HER LORD CINDER
BY ALEXANDRA BENEDICT
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SMASHWORDS EDITION
HER LORD CINDER
Copyright © March 2018 Alexandra Benedikt
Cover Photo Copyright © Marina_Zharinova/Bigstock.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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HER LORD CINDER
London, 1819
Shifting from one sore foot to the other, Lady Ella wondered: Had she really commissioned hand crafted glass slippers for her debut ball? What had possessed her to do such an irrational, downright foolish thing?
As inviting music echoed from the ballroom, she cringed at the memory of her imprudence: she’d wanted to be the most admired debutante of the season.
Well, the glass slippers were sure to draw praise and appreciation. She would get her wish, she supposed with a miserable sigh, but she would suffer, most terribly, for beauty.
Ella winced, her toes pinched and blistered, as she made her way toward the ballroom entrance. She was the honored guest and the last to arrive, as customary, but her every footfall was shaky, and she was not going to make a commanding impression.
Her gown was a rich green overlay of shimmering satin with tulle and taffeta underpinnings. She had long, white lace gloves. Slender diamond earrings. And a tiara adorning her abundant, fiery tresses. But she couldn’t walk without faltering like a common drunk!
Ah, that was it. Wine. Champagne. And plenty of it. The bubbling spirits would dull the ache in her cramped feet, give her stamina to make it through the evening without a gossipy misstep.
A footman was about to enter the ballroom, a tray of chalices in hand.
Ella quickly swiped two glasses, ignoring the liveried servant’s raised brow. She searched her surroundings, assured they were deserted, then downed the champagne. Unaccustomed to spirits, she made a moue and tucked the chalices behind a curtain. She then waited a few minutes for the ache in her feet to dwindle and tweaked her feathered mask.
With as much aplomb as she could muster, Ella gracefully treaded toward the arched entranceway, lifted her hemline to reveal the sparkling glass slippers, and paused.
The grand marshal thumped his staff, attracting the attention of almost four hundred illustrious guests.
“Lady Ella Hawthorne,” trumpeted the marshal. “Daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Lease.”
Her parents, seated in medieval thrones across the room, smiled at her with pride, and she beamed at their obvious pleasure.
“And our Princess for the Night,” the marshal heralded.
A roar of applause.
Ella curtsied, delighted with the adoration. It had been her idea to host a masked ball from a bygone era. She had always dreamed of attending such a whimsical affair. And as she cast her gaze over the fancy costumes and glittering headdresses and old-fashioned gallantry, her heart ballooned with hope. Might she meet Prince Charming tonight?
A moment later, she was swarmed with suitors seeking, nay begging, a dance with her, and her dance card filled in a dash.
Her heart fluttered, her thoughts swirled, as she twirled across the polished marble floor, dazed by the brilliant candlelight, cornucopias of sweet blossoms, and the dazzling shades of color from the ton’s finery.
She took a tipple between partners, keeping herself giddy and her feet dull. Hours passed like minutes. Papa snored in his throne. It was almost dawn. And Ella had not met Prince Charming.
She heartily believed in kismet, even love at first sight, yet not a single young gentleman had peeked her curiosity.
Balderdash.
At least her come out had been a smashing success. She dared her rivals to throw a more magnificent reception. Still, it would have been a coupe to cross paths with her future betrothed at her very first ball. Most young ladies suffered several seasons before landing a mate. She had thought a duke’s daughter wouldn’t have to endure such ignominy. How wretched!
Though the ball was still in full swing, with several guests determined to stay until dawn, Ella was fagged—and a bit precarious on her toes. It was time to gracefully withdraw from the festivities and soak her feet in a bath of ice water.
“Might I have the pleasure of a dance with the most beautiful woman in the room?”
That voice! So rugged. So sensuous. Goose flesh spread across her arms. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck bristled. And she shuddered. Heavens, what a divine sensation!
Slowly Ella turned around. Her breath hitched. He was tall. More muscular than a traditional nobleman. About five-and-twenty, she presumed. His dark and wavy tresses complimented his vintage red jacket with gleaming gold buttons. Her gaze dropped to his snow-white britches and supple, black leather boots, molded around his sinewy legs in marvelous fashion.
Ella was overwhelmed with heat. But what really flustered her were his eyes, the umber irises like burnished copper, rimmed by a silky mask covered in ruby stones.
She was at a loss for words. Was this love? She lifted her hand, elated at the thought that she would end her enchanted evening dancing with him.
He moved toward her, inundating her with the spicy scent of sandalwood … then slipped right passed her, taking the hand of the blushing miss a few steps away.
Ella stared, horrified, as the scoundrel waltzed off with a wallflower.
A couple of guests smiled at her, not in sympathy, but in a smirking fashion, for there was nothing society adored more than watching a fellow blueblood fail.
Her heart thundered. She gasped for air.
Swiftly she scurried from the ballroom. The grand marshal was about to announce her departure when she waved a hand, silencing him.
She stalked into the garden just as the first slivers of violet light streaked across the sky. Unable to contain her pique any longer, she cried, “That blackguard!”
Ella yanked the glass slippers off her swollen feet, digging her toes into the refreshing, dewy grass. “How dare he,” she seethed, tossing the slippers into the rose bushes. “How dare he humiliate me? A duke’s daughter? His hostess?”
She wanted his head. Oh, why wasn’t she really in medieval times so she could order his head on a pike?
Ella trampled several spring buds as she strutted through the garden in an unruly canter, when a branch snapped behind her.
She whirled around.
Him.
“Who are you?” she demanded. She would have his name. She would have his head—one way or another.
He offered a bow. “Lord Cinder.”
She had never heard of him. But that wouldn’t stop her from learning everything about the man—and crushing him.
“Why are you sneaking through the garden like a thief, Lord Cinder?”
“I had hoped to avoid another unfortunate encounter.”
“With me?”
“I did not mean to cause offense ... princess.”
Flattery? Was that his attempt at atonement? Rot!
Ella marched right up to his strapping figure, her bare toes making squishing sounds in the wet grass.
The rogue smiled, but not like the others. He offered her a real and amiable smile. The gesture transfor
med his entire visage. And for a moment, she was startled by his softened features.
She pushed aside the unbidden sentiment and stabbed him in the chest with her finger. “You caused great offense, my lord—and I will not forget it.” And though her fingers twitched to tear that blasted mask off his face, to truly confront him, she would not resort to unladylike behavior. “I want you to leave. At once.”
“Might I make amends?”
His voice dropped, a low timbre, making her tremble with undesired warmth.
She glared at him. “How?”
He bowed again and offered his hand. “Might I have this dance?”
Was he daft?
“Are you daft?” she snapped.
“Did you not wish to dance with me, princess?”
“At one time, perhaps,” she returned, flustered.
“And now?” he wondered, eyes darkening.
She shivered under his critical stare. What the deuces was he doing?
“I am not inclined to dance with you—not anymore.”
“I see,” he said sagely. “There is no audience. No reason to perform in the quiet of the garden. Then you did not wish to dance with me, after all?”
She gasped. “How dare you! I—I wanted …”
She’d wanted to meet Prince Charming, she thought with chagrin, and have a magical debut. But he assumed her a glutton for attention.
Ella straightened her shoulders and bobbed a curt curtsy. “Farewell, Lord Cinder. You have seen the last of me, I assure you.”
And she flounced off, holding back her stinging tears. She would not surrender what remained of her pride.
~ * ~
Ella had changed into her night rail and wrapper. She endured a miserable headache. But she refused to retire to bed.
Ensconced in an armchair with a blanket around her shoulders and her blistered feet in a bowl of ice water, she leafed through several sheets of paper comprising the handwritten guestlist she and her mother had composed. They had selected the most esteemed members of society to attend her debut ball—and Lord Cinder was not on the list.
Ella scrolled through the names a second time. Still, the man was not recorded.
She tossed the papers on her vanity. He had no title. He had no face. How was she going to learn anything about him? And how had he entered her home? Had he used an alias? Or was he an intruder?
She mulled over the latter idea, though her temples throbbed like a pounding hammer. A scorned lord, perhaps? Had he skulked into the house in disguise, livid he’d not received a formal invitation to the event of the season? Her thoughts churned faster. Is that why he’d snubbed her?
Crinkle. Crinkle. Crunch. Crunch.
“Oh, Gus,” she snapped, skull smarting. “Must you make that dreadful noise?”
Gus glanced at her with his big blue—crossed—eyes. “Mao?”
Ella sighed. “I’m sorry, Gus. What have you there? A mouse?”
The cat gave her a slanting look. Catch my own food? Is that a jest?
Gus was a gentle, very sociable, and very lazy cat. He had a short brown coat with dark ears, white feet and a fluffy white belly. He also weighed a whopping stone. But if he hadn’t such a pair of devastatingly handsome eyes, he wouldn’t get nearly as many treats.
Ella surveyed the trinkets he’d collected from the garden during his morning patrol. He had found one of her glass slippers and was nesting his chin in the heel, impudent scamp. There were a few other odds and ends … and something small and shiny. In the early light, it sparkled gold.
Ella dropped her blanket. She trudged across the carpet in her soppy wet feet and kneeled beside the glistening … button.
“Mao. Mao,” protested Gus as she fingered his treasure.
It was an elegant fastening: a gentleman’s fastening from a regal coat, she surmised. There was even a herald embossed on the surface.
She gasped. A gold button from the garden. He had worn a refined red jacket with radiant gold buttons. Had he lost it in the garden? She had poked him in the chest in a fit of temper. Might she have loosened an already frayed thread? And might she learn the knave’s true identity from the herald?
“Oh, Gus!”
She smothered him with mushy kisses, much to his delight, before clambering to her tender toes.
Ella stuffed the button into a velvet sachet, pulling the cords tight, then summoned her maid.
The girl scurried into the room. “Aye, my lady?”
Ella handed her the sachet. “Take this button to the finest tailor in Town. Ask him to tell you everything about it, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lady.”
She also handed her maid a guinea. “Make haste … And do not tell a soul.”
The girl’s eyes widened like saucers. “Aye, my lady. And thank you. Oh, thank you!”
The maid swiftly skirted from the room.
A bit more hopeful, Ella curled beside Gus on the floor. “You are my Prince Charming,” she cooed.
Gus immediately rolled on his back, exposing his flabby belly like a beached seal.
Ella released another sigh and dutifully rubbed his midriff while he shut his eyes and purred in contentment.
~ * ~
As Ella traveled to an estate on the outskirts of London, she found herself more and more apprehensive. The herald on the button had revealed an ancient household, and she’d set out for it with her coachman, not really sure what she would do once she arrived but still obsessed with the notion of a man’s head on a pike.
As the heaven’s darkened and thunder boomed in the distance, the landscape transformed from charming wilderness to wasted back country. The road grew ever more uneven, jostling her like a rag doll. Grasses loomed tall, lining the craggy path. And a rather alarming number of gnarled branches hovered above her vehicle, most of the trees dead.
Had her driver taken a wrong turn? Surely this was not the way to the Earl of Tyne’s manor?
But her doubts were soon dispelled when a ghastly edifice appeared over the next bend. It was three storeys high, covered in grey stone with spire rooftops and snarling grotesques—a frightful consequence of the gothic revival—yet it wasn’t the dreadful architecture that had unsettled her, but the crumbling condition of the house. The windows were boarded shut. The roof had decayed, exposing parts of the upper floor. The facade was missing several stones. Was anyone even in residence?
There were more than a dozen chimneys yet only one piped smoke, confirming at least one soul occupied the gloomy domain.
When the carriage rolled to a stop at a pair of imposing iron gates, Ella shuddered. The horses whinnied and neighed in agitation, making her more anxious, too.
Her driver descended the front seat, approaching her, and she pulled down the window. “What is the matter?”
“The private road, my lady. In its current condition, I cannot reach the house.”
Ella surveyed the lane, potted with holes deep enough to trap a carriage wheel, even cripple one. And the mud! Her driver was right. The vehicle would be stranded if they attempted to make it to the manor.
“Shall we return to Town, my lady?”
“No.”
She must be mad, she thought, as she opened the door and stepped onto the dirt. She had a simple white day dress, black velvet pelisse and silk bonnet. Her ankle boots would offer her some protection from the mire, but with the wind gusting, her skirt would be splattered with muck in no time. Still, she was determined to uncover the mystery of Lord Cinder.
“I will walk to the house,” she said. “Stay here with the horses.”
The driver looked aghast, but he would not contradict his mistress. “Aye, my lady.”
Ella wrapped the cords of her reticule around her wrist and set off for the gates. The rusted hinges squealed, making her wince, as she nudged the iron a few inches apart, slipping sidelong through the barrier.
It was a somber trek to the house: a hundred yards, at least. But she had not come so far in her quest t
o retreat now.
Lifting the hem of her skirt, she scotch-hopped around the depressions, avoiding the worst of the muck, but by the time she reached the front door, her dress was sullied with swampy mush.
She looked a fright and prepared her calling card to prove her identity, then rapped on the brass knocker. The wind whipped her skirt and threatened to steal her bonnet. She pinched the headdress tight to her scalp and pounded on the door again.
Silence. No servants, she presumed, nonplussed.
Ella humphed and reached for the latch. The door was unlocked. Quickly she hustled inside the grand hall and pushed the door closed, leaning against the heavy oak, breathless.
What an ordeal! Her parents would be appalled by her behavior; they might even have her horse-whipped, but they had not endured the indignity she had suffered, and Ella wanted answers—mayhap even heads.
After a short repose, she gathered her composure and started through the dark hall.
The interior wasn’t much better than the outer walls. There was a musty smell indoors, and a biting draft, making her shiver.
“Good morning?” she called. “Is anyone here?”
Her footfalls light, she made her way through the dank passages, searching for a single mortal. “Lord Cinder?”
It wasn’t his real name, she knew. She suspected he’d used the alias to disguise the condition of his estate, his noble heritage. But why had he rebuffed her at the ball?
She stewed on that haunting point. And with greater determination, she explored the ghoulish corridors. She wasn’t lily-livered! Unlike her Lord Cinder, who was stealing away in some forgotten corner of the manor.
“I demand an audience, Lord Cinder!”
Her voice echoed throughout the deserted halls. Drat! Where was he? And then she peered at a far-off light, glowing under a crack in a door.
“There you are,” she muttered beneath her breath, stomping toward the door. She thumped on the wood. “Lord Cinder?”
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