Once Upon a Rake Page 2

  Her heart thrummed in her chest, making her legs jelly-like and threatening to send her feet out from underneath her as they were so often want to do. She checked her hat, adjusted her jacket and tightened the loop of her purse around her wrist. Eleanor, she told herself, you have travelled far and wide. She had seen the deserts and the mountains, encountered people from all walks of life. A few shabby patrons would not daunt her.

  And nor would the viscount.

  The odour of ale and unwashed bodies washed over her as she stepped inside. She fought to keep from wrinkling her nose. This was a two room establishment by the looks of it with no separate dining area. Just two rooms—one to the left and one to the right. She could see in both from the doorway and both looked as drab as the other. Which one would Lucian be in and why was he stepping foot in such a place?

  Why was she?

  Because she had no other choice, she reminded herself. How else was she to speak with the man?

  On an impulse, she stepped left, ducking beneath the old wooden beam that had tattered old notes pinned across it. She eyed the currency, noting many of them were from places far and wide. She recognised some of them from her travels.

  Before Eleanor could wonder at the people who had brought these notes from all over the world, someone knocked into her. The stout man doffed his cap and grinned before swaying past her. He sloshed some ale on the floor and it splashed her shoe. She tried not to utter an exclamation for fear of drawing attention to herself, but apparently it was too late. When she peered around the dimly light room, she noted every set of eyes were upon her.

  She swallowed the knot in her throat that was trying to strangle her and clutched her purse tighter. Then she brushed past the men at the wooden bar in the hopes of reaching the back of the room to see if Lucian was there. Disappointment weighted her heart when she managed to ease herself to the rear of the bar and gaze around. He was not even sitting by the lit fire or at any of the several benches lining the room. She squinted at the occupants in case she had mistakenly discounted one of them and saw them all staring back. None of them were Lucian to be sure. They were all hunched, grubby looking fellows in shabby clothes, and with expressions of varying degrees of exhaustion on their faces. It might have been a few years, but even time could not have spoiled Lucian’s looks to that degree. The man always had been a handsome devil—something of which he was thoroughly aware.

  “Can I get you a drink, miss?”

  Eleanor jolted as the innkeeper appeared at her side, only separated from her by the scratched wooden bar. He wiped his hands down his apron and smiled. She smiled hesitantly back. There was nothing untoward in his expression. Most likely he saw a profit in her, but they both knew she didn’t belong here and really should not have even stepped foot in the pub.

  “I...” What did one drink in such a place? Was it even safe to drink the ale? “An ale?”

  He nodded with satisfaction and drew her an ale. The drink sloshed over the sides of the dented tankard and she handed over a coin. His grin widened as he pocketed it. She had no idea how much one paid for a drink in these sorts of places but apparently she had paid too much.

  The innkeeper waited and Eleanor realised she’d have to take a drink. Gingerly clasping the pewter handle, she lifted the drink to her lips and tried not to grimace. She took the tiniest sip and in spite of the bitterness of the drink, she used her finest acting skills to pretend it was the best drink she had ever tasted.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly as he nodded with satisfaction. “Tell me, have you seen Lord Rushbourne? I thought I saw his vehicle outside.”

  “I’ve not seen ‘im, miss, but he may be in the backroom.” He thrust a finger towards the room behind him. The room on the right. “My wife is serving in there today.”

  She nodded and contemplated the ale. Should she leave it? Take it with her? She lifted her gaze to the innkeeper to see he had gone and was serving another man at the end of the bar. She knew everything there was to know about etiquette in the finest households but the etiquette of a simple traveller’s inn was far beyond her.

  Before she could make her decision, a whiff of an unwashed body reached her nose. She failed to stop the automatic wrinkling of her nose. A man, his cap worn and battered and his shirt tied loosely at the neck to reveal a great chest of hair, propped himself on the bar next to her. His arm brushed hers and he winked.

  While she was trying to school her reaction, another man came to the other side of her and hemmed her in. She backed away only to smack into a solid wall of muscle. Quivering, she turned and had to close her eyes briefly and pray it was the body of a saviour.

  This was no hero but a tall, wide-set man with brawny arms and crooked teeth. He grinned down at her, and she had to crane her neck to eye him. Had she not learned long ago that heroes did not exist? Foolish girl. He stepped forwards so that she was slotted between all three of them. She clutched her purse and mentally counted how much money she had. If they wanted it, fine, as long as they left her person be.

  She tried to peer over the man beside her to get the innkeeper’s attention but apparently he had found somewhere else to be at that point. Intentionally? Or had the men been waiting for him to go before striking?

  “W-what do you want?” Lord, she hated how fragile her voice sounded. Years of travelling the world and she still quaked like a leaf in the wind when confronted by strangers.

  “Are you lost, miss?” the man to her right asked and plucked at a button on the sleeve of her jacket.

  “N-no, not lost, but I fear I should be going.” Eleanor clutched her arm to herself. “If you would not mind stepping aside...” she said to the tall man blocking her path.

  He remained in front of her, his arms folded across his chest. “I don’t think so. Not often we get a fine lookin’ lady like yourself in the Eights. We wouldn’t mind enjoying your company for a little longer.”

  Eleanor pressed her hands to her stomach in a bid to quell the nervous butterflies. Butterflies? No, more like bees. A swarm of angry, stinging bees, just jabbing at her insides. She had to get out of here before she did something foolish like swoon. Her corset had already grown too tight and greyness began to cloud her vision.

  “I really must be leaving. I bid you good day.” She tried to step past the wall of muscle that counted for a man but found herself pushed back.

  Eleanor stumbled into the man at the end of the bar and he laughed before snatching her hat from her head. It tore the pins from her head and her hair spilled around her in crazed curls. She whirled and tried to snatch it from him but he only laughed and held it away from her.

  “This will do nicely for my missus,” he said. “I’m sure a fine lady like yourself has plenty of other hats.”

  “That is mine,” she replied. “Give it back.”

  Her words might have sounded petulant or even angry were it not for the breathless quality to her voice. Then the larger man closed in on her and dots began to swim in front of her eyes. Oh no. She was going to faint. She’d suffered the hottest climates, the roughest seas, and the most frightening encounters with natives, yet she had never fainted. Now, here, in a small English inn, she was going to faint and these men would be able to do whatever they wanted with her. She put a hand to the bar and swayed forwards, fully expecting the floor to rush up and meet her.

  Then the strangest thing happened. A set of muscular, warm arms scooped her up.

  Chapter Two

  Not a Scarecrow

  The woman was light, in spite of her endless skirts that crunched against his arm. He snatched the mauve hat from the laughing fellow and glared at them all. They knew him well enough to back off. Lucian frequented The Eight Bells whenever he needed a break. No gentleman’s club would welcome him now, not after the accident. Not that he had ever tried. He’d have to be mad to step foot in one of those places with a face like his.

  He carried her outside, the hat hanging from one finger. Her blonde curls tickled his fac
e as they stuck out at all angles. He could not see her features properly, but she appeared young from what little he had seen of her and she was dressed in the latest fashions. He knew fabrics well and this was no poor woman. A lady most likely. But what in the devil was she doing in an establishment like the Eights?

  Lucian jostled her in his arms and was able to make out the fluttering of her lashes. Thank the Lord she could only see one side of his face or she might swoon all over again. He didn’t think she had actually fallen into a full swoon. Some air would see to her health and he could return to his game of cards, and the fine hand he had. There were no fortunes being wagered in the Eights, but he relished the small victories anyhow.

  Lowering her onto the crumbling wall, he did not remove his arms from her until he was satisfied she wouldn’t topple backwards. She took several moments to draw in breaths and he saw the rise and fall of some nicely rounded breasts against the jacket of her riding habit. Inwardly, he cursed himself. In his state, he did not need to be considering a lady’s figure. No woman would go near him now, only the cheap whores at the town brothels and even he had not sunk that low.

  Yet.

  He kept his face lowered and to one side but she would see the scarring soon enough. He wasn’t wearing a hat and now he longed for one to draw it over his face. He ought to just leave her.

  Her gaze lifted to his and her eyes widened. Lucian tensed and waited for some exclamation or repulsion. She drew in several more breaths and her lips parted. They were red—berry red. A little thin, but succulent looking.

  Rosiness tinged her cheeks and her grey eyes were wide and innocent. It made her age indeterminable.

  “Girl,” he prompted, “are you well?”

  “Girl?” Those berry red lips twisted. “I am no girl.” The smile vanished and her gaze landed on his scar. “I am a lady. A countess. And you are the Viscount of Rushbourne.”

  He resisted the urge to snarl. She had probably figured out as much when she had spotted his scar. He didn’t realise the gossip had reached the country. Lucian spied the stable hand lingering around the corner of the building and signalled to him.

  “Have my horses made ready!” he commanded.

  “I am well,” the countess insisted. “You do not need to take me anywhere.”

  “I have little intention of doing so,” he replied dryly. “You interrupted a winning hand and I find myself suddenly tired of cards.”

  Her disgust at his appearance was enough to do that. All Lucian wished to do now was to return home. He should never have come to see what the ruckus was about after someone mentioned a fine lady was looking for him.

  “You mean to leave me here?”

  “Yes, my lady, I do.” He thrust out her hat, gave a mocking tip of an invisible on of his own and strode off towards the stables, all but abandoning the mauve lady and her succulent lips.

  Who was she and how did she know of him? Clearly he had not kept himself as hidden away as he’d have liked, but he supposed his business acquaintances probably spread tales of the grizzled, scarred viscount.

  She must have sat on that wall, likely gaping like a fish for several moments, while two men readied the carriage. By the time she had caught up with him, he was standing by his cabriolet, tapping his foot impatiently.

  “You will not leave me here,” she said breathlessly.

  “Did you not say you had no need of going anywhere?”

  He didn’t look at her. Well, he stole the briefest of glances out of the corner of his eye. Her hat now firmly on her head, it did little to squash those bouncing curls. They were rather wild, he supposed and a little like a... He shook his head. The last time he had likened someone’s hair to a haystack it had all gone dreadfully wrong and he wouldn’t allow himself to be drawn into thoughts like that again.

  “I have been trying to meet with you for many months now, Lord Rushbourne.”

  “Have you indeed?”

  He sifted through his mind for some recollection of any requests for meetings with a woman. An uncomfortable ache jabbed his gut and he turned to face her properly. Could it be? She was a countess after all, and likely local if she had travelled by horse. At least he assumed that fine mare in the stalls was hers. But her hair was lighter, her skin less wan and those grey eyes didn’t appear at all dull. Was this really little Ellie Browning?

  “You know well I have!”

  She looked to be on the verge of stomping her feet. Those small lips were now tightly pursed to the point of almost vanishing and the blush in her cheeks increased. Ellie Browning was still no great beauty, but there was something innately appealing about her. The strong lines to her face had softened over the years, as had her figure and those damned eyes...

  He shoved aside inane thoughts of getting lost in pools of grey. The entire county would tell tales of how unromantic and un-poetic he was. Ridiculous. He turned his attention back to the vehicle, arms folded, and proceeded to tap his foot once more.

  “Lord Rushbourne, I have come to your house several times only to be turned away and my letters to you go unans—”

  “Lucian,” he prompted without looking at her. A test. It had to be her, surely?

  “Pardon?”

  “You used to call me Lucian, Ellie. I see no reason to revert back to formalities.”

  She bristled. He saw her skirts do a sort of shake as she straightened and gained her composure. “That may be so but it has been many years. I am Lady Hawthorne and I would prefer that you address me as such.”

  “Not Ellie?”

  “Not Ellie,” she confirmed tightly. “My friends call me Eleanor.”

  “But we are not friends,” he said, filling the obvious gap to her statement.

  “Precisely, Lord Rushbourne.”

  Lucian supposed he deserved that. He had destroyed any idea of friendship between them that night at her parents’ home. Not that he’d ever really considered her a friend—more an annoyance—but he’d never intended to let things go as far as they did. No doubt, she still felt bitterly towards him.

  And now she was a countess. A wealthy one at that. More important and powerful than himself. Talk of the Countess of Hawthorne’s return from France had spread like wildfire across the county, and he had indeed been refusing to meet with her. The last thing he needed was some interfering woman prying into his business affairs.

  Had he been prone to amusement, the situation might have made him laugh.

  “Well, Lady Hawthorne, it has been a pleasure.” He touched his forehead in lieu of tipping his hat. “I see that you are now well and I bid you good day.”

  Her hands came to her hips, ruining her ladylike posture. It was quite astonishing, if he thought about it, how different Ellie was now. Being a countess and marrying that old stick of an earl—God rest his soul—must have done her some good.

  Her lips curled in disgust. “You always were arrogant, but never this rude. At least not until...”

  “Fine,” he snapped. He certainly wasn’t going to listen to her berate him about those events all those years ago. He had done his level best to forget ever kissing Ellie Browning and he had been doing an admirably good job, thank you very much. “Come with me. I shall send a man for your horse. We can discuss business at the house.”

  Though what Ellie—no, the Countess of Hawthorne— wanted to discuss was beyond him. Her late husband had never shown any interest in the mill in spite of owning a large share in it. He’d been too busy gallivanting across the world with his young wife in tow.

  Where had he heard they were last time his mother availed him of all her news? Timbuktu? Bermuda? Some obscure place in India that no one had ever heard of and no one in their right mind would want to visit? Meanwhile he’d been buried under the responsibility of his newly inherited title and struggling to combat the dropping price of cotton, while increasing productivity at the mills.

  But now she was back. And putting her interfering nose where it did not belong. He had enough problems
to deal with since the fire at the mill in Manchester without some busybody woman prying through his business dealings. What did she know of cotton anyway? How to wear it? That would be the vast sum of her knowledge, he concluded.

  He held out a hand to help her into the cabriolet and tried to avert his eyes from the flash of stockinged ankle. He snorted inwardly. Ladies and their petticoats. The wider they got, the more likely they were to show off something indecent. Not that he’d ever really thought of ankles as indecent but there was something wildly distracting about little Ellie’s slender ankle encased in a stocking. His mind was taking him further up that stocking and imagining where it stopped. Imagining the pale flesh of her thigh...

  He shook his head and realised she had slipped her gloved hand into his and was waiting for him to aid her in. What in the devil was he thinking of Ellie’s thighs for? It had been too long since he’d tumbled a woman, clearly.

  Lucian stared at those slender fingers in gloves just a shade darker than her riding dress, and tried not to think about how warm they were. The God-awful fear something was stirring where he did not want it to—in his damned trousers—made him a little abrupt with his movements and he released her hand quickly, and she nearly spilled back into him. He found himself with an armful of mauve wool and a mouthful of blonde curls. Ellie squeaked and shoved away from him to right herself in the carriage. He could not help but let his lips tilt at her flustered expression as she tried to right her hat on those endless curls. No matter how hard she tried, it would not sit properly.

  Before he could be further amused, he climbed into the carriage and directed the horses out onto the country road. She gripped the side as if he might take off at any second. He might be careless, but he was not so foolish as to put her life at risk for the sake of scaring her, so he kept the pace slow, though her grip didn’t seem to lessen. He imagined her knuckles were white under the dark fabric of her gloves.