Modern Romance Collection: October 2017 5 - 8. Heidi RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
than an inch or two that he needed to retreat back to his part of the house, carry on living the life of ease and leisure and loathing the whole of the world begrudged him these days, and forget all about his ward and the governess she’d decided to favor on sight. He knew it.
So he had no explanation for why he found himself lurking about in the wing he’d given over to Geraldine because he knew Mrs. Redding was giving Eleanor a tour and showing her where and how she’d be expected to do her work. The governess’s quarters were in this same wing, one floor above, right up the nearby stairs—a fact that there was absolutely no reason at all for Hugo to keep reciting to himself.
“I didn’t expect to see you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Redding said when she swept out of the nursery that was now a playroom and found Hugo inspecting the rather horrifying paintings hanging on the walls in the hall that he remembered from his own childhood.
“I can’t imagine why not, Mrs. Redding.” Hugo kept studying the garish painting in front of him as he spoke. “I do own the house and am known to be in residence. Surely I could be expected to turn up sooner or later.”
“In the child’s wing? Unlikely.” The older woman could still manage to infuse every syllable with genteel condemnation. A true skill, he’d always thought. “And yet here you are.”
Hugo turned then, smiling faintly at Mrs. Redding as he looked behind her to where Eleanor stood.
And he understood in an instant that he’d made a terrible mistake.
Because Eleanor was not as puffy and large as her coat had suggested. Nor was she as whipcord-skinny as a gazelle’s thigh, as many of her predecessors had been, eyes gleaming with avarice and ambition.
Quite the opposite, god help him.
The damned woman had the body of a goddess. A naughty fertility goddess. Eleanor had lush hips and generous breasts, sweetly separated by a tiny waist that made him hunger to test the span of it with his own hands. She was dressed in a perfectly conservative and appropriately opaque blouse over sensible trousers with a cardigan tossed on besides, and she still looked like an old pinup model. Her body was so markedly opulent that it made her harshly scraped back hair all the more intriguing—in that Hugo wanted to get his hands in it. Or feel it all over his naked body while she was engaged in other things, none of them involving any sort of harsh scraping at all.
Hugo knew he needed to stop. Now.
He needed to turn around this minute and get himself away from her, especially when she frowned at him from behind Mrs. Redding, and from beneath that fringe of hers. The legions of other women who had come this house and tried it on with him had pouted at him. They’d simpered and giggled. They’d made eyes at him over his ward’s head and had dressed in preposterously inappropriate clothing while supposedly out taking walks on the grounds in the middle of rainstorms in the hope of attracting his notice.
Eleanor Andrews, on the other hand, barreled about in the ugliest coat he’d ever beheld in his life as if she didn’t care whether or not she was found attractive, made no secret of the fact she held Hugo in rather low regard, and aimed disapproving frowns at him while she stood on his property as if she didn’t expect to receive her salary from his accounts.
It was almost as if she didn’t want anything from him.
That notion was so revolutionary it shook him a little. He found himself very nearly frowning himself, but caught it just in time. Hugo Grovesmoor did not frown. That might indicate he had thoughts, and that would never do. He was considered nothing more than a vessel of pointless and predatory evil, sent to earth to ruin every good thing in it at will.
He’d learned his place a long time ago.
And yet, “I’ll finish giving Miss Andrews her tour of the premises,” he heard himself say.
And then wondered if the rest of his admittedly impure thoughts were being broadcast on his face when both women stood there staring back at him. Then again, that was the benefit of owning half of England, wasn’t it? He could bloody well do as he liked.
“Was I unclear?” he asked softly.
Mrs. Redding huffed slightly at that, but excused herself in the next moment because bristle as she might, the woman knew her place. And that left Hugo exactly where he shouldn’t be, under any circumstances. Alone with Eleanor.
His ward’s latest governess who happened to have the kind of body that made him feel like an adolescent boy all over again, all cock and delicious promise.
“How remarkably kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to welcome a lowly member of your staff, Your Grace,” Eleanor said as Mrs. Redding’s steps faded away, down the stairs and off into the busier parts of the house. Leaving them alone with nothing but the wind outside and the far-off sounds of Geraldine at her dinner on the other end of this hall, chattering away with her usual brace of nannies. “When I assume you must have any number of urgent ducal matters that require your attention.”
“Dozens at every moment,” Hugo agreed cheerfully, when what he actually had was the good sense to hire excellent people to handle such things. “And yet here I am, ready to wait on you hand and foot like a good host.”
She smiled. It was a frozen sort of smile that shouldn’t have hit him like that. Like a lick of heat in the place he was entirely too hard already.
“But I am not a guest, Your Grace,” Eleanor said stiffly, as if he’d insulted her by suggesting otherwise.
“I’m certain I heard explicit criticism regarding my hospitality, did I not? Outside, when there was some question as to whether or not you were poaching from the estate?”
“There was never any real question about whether or not I was poaching, surely.”
“And yet I felt as if I had many questions, none of which were answered. And many more of which were complicated by your performance in my foyer.”
She made no apparent attempt to keep herself from frowning at him all the more furiously. “My ‘performance’?”
Hugo waited, brows raised expectantly, and her frown deepened.
“Your Grace,” she managed to get out, sounding even stiffer than before.
Hugo tried as hard as he could to keep his mind free of any thoughts about Geraldine. Lest they stray from the girl he’d been called upon to care for, and end up on her mother instead.
And the less he thought about Isobel, the better.
The less anyone thought about Isobel, the better, in his opinion. Not that anyone had asked Hugo’s opinion on Isobel in quite some time.
But as was to be expected, thoughts of Isobel and the damage she’d done—and still did despite the fact she was dead and buried—only made him angrier.
Not that he was angry, of course.
Hugo Grovesmoor was never angry. Angry was for people who had emotions, and it had been established long ago that he lacked that particular human frailty. In every paper possible. Over and over again.
“I don’t know what else to call it but a performance.” He felt his gaze go narrow. “Perhaps you can explain to me why you gave a little girl such false hope. Is that your angle?”
“Geraldine is a lovely young girl,” Eleanor said in her prim way that made Hugo feel more of the sorts of things he was famous for never, ever feeling. In a great mad rush that made his fingers itch to touch her. “She does seem lonely and a bit lost, if I’m honest.” Eleanor’s startling gaze, frank and sturdy on his, made an interesting sort of heat pool inside of him. Hugo didn’t like it. But not liking it, it turned out, didn’t make it go away. “I look forward to being able to help her in some way. Assuming, of course, I’m allowed to do that.”
“Do you imagine I would prevent you from doing the job for which I hired you in the first place? You have the most curious notions, Miss Andrews. Quite a fanciful imagination, it appears. Are