
of it ever pleased her. Quickly patting on some rouge, she stood, eyed her
image in the long gilded mirror and nodded again—this time to herself. Thank
goodness for corsets.  The pale blue gown was flattering enough to give an
impression of a decent figure. Some might even find it attractive, she
supposed.

Not Lucian though. He was used
to beautiful women hanging off his arm. Mama had kept her apprised of all the
happenings while she had been travelling and often availed her of the details
of Lucian’s recent conquests. The tales of their beauty had never failed to
knot her insides with jealousy.
She
wanted to be one of those handsome
women.
She
wanted to hang on his arm and have him whisper naughty
suggestions in her ear.

Except she did not want that
anymore, did she? She had grown up. Foolish, wanton thoughts like that had no
place in her life now. When she turned, she realised Maggie had left the room.
Eleanor hadn’t even heard her go. Too absorbed in thoughts of Lucian. Lord, she
needed to focus her mind where it belonged. On the mill.

She pondered her findings over
breakfast. The mill was not making a profit and several customers still owed on
their accounts. There were further numbers to be explored but she had not had
the time. Before Lucian had deposited her home yesterday, she had reminded him
of his promise to let her examine the rest of the records. Whether he would
follow through on that promise was another thing. Honour had never been his
strong suit.

The loud tick of the clock on
the mantelpiece broke through her thoughts and she glanced at it. Nearly
midday. While it might be
de rigueur
to rise late, Eleanor had grown
used to waking early on their travels. Even in France, Edward had insisted on
early starts. So to be eating breakfast so late was unusual for her. The knock
to her head must have fatigued her more than she had realised.

She sighed and peeked at the
footman standing to attention by the door before pouring her tea and snatching
a slice of toast. Her sips and bites seemed unnaturally loud with only the
ticking clock and the odd squeak and footsteps coming from adjoining rooms.
This house was too large for just her. No wonder Edward had been eager to take
on a young bride and leave on adventures. Years of being in a house like this
with only a wife for company and no heirs to speak of had fed his need for
adventure, she’d always concluded.

Finishing breakfast quickly,
she settled on taking a stroll around the gardens before it was time to meet
with the housekeeper and then pour over her notes for the mill. A little fresh
air would clear her head. She rose and breezed past the footman.

“Thank you, James.”

The footman nodded,
expressionless. As she left the breakfast room she wondered if he pitied her.
This lone woman—rich but friendless. Perhaps she should get a companion but
the thought of paying for company did not appeal. She would have to write to
Mama soon and ask her and Papa to visit. Broadstone Hall received few visitors
but her Mama’s presence would draw more.

Eleanor stepped out into the
central courtyard and eyed the Palladian house rising up around her. This house
needed the life brought back to it. Parties, balls...a family. She smoothed a
hand over the waist of her dress as she strolled through to the other side of
the house and out onto the terrace. Edward had not been interested enough in
her to take the time to make a family and she had never fallen pregnant from
the few times they had made love. Perhaps she would never have a family. And
what man would wish to take on a barren wife?

She shivered, regretting not
bringing a shawl. It didn’t look likely to rain but a wind travelled over the
hills and ruffled her curls. Still, she had much. A chance to make a difference
in the mill for one.

Ignoring the formal garden with
its carefully arranged rows of plants, she followed the gravelled path around
the outside of the house, running a finger along the grey stone of the house.
She followed the path as it led away from the house toward the grand
bridge—worthy of the finest parks in England. Blenheim Palace had a similar one
she had heard.

Wide enough to fit carriages
through, the enclosed bridge provided a fine exit for those staying at
Broadstone for long periods as they left to hunt or ride. The formal gardens
provided the excitement for anyone arriving to Broadstone. Edward had told her
his father had liked surprises, hence why the bridge had been tucked away at
the back of the house. To continue amazing guests had been the last earl’s aim
according to her husband.

She rested her elbows on the
stone and peered out over the river that flowed lazily beneath it. When she
looked closely, she saw minnows darting between the reeds. She almost envied
them. Swimming about with no concern for rank or duty. The only time she didn’t
feel bound by her status was moments like these. She could release a breath,
let loose her muscles and not fear she might trip or blurt something foolish.

Eleanor didn’t hear the horse
until it was almost upon her. She turned her head to the side only to realise
it was Lucian. Hastily, she straightened and waited for him to come to a stop
at her side. He slid from the horse with all the ease of a cheetah pouncing on
his prey. Reins in hand, he paused a few paces away and scowled at her.

“What are you doing out here?”

Eleanor raised both brows and
gave herself a moment to take in the sight of him. One had to be prepared for
Lucian, and she was not. She allowed her gaze to travel from his shining black
boots, over his doeskin trousers and up to the fine fitting blue waistcoat and
matching frock jacket. He peered at her from under his top hat, forehead
creased into a scowl. Lord Rushbourne did not like her study of him it seemed.
Funny, for once she would have thought he enjoyed every moment of feminine
appreciation, even if from a plain creature like herself.

“I am taking some air in my
gardens, if that is agreeable to you, my lord.”

“Agreeable to me? Good Lord,
Ellie, you were nearly knocked senseless. You should have stayed abed until the
doctor arrived.” He tugged out his pocket watch and flicked it open. “When the
devil is the man arriving anyway?”

“Not for another three hours. I
can’t think what use my lying in bed until then would do.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw,
but he didn’t respond straight away. Instead, he began to lead the horse to the
house, forcing her to follow along beside him.

“Are you expecting guests? Is
that why you are up?”

“No. I am up because I would
die of boredom being confined to bed when I am perfectly well.”

He kept his gaze ahead as he
spoke. “Does it hurt?”

Eleanor fumbled for a response
for several moments. He meant her head, yet inside her mind screamed at her to
declare a hundred other responses. Yes, it hurt, the words he had said to her
all those years ago. Yes, being in his company made her chest ache for the
dreamy girl she had once been. Yes, being reminded of her lonely state stabbed
at her heart. But if she wanted to make some sort of mark in life, she would tolerate
all these agonies and more.

So instead she merely smiled
and said, “A little. But not enough to keep me abed. I was hoping to look over
my notes today.”

“No rest for the wicked, eh?”

Eleanor peered at him and saw
the mischievous glint in his eyes before it vanished. For the briefest moment,
she had seen the old, flirtatious Lucian. Of course, he had never turned his
flirtations upon her and she hadn’t expected him to now. No amount of lemon
juice, rouge and fine fabrics could make him forget the homely girl he knew.

He tugged the brim of his hat
down when he caught her peeking at him. It appeared a self-conscious move and
she realised she was on his scarred side—something he hadn’t let happen at all
yesterday. Did it bother him? He had always been so handsome, perhaps it did,
but surely women still fawned all over him, leaving him in no doubt they found
him as beautiful as ever?

“What brought you here so
early?”

Lucian touched the brim of his
hat again. “I wanted to make sure you were well.”

The admission seemed to cost
him. His voice took on a strangled tone. Eleanor couldn’t help but smile. “I am
well, thank you. I have a lump the size of an egg and I feel like my head might
drop sideways at any moment from the weight—”

His surprised look cut her off.
She was rambling, speaking like a fool. Warmth rushed up her cheeks but
then...then he laughed.

“You always did recover well
from bumps and bruises.”

She didn’t know whether to
shrink into a puddle on the ground until she was nothing but pale muslin skirts
or to laugh with him. He referred to her clumsiness—that clumsiness she strove
so hard to hide. Knocks and bumps had been commonplace for her and she’d always
laughed them off.

She chose the latter. She
laughed. It was freeing and frightening at the same time. She should not be
enjoying his company. Lord, she really was lonely if a dissolute rake gave her
the most enjoyment she’d had in days.

“It’s a fine job you still have
so much hair.”

Eleanor clamped her mouth shut
and snapped her head forwards as they made their way towards the house. Any
joviality was sapped from her. Her hair—her boring, frustrating, ugly hair. Why
did he have to mention it? It was bad enough feeling like a giant, unrefined
haystack around him but did he have to draw attention to the fact?

“I’ve never been inside
Broadstone,” he mused, oblivious to the seething annoyance she would shoot
through her eyes like daggers if she could.

“Not many have. Edward’s first
wife was of a sickly constitution and did not tolerate company well. And, of
course, we travelled for much of our marriage so the house was closed up.”

He paused as they entered the
shadow of the house and peered up at the wide sash windows. The house was
perfectly square with an extra level on each corner like turrets of a castle.
Most of it was new with the exception of the Tudor entrance, though even that
had been significantly improved.

“It’s a fine building. A shame
for it to be unoccupied.”

“Well, it is not anymore.
Though I am not sure I count as keeping it occupied.” He glanced down at her,
one brow raised and she suspected he’d heard her snippy tone. “Come, Jonathan
can take your horse.” She motioned to the gardener who was busying himself
trimming a boxtree. “Will you take Lord Rushbourne’s mount to the stables, please,
Jonathan?”

“Of course, my lady.” Jonathan
took the reins from Lucian and led the horse around to the rear of the house.