by Olivia Drake
He had never seen a more desirable woman. Or one more bossy and vexing. Rationality told him that Isabella Jones was the last female he should ever pursue. But his body spoke otherwise.
She lowered her arm, her fingers gripping the ivory hilt of a small knife. The blade glinted in the candlelight.
A nasty jolt of surprise struck Miles. That was her dagger, the one he had confiscated. Only a few days ago, he had stashed the weapon in the bottom drawer of his desk for safekeeping.
There was only one way she could have found it.
His temper flared, a vent for his physical frustration. “I see that you searched more than my storeroom. You’ve also been rummaging through my desk.”
She elevated her chin. “This dagger is my property, not yours. It was a special gift from my father. He trusted me with it.”
Her devotion to Sir Seymour irritated Miles to no end. He had resented the man for so many years that he found it difficult to fathom her defense of him. At one time, he too had venerated Sir Seymour. Until he had vanished into the night and left Miles to fend for himself.
Bella Jones was the only one who might know why—even if that reason was buried in the recesses of her mind. There had to be some hidden clue that he could coax out of her memory. Until then, she would have to be placated.
“Keep the damned thing if you wish,” he growled. “But if you ever draw that dagger on me again, it’s mine for good. Is that understood?”
She gazed coolly at him. “I will use it as necessary for protection, Your Grace. That is why Papa gave it to me. To guard against villains.”
Miles was livid. She had the audacity to label him a villain? It wasn’t as if he’d forced himself on her—at least not much. And she had enjoyed his kiss, dammit. Maybe he’d taken it a bit too far for a virgin, but that was all he’d concede.
“May I remind you,” he said icily, “you defied my explicit order to stay out of the west wing. I warned you there would be consequences.”
“That doesn’t give you leave to press your … your lust on me. You may be a duke, but I am not a serf to be used at your will!”
“Yet I am your employer.” No one ever spoke to him in such an impudent manner. No one else dared. He stood up, elevating his voice almost to a shout. “I make the rules in this house. It is your duty to obey them. For that matter, you are never to enter this room again without my permission.”
“And you are never to touch me again without my permission.” She raked him with a glare of contempt. “Especially when you reek of your concubine’s perfume.”
Bella spun around, her blue skirt flaring, allowing him a glimpse of the white stockings over her tattooed ankles and those fancy garnet slippers. Dagger in hand, she marched out the door of the study.
Miles stood riveted to the plush carpet. As he stared at the empty doorway, his anger receded and left him empty. He couldn’t have moved if his life had depended upon it.
Bella knew where he’d gone tonight? That he’d been with a harlot? Had she merely guessed because of the perfume? Or had the servants been gossiping?
The answer didn’t signify. All that mattered was that her words cast a whole new light on her rejection of him. Bella had been melting in his arms, ardent and eager, every bit as aroused as he had been. Then she had noticed the fragrance on his skin. And she had been justifiably furious. No lady wanted to be a man’s second choice.
He ought to feel triumphant. She had rejected him out of jealousy, that was all.
Or was it something more?
An unfamiliar discomfort nagged at him, and it took a moment for Miles to identify it as shame. He was ashamed of his conduct tonight. He had been arrogant in assuming Bella would welcome the invitation to share his bed. Arrogant in thinking he had the right to seduce her. Arrogant in attributing her reaction to jealousy, too. Rather, she was disgusted to be regarded as another conquest in his string of women.
Miles stalked to the window to stare out at the night-darkened garden. Yes, he had behaved badly. He had the sexual experience that Bella lacked, and he had wielded that power like a sword to cut away her defenses. He had been driven by his own desires without a care for her innocence. He had ignored the fact that Bella was an educated woman and a lady despite her unconventional upbringing.
She deserved better than to be treated like a paid whore.
* * *
The following afternoon, Bella brashly invited herself to tea with Mrs. Witheridge and Mr. Pinkerton. She had several questions to ask them about Miles and his past. Questions that might require a bit of diplomacy since they were two of his most devoted servants.
They all sat around a lace-draped table in Mrs. Witheridge’s parlor, and Bella bided her time listening as the butler and housekeeper discussed whether Edna the kitchen maid should be reprimanded for flirting with George the footman, and who should bake the cake for Cook’s birthday the following week.
Bella found this little room a welcome oasis in the vast desert of Aylwin House. As she sipped her steaming tea, she felt right at home with the china figurines crammed on the shelves, the overstuffed chairs, the vases of dried flowers. Lace curtains covered the high window, for the room was located belowstairs. To offset the chill of the cellar, a fire blazed on the small hearth, making the space warm and cozy.
Mrs. Witheridge did most of the talking while Mr. Pinkerton inserted a taciturn comment every now and again. From time to time, he also slipped a crumb of biscuit under the table to the little scruffy dog that sat watching him with hopeful brown eyes and one ear cocked.
At last, the gray-haired housekeeper reached across the table to refresh Bella’s cup of tea. The ring of keys at her thick waist jingled as she moved. “Now, now, will you listen to us go on?” she said with a kindly smile. “Have another slice of raspberry cake, Miss Jones, and then tell us what brings you belowstairs today.”
Bella accepted the cake out of politeness. Her stomach had been tied in a knot ever since the previous evening when Miles had kissed her so passionately. She had not known it was possible to feel such desire for a man. But oh, he had made her so angry, too! He had wreaked havoc with her, body and soul.
But she mustn’t think about that just now. A more pressing issue weighed on her mind.
After returning in a huff to her bedchamber, she’d remembered the packet of old letters in her pocket, the ones written by her father and addressed to The Most Hon. The Marquess of Ramsgate. Needing a distraction from the tangle of her emotions, Bella had stayed up very late deciphering Papa’s untidy penmanship by candlelight.
Each letter had been written as if in reply to questions. Each was filled with practical advice on scholarly books to read, discussions of Egyptian dynasties, and detailed information about various artifacts found in Egypt. The overall tone of the letters was warm and friendly, and at times, oddly paternal in dispensing advice.
One passage in particular stuck out in her mind: Aylwin can be a harsh fellow, but he wants the best for you. Tend to your studies if you wish to prove your merit. And pray be assured I shall speak to him about your joining the expedition.
To whom had her father been writing? Why had Miles saved the missives? And why did the name Ramsgate have a vague ring of familiarity?
Stirring her tea, Bella directed a pleasant smile at the housekeeper and butler. She reminded herself to be careful not to mention the pilfered letters. “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions,” she said. “You see, while I was working, I came across a name written on a paper. I wondered if perhaps either of you might recognize it. The Marquess of Ramsgate.”
Mrs. Witheridge chuckled. She and the butler exchanged an amused glance. “Why, of course we know the name,” the housekeeper said. “How could we not? ’Tis His Grace the duke himself.”
Thunderstruck, Bella frowned at them. “Are you saying … that Aylwin has two titles?”
“Several more than that, to be precise,” the old butler intoned, ticking them off on his
knobby fingers. “The Earl of Maynard, Viscount Silverton, and Baron Turnstead, as well.”
Mrs. Witheridge clucked her tongue. “Now, now, you’re only befuddling the poor girl. Growing up in them heathen lands, she doesn’t understand the ways of the nobility.” The housekeeper paused to take a swallow of tea. “You see, at birth, the eldest son of a duke is granted his father’s next highest title. So young Miles was the Marquess of Ramsgate until the death of his father, God rest his soul.”
Bella nibbled on a morsel of cake. How extraordinary. It all made sense now. Of course Miles had kept the old letters. They had been written to him.
By her father.
The letters had been composed before the expedition to Egypt, so Miles must have been only eleven or twelve back then. How kind of Papa to have taken the time to correspond with a young boy, to offer guidance and advice. But why had Miles not sought the answers to his questions from his own father, the Duke of Aylwin? Hadn’t he, too, been a scholar of ancient Egypt?
The conundrum made her even more curious about Miles’s upbringing. She had been intending to ask about his childhood, anyway.
She looked at the gray-haired housekeeper with her rosy cheeks and the butler with his pinched lips and aged features. “You’ve both been employed at Aylwin House for quite a long while, have you not?”
“I came here as a scullery maid near forty years ago.” The housekeeper’s blue eyes twinkled. “Mr. Pinkerton was a high-and-mighty footman. But he liked to pull my braids, that he did.”
The butler paused in the act of sneaking a bite of cake to the mutt under the table. A flush crept up from his starched collar. “I did nothing of the sort, madam.”
Mrs. Witheridge reached over and poked him in the arm. “Come, come, Pinky. There’s no harm in admitting it. You were sweet on me from the start. If I hadn’t wed the head stable lad, who knows, I might’ve been Mrs. Pinkerton!”
The butler’s sunken cheeks turned redder. “Marriage was never for me. My life has been devoted to serving the Dukes of Aylwin. It is my sole avocation!”
“Bah, you’re devoted to Maisie as well,” Mrs. Witheridge said, casting a good-humored look down at the ragtag pup, who wagged her tail on hearing her name. “One would think she was your wife!”
Seeing Mr. Pinkerton part his thin lips in protest of such an absurdity, Bella said quickly, “Since you’ve both been here for many years, perhaps you remember my father, Sir Seymour Jones. He was employed by the fourth duke during the expedition to Egypt.”
Mr. Pinkerton inclined his head in a nod, revealing an age-spotted scalp sprinkled with sparse white hairs. “Sir Seymour did indeed visit Aylwin House several times. He seemed a good-natured fellow. Always had a smile and a kind word for the staff.”
That sounded so like Papa that Bella felt a hollow throb of loss. How she missed his smile. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what sort of a man was the fourth duke—the present duke’s father?”
“A proud and notable lord, indeed,” Mrs. Witheridge said, clasping her hands to the shelf of her bosom. “And ever so grand and dignified. Why, nothing could ruffle the man. On Boxing Day each year, all the servants would line up in the great hall and he would hand us each half a crown. One year, I tripped on me skirt while curtsying, fell flat on me bum, and he never even blinked an eye!”
“On the contrary,” Mr. Pinkerton corrected, “His Grace glared at you for making such a spectacle.”
The Ducal Stare.
Bella suppressed a quirk of humor. Miles must have learned it from his father. “He sounds rather forbidding,” she said.
“Perhaps to some,” the butler said, elevating his chin. “However, one cannot judge a duke by common standards. As a man of great consequence, he must carry himself with the strictest of decorum.”
“’Tis the way of the aristocracy,” Mrs. Witheridge added with a sage nod. “Why, look at our present duke. Such a splendid nobleman and every bit as admirable as his father.”
Miles, admirable? He was a haughty, vainglorious beast. He bedded concubines and then came home and tried to seduce his employee. His notion of decorum was to kiss a woman senseless and then shout at her when she dared to thwart him.
Bella kept her opinions mum. It wasn’t her place to shatter their illusions of his character. Especially now when she very much wanted to understand the role her father had played in his childhood.
“Is His Grace an only child?” she asked. “I presume he can’t have any brothers since his cousin is his heir.”
The housekeeper gave a mournful shake of her head. “Alas, his mother, the duchess, had a number of stillborn babes. She was sickly, too, poor thing, often confined to her chambers. His Grace was her only infant to survive.”
Bella resisted a tug of sympathy. Being an only child and the heir to a dukedom, Miles likely had been pampered. He most certainly had been raised to believe himself superior to ordinary folk. “Was His Grace close to his parents? Did he ever quarrel with his father?”
“Quarrel?” Mrs. Witheridge said, looking at Bella as if she’d sprouted two heads. “Why, young Miles was in the greatest awe of his sire. He was obedient to a fault, too, for the duke expected the best behavior of him. He was a happy child, nonetheless, always smiling, especially when his father granted him permission to go to Egypt.” She turned to the butler. “You were there, Pinky. Did you not say that he threw his arms around the duke?”
“I said that he looked as if he wished to do so,” Mr. Pinkerton corrected with a sniff. “Of course, it would have been unseemly for the heir to have shown any display of affection.”
“Was my father present?” Bella asked.
“Indeed,” the butler said. “As I recall, he clapped the boy on the shoulder and congratulated him.”
Bella found the story sad and disturbing. Perhaps Miles had not been so spoiled, after all. His father sounded like a stern taskmaster, devoid of warmth, and Papa had been forced to intervene on Miles’s behalf. What was it he had written in the letter to Miles? Aylwin can be a harsh fellow, but he wants the best for you. Tend to your studies if you wish to prove your merit. And pray be assured I shall speak to him about your joining the expedition.
Gazing down at the dregs in her teacup, Bella realized that Papa had been more of a father to Miles than his own sire. No wonder Miles had felt so utterly betrayed. In the wake of his father’s tragic death, he had also lost Papa, his mentor and friend, perhaps the only adult he’d trusted.
The housekeeper heaved a sigh. “Ah, the poor lad’s happiness was short-lived. When next we saw him, a year and a half later, he was no longer Lord Ramsgate. He was the Duke of Aylwin. ’Twas such a tender age to be taking on the weight of his duties. Sometimes I think ’tis why he lives the way he does now.”
“What do you mean?” Bella asked.
Mrs. Witheridge leaned forward in a confidential manner. “He was always a sunny lad, but his father’s death changed him, it did. Ever since, he’s filled the house with those dusty relics, devoted himself to his work day in and day out, never courting any young ladies. There’s some that find an excuse to call here, hoping to catch his eye. Yet His Grace’ll have nothing to do with any of ’em.” She eyed Bella speculatively. “You’re the first lady he’s ever allowed to stay at Aylwin House. Mayhap he has his eye on you, miss.”
Bella almost dropped her teacup. If only they knew, any designs Miles had on her had nothing whatsoever to do with marriage. Before she could formulate a response, Mr. Pinkerton spoke.
“It is not for us to speculate about our betters,” he chided. “His Grace will marry if and when he sees fit.”
“Humph,” snorted the housekeeper. “No doubt he would benefit from taking a wife. A few youngsters in the nursery would brighten this house and bring a smile to his face again.”
Bella had her doubts about that. She would not wish the Duke of Aylwin on any decent young lady. He was too dictatorial, too bad-tempered, too self-absorbed, and entirely too conceited
.
Though perhaps he would be pleasing in the bedchamber.
Without warning, Bella’s imagination conjured a shadowy bed and herself lying beneath the covers with him. They would kiss and caress in that wildly wonderful way and his hands would roam over every inch of her body, touching her in the most wickedly intimate manner …
The tinny chime of the mantel clock shattered the fantasy.
Heat flew into her cheeks, and Bella hoped the servants couldn’t tell the illicit direction of her thoughts. She pushed back her chair. “Oh, look at the time! I really must return to work now. Thank you ever so much for the tea.”
As she hastened out the door and started up the narrow servants’ stairs, she mulled over the conversation. It had given her a better understanding as to why Miles had turned to Papa as a mentor. Despite all his wealth and privilege, the duke apparently had not enjoyed an idyllic childhood. He had been the sole surviving child of a sickly mother and a harsh father. How very different from her own upbringing, with Lila and Cyrus to enliven their mountain hut, and Papa with his cheery nature. Even without Mama, they had been a close-knit family.
According to Mrs. Witheridge, Miles had once had a sunny disposition, too. But Bella found that hard to credit. The housekeeper must be deluding herself out of loyalty to her overlord. Surely one unfortunate event—even as terrible as his father’s murder had been—could not have so drastically altered Miles’s temperament.
Well, at least one mystery had been solved. Bella now knew why the Marquess of Ramsgate had sounded vaguely familiar to her. She had encountered the name a long time ago in Egypt. As a six-year-old, she would have heard Miles addressed as Lord Ramsgate. Perhaps she herself had called him that. How amusing to picture herself as a little girl trying to pronounce such a fancy title …
As she neared the top of the staircase, the door opened suddenly. An elegant blond lady in a mint-green gown stepped into the doorway. Helen Grayson, the wife of Miles’s cousin and heir.
