When Sparks Fly Page 3

  Her eyes narrowed. “You think so, do you?”

  That frosty tone should have given him warning, along with her lack of quaking, but he’d put up with enough today, and he wasn’t about to quit while he had a full head of steam. “I know your sort is used to being fawned over and coddled and fed all manner of delicacies—”

  “My sort?” she interrupted, her eyes turning a stormy, crystalline green.

  “—but this is a crisis, and we’ll have to make do with what we have, so I’ll expect you to keep your petty complaints to yourself and not be taxing my staff with unnecessary requests. Otherwise, whatever nonsense you’ve heard about my being the Black Baron will be nothing to what you see of my true temper!”

  “I shudder to think what that might be like,” she murmured under her breath.

  “What?” he growled, not sure he’d heard her right.

  “Nothing. Are you quite done, sir?” Though her chin trembled, she didn’t look terribly cowed, and that gave him pause.

  “Er . . . well . . . yes.”

  “Fine. I shall do my best to fulfill your requirements.” Her voice dripped sweetness, though he swore he heard sarcasm beneath the sugar. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my aunt while I’m still allowed to stay with her.”

  Throwing her head back, she flounced back to the room. That’s when it dawned on him that he’d perhaps been a bit too forceful in his statements. In the heat of his temper, he sometimes said things he regretted later.

  But before he could soften his words, she swung open the door and paused dramatically in the doorway. “If you don’t want people calling you the ‘Black Baron,’ sir, you might consider washing your face once in a while. I’m sure it would improve your reputation immeasurably.”

  He gaped at her as she swept into the room like some Egyptian queen. Washing his face? What the devil? A glance at the hall mirror reminded him of his sooty state. But surely she didn’t think that was why they called him the Black—

  Hell and blazes. She didn’t know. Apparently she hadn’t heard the vile rumors dogging him since Rupert’s death. She thought he’d got his nickname because of the soot. That’s why she hadn’t quaked in her boots like other ladies.

  He started for the room to explain himself, then halted as the footmen returned with the children. When they rushed past him with the wary expressions their cousin ought to have worn, it occurred to him that he didn’t have to tell Miss Bancroft how he got his nickname.

  Why should he? She would look at him differently, or worse yet, tell her aunt. Then he’d have two hysterical females on his hands, trying to escape his house for fear of their lives or their virtue.

  As he stood there mulling the idea of not having to be the dreaded Black Baron for once, he overheard Huggett say, “You really don’t have to stay in here with your aunt, miss. There’s an adjoining chamber that belonged to his lordship’s mother. Surely you and the little girl will be more comfortable there, and you can always come in to check on Mrs. Metcalf whenever you please without disturbing anyone. The lads can sleep in the green room. It’s got a truckle bed.”

  “His lordship seems to think I must accompany the children everywhere,” she said stiffly.

  “It’s all right—we can handle a few lads underfoot, and besides, the green room is right across the hall, and I daresay you’d hear them if they came out.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Huggett. That sounds like the perfect arrangement.”

  Her warm tone rubbed Martin raw, since she hadn’t yet used it with him. And he was the one who’d rescued them in the first place.

  “Now, I suggest we get these children out of their wet things,” Huggett said.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” she retorted. “Their fresh clothes are in our trunks, and his lordship didn’t see fit to have those brought from the other carriage.” Her tone of resentment tested his temper anew.

  He strode to the open door. The children flanked her like an army, and the little girl grabbed her hand as soon as he appeared in the doorway.

  He ignored the children to focus on Miss High-­and-­Mighty Heiress. “Surely you packed separate bags for inns and such—”

  “Just the trunks.” She faced him, her smile chilly. “If you’ll recall, I did tell you there were things we needed in them.”

  Thinking back to their short encounter, he grimaced. She had told him, but he’d been concentrating on getting her away from the blasted ice. And he’d assumed that the trunks were extra luggage. Why, he wasn’t sure. Probably for the same reason he’d assumed that she knew of his reputation.

  He began to wonder if he’d assumed too much.

  When they all looked at him expectantly, even Huggett, he had to stifle an oath. “I’ll send the footmen back for your trunks,” he bit out. Then he modulated his tone. “Is there anything else you require?”

  The cordial question seemed to catch her by surprise. Then a soft smile touched her lips. “Not at the moment, no. But thank you for asking, sir.”

  That smile thoroughly undid him. Three years had passed since the last time a young woman had smiled at him. It made him warm. Too warm. It made him notice her silky black hair and pleasing figure, and the lilt to her words that reminded him of her clear, high voice singing carols—

  Hell and blazes. He couldn’t be thinking like this about some heiress who didn’t know who he was. Besides, there was more to a woman than a pleasing appearance, and he’d be surprised if anything lay in that head but the usual silliness and fascination with fashion. He didn’t want a wife. He didn’t need a wife.

  “I’ll go see about the trunks,” he muttered.

  Then he fled.

  Chapter Three

  Dear Charlotte,

  Is your neighbor a man of good reputation? What is his profession? Is he married? Take care—many men prey on women alone by pandering to their concerns.

  Your still-­anxious cousin,

  Michael

  Ellie didn’t see his lordship again that afternoon. Not that it mattered; she was much too busy to think about him. Shortly after he left, the doctor arrived, and a long discussion followed his examination of Aunt Alys. Thankfully her aunt’s head injury wasn’t as bad as it looked, but she had indeed broken a leg. The doctor recommended that she not be moved for at least a week.

  That sent the children into hysterics, since it meant they would miss Christmas in Sheffield. Ellie and their mother had to make extravagant assurances of future treats and outings in order to calm them. At least their gifts were in the trunks, which had shown up after the doctor left, just as his lordship had promised.

  Mr. Huggett, a man who proved as delightful as his employer was frightening, made sure that a messenger was sent on horseback to let her father know what had happened to them. But given the state of the roads and his being in Lancashire, there wasn’t much Papa could do.

  Ellie spent the rest of her afternoon settling everyone in, making sure her aunt was comfortable, and consulting with Mr. Huggett about the children’s meals. By the time the butler came to fetch them to dinner, she felt quite comfortable with him.

  That was the only reason she broached her difficult question. “Mr. Huggett,” she said in a low voice so the children wouldn’t hear as they scampered ahead of her. “Why is your master called ‘the Black Baron’?”

  The blend of panic and wariness on his face reminded her of Papa’s whenever she asked an indelicate question. “I-­I . . . well, you see, miss . . .” he began to stammer.

  “It can’t possibly be just because of the soot,” she prompted helpfully.

  “The soot? Ah, yes, the soot.” He frowned as he escorted her downstairs. “Actually it’s . . . er . . . because of his clothes. You may have noticed that he wears naught but black.”

  She had noticed. Still . . . “That’s the only reason they call him th
at?”

  “What else would it be?” he said blithely, though he didn’t meet her eyes. “Incidentally the doctor told me that your aunt should take soft foods until we’re certain her head injury isn’t serious, so I took the liberty of having Cook . . .”

  As he blathered on, she realized her question had struck a nerve. But it seemed rude to press him into gossiping about his employer. The man seemed oddly loyal to Lord Thorncliff, evidence that his lordship might not be quite as fearsome as he seemed.

  There were other indications, too—the way the baron had accommodated them all despite his grumbling, the fact that he’d sent for a doctor and their trunks with great speed, his willingness to give up his own bedchamber. And when they entered the dining room, she had the most profound evidence of all.

  Lord Thorncliff had bathed. The man who turned from the mantel to greet them bore no physical resemblance to the man who’d rescued them.

  He wore the same sort of black coat, waistcoat, and cravat as before, except that these looked freshly washed and pressed. And his face . . . Goodness gracious, the Black Baron might have a beast’s temper, but he had rather striking good looks. Indeed, he had much in common with Byron’s pirate hero from The Corsair, a work that she persisted in enjoying despite its author’s now shameful reputation. Lord Thorncliff was “Robust, but not Herculean” and his “dark eyebrow” did indeed shade “a glance of fire.” And like the corsair, “Sun-­burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale,/The sable curls in wild profusion veil.”

  Except that the baron’s hair wasn’t actually black. It was a dark chestnut brown, with a bit of red glinting in the firelight. And now that he wasn’t covered in soot—and she wasn’t distracted by the children—she could see the true color of his eyes, too: a smoky gray, fringed with long dark lashes.

  He wasn’t classically handsome—his face was too angular and his chin too prominent for the sort of refined features that passed for handsome in London. But he was arresting enough to make her weak in the knees. It threw her entirely off guard. Attractive men intimidated her, and that was the last thing she needed around his lordship.

  His improved appearance, however, had the opposite effect on Meg, for she went running up to examine him with great curiosity. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Thorncliff. And who are you, young lady?”

  Recognizing his voice from before, Meg shrank back to stuff her thumb into her mouth.

  Ellie stepped forward to smooth over the awkwardness. “Forgive me, sir, I forgot that you don’t yet know their names.” She introduced the children, pleased to see that the boys behaved themselves like gentlemen for once.

  When the footmen brought platters of food into the dining room to set on the sideboard, though, the boys went running to see what their fare would be.

  “Oh, good, there’s beef,” Tim said as he gazed at a plump joint. “I’m famished near to death!”

  “Look, Charlie, there’s ham, too!” cried Percy from the other end. “And pudding.”

  “Perhaps we should sit,” Lord Thorncliff muttered to her, “before the lads devour our dinner where they stand.”

  And so began their first evening in Thorncliff Hall. Hungrier than she’d realized, she was content to let the boys carry the conversation. They asked impertinent questions about the age of the house, if he had any toys, what streams he fished. His lordship fielded them with good grace, if not great enthusiasm.

  Even Meg grew comfortable enough to venture a question. “Why were you so dirty today, sir?”

  “Meg!” Ellie chided. “It’s impolite to ask a person such a thing.”

  “Yes, indeed,” their host said acidly. “You can gawk at people, make assumptions about them, and gossip about them to your friends, but don’t ever ask someone a direct question. Not if you want to maintain the social order.”

  Was he chiding her, the surly devil? “You should listen to his lordship,” she put in. “He’s a master at the direct question.” When his gaze shot to her, she added, “No, wait, it’s the direct order that Lord Thorncliff has mastered. That’s an entirely different skill, but apparently a well-­developed one.”

  Mr. Huggett made a choking sound from where he stood near the sideboard, but Lord Thorncliff actually laughed. “Yes, it has taken me years to perfect it. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to try it out on someone other than the servants and the occasional coal miner.”

  “That’s why you were covered in soot!” Percy exclaimed. “You work at a coal mine.”

  “I own a coal mine, actually. It belonged to my father, and then to my older brother when Father died. But I took over the ownership after—” Pain flashed over his face. “After Rupert died three years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Ellie murmured.

  He nodded to acknowledge her condolences, then jerked his head toward Percy’s plate and promptly changed the subject. “So, Master Percy, I see you’re enjoying the beef.”

  That sent Percy into raptures about his dinner, but it made Ellie eye his lordship in a new light. Poor man, to lose his whole family so early in life. No wonder he was surly.

  When silence fell on the table once more, Meg piped up with another question. “Where’s your smelly greens, sir?”

  The baron arched one eyebrow. “Smelly greens?”

  “She means branches and that, for Christmas,” Percy said. “You know, to hang on the banisters and mantels. Mama uses cedar. Meg doesn’t like the smell.”

  “Ah.”

  When that was his only answer, Tim asked, “Well? Where are they?”

  “Don’t be rude,” Ellie said. “I’m sure his lordship’s servants will put up the greenery when the time is right.” She couldn’t imagine the man doing it himself.

  “But Christmas will be here soon!” Tim shot his lordship a pleading glance. “Will you have them do it tomorrow?”

  Lord Thorncliff tensed, but said in a perfectly measured voice, “I can’t spare my staff for such things. There’s few enough to do the work as it is.” When a snort sounded, he glared at his butler. “Especially with the house full of guests. Isn’t that right, Mr. Huggett?”

  “Indeed, sir,” Mr. Huggett said in a noncommittal voice.

  Now that his lordship mentioned it, he did seem to lack an adequate staff. She’d seen no female servants, and only a few footmen and grooms, a cook, and Mr. Huggett. That might explain the poor condition of the manor.

  Or the manor’s sad state might be caused by the same thing that caused the small staff. A lack of money.

  That must be it! It explained so much—his snide comments about her fortune, his simple black attire . . . his intense involvement with the mine he owned. Her father owned a silver mine, but he never came home covered in dirt. Only the men who worked close to the mine did that, and apparently his lordship felt some need to do so. Was his mine failing, perhaps?

  And now they were taxing his stores by invading his home. That was surely another cause for his short temper. Like Byron’s corsair, he was “Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop,” unwilling to admit his poverty to the world.

  She would have to explain that he needn’t go into debt providing for them. They didn’t require roast beef and ham—game hens would do them perfectly well. Or she could find some delicate way of offering payment for their lodgings and food. It wasn’t right to take his hospitality and not do something in exchange.

  “Do you have horses, sir?” Percy asked. “You must, for I saw your groom. Could we go riding tomorrow?”

  “Not in this weather,” Ellie interjected, not wanting to put his lordship in the awkward position of having to admit he couldn’t afford a stable full of horses. “I doubt your mother will want you riding when there’s ice on the ground.”

  His lordship sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “But when the ice has melted, I have no objecti
on to your making use of my stable. I don’t have enough mounts to go around, but you could take turns.”

  “What’s in that stone barn Percy and I spotted out the back window—” Tim asked.

  “Stay away from that barn!” Lord Thorncliff snapped, his countenance abruptly darkening. When he caught her raising an eyebrow at him, he added, “This is one direct order I expect to be obeyed, Miss Bancroft.”

  “As you wish, sir,” she said in a caustic voice, but the boys weren’t so compliant, especially after his unexpected vehemence.

  “Why?” Percy asked. “What do you keep in there?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” his lordship growled.

  “Is it where you keep your hunting rifles?” Tim said excitedly.

  “No, blast it all!” His chair scraped the floor as he rose to his full height. “Don’t go anywhere near it! Because if you do, I swear I’ll take a switch to the lot of you! Is that understood?”

  No one had ever threatened to lift a hand to her aunt’s coddled boys. They gaped at him, utterly incapable of answering.

  “For goodness’ sake, Lord Thorncliff—” she began.

  “Is that understood?” he repeated, pounding his fists on the table.

  The boys visibly jumped. Then their heads bobbed furiously.

  Meg burst into tears.

  That seemed to jerk Lord Thorncliff out of his fit of temper. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, an almost comical expression of horror passing over his features. Then he let out a low curse and stormed from the room.

  “Ellieee!” Meg cried, holding up her arms.

  Ellie immediately went to sweep her up, her heart thundering in her ears after that violent display from the man she’d been feeling sorry for. He’d banished that impulse. How dared he threaten the children?

  “I don’t like the mean man!” Meg sobbed. “I-­I want to g-­go home!”

  “We’ll go soon,” Ellie assured her as Mr. Huggett hurried over. “I promise.”