Chapter Five
Elizabeth began the day with greater ambitions than ending the morning kneeling on the floor of Mark’s office, surrounded by ledgers. And yet here she was.
The lower cabinet had resisted her efforts with singular obstinacy until, upon finally yielding, it disgorged its contents with vindictive enthusiasm.
Elizabeth gathered papers with brisk efficiency, muttering under her breath as she corralled columns back into order.
“You will be reconciled,” she informed the papers coolly. “And you will remain so.”
She had slept very little. What rest she managed came in shallow intervals, easily broken, her mind refusing to release the night’s impressions long enough for true sleep to take hold.
Each time she drifted near oblivion, the memory returned: the enclosed warmth of the carriage, the muted rhythm of the wheels beneath them, Blackwood’s nearness, and the mortification that made her feel her face burn at her response to him.
Never before had she behaved in such a way!
She could still feel the pressure of his hand at her waist, steady and certain.
His kisses were unhurried, but were the kisses of a practiced seducer, she was certain.
She had lain in the dark afterward, staring into the unlit space above her bed, replaying each moment against her better judgment.
There had been little carelessness in his manner.
Nothing accidental. He had behaved less like a man overcome and more like a man whose drugging kisses might cause her to betray all her closely guarded secrets.
That distinction refused to leave her in peace.
Again and again, she had told herself that it meant little, that the evening had been strange, that circumstances had pressed them into proximity, and that such lapses occurred and were best forgotten.
Yet the recollection refused to dissolve.
Toward morning she had turned onto her side and closed her eyes with determination, willing her thoughts into orderly channels: columns to be reconciled, accounts to be reviewed, practical matters requiring clear judgment.
Numbers were obedient where memory was not.
Work would restore proportion. Work would return her to herself.
As she straightened the final stack, a small, almost careless notation caught her eye - a recurring payment routed through a subsidiary account Mark rarely used, its description deliberately vague.
Her pulse quickened. Consulting another ledger, she found it again.
And again. Elizabeth paused. The deposits were small enough to evade attention.
That, she suspected, was the point. They were precise, regular, and just unobtrusive enough to escape notice unless one was looking very closely indeed.
Had he known about it, Mark would never have failed to mention such an arrangement to her.
She would say nothing. There was still too much about which she remained in the dark, and she could not very well announce that his childhood friend might be involved in nefarious deeds without proof.
Her attention caught on a contribution that had arrived just as Mark’s funding had grown strained.
She remembered that week, recalling the tension beneath his composure, the way he dismissed her concern too quickly.
Relief had followed almost immediately in the form of a timely pledge.
She turned another page. Again, the pattern repeated.
A hesitation in subscriptions and then correction.
A printer reluctant to extend credit who was then suddenly cooperative.
A rival board whispering scrutiny followed by silence.
Each solution arrived so efficiently it left no ripple.
Her fingers hovered over a marginal reference to Lincolnshire.
The word meant little to the ledger. It meant everything to her.
Lincolnshire was the location of Blackwood’s estate.
Her breath thinned. Estates intersected with philanthropy all the time, she reminded herself.
A duke’s lands touched more lives than most men’s ambitions.
Coincidence was possible, but power was rarely accidental.
She remembered the ease with which Blackwood navigated every room.
The subtle deference in the way men half-turned when he spoke.
The invitations that materialized without request. Protection and control were twins.
Indistinguishable until resistance was attempted.
If he had shielded Mark, she owed him gratitude.
If he had woven quiet obligations through every rescue—
Her pulse quickened despite herself. She feared the reach of a man who could alter fortunes without appearing to touch them. She scowled.
“Threatening the accounts already?” Mark asked from the doorway, amusement bright in his voice.
He lingered a moment on the threshold, one hand braced lightly against the frame as if the scene before him pleased him too much to interrupt.
He was dressed for the business of the day in a well-cut charcoal coat worn open over a buff waistcoat and a plainly tied cravat that favored practicality over flourish.
His trousers bore the crease of recent pressing, and a pair of serviceable boots, polished but imperfect, suggested streets walked rather than carpets glided across.
A watch chain traced a modest line across his waistcoat, the only glint of ornament he permitted himself.
He looked freshly alive in the morning. Color touched his cheeks from the cold outside, and his hair, stirred by the wind, resisted perfect order. The expression he brought into the room was one of unguarded contentment.
Elizabeth looked up, sitting back on her heels. “Your books are unruly. I am restoring discipline.”
Mark laughed, crossing to his desk. “Now, now. They are better behaved than that. Have you found anything alarming yet?”
“Not unless you count a general disregard for order,” she replied lightly. “But I’ve only just begun.”
“Once this quarter closes,” Mark said casually, riffling through correspondence, “the foundation should be able to expand. I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’m at last unconcerned about margins.”
Elizabeth’s fingers paused on the page. “That’s…
excellent,” she said, forcing a smile. Patience, she reminded herself.
She would act only with stronger proof. It would do little good to mistake her personal discomfort with Blackwood for treachery, and Mark deserved an honest evaluation of the situation.
The door opened again. Elizabeth turned and froze.
As if summoned by her thoughts, there he was.
Filling the doorway was the Duke of Blackwood, sunlight catching in the dark line of his coat, causing him to appear almost larger than life.
He noticed Elizabeth immediately and blushed prettily at the unmasked interest in his eyes.
Beside him stood a young woman, her posture elegant but relaxed, her expression alert with curiosity.
She bore a family resemblance softened by youth, with lighter hair, brighter eyes, and an openness to adventure lacking in her brother.
Elizabeth was acutely aware that she was half-crouched amid scattered papers. She was sure there were ink stains on her nose.
“Miss Seton,” he said smoothly. “I see Mark did not overstate your penchant for labor.”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, willing herself to regain composure. She had known she would see the Duke again, but had not anticipated it would occur so quickly. Would Mark be able to take one look at her face and guess what had occurred after the gala?
Elizabeth rose, brushing dust from her skirt. “Someone must prevent him from bankrupting the foundation through misplaced columns.” Her mind raced, searching for an explanation as to why he had appeared so quickly and only finding one. He had come to review the ledgers before she could.
Mark grinned. “She exaggerates. Only slightly.”
Blackwood inclined his head. “Your diligence is most impressive.” Elizabeth felt a flicker of pleasure before schooling her expression into neutrality. “Mark,” Blackwood continued, “I trust I am not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Mark replied easily. “I didn’t expect you this morning.”
“I was passing nearby on errands,” Blackwood said, motioning to the girl beside him. It was true, if incomplete. He turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Seton, allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Eleanor St. James.”
The young woman offered a polite curtsy, her face openly curious, a stark contrast to her brother’s demeanor. “How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you,” Elizabeth replied warmly.
Blackwood’s posture shifted subtly, his attention never straying far from his sister.
Elizabeth noticed the unconscious protection, the way he stood prepared to intervene at the slightest provocation.
He positioned himself half a pace nearer to Eleanor than necessity required, giving her space while still placing himself between her and any threat.
The movement spoke of years spent measuring rooms for danger to her well-being.
Eleanor St. James, however, appeared blissfully unaware of such vigilance.
She was dressed in pale blue silk, the shade chosen perhaps to emphasize youth over grandeur, while also enhancing her natural beauty.
The gown was fashionable without ostentation.
A modest neckline and sleeves trimmed with delicate lace suggested refinement.
Her figure had yet to settle into the assured lines of full maturity.
A youthful quickness remained in her movements, seemingly perpetually half-inclined to pivot toward the next diversion.