Chapter Six
Later that evening
A sigh escaped Eloise’s throat as she enjoyed the last moments in a porcelain bathtub that had four feet resembling a lion’s.
The finely milled French soap was in a lavender scent that smelled heavenly.
Combined with a new sponge that still held a faint hint of the sea and the warm water, she never wished to leave the temporary sanctuary.
These supplies were surprising, especially during this dismal year where crops couldn’t be planted and the weather was horrid.
Of course, if one was a duke, that privilege could no doubt procure anything.
When the same maid from yesterday came into the room, Eloise offered her a small smile. “Are you ready to dress for dinner, Miss March?”
“No, but I suppose I don’t have a choice.” The maid didn’t answer; she was too well trained. Instead, she went to the clothespress and began pulling out garments for the evening. Eloise stifled a huff of frustration.
After the duke took what he wanted from her this morning—not that she’d put up much of a fight—she’d had the opportunity to go through all the clothing Blackhawke had apparently purchased for her.
A few gowns, a few day dresses, two nightdresses of the softest lawn trimmed with thin lace, multiple pairs of stockings, a few shifts, a new pair of stays.
To say nothing of slippers, half-boots, and various fripperies.
Does he think I can be bought?
Then the maid returned to help her out of the bathtub. “How long have you been in the duke’s employ, Nancy?” Accepting the sheet the maid held out, she wrapped it around her body then stepped out of the bathtub.
The younger woman gave her a shy smile. “Five years, miss.” She tucked an escaped lock of blonde hair beneath her mobcap. “I was a chambermaid in London, but then he told me I would come here to be your maid.”
“Quite a lovely promotion, though.” She followed the maid across the floor. “How does he treat the servants? Does he yell? Abuse the staff? Break things in a drunken fury?”
“Oh, no.” Nancy shook her head. “He is polite whenever we come across him in a room or the corridors. Mrs. Bollinger manages his households here and in London, but not the country property. She and Mr. Martin, the butler, make sure everything runs smoothly, and since His Grace rarely interferes, we are largely on our own.”
Interesting. Eloise remained quiet as Nancy dressed her from the inside out.
The gown of a sage green silk with white embroidery over the skirt was simply exquisite, and the coolness of the fabric slipped over her skin like water.
Everything she’d been given while at the hunting box had been luxurious.
Never had she been treated to such lovely, expensive things.
But she steeled her resolve. Absolutely, she couldn’t let him soften her defenses with gifts.
She still hated him, still wished to avenge the death of her fiancé.
Especially after what he’d done to her yesterday as well as this morning.
In fact, she didn’t know if she could forgive him for the trespasses or forgive herself for allowing it—enjoying the pleasure he’d given her—but the releases had swept her away, showed her a world that was opening up before her.
Deep down in her secret soul, she wondered if he would secure her wrists again while she was here or during the course of their engagement.
Oddly, she needed that prodding, needed to give up control so she could concentrate on herself again, let herself have the permission to… feel something beyond anger and grief.
Yet if she asked, that would mean agreeing to everything.
There was something about him that all but pleaded with her for help.
How could she ignore that when it mirrored something she’d hidden about herself where no one could find it?
And how could she pretend she didn’t care about his struggles when hers ran parallel to his own?
It was both infuriating and confusing.
“Nancy, do you think the duke is a good man?”
“Oh, that isn’t for me to say, miss.” The maid shook her head as she deftly styled Eloise’s hair into a simple but elegant upswept coif. “I believe he is a troubled man, a powerful man, but he doesn’t consider himself a worthy man.”
She frowned. “Worthy of what?”
“Anything. Everything.” Nancy shrugged and stepped away. “I’ve already said too much.” A soft knock sounded on the door. “That will be a footman to escort you down to the drawing room.”
“Ah, because His Grace is afraid I’ll escape?”
The maid didn’t answer. Instead, she moved to the door and opened it to reveal one of the three footmen Eloise had spied at one time or another.
She used the distraction to slip the small ladies pistol her father had once gifted her with into the folds of her wrap that she hadn’t yet donned, for she still meant to kill Blackhawke, regardless that Nancy’s assessment of him had started to chip away the image Eloise had carried of his in her mind this whole time.
Nancy glanced her way. “Anthony will take you to the drawing room. Dinner will be served in an hour.”
“Thank you, Nancy. Um… Do you think I could have a stationery set and a pen? I would like to write a letter to my father, so he won’t worry.” And he could mount a rescue.
“I will ask the housekeeper. The request will need to be approved.”
“Of course.” Did none of the staff think holding someone captive for basically carnal endeavors was strange?
Perhaps they were loath to question the whims of a duke. It would prove a horrible time to find oneself sacked when the country was in such a difficult way.
At the doors to the drawing room, Anthony the footman left her, waiting until she entered the room before closing them behind her.
The first thing her gaze fell on was the duke, sitting in a winged-back chair with a sleek gray cat standing in his lap with its front paws resting on the duke’s chest. Blackhawke talked softly to the feline while stroking its fur.
Then the cat bumped its head against the duke’s chin.
Clearly, there was a bond between the two, and that caring and kindness from him worked to further confuse her.
A few seconds later, the quiet scene was broken, for as soon as the cat saw her, it jumped off the duke’s lap and then darted across the room, choosing to hide beneath a low table at the opposite side of the space.
“Oh. I would have enjoyed petting your cat,” she said in a soft voice. “I rarely have the opportunity to see a cat.” Her mother kept one when she was in France, said it helped keep the mice out of the kitchen garden as well as the root cellar.
“Don’t worry. Phantom will come out again. He’s merely leery of strangers.” As he spoke, the duke rose to his feet. “I’m glad you’ve come down and hope you are hungry. My cook is delighted to have someone besides me to feed.”
The growl from her belly betrayed her wont to lie. “I suppose I am, for I haven’t had anything since breakfast.” And she’d had a bout of intense exercise since then. Heat went into her cheeks. “It wasn’t as if I could leave my room and explore.”
His expression didn’t show that he was sorry nor did he have remorse for what he’d done. “I can’t trust you.”
“Ha.” A snort escaped her. “I can’t trust you either.”
“As I mentioned earlier, you and I do need to talk.” He slowly stalked her over the floor. “What is your name?”
Now was her chance to dispatch him. They were quite alone, except for the cat, who hadn’t made a second appearance. “I told you yesterday.”
“It wasn’t important at the time, so I didn’t commit it to memory.”
“Yet you used my Christian name this morning while you forced yourself on me,” she said as a swatch of hot annoyance rose in her chest. When he didn’t answer, she sighed.
They couldn’t cling to pride if they wanted to move forward.
“I’m Miss Eloise March. I don’t mind if you use my name.
I am half French on my mother’s side. My father used to be the ambassador to France.
That is how they met during the war.” Then she shrugged.
“My mother was considered a witch or a healer in her village; I learned herbal knowledge from her.” Would he think her even more awkward?
Perhaps if he found her vastly unsuitable, he would let her go home.
“Ah.” Interest flickered in his dark sapphire eyes. In another lifetime, perhaps, she could easily find a way to lose herself in those pools. But he was a murderer, and he deserved a comeuppance. “I would imagine that was, in part, how you came to meet your previous fiancé.”
“Oh.” His use of the word ‘previous’ meant he had every intention of seeing this farce through. “Yes, but tell me who you are beyond a duke.”
“What?” Surprise lined his face, pulled at the scar on his left cheek. “Well, since I was born as the heir, I’m the current Duke of Blackhawke. My name is James Michael Xavier Shaw. Make use of the title or the name; it matters not to me.”
“I see, so if I choose to call you an ogre, you would respond to that?” One of her eyebrows rose in jest.
One side of his mouth tipped but he didn’t fully grin, which was disappointing, for she rather thought he would be quite handsome if he relaxed. “You could try.”
Eloise nodded with a budding grin of her own, yet he kept coming closer, step by step. “James is so… common though.”
“One could argue that it is also kingly, for I am anything but common.” Then he was there before her, his presence filling the room, almost demanding her attention.
He trapped her between himself and a highly polished table that rested behind a tall-backed sofa, his gaze searching, demanding…
pleading for something she felt deep in her soul.
“And I am certainly not ordinary. I have no use for society or rules or gossip.”