Bella and the Beast (10 page)

He cocked an eyebrow as if suspicious of her persistence. “In a storeroom in the west wing. It is an area of this house that you are strictly forbidden to enter.”

“Forbidden?”

“You heard me.”

Aylwin took a step so that a mere hairsbreadth of space separated them. His dark eyes revealed a fiery intensity that took Bella by surprise. Her heart thumped in response, and a sudden breathlessness made her giddy. She told herself to back away, but felt too transfixed to move. Especially when he lifted his big hand to cup her face, his thumb stroking over her cheek so that her whole body tingled.

He traced the curve of her lips with a featherlight fingertip. “The ducal apartments are situated in the west wing. It is
my
domain.” Aylwin lowered his voice to a silken growl. “Heed me well, Isabella Jones. Should you dare to set even one pretty toe in my private quarters, I will presume that you have come to share my bed.”

*   *   *

Late the following morning, Bella reached into a crate and extracted a shard of pottery from its nest of straw. Cradling the piece in her palm, she studied it by the filtered sunlight from the window. The faded black lines of a painted design allowed her to match it with a particular group of pieces.

She bent down to add it to one of the many small piles that dotted the dusty wood floor. Organizing the jumble of shattered bits was like assembling a puzzle, and Bella had found the work an enjoyable challenge. After combing through numerous crates, she had identified a total of fifty-two broken terra-cotta vessels. When all the pieces of a specific pot or jar had been found, then she would carefully transfer them to smaller boxes in case Aylwin wished to have them glued back together someday.

Aylwin.

The mere thought of him made her quiver … with righteous indignation. She had not seen the duke since the previous morning when he had brought her here to this chamber only to unleash his beastly threat. Bella had tried her best to forget the incident. He would not drive her away from this house, not even by giving her the most menial of tasks.

She had worked diligently all day at sorting pottery, had eaten dinner on a tray in her room, and had spent the evening studying the book about ancient Egypt. But the moment she'd blown out the candle at her bedside, the memory had returned to haunt her: the carnal heat in Aylwin's eyes, the crowding of his large body against hers, the warmth of his callused fingers on her face—most especially her lips.

Even more outrageous had been that ultimatum.
Should you dare to set even one pretty toe in my private quarters, I will presume that you have come to share my bed.

With that, Aylwin had sauntered out of the drawing room. Too late, a dozen retorts had leaped to her tongue. But she'd caught herself in time. To hurl insults at his departing back would have put her job in jeopardy. The Duke of Aylwin was not a man to suffer disrespect from an employee. Even if it was well deserved.

“Filthy dog,” Bella muttered now, going to the crate to select another fragment of pottery.

She had resolved to labor diligently for a few days to prove her worth to him and to calm any suspicions he might have as a result of her questions. It wouldn't do to play her hand too quickly. But she was itching to search the storeroom where he kept his collection of ancient papyri. It was the most logical location to begin looking for the treasure map. The trouble was, the duke had expressly forbidden her to enter the west wing.

Should you dare to set even one pretty toe in my private quarters, I will presume that you have come to share my bed.

Did he really find her pretty?

No. No, of course he did not. What should it matter, anyway? Aylwin was a brute who enjoyed bullying women. It was his way of putting her in her place, reducing her to the lowly status of a serf who could be plundered at the will of an overlord.

But was his threat serious? If he caught her sneaking into the documents room, would he truly ravish her? Would he take her to his bed and force her to satisfy his lusts? What would it be like for him to haul her into his arms and kiss her passionately?

The notion caused a peculiar agitation deep in her core, and she took several deep breaths to calm herself. Aylwin had proven himself to be without scruples. He'd exhibited no qualms about touching her as he pleased, whether it was caressing her face or lifting her skirts to examine her leg. Therefore, she had to believe that he would indeed carry out his vile threat.

But she wouldn't back down. She couldn't give up the search. She would simply have to outwit him …

“Ahem.”

Bella jumped at the sound of a clearing throat. In the doorway stood a very proper butler in a black suit, snowy cravat, and white gloves. He was an elderly man with sparse white hair, his face devoid of expression save for puckered lips that made him appear in a permanent state of disapproval.

He bowed. “Do pardon the interruption, Miss Jones.”

Bella put down the shard and then picked a path around the piles on the floor. “Pray come in, Pinkerton. You're not disturbing me in the least.”

“I have located several additional spare boxes in the wine cellar. If you still need them, that is.”

As a pair of stout footmen each carried a stack of small wooden boxes into the room, Bella gave the butler a brilliant smile. “Why yes, thank you, that was very thoughtful. You're a dear to remember my request.”

A ruddy color spread from his starched collar up into his sunken cheeks. Bella wondered if no one had ever praised him before. It was her belief that behind his vinegary exterior beat the heart of an old softie. She had arrived at the conclusion that very morning upon catching sight of him tossing scraps to a stray dog outside the kitchen door.

Pinkerton cleared his throat again. “If I may also announce, you have visitors waiting downstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Grayson.”

“There must be some mistake. I don't know anyone by that name.”

“Mr. Grayson is the duke's cousin and heir to the title.”

“Oh.” Mystified, Bella cocked her head to one side. “But … why would they wish to see me and not Aylwin?”

“It is not my place to speculate about my betters.” Pinkerton shifted his rheumy blue eyes back and forth, then lowered his voice to a raspy murmur. “However, I suspect they are curious to meet His Grace's houseguest. Might I suggest tea in the morning room?”

Bella had no desire to endure an hour of chitchat with nosy aristocrats. She had too much work to do. Perhaps they wouldn't stay long if she gave them nowhere to sit. “No, send them in here, please.”

“As you wish.” With a creaky bow, Pinkerton disappeared out the door, the entourage of footmen in tow.

If only she too could disappear.

Vexed by the interruption, Bella shook the dust out of her wrinkled blue skirt. Then she hurried to the large gilt-framed mirror on the wall, a vestige of the décor before the drawing room had become a storage facility. A heap of fragmented statues hid the bottom half of the glass, and she had to stand on tiptoes to view her reflection.

Her hair looked a fright. Numerous wisps had fallen onto her brow and she puffed up a breath to blow them away. When that failed, she brushed at her face, but her fingers left a streak of dirt on her cheek that she had to scrub off with her sleeve.

Oh, bother. She should have run up to her bedchamber to wash before receiving the callers. Then again, what did she care of their opinion? Her purpose here was not to win acceptance by polite society.

Moments later, a gentleman and a lady swept into the drawing room. They stopped just inside the doorway and, with identical expressions of distaste, glanced around at the jumble of artifacts. Bella decided there could be no greater contrast to the clutter than this perfectly groomed couple. They looked as if they had never worked a single moment in their pampered lives.

Leaning on a polished black cane, Mr. Oscar Grayson had dark wavy hair that was artfully combed around a rather ordinary face with muttonchop whiskers. As if to compensate for his bland features, he'd garbed himself in flamboyant clothing: a gold waistcoat beneath a jade-green coat, a cravat tied in grandiose loops, and black trousers with thin gold stripes. Beside him, his wife was willow-slender in a pale peach gown that enhanced her creamy complexion and fair hair. Those eyes of brilliant amber studied Bella in a critically assessing manner.

Bella knew at once that she had little in common with the couple. But as relatives of her employer, they deserved common courtesy.

Pasting on a smile, she stepped forward and held out her hand. “Hello, I'm Miss Bella Jones. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Grayson.”

Oscar Grayson shook Bella's hand, though his wife kept her gloved fingers demurely folded at her waist. “Well, well,” he said in a jovial manner. “So you are the infamous Miss Jones. The moment Helen heard the news from her maid, who learned it from one of the footmen here, we decided to pay a call. I cannot remember the last time when Miles had a female houseguest.”

Bella raised an eyebrow at his rambling speech. “Miles?”

“My cousin, Miles Grayson, the fifth Duke of Aylwin.” Uttering a chortle of laughter, he turned to his wife. “You see, Helen? You were wrong. She didn't even know his Christian name. So how can she possibly be his mistress?”

Bella had been reflecting on the fact that the Duke of Aylwin had a real name.
Miles.
It somehow made him seem less fearsome. Then the meaning of what Oscar Grayson had just said broke through her reverie.

“His mistress!” Aghast, she gripped the folds of her skirt in an effort to hold back her temper. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Aylwin hired me to catalogue his collection of antiquities. Ask him yourself if you doubt me.”

“So we are to believe you are merely an employee,” Mrs. Helen Grayson said as she strolled around, careful to keep her pristine skirt from brushing against any of the grimy surfaces. “I certainly hope that Miles intends for you to clear out this drawing room. Then the place can be restored to its former glory.”

“I'm afraid he gave me no such instructions,” Bella said in a chilly tone. “Where else would he put all these artifacts?”

“Outside in the rubbish heap,” said Oscar, aiming a smirk at the miscellany of statues and pottery. “That's where the whole lot will go someday when
I
am the sixth Duke of Aylwin.”

His cavalier manner disturbed Bella. And not just because he would dispose of these ancient relics. He and Aylwin could only be in their thirties and already this man was anticipating his cousin's demise? “Your plan seems a trifle premature,” she felt compelled to point out. “His Grace may very well marry someday and sire a son who will carry on with his work in Egyptology.”

Oscar gave her a blank stare. “Aylwin, marry? What rot! Why, the fellow is leg-shackled to all this useless junk!”

Helen, however, narrowed her eyes and stepped closer to Bella. “Let us be perfectly frank, Miss Jones. Do
you
have designs on Miles? Do
you
intend to entrap him into marriage and give him a son? Isn't that the real reason why you've come here—to cheat my husband out of his rightful inheritance?”

A flush of incredulity heated Bella's skin. “No. No. And no! There, I have answered all your absurd questions.”

“By what ruse did you convince Miles to hire you?” Oscar asked, mincing forward with the cane to take a stand beside his wife. “Surely there are
men
who are far better suited to this work than a mere female.”

Bella compressed her lips to hold back an irate retort. Never in her life had she been so insulted. She itched to order these two busybodies out of the drawing room, but what if they had influence over Aylwin? What if they convinced him to dismiss her?

Perhaps a little information would placate them. “My father was Sir Seymour Jones. He worked with His Grace's father in Egypt many years ago. So you see, I have a connection to your family.”

“Sir Seymour Jones?” Helen made a little flutter of her gloved fingers as to dismiss the name as a sham. “
I've
never heard of the man. Who are his people? From where does he hail?”

“Oxfordshire. And I wouldn't expect you to have known him. He—
we
—lived most of our life abroad.”

“In France or Italy, I should hope.”

“No, ma'am. Rather, we toured extensively through the wilds of Asia and the Near East.” Bella couldn't resist the chance to needle the woman. “We traveled by camel or mule in caravans and often stayed for months among the tribal peoples along the way. My last real home was a stone hut in the mountains of southern Persia.”

Helen and her husband exchanged a look of revulsion. “You've lived among savages?” Oscar asked.

“Oh, but there is much to be learned even from those whom you consider barbaric. And it's truly liberating to escape all the strictures of English society. You should try it sometime.”

“No wonder your knowledge of civilized conduct is sorely lacking,” Helen declared. “It is a crime that a woman of your heathenish background should be living in the household of a duke!”

Stung, Bella retorted, “That is not your decision to make. Now, there can be no purpose in continuing this inquisition. If His Grace is satisfied with my qualifications, then you should be, as well.”

Lifting her chin, Helen looked down her perfect nose at Bella. “Whatever Miles does also reflects upon his family. And if you are indeed a blue blood, where is your chaperone? No true lady would reside under the same roof as an unmarried gentleman.”

“Touché, my darling!” Oscar said with an admiring glance at his wife. He turned to ogle Bella. “It would appear you are indeed a fallen woman, Miss Jones. And what do you say to
that
?”