“It’s not enough.”
“Damn it, Eleanor.” Leath’s temper flared, despite his determination to stay calm. “You’ve survived in my company since September. The odds are good that you’ll still be breathing tomorrow morning.”
She recoiled. “You didn’t know I was working against you then.”
Sedgemoor studied them. Leath hoped for the sake of the duke’s health that he wasn’t hiding a smile. “Miss Trim, I’d wager my fortune that you’re safe.”
Before she could protest, he left the room, shutting the door firmly. A leaden silence crashed down.
“I don’t have to stay,” Eleanor said mulishly and whirled around to tug at the doorknob.
“Eleanor,” he said quietly.
At the sound of her name, she stilled. Her shoulders rose and fell as she inhaled. Slowly she turned. Over the last few minutes, he’d seen her terror and hatred. Now she regarded him like a stranger.
His soul revolted at that idea. They’d shared a bed. He believed that Eleanor Trim was the other half of his soul. God grant him the eloquence to convince her to give him another chance.
“I don’t care if you hurt me,” she said coldly.
His temper, barely controlled, fueled by worry and sleeplessness, sparked anew. “Hells bells, do you really think I would?”
Her face remained a beautiful mask. Since she’d deserted him, he’d hungered for the sight of her. But her stony expression made him want to break something. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“Yes, you do,” he barked before his tone lowered to acid derision. “And surely you credit me with the intelligence not to murder you with a house full of witnesses.”
“You’re angry enough.” Contempt dripped from her words. “And desperate enough. I mean to bring you down, my lord.”
She’d already brought him down, did she but know it. Mere weeks in Eleanor Trim’s company and his life was bedlam. “I still won’t hurt you.”
She tilted her chin. “That would sound more convincing if you weren’t trampling me.”
Shocked, he realized that in his rage, he crowded her. She pressed against the door to avoid contact with his vile self. The urge to grab her and kiss her until she forgot this nonsense surged, but he beat it back. He glanced down at his fisted hands. No wonder Eleanor was frightened.
While she seemed certain that nothing between them had been true, he remained sure of her. He’d always been sure of her obstinacy. A disconcerting quality in a housemaid. In a woman who set herself up as his enemy, it was dangerous. He stared into her eyes, eyes that had once been full of sweet passion, and saw fear and anger and courage.
The courage reminded him why she was worth every effort. Why he’d allow her more leeway than anyone else. He stepped back, uncurled his fingers, and spread his hands. “I’m sorry.”
She frowned as though his apology made no sense. He bit back another snarl as he realized that she hadn’t expected him to act like a civilized man, but like the cur she believed him. So far, he wasn’t doing much to refute that opinion. Sighing he gestured for her to move into the room. “Please sit down. We need to talk.”
She didn’t budge. “No, we don’t.”
If his life wasn’t spinning completely out of control, he’d smile at that stalwart response. He pointed toward the chairs near the fire. “Please.”
Eventually she pushed away from the door and edged across to the hearth. With a pang, he noticed what a wide berth she gave him. He noticed something else. “Where did you get that dress?”
“It’s Lady Hillbrook’s.” The exasperated glance she shot him as she perched on a chair was a painful reminder of their former ease with each other. “My clothes are still at the cottage.”
“Whose fault is that?” he snapped, following with deliberate slowness so that she wouldn’t feel pursued. Although he stalked her now as carefully as a starving tiger stalked a stray goat.
“Yours.” She sat rigidly and folded her hands in her lap.
The dark blue dress brought out the satiny whiteness of her skin and the pale splendor of her hair, caught up in a more elaborate style than usual. She looked like a great lady. How he wished that his mother could see her. He wasn’t entirely delighted with her finery. When Miss Trim had flitted about his house in her puritanical dresses, he’d lived under the happy illusion that he alone had noted her beauty. She’d been his private treasure. Anyone seeing her now would be rightly dazzled.
There was a chair close to hers. Now that the shock of seeing her passed, he was able to consider strategy. With a completely assumed nonchalance, he took the seat on the opposite side of the fire. “You lied to me. There’s no Lady Bascombe. No Willow House.”
She frowned as if struggling to remember. “I needed references to work for you.”
“So you wrote them yourself?”