Seductive Starts

by Courtney Milan

  “Sit,” he said. His features were stone.

  She was too bedraggled—and too cold—to object to being ordered about. She came over and sat. He hooked the umbrella to the back of the seat, fastening it in place with a bit of rope so that it shielded her half of the bench from rain. Then he unrolled a second towel and took out a metal flask, an irregular package wrapped in wax paper, and, inexplicably, a teacup. He handed her the cup. “Hold this.”

  She tried to take it in her hands, but her fingers were too cold to grasp properly and it slipped away.

  He caught it midair and glared at her, as if it were her fault her hands could not grip. Without saying a word, he took hold of her wrist and, before she could protest, he had slipped a finger beneath her glove.

  She jerked spasmodically away; his grip tightened in reaction. He raised his head, met her eyes, and became very still.

  She could count his breaths. She could feel her pulse thrumming in her wrist, encased in his fingers.

  Slowly, he let go.

  “My apologies,” he said. “I was not thinking. I was going to take off your gloves and rub some sensation into your fingers. Can you do it on your own?”

  She fumbled with her own glove, but the material clung to her skin and she could scarcely feel what she was doing.

  “Will you let me?” he asked.

  Serena met his eyes. He’d dropped his air of menace, and—even knowing full well how wrong the notion was—that same sense returned to her. Safe. Safe. This man is safe.

  Ridiculous.

  Nonetheless, Serena held out her hands to him.

  He took off one glove and then the other, touching her only long enough to work the fabric down her fingers.

  The air was cold against her bare skin, but the sensation lasted only a few seconds. He set her gloves aside, wrapped her hands in a towel and rubbed them vigorously.

  The touch should have felt intimate and invasive. His hands engulfed hers. And he’d practically disrobed her—well, maybe disgloved her. But he was so matter-of-fact about it that his touch felt…normal.

  Safe, the back of her mind whispered.

  He left her hands wrapped in the towel, like some oversized muff, and then picked up the metal flask. It looked like the sort of container in which gentlemen stored gin—flat and thin. But he unscrewed the cap and a curl of steam escaped.

  Serena sighed in longing. He poured the contents—a glorious golden-brown—into the teacup, and then held it out to her. “I don’t know how you take your tea,” he said, “and I had no way to bring the cream and sugar out here. I added both. I can only hope the result is palatable.”

  She maneuvered a hand out of the towel and took the cup. Her hand was still shaking; he watched her with narrowed eyes. But the cup was warm—so warm that it seared her skin. And the tea… Oh, it was lovely. Strong and sweet, with a generous dollop of creamy milk.

  The first sip seemed to thaw the ice in her fingers.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I told you,” he said. “I don’t hurt women.”

  “You’re hardly responsible for my presence here. I’m here by dint of my own willful stubbornness.” She took another gulp of tea.

  “Semantics,” he returned. “You’re here. Who is to blame, if I am not?”

  “The Duke of Clermont comes to mind. You’re his charge, not the other way around.”

  Mr. Marshall snorted. “Is that what you think?”

  She took another swallow of tea rather than answer the question. “This is the best tea I have ever had,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.”

  Her gaze locked with his, and she found herself unable to look away. His eyes were brown—light, like the color of sunlight filtered through autumn leaves. He was so focused on her, the entire world seemed to melt away—the dark clouds overhead, the puddles underfoot. There was nothing but him.

  It had been more than three months since she’d felt even the mildest hints of sexual attraction. She’d thought it had been burned from her for good, stolen by fear and the cold, clutching hands of dark memory. Apparently not. Her better sense could be swayed by two swallows of tea and an umbrella.

  Safe. He is safe.

  But no matter that he’d brought her shelter and warmth, there was nothing safe about him.

  Mr. Marshall smiled at her—not the easy smile of a mild acquaintance, but a smile with a sharp edge. Still, he stayed on his half of the bench. Rain collected on the brim of his hat and dripped over the edges, but it did not make him look in the least disheveled.

  “You could have sent another servant out with an umbrella. You didn’t have to come yourself.”

  “I assumed it would unsettle you more if I fed you in person,” he answered.

  “Feed me? You haven’t—”

  “Ah. Thank you for the reminder.” He unfolded a package wrapped in waxed paper, revealing some squashed sandwiches filled with a strange green and pink mixture.

  “I shouldn’t.”

  He snorted. “You shouldn’t be standing in a square in the rain. Your hands shouldn’t be so cold that you can’t properly wrap them around a teacup. I hate to think what you are doing to your lungs, breathing this cold, wet air for hours on end. You’re risking your health. In what possible world can you do all those things and yet not have a sandwich?” He held out the waxed paper to her. “Eat.”

  “You’re trying to browbeat me again.” Still, she took his offering and nibbled at the edge. She wasn’t sure what was in it—some kind of smoked ham, maybe. Diced cucumber was easier to recognize. It was delicious, although she suspected that had more to do with her hunger and the cold than the actual sandwich.

  He refilled her teacup.

  She swallowed. “You’re too kind.”

  “No, I’m not,” he contradicted. “I’m deliberately confusing you out of a desire to assuage my own meager excuse for a conscience. To add to my sins, in defiance of all society’s rules, I wish to become better acquainted with you. Don’t imagine there’s anything akin to kindness behind my selfish behavior.”

  The umbrella had slowly tilted to one side behind them, and it had begun to drip on the towel—plop, plop, plop, slow and steady.

  “Society’s rules?” she said. “When a gentleman condescends to a ruined woman, it’s called kindness. No matter what his motives might be.”

  He straightened the umbrella. “I’m no gentleman.”

  She stared at him—at his well-made coat and the half-sandwich still wrapped in waxed paper, set off to his side. “You work for a duke.”

  “You’re a lady who had to stoop to governessing. I make a good game of it, but my father was a coal miner in Yorkshire. I’m the fourteenth of sixteen children. I made my living with my fists for a handful of years.”

  “You sound as if you’re from the north.” But not quite. He spoke in a clipped rhythm that made her think of London—fast and frenetic. There was a hint of a burr there, a roll to his words. But it had softened and smoothed out. “But how does a miner become a…a…”

  He smiled. “I don’t know what I am, either.”

  “Nonetheless. You’re in charge of a duke’s finances. I would have thought one required a certain amount of education in order to do that.”

  “Charity school,” he said. “Also, I was small for my age, and so my mother convinced my father I was too young to go into the mines. She did that for years. He never could keep track of all his children. So when my younger brothers passed away, he became confused as to my age. I got rather a better education than might otherwise have been usual.”

  He was looking off into the distance as he spoke. But for all that his words seemed matter-of-fact, there was something about what he’d said—the thought of his mother lying to his father for the sake of his education, and his father not noticing—that sent a chill down her spine.

  “I was fourteen when they first expected me to go into the mines.” He turned back to her. “Old,
really. Old enough to know better. I had watched the mines age men before their time. A year in the mines was worth ten years out. It was death working there—the only question was whether that death came slow or came on quick.” He handed her another sandwich. “I was a miner for three days. I couldn’t stand feeling that I was enclosed on all sides. So I ran away from home.”

  “What did you do instead?”

  “Any work I could get my hands on.” He looked away. She had no idea what kind of work a fourteen-year-old child would do, but she suspected that this man, dressed in clean and sober clothing, might not want to admit to being a common laborer. “But I knew what I wanted. I’ve always known what I wanted, ever since I left.”

  “You wanted to be a duke’s right-hand man?” she asked dubiously.

  “This?” He looked down, as if surprised to see himself, and then shook his head. “No. I’ve never aspired to serve anyone. But it’s as good a way as any to meet those involved in business. And the money… By the time I’m forty, I’m going to have my own empire. I intend to be the richest coal miner’s son in all of England. This is just the first step in getting there.” He grinned at her. “Did I shock you? I know I’m supposed to declare my undying devotion to the man I serve.”

  “I have no fondness for that particular man,” Serena said. “As you may recall.”

  He was smiling at her. He shouldn’t be doing that. He shouldn’t be doing any of this. Her hands tingled where his had so recently touched her. Her breath caught with the normalcy of this.

  Well. Perhaps normalcy was not the right word. There was nothing ordinary about being seated next to her enemy in a driving rainstorm, drinking tea and chatting about life in the mines.

  But there was his smile. She’d thought of the Wolf of Clermont as the duke’s tool, his thing. Yet Mr. Marshall was sitting in the rain feeding her sandwiches. Maybe this was some twisted, diabolical strategy on his part. It seemed unlikely. It would have made more sense to keep her cold and hungry.

  Her heart beat hard, half fear, half excitement. This was the man who, if the gossip papers had it right, had brought Clermont’s estates back from the verge of imminent doom. The duke relied on him for everything. Without him, Clermont was nothing.

  She could steal him away.

  That thought—that she might rob the duke of someone so valuable—put her in sympathy with Mr. Marshall. He didn’t want to be her enemy. Well, he didn’t have to be.

  Serena took a deep breath.

  “I was never good at devotion myself,” she admitted. “When I was a governess, I saved money because I wanted my own farm. Not a large one,” she added, as he cocked his head in puzzlement. “I wanted to grow lavender and lilac. I taught myself how to extract the essence of the lavender plant. I was going to make fine-milled soaps and package them in dainty boxes and sell them at a tremendous profit to ladies who did not know any better.”

  His eyebrow twitched upward. “Ambitious,” he remarked.

  “Why do it, then?” she asked him. “Why drive me away, if not out of loyalty to the duke?”

  He hesitated a beat before answering. “As it is,” he finally said, “I have granted my unswerving devotion to someone.”

  He was looking at her with a steadfast, earnest look. Her heart fluttered. He couldn’t mean her. It was too soon—they scarcely knew one another. And yet the way he was looking at her…

  “Oh?” she heard herself answer.

  He gave her a wicked smile and leaned an inch closer. She felt as if she were the only person in the world—as if the rain and cold had disappeared in the blaze of his eyes.

  “I am devoted to me,” he said. “My fortune rises and falls with the duke’s. I do not wish to see your life in ruins, but I will not give up my chance to be someone just for you.”

  Serena swallowed.

  “Your tea is getting cold.” He gestured.

  She took a sip. The liquid had cooled. With the edge off her appetite, she became aware that the tea was not perfect. She could taste a faintly metallic tang, and it had grown tepid and slightly bitter.

  But there was nothing tepid about the attraction between them. She could steal him, if only she knew how.

  He sat back, crossing his arms, and that moment of warmth passed. “Miss Barton,” he said, slowly and distinctly, “do not make this any worse for yourself than it must be. I’ll give you fifty pounds, and we’ll manufacture a reference for you so that you may obtain another position.”

  She met his eyes. “That’s all you want with me—to convince me to leave?”

  “No.” He spoke calmly. “But what I want with you is neither here nor there. I need you to go away, and so go away you shall.”

  “Not for fifty pounds and a reference,” Serena answered just as calmly. “How could you think a reference would paper over what happened to me? I want justice, Mr. Marshall. Not a reference.”

  He leaned toward her. “Did he force you?” There was something of a snarl in his voice.

  Her breath caught. That night—that horrible night—recreated itself in her mind, filling her with shame and guilt and regret. She was temporarily robbed of speech, consumed by the unending silence.

  She forced herself to swallow that bitter swirl of emotion. She raised her chin and looked him in the eyes.

  “No.” Her voice broke on the word, but she did not look down. “He did not force me.”

  I let him do it.

  There may have been a touch of pity in his eyes, a hint of gentleness as he took the teacup from her hands. But there was not the slightest trace of charity in his voice when he spoke. “Then it’s fifty pounds and a reference,” he said. “And not one iota of revenge.”

  Chapter Four

  THE MESSENGER RETURNED FROM Wolverton Hall the day after the rain. Hugo stood at the window of his office, looking over the square below.

  It was dry today, and the pensioners were back on the solitary bench. If he read a rebellious cast into her stance… What did it matter? It would change nothing.

  He didn’t take his eyes from her, but he was still aware of the messenger standing behind him.

  “So,” he finally said. “What happened?”

  He’d sent Charles Gordon to find things out. The man was thin and weedy, and more than a little scared of Hugo. From the corner of his eye, Hugo saw the other man swallow, and stare straight in front of him.

  “She didn’t leave,” Gordon said, licking his lips. “She was turned off for immoral behavior.”

  “Lying? Thievery?” Hugo’s voice was even—all too even. He knew what was coming; she’d told him herself.

  “The general gist of the gossip is that she took a man to her bed. In the house, if you’ll believe it.”

  “She was caught in the act?”

  “Someone saw him leaving her rooms.”

  “Ah.” Hugo touched his fingertips together. “When you say, someone saw him…was the man in question identified?”

  “No. The second housemaid saw a darkened figure leaving the female servants’ quarters.”

  “Why did suspicion fall upon her, then? Had she a beau? A flirtation of some kind with a man?”

  He asked the questions, but his mind was already racing far ahead. She’d admitted the duke hadn’t forced her. Had he made her promises? Seduced her?

  “No,” Gordon said. “But when the matter was raised, they checked. There was blood on her sheets, and it wasn’t her time.”

  A little shock went through him at all that implied. In the square below, Miss Barton raised her chin. He couldn’t make out her features, but he could remember her gray eyes snapping at him as she spoke.

  How could you imagine that fifty pounds and a reference would paper over what happened to me? she’d asked.

  She’d been a virgin. That meant that Clermont had acted badly—even worse than Hugo had supposed. She’d claimed she hadn’t been forced. But there were degrees of force, and all the ones that suggested themselves here made Hugo the villa
in in this particular drama.

  He resented that Clermont had foisted that role upon him.

  “If you need to rid yourself of her,” Gordon said, “a few words about this in the right ears, and she’ll be driven off in no time at all.”

  She would be. There had been a similar case last year—a lady’s maid dismissed for indecent conduct. He’d seen the whole thing from his window. The other servants had crowded around her in the square when she left with her single valise. They’d jostled her. They’d called her names, ones he’d heard from even this distance, with a pane of glass and fifty feet between them. They’d called her whore and slut, and those had hardly been the worst of the epithets hurled. He’d been halfway down the stairs to put an end to the riot when someone had thrown a rock.

  Somehow, the sight of her blood had been as effective at dispersing the crowd as a legion of constables wielding billyclubs.

  Hugo had few pretensions about his own morals. He’d done a number of things that didn’t skirt the boundaries of ethical conduct so much as trample through them. But he didn’t like thinking of Miss Barton at the center of such a crowd. It wasn’t a faceless throng that he saw around her when he envisioned that, but his own father looming, broom in hand.

  You’ll never bloody amount to anything, boy, so get back out there—

  “Well?” Gordon asked. “Am I to spread the story?”

  “No.”

  “That seems…awfully kind,” Gordon said dubiously.

  “Nothing of the sort.”

  It was simple self-preservation. If someone threw a rock at Miss Barton, Hugo was liable to kill him in cold blood. He would never achieve any of his ambitions if he hanged for murder.

  Besides, the whole point was to keep Clermont’s name out of the business. If she were labeled a slut, it would take the gossips a few short hours to decide who she’d been playing the slut with.

  There were better ways to drive her away. The pressure he’d applied so far was mere child’s play.

  He didn’t want to do it. He liked her. He admired her. There was something about her that wouldn’t leave him alone. It ran entirely against his grain to crush the dreams and ambitions of a woman like her.