Silence.
She’d had enough of the blackguard’s silence.
Ella thrust open the door and entered a cozy room. It was furnished with a few pieces of fine furniture. There were several bookcases lined with dusty tomes and heavy drapery covered the windows, keeping the breeze at bay. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth, while an oil lamp sat on the writing desk—the leather chair behind it empty.
Her blood boiled. Had the scoundrel bolted? What a coward!
With a huff, Ella plopped in a seat beside the snapping flames, warming her bones … and waited for Lord Cinder.
As she rubbed her hands together, she glanced around the study, taking in more detail, and gulped an enormous breath when she noticed two portraits above the mantle.
She stilled, mesmerized by the lovely image of a noblewoman in a frilly white dress, her hair coiled and dark as pitch, her eyes the same umber brown as Lord Cinder. She also had a tender smile, a gentle spirit, Ella sensed.
A young man was the subject of the second portrait, bearing a striking resemblance to the woman; the two were clearly kinfolk—and both related to Lord Cinder.
Her rankled disposition softened toward Lord Cinder—just a tad—as she studied the handsome profiles. Who was Lord Cinder hiding from the world? Or perhaps protecting?
The door opened.
Ella jumped to her feet—and stiffened.
“Who the devil are you?” demanded a bearish old man, his eyes as cold as coal. He had a long nose pinched at the tip and thinning grey hair, hunched shoulders and crooked knuckles.
He suffered from some sort of arthritic condition, and her first thought was to apologize for startling him, when he snapped:
“Out with it, girl! Who are you?”
“Lady Ella.” She handed him her calling card. “I’m looking for—”
He snatched the card, squinted at it, then tossed it into the fire. “How dare you trespass on my estate.”
His estate?
Oh, no, she’d made a terrible blunder and—wait! The portraits above the mantle. They were Lord Cinder’s family. She had not wandered onto the wrong property. So who was the old man? The earl?
“Lord Tyne, forgive me. I’m here to—”
“Silence!”
She flinched.
He took an ominous step toward her. “I don’t give a damn why you’re here, child. You have no right to come as you please like a bloody queen. Get out!”
Ella hiked her skirt and dashed from the room, her heart in her throat. She hadn’t bustled a few yards before she collided with another figure, a hulking figure bearing chopped wood.
She stumbled.
A voice growled, “What are you doing here?”
She glanced upward.
Lord Cinder.
“Marcus!” shouted the old miser. He then stepped into the passageway, pointing a quivering finger at her. “Get her out, Marcus!”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
Ella gasped. “Grandfather?”
Marcus set the load of wood on a bench. He was dressed in ragged trousers, his boots covered in mud, his white shirt stained and his suspenders frayed at the edges. His dark hair was mussed, his cheeks smeared with soot, and his eyes, mercy, hellfire burned in his eyes.
He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her through the hall.
“Marcus, I—”
“Quiet,” he said in a low, curt manner.
Well, he had his grandfather’s ungracious temperament, she thought, miffed.
“How did you get here, princess?”
He escorted her with such haste, she hadn’t a moment to catch her breath much less answer him, and when they finally reached the entrance, she wheezed.
“Well?” he demanded.
She rasped, “Carriage.”
He opened the door, allowing a gale to sweep into the rotting house. It rained. It thundered. And the wind howled like a banshee.
“What carriage?”
Ella peered through the hazy storm—but her coach was gone.
“It was at the end of the drive, I swear.”
Was Marcus going to toss her from the house? Into the tempest?
“The coachman must have sought shelter,” she said, voice shaking. “He’ll return after the storm. He would not abandon me.”
Marcus slammed the door. “Damn it.” He grabbed her arm again. “You’d best get below, then.”
Minutes later, he’d ushered her into the downstairs kitchen.
Ella massaged her arm, sore after so much tugging about, and noted a fire in the hearth with a kettle hanging from the iron arm. There was cookery everywhere, a simple table with chairs, and a bed in the corner of the room.
“Is this your home?” she asked.
He glared at her, his brown eyes turning black, and walked toward the hearth. He took a scrap of wool from the mantle and fetched the kettle, pouring two cups of tea. She sniffed the air. Chamomile.
It was obvious the kitchen was his home. Ella wondered why she’d even inquired about it, but deuces, she was strapped for words. Of all the tales she’d conjured in her head, she’d not expected Marcus to live and work as a servant on his grandfather’s estate. How could he tolerate such unjust treatment? Though the estate wasn’t in pristine condition, surely there was a bedroom in the house for him? Why dwell in the kitchen catacombs?
She had come in search of answers—she had a hundred more questions, instead.
“Sit,” he ordered. “Drink.”
She joined him at the table.
For the first few minutes, they sipped their tea with the crackling fire the only sound in the room, and as the silence grew heavy, intolerable, she reached into her reticule and retrieved the button.
“I believe this is yours … Marcus.”
He glanced at her when she said his Christian name, his expression inscrutable, but she wasn’t sure what else to call him. He wasn’t Lord Cinder. He wasn’t Lord Tyne. Who was he?
“Thank you,” he returned, taking the button. He thumbed the embossed surface. “I thought I’d lost it for good. Where did you find it?”
“In the garden.”
He lifted a brow. “How did you find it? I trust you didn’t scour the ground on your hands and knees?”
“How dreadful! Gus found it, of course.”
“Of course,” he mimicked. “What was I thinking?”
Oh, he had cheek! “Gus is my cat.”
“Aha, then please extend my gratitude to your cat.”
“I shall,” she bit out.
Marcus moved away from the table, headed toward a chest at the foot of the bed. He opened the trunk and there, pressed and folded, was the red ensemble he’d worn at her debut ball. He set the button on the coat, gazed at the garment a moment more, then secured the lid.
“It belonged to my father,” he said of the costume.
“Where is your father?”
“Dead.”
She shivered at his terse response. “You have my condolences.”
He looked at her sidelong, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here, princess?”
Her pulse quickened. “I came to return the button.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
She huffed. “How dare you accuse me of being a liar?”
“It’s not an accusation, it’s the truth.” He folded his arms across his broad chest. “Tell me, why are you here?”
She wavered between affront and remorse and downright surrender, tapping her fingertips against the porcelain tea cup. “I came for your head,” she confessed at last.
“I beg your pardon?”
“On a pike.”
After a pause, he chuckled—then outright guffawed. “And how were you going to get my head on a pike?”
She flushed. “If you were a gentleman, you’d kneel at my feet and make the task easy for me.”
He sobered and returned to the table, his gaze steely, so intent. “Ah, but I am not a gentleman, as you see.”
“Who are you
, then?” she asked softly.
“I am the farm hand, the stable boy, the gardener, the butcher, the cook, the footman and perhaps a few other titles I can’t remember at the moment.”
Was he being facetious? Or was he trying to tell her something more; that he was the illegitimate grandson of the earl? Is that why the earl treated him with such disdain?
“No,” she said in a brusque vein. “I saw the portraits in the study: the man and the woman. You have their eyes. And your father’s coat! The finest quality, though mayhap from another era.”
“You are very astute.”
“And you are a lord, admit it.”
“And why should I admit anything to you, princess? You want my head on a pike, remember?”
She blushed. Or maybe she was sitting too close to the fire. But whenever he called her “princess” a quiver shot through her bones, right to her toes.
She was beginning to dislike their ever-widening unbalance of power. He made her weak in the knees, snatched her breath at times, tripped up her thoughts. Meanwhile, he sat there in capital composure, grumbling on occasion, but hardly fraying at the seams—like her.
And was he going to use “you want my head on a pike” as an excuse to avoid answering a single question? Would she ever learn the truth about his heritage? Or why he had come to the ball? Or why he had slighted her? Had he a grudge against her? Her family? Had their ancestors crossed paths in battle long ago?
Her head throbbed from the myriad uncertainties … but she would not leave the manor without truths in hand.
“You’re right, Marcus. I am at a disadvantage. After all, I’ve trespassed on your grandfather’s estate, and I’ve no right to make demands.”
He humphed in approval and took a swig of tea like it was a decanter of ale. “I will shelter you until the storm passes, and then you’re to go, princess.”
“I sincerely appreciate your hospitality. You are a true gentleman at heart. You would never trespass onto someone’s estate during a party, for instance, steal drink and food, conceal your identity and take advantage of an impressionable wallflower—”
“I did not take advantage of her,” he growled.
“Or—heaven forbid—disgrace your hostess by refusing to dance with her as etiquette requires.”
Marcus thumped the tea cup on the wood table, verily shattering the porcelain. “Bullocks.”
Ella smiled in triumph. “I just have a few questions for you, and then I’ll forget all about your dalliance at my debut ball.”
At least, she would try to forget about the dalliance. Her pride was still sore. And there was a thorny sensation in the pit of her belly. He had truly injured her. And while she would never admit the upset he’d caused her, she still had to wrestle with it.
After all, she’d thought she’d found Prince Charming at the ball, even love at first sight. What folly! And the sting of it would take time to heal. But she would never be so silly again, she vowed. She had learned that important lesson, at least.
Marcus looked at her like a miserable bear trapped in a baiting arena. “I should have stayed at home,” he groused.
“But you didn’t so …?”
He sighed. “I wanted to dance and drink and make merry.” He flicked his fingers, indicating the kitchen. “I wanted to escape my glamorous surroundings for a night.”
Ella blinked. Was that it? He had come to the gala because he could hide his face and still have a smashing time?
Why, the dratted man! Couldn’t he have asked her to dance? Just one dance? She would not have felt slighted, then. She would not have done any sleuthing to find him. And she would not be stuck in the kitchen with him right now.
“Why didn’t you ask me to dance at the ball?”
“Why would a servant ask a princess to dance?”
She paused at the rejoinder. He really thought of himself as a servant? Not the grandson of an earl? And he believed himself unworthy to ask her to dance?
“I suppose,” she said with less heat in her voice, “I won’t fault you for wanting to escape your troubles for one night. But why the cut direct?”
He sighed. “I told you, princess, I didn’t mean offense. I asked the wallflower to dance because no one had asked her to dance all evening … And I know how it feels to be an outcast.”
In that moment, something meaningful shifted in her heart. She gazed at Marcus in a different light. He wasn’t the blackguard hell-bent on spurning her anymore. Instead, he was an honorable man, sympathetic, even attentive as he’d alleviated another woman’s distress.
Under the circumstances, the hurt he’d caused her seemed trite. Oh, it was still there, the vexing pain, but something else had sprouted as well. She hadn’t a word for it, so confused. But it was a pleasant sensation, quite comforting.
“Yes, well, there’s another mystery I’d like to ask you about?”
“Aye?” he said dryly. “Go on.”
“Where did you learn to dance? Between gardening and farming and butchering and cooking and so forth?”
He offered her a half smile, and deuces, if it didn’t make him more strikingly handsome.
“I wasn’t born a heathen,” he said with a trace of droll humor. “The portraits in the study are of my father and grandmother. My father married the village school teacher, much to my grandfather’s outrage. He disowned my father, forbid him from ever returning to the estate. The edict broke my grandmother’s heart, and she died soon after. For twenty-five years, my grandfather has blamed my father for her death.”
Ella removed a kerchief from her reticule. “I’m so sorry, Marcus.”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t aware of the estrangement as a boy. I thought I had no other family. My father, a well-educated man, used his wits to make his way in the world. I was schooled at home by both my parents: language lessons, music lessons, and yes, even dancing lessons. I had a wonderful childhood.” His eye darkened. “When I was fifteen, a fire broke out in our home. I survived. My parents perished.”
Ella dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the kerchief. “I didn’t mean to unearth unhappy memories.”
“It’s been ten years,” he said, as if the number implied he wasn’t affected by the past, but she sensed, even after a decade, his wounds were raw as ever, and knowing that squeezed at her heart.
He’d disclosed his secrets to her, trusted her with his grief. It was a gift, the confession. A hallowed gift. And an instant rapport formed between them, then.
“Is that when you came to live with your grandfather?”
“Aye,” said Marcus. “The old man took me in, but refused to acknowledge me as his grandson and heir.”
“Why?
“He still resents my father, I suspect. He’s determined to destroy the estate before his death, to make sure I don’t inherit a penny should a court ever assert I’m his closest living relative.”
“That’s diabolical! Why, I’d—”
“Put his head on a pike, I know.”
She made a moue.
He lifted a teasing brow.
“I was going to say,” she resumed primly, “that I would not abide such treatment. Why don’t you use your wits and make your way in the world, like your father?”
Marcus looked off into the fire, the flickering flames reflecting in the pools of his eyes. “He’s afflicted with many conditions, the old man. Soon he’ll have the palsy.”
Ella took in a sharp breath, unprepared for his charitable disposition. “You are far more merciful than I,” she admitted, feeling rather low.
“I’m not a saint, princess. I feel little charity toward my grandfather. In truth, I pity him. I’m here out of respect for my father, my mother, even my grandmother. I’m here to honor their memories and look after the old man until the end of his days.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” He pointed toward the window well. “Because the storm’s over and it’s time for you to go home.”
Ella gathered her re
ticule and followed Marcus through the kitchen tunnels. Her pulse surged as she trailed after him. Might she see him again? What rot! Where would they meet? At a tea party? Another ball? No. It was farewell. For good. And yet, she wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
Marcus opened the front door. “The coach is a fair way off.”
“I will walk—”
Ella shrieked and grabbed her bonnet as he scooped her in his arms and carried her down the private road toward the stationed carriage. And though her skirt was bespeckled with mud, and his boots and trousers doused in it, as well, she had never felt more like a princess.
He soon reached the carriage and set her on the road, opening the door for her, staring at her with a smoldering look that sparked a peculiar fire in her own soul.
She quickly turned away—and gasped when he cradled her rump and pushed her inside the vehicle.
“How dare you!” she sputtered, all maudlin sentiments dashed to bits.
He offered her a cheeky grin. “Farewell, princess.”
And he shut the door.
The carriage lurched.
Ella wobbled on the squabs. A frightful ache throbbed in her heart. Her hand went to her breast. Heavens, it hurt! And all because of Marcus? What had just happened between them?
A cornerstone had been laid of some sort, she reckoned. But for what foundation? Had they forged an acquaintance? A friendship? Or something more?
And he was still a rogue, she reflected, nettled. He’d put his hands on her posterior! But he was a noble rogue, mayhap … or was there such a thing?
Drat! The confusion! And the longing. The longing for … him. But how did he feel toward her? Bullocks, as Marcus would say.
What was she going to do?
~ * ~
Ella twirled across the dance floor with yet another tedious partner. It was the last ball of the season, hosted by her parents, and soon the ton would flock to their country estates for the summer.
Ella had attended several gatherings during the past three months, keeping up appearances, but she hadn’t encountered a single gentleman of interest—she hadn’t encountered a single gentleman like Marcus.
She sighed at the distressing thought. While the other debutantes had found suitors, some even fiancés, Ella remained on the shelf, much to her discontent. Would she ever meet Prince Charming?
Her Lord Cinder Page 2
