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Chapter One
“Why you bloody little...” Eleanor clamped her lips together and stilled.
A floorboard creaked from the hallway outside the breakfast room. No doubt Anton was looking for her, hoping to push her into attending tonight’s ball. She eased out a breath, eyed the clock and the stubborn panel that refused to move, set down the tool in her hand, and put an elbow to the table to rest her chin upon it. Maybe if she stared down the broken clock long enough it would give up its secrets.
She should have gone to the lamp room or the gardener’s shed. Far less likely to be discovered there. But the butler had been in the lamp room and the gardener had muttered about her taking up space he needed last time she’d worked in there.
Eleanor glanced at the table, laid with an old, stained cloth. Maybe if she ducked underneath it?
No. She was a grown woman. Old enough to curse in the privacy of her own home. She wasn’t going to hide from her brother like some naughty little girl, even if he might well scold her like one.
As excellent a brother as Anton was, he took his duties as the son of a duke seriously, given their father’s mental state was in decline and Anton thought himself rather the head of the family. Eleanor didn’t envy him. She never had exceptionally big ambitions. Leave her in peace to tinker and create, and she was quite content. A peaceful life, out of the view of people was ideal. Let her sisters and Anton be the center of attention.
Another creak. Eleanor twisted to eye the ajar door, regretting not shoving it all the way shut, but when neither Anton nor his wife Eliza nor any other member of the household entered the room, she released a breath, and returned her attention to trying to get the back off this clock. If she could just get inside, she could figure out why the thing had not ticked in years.
She levered the edge of her screw turner under the edge and murmured a little apology to the brass timepiece before pressing harder. With grunting effort, she wriggled back and forth and felt the give in the panel. She grinned and put all her strength into levering it away.
The tool slipped straight past the panel and hit her hand.
“Ow!” A sharp stabbing sensation speared through her palm swiftly followed by a throbbing sting. Grimacing, she twisted her hand and spied blood welling from a cut on her palm.
“Eleanor?”
She froze. That wasn’t Anton.
Her heart gave a sickening thud. Hiding under the table had become all the more appealing. She even rose marginally from her seat becausethatwasn’t anyone from the family nor any of the servants.
That was...
She twisted just as Lord Ashford peered around the door, that wretchedly handsome grin plastered across his face. She scowled. She didn’t know why he always had to be so...so pleasant looking. It was all a sham, of that she was certain. Everyone around her adored the man and as much as she tried to like him, she could not. Had they never read the gossip about him? Did they not notice how he looked at her so?
“What are you doing here?” Eleanor demanded.
His lips quirked. “Lovely to see you too.”
Lord, she hated it when his lips made that amused movement. It made her look at them and she did not want to look at them. The viscount had an ego the size of London—he did not need to think yet another woman was eyeing up his mouth, wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him.
Which she was most certainly not. Simply because everyone around him fell for his charms, did not mean she would. After all, she was different to everyone else. She’d never witnessed that more starkly than two years ago when malicious false gossip had opened her up to derision and disparagement all thanks to her skin color.
The true nature of many of their so-called friends had been revealed to her and she would never forget that, even if the gossip had been proven wrong and everyone groveled back at her feet.
And while Oliver had never ignored her or said anything awful, she often caught him staring. It was those stares that made her want to sink inside herself the most. They’d always been around, ever since she’d come to England as a child. A little black girl dressed in the finest gowns? Of course she was going to get looked at.
“Are you injured?” He nodded toward her hand.
“Oh.” She’d almost forgotten the blood steadily pooling in her palm.
With a few efficient strides, Oliver covered the distance between them and whipped out a handkerchief. He took her wrist before she could utter a sound of protest and pressed the fabric to her palm.
Mouth ajar, Eleanor looked between the tiny monogram of his initials and his concentrated expression. No one would deny his handsomeness, not even her. He wore the latest fashions, all carefully cut around a tall but powerful frame, and his brown, curling hair revealed little hints of gold, most likely thanks to the warm summer sunshine. It reminded her of bronze that had been worn smooth by too many hands touching it.
She blinked, felt the touch of the soft kid leather upon the back of her bare hand and jerked away, leaving him holding the stained handkerchief. Flexing her palm, she eyed the superficial cut, and tucked her hand against her body.
“You still did not tell me why you are here.”
“Forgive me, I rather thought your hand demanded my attention.” He pulled a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and waved it at her. “It seems I am playing errand boy.”
“For Demeter?”
