‘I cannot change my nature, I am a passionate creature.’
‘I am controlled by my passions.’
‘I am in thrall to my passions.’
How many variants had she heard of that sentiment, over the years? Passion was her mother’s excuse for every aspect of her behaviour, as if she had no will of her own. Was that passion or was it simply selfishness? Mama had always done exactly what she wanted, when she wanted. She indulged her every whim, utterly indifferent to the consequences and the suffering she inflicted on her daughters or her husband or anyone else. Good grief, Eloise thought, much struck. This was not passion, it was an obsession with pleasing herself.
While Papa—yes, Papa really had loved Mama. Her infidelities had crushed his spirit. Yes, he had shouted and angrily demanded that it never happen again, but he’d made pleading promises too, to try harder, to love Mama more. Had these arguments really been played out in front of all three girls, or was her memory at fault? No, she was sure she wasn’t misremembering, though she hadn’t realised at the time quite how breathtakingly wrong Mama’s behaviour had been. How could she ever have worried about being in the least bit like her in nature?
Poor Papa, so hopelessly in thrall to Mama that he must always surrender to her demands, forgive her for the sins it didn’t even occur to her she’d committed, worship ever more fervently at her feet. It hadn’t occurred to Eloise to feel sorry for him before. Love made a weak cuckold of Papa. Selfishness made a ruthless harlot of Mama. The pair of them had been miserable, and as a consequence so too had all their children, including Diarmuid, the favourite, and as such exposed to even larger doses of their parents’ misery than the rest of them. She had always assumed his increasingly selfish nature had been because he was spoilt, that his tantrums and determination to rule the roost when he visited were his arrogant assumption of superiority. Now she wondered what it must have been like for him, to see his sisters so close-knit, to be on the outside of the little signs of affection, the jokes, the very different life they shared. He must have felt excluded. Perhaps he’d been jealous. If they’d made more of an effort with him, would he have made more of an effort in return? But they had all of them been set in their ways, not through choice so much as circumstances, moulded, inculcated by Mama and Papa. Poor Diarmuid must have suffered, in a very different way, but he must have been miserable all the same. Eloise hadn’t thought of that before either.
What a mess her parents had made of their lives and their children’s. My goodness though, how enlightening it was turning out to be, to look at it all from such a different perspective. Ever since she’d been old enough to understand, she had been afraid of passion. Quite needlessly, as it turned out. A slow smile dawned on her as she stared out the window, where the sun was already up. Why had it taken her so long to realise that her fears of emulating her mother were ludicrous? Because she’d never been kissed before? Because she had not, until Alexander kissed her—oh, those kisses!—understood what she had been missing? Now she did, and she need no longer worry that it was wrong to enjoy those kisses. Or to want more.
Her smile faded. To want more was to breach the terms of their marriage. The more intimate aspect of marriage does not appeal to me. Those had been her own toe-curling words. And Alexander had said love was anathema to him. Well, and so it was to her, but he’d also said—yes, he’d said that though he’d had affaires in the past, at this moment in time he had ‘no interest in finding comfort in another’s arms’. Yet he’d seemed very interested in finding comfort in hers! True, he had insisted each time that he had been playing the husband when he kissed her, and she had been so desperate to lie to herself that she had gladly accepted that reassurance. But now?
In the ballroom, the night before their wedding party, there was nothing made up about those kisses, she was sure of it. And last night, before the ball—there was no one watching them, there was no reason for them to kiss, yet they had still kissed. Why would a man so attractive, so evidently capable of passion, vow that he had no interest in passion? For how long had he lacked interest? What had happened to make him lose interest? And why, then, was he interested in her? Was it because they were closeted together and she had unwittingly encouraged him?
A tap at the bedroom door roused Eloise from these intriguing conundrums. A new delivery had arrived from Madame LeClerc. Temporarily distracted, she examined the afternoon dress of gold-striped silk. It was beautifully stitched, even more lovely than she’d imagined it when they had agreed the design. Clever Madame LeClerc had enhanced the detailing of the sleeves, which were puffed at the shoulder, but now tied in at the elbow with gold ribbon, tapering down to the lace trim. She had used the same pretty lace at the neckline, but where Eloise would have kept the hem plain, Madame LeClerc had had it worked with a design of leaves and fronds in gold satin which weighted the dress down nicely, and elevated it from a gown which might be worn by a country miss to one in which a countess could happily receive callers. Or go in search of her husband.
* * *
She found him, eventually, in the portrait gallery. Alexander did not see her at first, for he was engaged in shooting practice. Eloise stood unobserved by the doors at one end of the long gallery, watching as he primed four different pistols. He was dressed in leather breeches and boots, a shirt open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves showing his tanned, sinewy forearms, his hair tousled, his jaw rough with stubble. She had never seen him look so dishevelled. He would look like this first thing in the morning. What would it be like to wake up beside him, warm from sleep, to kiss him, feel the roughness of his skin against hers before he shaved?
The retort of the first bullet made her jump. Alexander shot each pistol one after the other in rapid succession at a target set up at the opposite end of the room. She would have been horrified, if there had been time to be horrified, for if he missed, then the bullet would lodge in one of the portraits on the wall behind. But he did not miss, his aim was unerring.
With the last gun smoking in his hand he sensed her presence and turned. ‘Eloise!’ He was frowning as he set the gun down. ‘I thought you would sleep at least until noon.’
‘I slept until nine, which is late for me. I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ she said, as he set about reloading the pistols.
‘As I said, I thought you would still be asleep.’
He did not request that she leave, but he hadn’t encouraged her to remain either. She hesitated, but Sir Marcus’s enigmatic warning had made her curious. ‘I know nothing of such things, but you look to me as if you know what you are doing. May I see?’ Without waiting for his permission, she made her way down the gallery to the target, astonished to see the inner ring riddled with bullet holes. ‘I think that you must be what they call a crack shot.’
‘I have a good eye, nothing more.’
‘Good enough to hit the middle of the target with four different weapons. Is marksmanship something else required from a Victualling Commissioner? If so, I am not surprised that Sir Marcus considers you invaluable—there must be very few men in the country qualified to fulfil the role so well.’
Alexander appraised her coolly. Though she held his gaze it was not easy, for there was not a trace of the warmth she had become accustomed to in his eyes. It hurt, because he was studying her as if she was a stranger. ‘Very well, don’t answer, I don’t care, though why what you do is such a huge secret, and who you think I would discuss it with even if you did deign to tell me a little about it, I can’t imagine.’
Eloise glared, but Alexander remained impassive. Now she wasn’t hurt, she was annoyed. ‘Sir Marcus told me that Victualling Commissioners are not usually permitted to marry,’ she threw at him. ‘He seemed to think that I was some sort of threat to your ability to perform your duties.’
Still he studied her. She would not say another word until he spoke! But she would not allow him to wear her down by staring at her. Turning
back to the target, she saw that there was a straw bale placed behind it. The bullets must be lodged in it. She traced the bullet holes with her finger. ‘These are not even an inch apart. I would certainly not like to face you in a duel.’
‘If Walter had been as proficient, perhaps he would be alive today.’
She whirled around in shock. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘My brother was killed in a duel.’ Alexander pushed back his hair from his eyes, which she could see now were shadowed. Unlike her, he had not slept. ‘I didn’t tell you because—oh, I don’t know, because it puts him in a bad light. A pretty terrible light. Now I know that there’s no other kind of light to view him in. Last night, listening to Raymond, made me realise that I knew very little of his life. I took a look at his personal accounts after you went to bed. Robertson sent me the papers after we were married, but I hadn’t opened them. They made sickening reading. Walter was a libertine, a spendthrift and a drunk who considered the likes of my cousin excellent company.’
‘Good grief!’ So she wasn’t the only one who had spent the morning reflecting on her family’s behaviour. ‘The clubs your cousin referred to last night were gambling hells, I take it?’
‘Walter didn’t gamble, or if he did he didn’t play deep. No, the establishments Raymond referred to last night, clearly documented in Walter’s accounts along with the associated fees, are euphemistically known as gentlemen’s clubs, though I doubt very much that any gentlemanly behaviour takes place behind their secret doors.’
‘I don’t know what you—oh! You mean—do you mean brothels?’
‘That is essentially what they are, though it would offend the delicate sensibilities of those who haunt them to call them anything so base,’ Alexander said, his voice dripping with contempt. ‘They would claim to be very exclusive establishments, supplying only the best to the best. The purest, finest-quality goods for the delectation of the most discerning of customers. As if they were butchers supplying fresh meat to a dining club of gourmands.’
It took Eloise a moment to understand his meaning. When she did, she felt sick. ‘That is disgusting.’
‘You have no idea how disgusting.’ Alexander shook his head. ‘Enough. This is hardly a fit subject for your ears.’
‘Or anyone’s ears. You look exhausted.’
‘I couldn’t sleep last night after my cousin made me realise I know next to nothing about my brother—and given what I know now, I wish I had remained ignorant. Come, let me introduce you to the man himself.’ He steered her across to the opposing wall of the gallery. ‘This must have been commissioned to commemorate his inheriting the title, as you can see from his ermines.’
Which meant the Seventh Earl had been thirty-six when he sat for Sir Thomas Lawrence, Eloise deduced. Assuming that Lawrence had painted with his usual flattering eye, then Walter had not aged at all well. The same lines of dissipation she’d noticed around Raymond’s eyes last night were, if anything, more exaggerated. Though the Earl was still a handsome man, there was a cruel twist to the thin lips, an arrogance in his stance, in the way he thrust his shoulders back, one hand holding out his velvet robe proudly. And in his gaze, there was a self-absorption, a callous concern only for himself, which looked out of the canvas over the head of the viewer. Though she might, Eloise thought ruefully, be reading just a bit too much into the composition.
‘Well?’
‘He is very much as I imagined. There is something of you in the shape of the chin and the colouring, but the resemblance is not strong.’
‘For very good reasons.’
She was puzzled by this, but on reflection thought she understood. ‘You have lived very different lives. One doesn’t have to know anything about the subject,’ Eloise said, pointing at Walter, ‘to see that the life this man has embraced has taken its toll.’
‘The gentleman next to him is the Sixth Earl, and next to him the Fifth, Fourth, and so on.’
‘Your father, grandfather, great-grandfather. My goodness, Alexander, the family resemblance is strong.’
‘In more ways than one. What you are looking at is a long line of libertines and spendthrifts. I don’t know if all of them were also drunkards, but I don’t think I’d bet against it.’
Eloise studied the portraits in turn, working her way back before coming to a halt at the end of the line, back in front of the Seventh Earl, Walter. ‘I remember you said that the line has always been passed directly from father to son. Even if I didn’t know that, these portraits would confirm it. And yet when your portrait is placed here, it will look as if the pattern has been broken, since you do not resemble these men in any way.’
‘I have no intentions of having my portrait hung here. The pattern has already been broken.’
‘It certainly has, you are neither a spendthrift nor a libertine nor a drunk.’ She couldn’t understand his mood. ‘But such behaviour can’t be inherited, Alexander.’
‘Not inherited, no. Rather it was bred into him by his father. I told you, Walter was raised here in this house, exposed, from an early age, to the debauched company his father kept. Introduced, as soon as he was old enough, to those clubs which would, if the damage was not already done, corrupt any innocent. Those are the Fearnoch traditions passed from father to son. I didn’t know, until now, just how fortunate I have been to be spared Walter’s upbringing.’
‘Even though it meant that you were all but ostracised? I’m sorry to cause you pain, Alexander, but it seems to me such a very cruel thing for your parents to have done.’
He was staring at the portrait of the Sixth Earl, his father. ‘I am glad it turned out that way,’ he said.
‘What would your father think of you standing here instead of Walter.’
Alexander’s smile was cruel. ‘He could never have envisaged that twist of fate.’ He turned away and began to pack up the pistols. ‘My brother did not confine his amorous activities to professional establishments. He met his end after being shot by a jealous husband. The wound wasn’t fatal, but it became infected, allowing the doctor to record that he died of a fever, and allowing the cuckold to escape a murder trial. And they call duels a matter of honour,’ he said bitterly, closing one of the pistol cases. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing with this room, but if you want to take down the portraits and use it for another purpose, then you have my blessing. I could do with some fresh air to clear my head. Will you come for a drive with me?’
‘Don’t you want to get some sleep instead?’
‘I want to escape this house, and all it represents, and enjoy my wife’s company. If she is amenable?’
‘In that case, she is very amenable.’
* * *
Alexander had the grooms harness up the phaeton kept in the stable block while he shaved and changed. His rare forays home from foreign shores had not warranted his owning a carriage, but to one who had negotiated the traffic chaos of Madrid, Lisbon and Cairo, these less familiar but comparatively ordered city streets were child’s play. Eloise had exchanged her gold gown for a green walking dress and matching pelisse, her face framed by a straw bonnet. Her smile went a long way to lifting his spirits as he helped her into the carriage.
The sun was shining, the sky was blue with hardly a cloud in sight. It was a nigh on perfect English summer’s afternoon as they set out, taking a route through Hyde Park, skirting Holland Park and on through Kensington where the traffic began to ease.
As the city gave way to more open countryside, Eloise gazed at their surroundings with obvious pleasure. ‘It is astonishing how easy it is to escape the city. It’s silly, but I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath the whole time I’ve been in London, and now I can finally breathe.’
‘That’s more to do with having negotiated the ordeal of the ball, than anything to do with the sweetness of the air,’ Alexander said, though it struck him that he felt something
similar. In the portrait gallery this morning, he’d had the impression that Fearnoch House was closing in on him. ‘It has been a hectic fortnight.’
‘But worth it, I hope? Last night paid off, didn’t it—at least I think so, if the number of cards and letters I had in this morning’s post is anything to go by.’
‘You were a triumph.’
‘We were a triumph,’ she corrected him. ‘I must confess, I’m glad that we didn’t marry in the middle of the London Season. I am not sure I’m either ready for or interested in an endless round of socialising. Is it ungrateful of me to say that I’m actually relieved that most people will be decanting to the country soon?’
‘So you’ve decided against the notion of setting yourself up as a society hostess?’
‘That was never one of my ambitions.’ Eloise’s smile faded. ‘I wanted to be free to do whatever I choose. It’s somewhat disconcerting to find that I have little idea how to set about discovering what that is.’
‘It’s not surprising. You’ve hardly had a moment to yourself since our wedding day.’
‘I know, I know. It is a terrible fault of mine, always to be thinking too far ahead, worrying about things that haven’t yet happened.’
‘An understandable trait, however. You must have lived on tenterhooks, not knowing from one day to the next whether your parents were going to descend on you, or whether your latest governess was going to fly the coop.’
‘Or whether there would be something for dinner, sometimes.’
‘Surely things can’t have been as bad as that?’
Eloise shrugged, staring out at the expanse of fields they were passing as they came to the outskirts of the village of Hammersmith. ‘The Vineyard Nursery,’ she read as they passed the entrance. ‘I recognise that name. I believe Kate has ordered plants from here.’
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