clearly no longer feeling guilty or bullying or drunk, sighed again.
“Don’t go moping about the place. No one likes an Eeyore.”
Eleanor found she was scowling at the painting in front of her, biting her tongue. As in, literally pressing it against her teeth to keep from saying something back in the same dismissive tone.
“I should think you ought to feel grateful that you’re not required to work so hard for the friendship of people you won’t know in a year’s time,” Vivi said dismissively.
It hadn’t really occurred to Eleanor to think about the people here—or her position here or whole solitary little life here, really—as temporary. But of course it was. Even if all went well, a girl only needed a governess for so long.
“I think I have a few years before I can happily drift off into the sunset,” she pointed out, and she was proud of herself for sounding as if she was smiling, not scowling. “Geraldine is seven, not seventeen.”
Vivi laughed. “You’re not disappearing into the north forever, Eleanor. You’re supposed to make us enough to cover our bills and then come back.”
“I didn’t realize that was the plan. Especially when the longer I stay, the more I’ll make.”
“Eleanor, please,” Vivi said, her tone light. But there was something beneath it that wedged its way into Eleanor’s stomach and sat there. Heavily. “I can’t possibly do all this without you. You’re on holiday, nothing more.”
Eleanor finished off the call, and found herself staring blankly out one of the windows in this strange art gallery hall, her stomach still not quite right. Because it was tempting to pretend that Vivi couldn’t do without her emotionally, that she missed Eleanor herself, but deep down, Eleanor suspected that wasn’t true. Just yesterday Vivi had been in a panic about how to pay all the bills and get the rent in, and she’d moaned something about what a tip the flat was since there was no one to tidy it up.
Because, of course, the person who usually handled all those things was Eleanor.
It was a good thing Vivi thought Eleanor was suffering in a pile of debris in the middle of a moor. Because if her sister had any idea how luxurious Eleanor’s lifestyle was at present, Eleanor had no doubt Vivi would contrive a way to get herself up to Groves House so she could enjoy it herself.
And Eleanor was obviously far more deeply selfish than she’d ever imagined, because for once in her life, she didn’t want to share something with the sister she’d always loved to the point of distraction.
She stuck her mobile in the pocket of the black trousers she wore and moved over to the windows. The gallery was set up over the back of the house and looked out over the tangle of the back gardens that led straight into the brooding moors. There was a full moon tonight, tossing a spooky sort of silvery light here and there, silently moving in and out of the clouds, and making the whole of Yorkshire seem to gleam.
If gloomily.
Maybe it was because she was tucked away in this desolate old house. Maybe it was because the halls were always empty, the locals were unfriendly, and the nights were already starting to seem as if they lasted three times as long as the day. Maybe it was because she felt a bit too much like a gothic waiting to happen, locked away in here.
But when had she decided that she was so all right with being alone? Her goal had always been Vivi’s great marriage. She’d never thought about what she would do once that happened.
She shivered as she thought about the Duke’s mouth on hers, firm and commanding. And if the highlights of her circumscribed life were the potent, powerful dreams that shook through her every night, all featuring Hugo in searing detail, well. That was more than some people ever had. Maybe it was enough.
Eleanor took a deep breath and vowed it would be. It would have to be.
“Dare I hope that your unexpected appearance outside my private rooms is an invitation, Miss Andrews?”
Eleanor told herself she was hallucinating. Auditory hallucinations, which were really just another part of a regular old haunting, according to all the scary films she’d seen in her time.
She took her time turning to check. And it was worse than any run-of-the-mill haunting.
Hugo stood there at the other end of the long gallery. And this time, he looked exactly like a duke. Exactly like every fantasy Eleanor had ever had of a man that powerful, for that matter. He was dressed all in black and looked vaguely historical. It took her a shattering beat of her heart or two to realize it was because he wore a top hat that should have looked absurd over a long black cloak that did. Or anyway, should have. Would have, even, had another man worn it.
But Eleanor was very much afraid, as her throat went dry and her stomach twisted into something that wasn’t quite anxiety, that there was nothing Hugo could do that was truly absurd. Now when he looked the way he did.
And certainly not when he was looking at her.
“You appear to be dressed as if you’ve been off visiting Regency England,” she said dryly. And only she had to know that the dryness in her mouth was more physical response to him than any attempt on her part to sound indifferent.
“Naturally,” Hugo said, as if an agreement. “I’ve been out terrifying the tenants and topping barmaids in my stagecoach.” He raised a brow. “Or possibly I was attending a Halloween party, complete with fancy dress. You must be aware that it’s the end of October.”
She was aware of almost nothing but him. That was the terrifying truth that seared its way through her then, making her entire body feel...different. As if there was a fire in her bones, and it was changing her. Or had already done so, dream by dream, without her realizing it.
Hugo moved toward her in that graceful way of his, as if he was half liquid. When he drew too close, Eleanor desperately wanted to think of something appropriately boring and dampening to say—but instead found that she still couldn’t seem to think of anything at all but the sensation of his mouth on hers.
His gaze darkened, as if her thoughts were written all over her face, but if they were he didn’t say a word. He only kept moving, brushing past her and indicating that she should follow him with nothing more than a supremely arrogant tilt of his chin. And yet Eleanor found herself obeying.
As if this was as close to happy as she was likely to get.
Hugo stopped at the door at the far end of the gallery and looked back over his shoulder.
“Come,” he said, and Eleanor didn’t know if she was tempted or terrified. Or some far more potent combination of both.
All she knew was that she picked up her pace, on command.
And Hugo’s dangerous mouth curved. “Perhaps it’s time I conducted that interview, after all.”
* * *
Hugo felt like the big, bad wolf.
It was not exactly unpleasant. God knew he’d had nothing to do these past years save sharpen his fangs.
And the distance he’d put between him and this governess who shouldn’t have tempted him hadn’t dulled a thing. Not the impossible lushness
