Page 14 of Wolfhaven

“Four.”

A feral smile stretched her lips. “Twelve.”

“Five.” He wanted to kiss her. Infuriating woman.

“Ten, and the hourly rate.”

“Six percent of the total auction earnings, after fees, on any valuable items you personally find, and two shillings a day until this mansion’s carcass has been picked clean.”

“Deal.” Miss Ballard stuck out her hand. Gareth didn’t take it.

“To be paid after the sale is completed.” Her face fell. Clearly, she was desperate for money. “I won’t charge you whatever pittance my aunt wanted for rent.”

“We already paid your aunt fifteen quid in rent until next spring.”

“Why? What is your connection to my family?” He tipped his head to one side, considering. His aunt likely believed she was doing them a favor, and he could certainly see the Ballard women being too proud to accept outright charity. But that didn’t explain how they were acquainted in the first place.

“My grandmother and your aunt had their debuts the same year. When she fell ill and I had to leave school and find work to support us, Gran reached out to her old acquaintances to inquire if anyone had a place for us to stay inexpensively. Your aunt was the only one who wrote back.”

The admission seemed to cost Miss Ballard a bit of her dignity. She shrank in on herself defensively. She was fiercely independent. Loyal, too. If he understood her situation correctly, from what bits and pieces she had told him about herself, she could have told her grandmother to find another place to stay while she finished her education, but she had chosen to leave school instead. Foolish, perhaps, but loving.

“I will set you up to get through the winter before I leave,” he said gruffly. “I already have a bad enough reputation without leaving two women to starve on my property.” He turned away from his peculiar guest and her pretty lips that he wished he could taste. Women like her were not meant for monsters like him. “I sent Cogswell into town for supplies this morning. You can take your pick of what he brings back. By spring, the sale should be finished, and you will have enough money to move on. Perhaps you can convince your school to let you re-enroll.”

He strode across the room, away from the temptation of her, his footfalls echoing on the stone floor.

“Doubtful. My scholarship was terminated when I left.”

“Then we had best get to work, Miss Ballard. There may still be enough of value in this old place that you can pay your own way, assuming they won’t reinstate your scholarship. I’ll show you around.”

Chapter 8

Evaine

Evaine could not figure out the duke. One minute he was looming over her with casual, wolfish menace, making her pulse quicken, though she’d stood her ground admirably, in her own estimation. The next, he was being surprisingly empathetic with her desire to finish her education. She was accustomed to snide remarks about how unfeminine it was to pursue a degree. Lord Lucan—Gareth, if she ever decided to accept his invitation to use his given name regularly instead of on rare occasion—had treated her ambition as ordinary. Expected, even.

He’d driven a hard bargain, but she had gotten most of what she wanted. That was a victory.

He led her out of the kitchen and into the main hall, tossing a narrative of the house’s origins over his shoulder as they went. His white shirt hung loosely on his broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted frame. He wore no waistcoat or jacket. Only a pair of tailored black trousers and low boots. From behind, he was an undeniably attractive man.

“Wolfhaven was first built in William the Conqueror’s time,” he began. “The original foundation was incorporated into a Jacobean-era expansion, mostly in the kitchen, with later additions built in the eighteenth century. Here in the lower gallery, there used to be large mirrors, paintings, and an assortment of antique instruments. The harpsichord fetched a particularly good sum at auction when I sold it. Now, this level mostly contains dust.” He said this with evident relish.

“How can you be proud of dismantling your own legacy?” Evaine asked indignantly. “Do you know what I would have given to have been born into such an incredible history?”

She couldn’t imagine wanting to destroy such a place.

He stopped in the center of the room. Turned on his heel and strode two steps toward her. She was abruptly reminded that he was not a handsome man—not with those scars. Tragic, perhaps, and certainly proud. But there was a cold cruelty that ran through him, too.

“You do not know what pain comes with that legacy, Miss Ballard.”

She swallowed. He was right. She could only guess. Strangely, she was tempted to stretch one hand upward and touch those scars. Touch the ridges of healed skin.

“I can see how much this must have hurt,” she said softly, stopping just shy of making contact. He scowled.

“The pain of those injuries was nothing,” he said. “I should have died that day. I was supposed to be interred here with…her.”

“Who?”

“Marina.” He blew out a breath. “My…bride.”