Bella and the Beast (5 page)

That did it.

Miles pointed to the arched doorway. “Out. Both of you.
Now.
”

“Oh, you're impossible!” Helen exclaimed. “It isn't as if we'd have forced
you
to attend the ball. We
know
how you despise society. But you shouldn't deny
us
the pleasure of entertaining!”

“He's selfish, that's what,” Oscar declared. “Aylwin House is my heritage, too. My papa cut his teeth in the nursery upstairs. He was the son of a duke!”

“The second son,” Miles clarified. “Now, you'll depart of your own accord or I shall summon a pair of footmen to toss you both out into the street.”

He fixed them with a dictatorial stare. They were like spoiled children. He had learned to handle them with a firm hand. Oscar had always been something of a sniveling brat while growing up, and marrying Helen the previous year had not improved his character. Where before he had merely been demanding, now he had been infected with her social-climbing disease, as well.

The two sulked and complained for another few moments. Then Helen said in a martyred tone, “Come, my darling. We are not wanted here!”

As they retraced their steps through the labyrinth of artifacts, Miles followed close behind. His fingers possessively brushed a granite sarcophagus dating from the Old Kingdom. He didn't trust those two not to damage one of these rare objects out of spite.

Offering a chilly farewell, Oscar and his wife minced down the wide corridor with its massive white marble pillars. They immediately began chattering in low, peevish tones that echoed off the stone walls. Miles watched until the couple disappeared around the corner. He didn't need to hear the conversation to know they were airing their grievances about him. Let them complain; he would not change his mind.

A blasted ball! No doubt the notion had been hatched by Helen. What was it with women that made them so hostile toward the priceless remains of an ancient civilization? His mother had not cared for them, either, preferring to stay in the country until her death ten years ago. Every lady who had ever crossed his threshold had gazed askance at the many Egyptian objects that were scattered throughout the house. Several had even hinted at the need to redecorate in the latest style.

He grasped the door handle. By damn, he'd turn the key in the lock this time. There must be no more interruptions for the remainder of the afternoon. The tantalizing hieroglyph awaited his decryption, and the prospect of identifying its meaning filled him with vigor.

But as Miles began to close the door, he spied a footman in crimson livery at the end of the long, stately corridor. The servant was carrying a silver salver and walking toward the ballroom.

Bollocks,
Miles thought, clenching his jaw. Hopefully, it was only a letter. Surely he could not be plagued with yet another visitor. It was high time the staff was reminded of their duty in turning away all uninvited callers.

The carpet muffling his swift steps, he met the footman halfway. “George, I need a word—”

It was then that Miles noticed the woman.

She was creeping down the corridor in a clandestine manner, slipping from pillar to pillar. A gold sash cinched the waist of a gown the color of deep bronze, and the wide brim of her straw bonnet formed a semicircle around her face, shading her features from his view. Even as he narrowed his eyes at her, she ducked out of sight again, apparently flattening herself against the wall.

He took a step forward. “Who the devil is that?” he bit out.

George glanced back over his shoulder. “Beg pardon?”

“The woman hiding behind the pillar. She was following you.”

The footman's face went as pale as his powdered white wig. He presented the salver. “Er—you've a visitor, Your Grace. She was most insistent on an audience. I bade her wait in the antechamber.”

Miles snatched up the pasteboard card. The neatly penned letters read
Miss B. Jones.

The name meant nothing to him. But he had a grim suspicion of her purpose. Over the years, ladies of the ton had used a variety of excuses to worm their way into Aylwin House. One had conveniently sprained an ankle while strolling past the house. Another had claimed to bear a private message from the bailiff on one of his estates. Yet another had purported a friendship with his late mother. Their scheming minds shared one belief: that a bachelor duke must be in want of a wife.

“Shall I send her away, then?” the footman asked rather nervously.

Miles crushed the card inside his fist. “No. I'll deal with her myself.”

Flinging the crumpled bit of paper back onto the salver, he stalked down the corridor to her hiding place. The thick carpet muted the sound of his footfalls. Miss B. Jones must not have heard his approach, for she peeked out from behind the colossal pillar.

Her widened gaze lifted to him. The crimped edge of the bonnet formed an oval frame for her features. In an otherwise unremarkable face, her dark blue eyes had the depth and richness of lapis lazuli.

He stopped, curiously stunned. His tongue felt incapable of producing speech. She was no naïve debutante, but a mature woman. For a moment they stared at each other, Miss Jones hugging the pillar and himself struck by the odd impression of a connection between them. He sensed a vague familiarity about her, something deep and mysterious, something that pulled at him.

What nonsense. Aside from her eyes, she wasn't even pretty.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Her gaze flicked to his informal garb. Then she stepped out from her hiding place. “I am on my way to see the Duke of Aylwin. I have an appointment with him.”

“Liar. I've no appointments on my schedule today.”

“Oh! Surely you're not … but perhaps …
you
are the duke?” Her cheeks took on a becoming blush. “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Miss Jones. Miss Bella Jones.”

She dipped an awkward curtsy, then thrust out her hand, not in the limp, delicate manner of a lady, but like a man, brisk and purposeful. He found himself grasping her gloved fingers in his. They felt strong yet feminine, the fingers of a determined woman.

A devious woman.

He released her hand at once. “You were prowling through my home without invitation,” he stated coldly. “I've no wish to speak any further with you. The footman will show you to the door.”

George discreetly appeared at her side. “This way, miss.”

She ignored him. Her blue eyes intent on Miles, she said, “Pray forgive me. I followed your servant only because I feared that you might refuse to see me. I've a matter of great importance to discuss with you.”

“You've wasted your time. Leave this house. And never return.”

Pivoting on his heel, Miles started back toward the ballroom. The audacity of her manner irked him beyond measure. And those eyes—gazing at him with such boldness. As if
he
were the one at fault for refusing to be duped by her scheme. He hadn't gone more than three steps when her voice called out to him.

“Wait, sir … Your Grace! I'm no stranger to your family. My father was Sir Seymour Jones. He was a colleague of your father's in Egypt.”

The bottom fell out of Miles's gut. He turned slowly around to face her again. Disbelief warred with astonishment. Was that why he'd sensed a connection between them? Because they'd met as children?

More than twenty years had passed since that tragic episode in Egypt. He tried to reconcile her features with the hazy memory of the six-year-old girl who had followed him everywhere in the encampment. Bella …
Isabella.
That was what she'd been called back then. The child he'd known had had blue eyes, too. But he recalled little else. He'd only been thirteen at the time and prone to ignoring pesky infant girls.

And Sir Seymour! He had seemed a friendly, honest fellow, always patient and helpful whenever Miles asked questions about the excavation of the pharaoh's tomb. He could still picture the man, his bearded face browned by the hot Egyptian sun, his white teeth flashing in a smile.

By God! Miles had naïvely trusted the rascal even after his own father had been murdered by grave robbers. Not twenty-four hours later, Sir Seymour had abandoned him. He had taken his wife and daughter and vanished into the night, never to be seen again.

Miles could still feel the crushing weight of despair and grief at being left alone and fatherless in a foreign country. Even worse was the burden of his own guilt. If not for the quarrel they'd had, his father would never have left the encampment that fateful night. He would never have died …

The memory threatened to suck him down into a black hole.

Miles drew a deep breath. He cautioned himself not to take this woman at her word. Her claim might yet be a trick. A clever ruse concocted for the purposes of ingratiating herself with him.

But if Miss Bella Jones really
was
Sir Seymour's daughter …

Then Miles had to find out what she knew.

 

Chapter 5

“Follow me,” the duke snapped.

Bella hastened to comply with the terse command. After being caught in a barefaced lie, she didn't dare risk incurring his wrath again. She half ran to keep pace with his long strides down the corridor. Her fingers clutched at her skirt to avoid tripping on the gown with its myriad stiff petticoats.

With the funds from Lady Milford, she had sent Lila to buy the bronze silk from Fothergill's shop. It had given Bella great pleasure to wear the very fabric that he had deemed too fine for her.

But now she longed for the comfort of her Persian robes. The whalebone corset pinched her ribs and the wide brim of the bonnet acted like blinders on a horse, restricting her vision so that she could only gaze straight ahead at the duke.

Where was he taking her?

She didn't know, but at least he hadn't ejected her from his house. A cautious elation lifted her spirits. She had crossed the first obstacle. She had convinced him to listen to her.

But oh, Lady Milford had not exaggerated. The Duke of Aylwin really
was
a beast. He was an imperious, high-handed autocrat who rejected even the veneer of hospitality. His rude manner only solidified Bella's distrust of the English aristocracy.

She glowered at his broad back. Never once did Aylwin turn around to make certain she was still behind him. He seemed indifferent to her presence as if he were accustomed to having underlings obey his orders at the snap of a finger.

Yet he wasn't quite what she'd expected, either.

On the coach ride to London, she had pictured in her mind an aging dignitary in rich, elaborate garb with a purple robe around his shoulders and a gold scepter in his hand. But Aylwin was no old codger; he was a man in his prime. He resembled a common laborer, all brawny muscles and rumpled dark brown hair. His linen shirt was open at the throat, and the sleeves were rolled up to expose his bare forearms. There was even a smudge of gray dust on his black trousers.

How could she have guessed that
he
was the duke?

The memory of his brown eyes boring into her caused a disturbing quiver inside Bella. The feeling resonated in her depths like an instinctive warning. Aylwin didn't appear to be the sort who could be easily deceived. He looked hard and tough, no one's fool. Yet somehow she had to convince the tyrant to hire her.

Bella followed him through an arched doorway and into an enormous oblong chamber. There, she stopped in amazement. Afternoon sunlight poured through the wall of windows at one end of the room. The formal style included cut-glass chandeliers, gilded wall panels, and an arched ceiling painted with cherubs and nymphs.

But that wasn't what held her attention. It was the contents of the room. Spread out before her lay a vast sea of Egyptian artifacts.

She advanced slowly, turning her head in the restrictive bonnet in order to view every piece. There were many strange figures carved in stone, some of them part human, part animal. Gods with jackal or ram heads. Women with kohl-rimmed eyes and snake crowns. Polished stone boxes that looked like coffins.

Bella reached out to trace the granite hand of a robed man with a curiously long goatee and a tall crown. A sense of wonderment filled her, the same excitement and interest she'd always felt when helping her father explore an old shrine in a jungle or excavate a crumbling monument in the desert. It was as if she stood inside an ancient tomb instead of a grand house in the middle of London.

“Don't touch.”

Bella jumped at the gravelly sound of Aylwin's voice in her ear. Her hand flew to her bosom and she whirled around to find the duke standing directly behind her. “You startled me,” she chided.

His lips thinned, he regarded her with distaste. “It's that wretched hat. It impedes your vision. I don't know why women wear such impractical nonsense.”

Bella had done so because she'd wanted to play the part of a well-groomed English lady. Lila had assured her that the straw bonnet was the very latest style. Bella disliked the wide brim, but Aylwin's rudeness irked her into saying, “I thought gentlemen were trained to offer compliments, not criticism.”

“I am no gentleman. Now, you really must take it off.”

Before she realized his intent, his hand flashed out to yank on the ribbons tied beneath her chin. He plucked the bonnet from her hair, pivoted sharply, and dropped the hat onto the head of a tall stone goddess with the face of a lioness.

“There,” he said on a note of grim satisfaction. “Now I can see if you really are who you claim to be,
Miss Jones
.”

Shocked, Bella reached up to pat her uncovered hair. She felt exposed and outraged by his imperious action. The place where his fingers had brushed against her throat burned from his touch.

She checked the impulse to grab for the bonnet. How was she to retrieve it without looking like a fool? It was out of her reach, and anyway, she needed to remember that her purpose here was to charm the beast into employing her as his curator.