Chapter Sixteen
The next two days were an exercise in evasion.
Lord Thornton, it seemed, had decided to make Eliza his particular project. He appeared wherever she happened to be, and each time, he had some plausible excuse: he was looking for a particular volume, he wanted to hear music, he was interested in the family history.
But each time, his eyes said something entirely different.
One morning, she encountered him in the corridor outside the nursery. He claimed to be looking for the breakfast room, and fell into step beside her as she walked Henry downstairs.
"Good morning, Miss Harrow. Master Henry." His smile encompassed them both, but his attention was fixed entirely on her. "What a pleasant way to start the day, in the company of such charming individuals."
"Good morning, my lord." She kept her voice neutral, her eyes forward. "The breakfast room is just ahead."
"Yes, I remember now. Foolish of me to forget." He didn't move away. "You look well this morning, Miss Harrow. That color suits you."
She was wearing gray and there was nothing about it that could possibly be considered flattering.
"Thank you, my lord."
"Though I imagine you would look better in something brighter. Blue, perhaps. Or green, to match those remarkable eyes." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I have excellent taste in such matters, you know. I would be happy to advise you, should you ever wish to... expand your wardrobe."
The implication was clear: accept his protection, and she would have silk dresses and jewels and all the trappings of a kept woman. Refuse, and she would remain in her dull gray, invisible and overlooked.
"I am quite satisfied with my wardrobe, my lord. But thank you for your concern."
She quickened her pace, pulling Henry along with her, and didn't breathe easily until they were seated in the breakfast room.
Another morning, he found her in the music room.
"Miss Harrow, what a pleasant surprise." He had materialized from the doorway just as she finished a simple sonata. "I had no idea you were musical."
"I play a little, my lord. Nothing noteworthy."
"On the contrary, I found it quite... moving." He crossed the room toward the pianoforte, his steps unhurried, his eyes never leaving her face. "There's something intimate about music, don't you think? The way it reveals the player's innermost emotions?"
"I wouldn't know, my lord. I simply follow the notes."
"I don't believe that for a moment." He was at the piano now, standing too close, his hip nearly brushing her shoulder. "A woman with your passion… Music seems a natural outlet."
"I have no particular passion, my lord."
"Everyone has passion, Miss Harrow. Some people simply hide it better than others." His hand descended to rest on the piano beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. "I would very much like to discover what you're hiding."
She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the piano bench in her haste to put distance between them. "If you'll excuse me, my lord, I have lessons to prepare."
"Of course." His smile was knowing, unpleasant. "Until next time, Miss Harrow."
There was always a next time.
"Miss Harrow, what a pleasant surprise." He found her in the library later that day, having materialized silently from between the shelves. "I was hoping to find some light reading, and here you are."
"I won't be but a moment, my lord." She gathered her books quickly, too quickly, betraying her discomfort. "I was just selecting material for Lord Henry's lessons."
"Natural philosophy? Ambitious for a boy his age." He moved closer, examining the spines of the books she held. His proximity forced her to either step back or endure the invasion of her space. She stepped back, but he followed. "Though I suppose you're the ambitious type, aren't you, Miss Harrow?"
"I simply believe in providing children with a broad education."
"I wasn't referring to education." His smile was knowing, unpleasant. "A woman of your obvious... talents... doesn't become a governess by accident. You must have plans, aspirations and goals beyond the nursery."
"My goals are my own concern, my lord."
"Of course they are. But surely, they include a husband? A home of your own?" He reached out and touched her hair—just a brief brush of fingers against a loose curl, but it made her skin crawl. "A woman with hair like fire shouldn't waste herself on other people's children."
Eliza jerked away. "You forget yourself, sir."
"Do I?" His eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement or malice. "I think I know myself very well, Miss Harrow. And I think I'm beginning to know you."
"You know nothing about me."
"I know that you're beautiful, intelligent and wasted in this provincial backwater." He stepped closer again, backing her against the bookshelf. "I know that a woman like you deserves silk dresses and diamond necklaces and someone to appreciate all your... qualities."
"And you would be that someone?"
"I could be. If you were agreeable." His voice had dropped to something intimate, persuasive. "I have a house in London. Staff who know how to be discreet. You could have everything you've ever wanted, Miss Harrow. All you have to do is say yes."
The offer hung in the air between them; crude beneath its veneer of elegance, unmistakable in its intent. He wasn't proposing marriage. He wasn't even proposing courtship. He was proposing exactly what men like him always proposed to women like her: a transaction, with her body as the currency.
"I think," Eliza said, her voice cold, "that you have mistaken me for someone else, my lord. Someone with fewer principles and less self-respect. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have lessons to prepare."
She pushed past him, her heart hammering, and didn't look back.
***
She told Alistair that evening, finding him alone in his study.
He was at his desk, surrounded by papers that he clearly hadn't been reading. When she entered, he looked up with an expression of such naked longing that her heart clenched; and then, almost immediately, the shutters came down, and he was the duke again: cool, composed, unreachable.
"Miss Harrow. Is something wrong?"
The formality stung. Miss Harrow. As if they hadn't held hands in the firelight, hadn't spoken of marriage, hadn't nearly kissed in the library while the storm raged outside.
"Lord Thornton started making propositions today. In the library."
His reaction was immediate and visceral. His face went white, then red. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, crumpling the papers he had been holding. For a moment, she thought he might put his fist through the wall, or through Thornton's face.
"He what?"
"He suggested that I become his mistress. He has a house in London, apparently. Staff who know how to be discreet." She kept her voice steady, refusing to show how shaken she was. "He also touched my hair."
"He touched you?" The words came out through gritted teeth. "He dared to touch you?"
"Just my hair. It was…"
"It was an assault." Alistair was on his feet now, pacing the length of the study with barely contained violence in every movement. "I shall kill him. I'll throw him out into the snow and let him freeze. I'll challenge him to a duel and put a bullet through his black heart."
"You'll do none of those things." Eliza caught his arm, forcing him to stop.
The muscles beneath her fingers were rigid with tension.
"He was careful. He said nothing that couldn't be explained away as a misunderstanding: a compliment taken the wrong way, an offer of friendship misconstrued.
If you confront him, he'll deny everything, and I'll look like a hysterical woman making accusations against a respected lord. "
"I don't care how it looks."
"You have to care. For Henry's sake, if not your own.
" She met his eyes, willing him to understand.
"Thornton is connected, Alistair. He has friends in Parliament and influence in society.
If you make an enemy of him without proof, without witnesses, he could make your life very difficult.
He could damage Henry's prospects. He could spread rumours that would follow your family for generations. "
"You think I care about that?" His voice cracked with frustration. "You think I care about politics and society and reputation when you… When he…"
"I handled it." She tightened her grip on his arm. "I refused him, clearly and coldly. He knows exactly where I stand. He won't try again, at least not so directly."
"He'll try again." Alistair's voice was flat, certain, the voice of a man who understood predators. "Men like Thornton always try again. They see refusal as a challenge. The more you resist, the more determined they become."
"Then I'll refuse him again. As many times as necessary."
"You shouldn't have to." He pulled away from her, resuming his pacing. "You're under my protection. The fact that I've allowed this, that I've let him stay under my roof while he hunts you like pre…"
"You didn't know."
"I should have known. I should have remembered what he was…What he's always been." He stopped at the window, staring out at the darkness, his reflection a ghost in the glass. "When I think of him touching you…His hands on your hair, his eyes on your body…"
"Don't." She crossed to him, laying a hand on his arm. "Don't torture yourself with what might have happened. Focus on what did happen: I'm fine. I'm safe. And in a few days, the roads will be clear, and he'll be gone."
He turned to look at her, and what she saw in his eyes made her breath catch. Pain, fear, and beneath it all, a possessive hunger that made her stomach flip.
"I want to announce our betrothal," he said. "Tonight. At dinner. I want him to know that you're mine and that if he so much as looks at you again, he'll answer to me."
"No."
"Eliza…"
"I haven't said yes yet." The reminder was gentle but firm. "You asked me to think about it, and I'm still thinking. I won't have the decision made for me, not by you, and certainly not by Lord Thornton."