by Kelly Bowen

Earl. War hero. Notorious rake. After the Battle of Waterloo, Eli Dawes was presumed dead—and would have happily stayed that way. He's no longer the reckless young man he once was, and he’s not half as pretty either. All he wants is to hide away in his country home, where no one can see his scars. But when he tries to sneak into his old bedroom in the middle of the night, he's shocked to find someone already there…

“Don’t move.”

Eli froze at the voice. He turned his head slightly, only to feel the tip of a knife prick the skin at his neck.

“I asked you not to move.”

Eli clenched his teeth. It was a feminine voice, he thought. Or perhaps that of a very young boy, though the authority it carried suggested the former. A maid, then. Perhaps she had been up, or perhaps he had woken her. He supposed that this was what he deserved for sneaking into a house unannounced and unexpected. It was, in truth, his house now, but nevertheless, the last thing he needed was for her to start shrieking for help and summon the entire household. He wasn’t ready to face that just yet.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said clearly.

“Not on your knees with my knife at your neck, I agree.” The knife tip twisted, though it didn’t break the skin.

“There is a reasonable explanation.” He fought back frustration. Dammit, but he just wanted to be left alone.

“I’m sure. But the silverware is downstairs,” the voice almost sneered. “In case you missed it.”

“I’m not a thief.” He felt his brow crease slightly. Something about that voice was oddly familiar.

“Ah.” The response was measured, though there was as slight waver to it. “I’ll scream this bloody house down before I allow you to touch me or any of the girls.”

“I’m not touching anyone,” he snapped, with far more force than was necessary, before he abruptly stopped. Any of the girls? What the hell did that mean?

The knife tip pressed down a little harder, and Eli winced. He could hear rapid breathing, and a new scent reached him, one unmistakably feminine. Soap, he realized, the fragrance exotic and faintly floral. Something that one wouldn’t expect from a maid.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I might ask the same.”

“Criminals don’t have that privilege.”

Eli bit back another curse. This was ridiculous. His knees were getting sore, he was chilled to the bone and exhausted from travel, and he was in his own damn house. If he had to endure England, it would not be like this.

In a fluid motion, he dropped flat against the floor and rolled immediately to the side, sweeping his arm up to knock that of his attacker. He heard her utter a strangled gasp as the knife fell to the floor and she stumbled forward, caught off balance. Eli was on his knees instantly, his hands catching hers as they flailed at him. He pinned her wrists, twisting her body so it was she who was on the floor, on her back, with Eli hovering over her. She sucked in a breath, and he yanked a hand away to cover her mouth, stopping her scream before it ever escaped.

“Again,” he said between clenched teeth, “I am not going to hurt you.” Beneath his hand her head jerked from side to side. She had fine features, he realized. In fact, all of her felt tiny, from the bones in her wrists to the small frame that was struggling beneath him. It made him feel suddenly protective. As if he held something infinitely fragile that was his to care for.

Though a woman who brandished a knife in such a manner couldn’t be that fragile. He tightened his hold. “If you recall, it was you who had me at a disadvantage with a knife at my neck. I will not make any apologies for removing myself from that position. Nor will I make any apologies for my presence at Avondale. I have every right to be here.”

Her struggles stilled.

Eli tried to make out her features in the darkness, but it was impossible. “If I take my hand away, will you scream?”

He felt her shake her head.

“Promise?”

She made a furious noise in the back of her throat in response.

Very slowly Eli removed his hand. She blew out a breath but kept her word and didn’t scream. He released her wrists and pushed himself back on his heels. He heard the rustle of fabric, and the air stirred as she pushed herself away. Her scent swirled around him before fading.

“You’re not a maid,” he said.

“What?” Her confusion was clear. “No.”

“Then who are you?” he demanded. “And why are you in my rooms?”

“Your rooms?” Now there was disbelief. “I don’t know who you think you are or where you think you are, but I can assure you that these are not your rooms.”

Eli swallowed, a sudden thought making his stomach sink unpleasantly. Had Avondale been sold? Had he had broken into a house that, in truth, he no longer owned? It wasn’t impossible. It might even be probable. He had been away a long time.

“Is it my brother you are looking for? Is someone hurt?”

The question caught him off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you need a doctor?”

Eli found himself scowling fiercely, completely at a loss. Nothing since he had pushed open that door had made any sort of sense. “Who owns Avondale?”

“What?” Now it was her turn to sound stymied.

“This house—was it sold? Do you own it?”

“No. We’ve leased Avondale from the Earl of Rivers for years. From his estate now, I suppose, until they decide what to do with it.” Suspicion seeped from every syllable. “Did you know him before he died? The old earl?”

Eli opened his mouth before closing it. He finally settled on, “Yes.”

“Then you’re what? A friend of the family? Relative?”

“Something like that.”

“Which one?”

Eli drew in a breath that wasn’t wholly steady. He tried to work his tongue around the words that would forever commit him to this place. That would effectively sever any retreat.

He cleared his throat. “I am the Earl of Rivers.”

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