Marrying His Cinderella Countess. Louise Allen
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on him and neglected your friend for the sake of a card game.’
‘Francis was an adult. And an acquaintance, not a friend. I never advised him on his clothing, nor his horses or his clubs, and most certainly not on his investments.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you implying an improper relationship, by any chance, Miss Lytton?’
‘Improper?’
It took her a heartbeat to realise what he was referring to, and another to be amazed that he would even hint at such a thing to a lady. Probably he did not regard her as a lady—which was dispiriting, if hardly unexpected.
‘Polly, kindly go and make tea.’ Ellie got up and closed the door firmly behind the maid. ‘No, I am not implying anything improper, and it is most improper of you to raise such a possibility to me.’
‘I am attempting to find a motive for your blatant hostility towards me, Miss Lytton, that is all.’
‘Motive? I have none. Nor am I hostile. I merely point out the facts that are at the root of my disapproval of your behaviour.’
Attack. Do not let him see how much you want him to help.
It had been dangerously addictive, the way he had stepped in after Francis’s death and arranged matters. She should have too much pride to want him to do so again. And, besides, the less she saw of him, the better. He was far too attractive for a plain woman’s peace of mind—unless one had a bizarre wish to be dismissed and ignored. There was this single thing that she asked of him and that would be all.
‘Why do you attempt to recruit me to escort you the length of the country if you disapprove of me so much?’
He sounded genuinely intrigued, as though she was an interesting puzzle to be solved. The dark brows drawn together, the firm, unsmiling mouth should not be reassuring, and yet somehow they were. He was listening to her.
‘I am impoverished thanks to my stepbrother’s foolishness and your failure to him as a...as an acquaintance and fellow club member. To reach Lancashire—where I must now be exiled—I face a long, expensive and wearisome journey by stage coach. The least you can do is to make some amends by lending me your carriage and your escort.’
‘Do you really expect me to say yes?’ Hainford demanded.
He was still on his feet from when she had got up to close the door and, tall, dark and frowning, he took up far too much space. Also, it seemed, most of the air in the room.
‘No, I do not,’ Ellie confessed. ‘I thought you would throw the letter on the fire. I am astonished to see you here this morning.’ She shrugged. ‘I had lain awake all night, worrying about getting to Carndale. The idea came to me at dawn and I felt better for writing the letter. I had nothing to lose by sending it, so I did.’
‘You really are the most extraordinary creature,’ Hainford said.
Ellie opened her mouth to deliver a stinging retort and then realised that his lips were actually curved in a faint smile. The frown had gone too, as though he had puzzled her out.
‘So, not only am I a creature, and an extraordinary one, but I am also a source of amusement to you? Are you this offensive to every lady you encounter, or only the plain and unimportant ones?’
‘I fear I am finding amusement in this,’ he confessed. ‘I feel like a hound being attacked by a fieldmouse.’
He scrubbed one hand down over his face as though to straighten his expression, but his mouth, when it was revealed again, was still twitching dangerously near a smile.
‘I had no intention of being offensive, merely of matching your frankness.’
He made no reference to the plain and unimportant remark. Wise of him.
‘You are unlike any lady I have ever come across, and yet you are connected—if distantly—to a number of highly respectable and titled families. Did you not have a come-out? Were you never presented? What have your family been doing that you appear to have no place in Society?’
‘Why, in other words, have I no good gowns, no Society manners and no inclination to flutter my eyelashes meekly and accept what gentlemen say?’
‘All of that.’
Lord Hainford sat down again, crossed one beautifully breeched leg over the other and leaned back. He was definitely smiling now. It seemed that provided she was not actually accusing him of anything he found her frankness refreshing.
You are entirely delicious to look at, my lord, and lethally dangerous when you smile.
‘If you want it in a nutshell: no parents, no money and no inclination to become either a victim of circumstances or a poor relation, hanging on the coat-tails of some distant and reluctant relative.’
‘A concise summary.’ He steepled his fingers and contemplated their tips. ‘My secretary will tell me I am insane even to contemplate what you ask of me...’
‘But?’ Ellie held her breath.
He was going to say yes.
Hainford looked up, the expression in his grey eyes either amused or resigned, or perhaps a little of both. ‘But I will do it. I will convey you to Lancashire.’ His gaze dropped to his fingertips again. ‘If, that is, we do not find ourselves compromised as a result.’
‘Polly will come with us.’
‘A maid? Not sufficient.’
‘Lord Hainford, do you think I am plotting to get a husband out of this?’
He looked at her sharply.
‘Because I am not looking for one—and even if I were I have more pride than to try and entrap a man this way. A maid is a perfectly adequate chaperon. No one knows me in Society. I could be observed in your carriage by half the Patronesses of Almack’s, a complete set of duchesses and most of the House of Lords and still be unrecognised. I can be your widowed distant cousin,’ she added, her imagination beginning to fill out the details of her scheme. ‘A poor relation you are escorting out of the goodness of your heart.’
His mouth twisted wryly.
Yes, she realised, he had been wary that she was out to entrap him. From what she had heard he was exceedingly popular with the ladies, and had managed to evade the ties of matrimony only with consummate skill.
‘I could wear my black veils and call you Cousin Blake,’ Ellie suggested helpfully.
A laugh escaped him—an unwilling snort of amusement that banished his suspicions—and something inside her caught for a moment.
‘You should write lurid novels for a living, Miss Lytton. You would be excellent at it.’
‘You think so?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Oh, I see. You are teasing me,’ she added, deflated, when he shook his head.
‘What? You would aspire to be one of those ink-spattered blue stockings, or an hysterical female author turning out Gothic melodramas?’
It seemed he had forgotten the quill in her hair and the ink spots on her pinafore when they had first met—clues that might well have given her away. But then, Lord Hainford had had other things on his mind on that occasion.
‘No, I have no desire to be an hysterical female author,’ she said tightly, biting back all the other things she itched to say.
Ranting about male prejudice was not going to help matters. Hainford’s reading matter was probably confined to Parliamentary reports, the sporting papers, his investments and Greek and Latin classics.
That little stab of awareness, or attraction, or whatever it was, vanished. ‘When do you wish to set out?’
‘How long do you need?’ he countered. ‘Would six days give you enough time?’
‘That would be perfect. Thank you... Cousin Blake.’
He stood. ‘I will