He let his hand drop and Eleanor watched the shimmering reflections in the water. Again she turned and looked into his eyes. They were narrowed and intent, glowing with need, with warmth. His lips parted, curving in a smile. Pulling her to her feet, he drew her into his arms.
‘I should have known what would happen when I agreed to let you ride north with me. You’re not a woman a man can ignore. I want you, Eleanor. I’ve had many women—I cannot deny that, or that I enjoyed each one—but none of them meant anything to me. They were diversions. Would that you were a diversion, too.’
‘And Catherine?’ she asked, lowering her eyes. ‘Was she a diversion, William?’
His eyes darkened. ‘No, Catherine was the exception—but she is in the past.’ He sighed. ‘I never meant for any of this to happen, Eleanor, and I feel I must be honest with you. There’s no place in my life for an involvement just now. I have things to take care of, things to achieve, and any kind of attachment could be disastrous, for us both—a distraction for me. I cannot afford that.’
Reaching out, he gently placed a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. His eyes were filled with more than light interest as he admired her lovely face, and when he spoke Eleanor felt that deep, melodious voice wash over her. It caressed her just as his hand caressed.
‘I’ve tried to fight it—to deny it—but you’ve bewitched me, Eleanor.’
When his arms went around her waist and he clasped her loosely against him, his words caused her some disquiet, but when he peered into her eyes her heart seemed to cease to beat and the languor inside turned into an ache, unendurably sweet. His mouth covered hers, moist, firm, lightly touching at first, then probing and demanding, and, as the ache spread to her bones, sensations burst to life. Sliding her arms about his neck, drowning in these sensations that prolonged the exquisite torture, she wondered how long she could withstand him. When at last he lifted his mouth from hers, Eleanor was trembling with awakened desire.
‘William,’ she whispered. ‘I—’
He interrupted her in a deep, quiet voice. ‘I like to hear you say my name and take you in my arms.’
Again his lips covered hers, and he kissed her for a long time, tenderly, carefully, deliberately, holding back the urgent passion that possessed him. It was a restrained kiss, because he exercised the greatest control. Then he raised his head and their eyes met and held—his so light and hers deep and amber, mingling, touching hidden places and already imagining the possibility of a next time. It was like a caress.
‘I think we should go back to the others,’ he murmured, ‘before they come looking for us.’
‘We should?’
‘It’s necessary.’ He took her hand. ‘Come, before we forget ourselves. We have a long journey ahead of us.’
The excitement of the day and the long ride had taken it out of them all. They were quite worn out and went to bed as soon as supper was over. Lady Alice, suffering a headache, also went to her chamber.
Eleanor’s visit to Hollymead was uppermost in her mind and, wanting to wallow in the memories it had evoked, she was in no such haste to seek her bed. On a sigh she moved to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains and stared out at the night, the memories of her happy childhood surging and washing over her in great waves. The moon was bright in the dark violet sky, shining in untroubled serenity over the land.
‘Eleanor.’
There was a movement behind her and the voice that spoke her name was deep, warm and loving. She closed her eyes, feeling the dizzy aura of him, unable to resist it. Wanting to savour the sound of it, she didn’t turn, although she could imagine his eyes in the moonlight shining with an expression she would like to think he had given to no woman but her.
She heard him come closer, his footsteps almost soundless on the thick carpet, and then he was directly behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of him on her back. Then his arms snaked around her waist. He pulled her back and she sank into him, unable to resist despite her resolve to withstand his advances. He held her to his chest and buried his head into the curve of her neck, his lips warm, caressing her flesh. Sighing, she began to melt, feeling a languorous magic drift over her.
‘Mmm,’ he breathed. ‘You smell of roses.’
‘And you, my lord, smell of horses and fresh air and manly things.’
‘Do you mind?’ he asked, his teeth gently nibbling her earlobe.
‘Not in the slightest,’ she gasped, a thrill of excitement tingling along her nerves. ‘I like it. It’s a pleasant smell.’
‘Why are you alone? Where is everyone?’
‘In bed. Your mother has a headache and favoured an early night. As for Jane and Anne, they are quite worn out.’
‘And you are not?’
She shook her head. ‘So much has happened today. I’m tired, but I don’t feel like going to bed just yet,’ she said softly, covering his hands at her waist with her own. ‘I am trying not to think of the attack, to put it from my mind and think of Hollymead instead—to reminisce. Don’t you feel like going to bed either?’
‘Not yet—at least, not alone.’ His arms tightened about her and his voice was husky. ‘Do you know—have you the slightest idea how much I want you, Eleanor? Will you not turn round and tell me you feel the same? If you don’t, then I will leave you to your reminiscences.’
She turned slowly, shivering slightly, for she felt the full force of his masculinity, his vigour, the strong pull of his magnetism, which she knew was his need for her, wrap itself about her. His face was all shadow and planes in the candles’ glow, the cheekbones taut, the lips slightly parted. He was so tall, so handsome. She felt a hollow ache inside as he gazed down at her. She lifted her face and he placed his lips on hers, gently, barely discernible.
Raising his head, he took her head between his hands and splayed his fingers over her cheeks, looking into the liquid depths of her eyes. ‘You’re incredibly lovely, Eleanor Collingwood. I wonder if you have any idea how lovely you are.’
His voice was soft and melodious. Eleanor stood very still, barely able to breathe, yet she was trembling inside.
‘Come to bed with me, Eleanor.’
When he again took her lips, she moaned with pleasure. Did it matter that they weren’t wed when his mouth, his hands, his powerful body were demanding things from her that she knew she could give him, things she wanted as badly as he did?
‘We can’t, William,’ she murmured between kisses, which were having a weakening effect on her senses. ‘It’s not right. Your mother—’
‘My mother will know soon enough—if she doesn’t already—how things stand between us.’
His mouth closed over hers once more, moulding, caressing, savouring, his tongue invading the dewy softness with hot need. It was a wild, wanton kiss. Heat catapulted through Eleanor, setting her whole body on fire, and cindered every nerve beneath the crushing weight of his passion. She knew her vulnerability and seriously doubted that she could raise a hand to hold him off if she wanted to.
When he released her, he took her hand and led her out of the room and up the wide stairs. She went with him willingly, knowing it was wrong—and yet, she argued with herself, how could it be? She wanted him desperately and just now nothing mattered but that.
Drawing her inside his bedchamber, William closed the door and kissed her again, long and deep, and then with slow deliberation he began to undress her, his burning eyes devouring every inch of her exposed flesh. When she was naked he gathered her up into his arms in an act of possession into which Eleanor found herself snuggling with gratitude and what seemed to be absolute content. She wanted him and it was enough.
His silver-light eyes stared into her very soul, and she was hardly aware of the moment he placed her on the bed. William quickly divested himself of his clothing and stretched alongside her. The firm, hard muscles of his body pressed against hers, and the exploration of his hands on her flesh, gentle and caressing, his lips devouring and tender, had
her glowing and purring like a kitten.
A need began to grow inside her as his caresses grew bolder. It was a hollow feeling that ached to be filled. She felt on the threshold of some great and already overwhelming discovery. She quivered as his fingers stroked the swell of her breasts and continued over her flat belly and on to the curve of her hips and inner thighs and her feminine instinct whispered to her that her body held some incredible surprises in store for her. What he was doing to her was like being imprisoned in a cocoon of dangerous sensuality. She moaned and fought against the tumult of frayed emotions, but no effort of hers could bring about a quieting of her nerves.
William was slow, in no rush to possess her, for, this being her first time, she was innocent and inexperienced and she did not really know what to expect. Trapped beneath the exquisite promise of his aroused body and the persistence of his mouth, Eleanor began to tremble with uncontrollable need, and when he finally entered her William’s carefully withheld hunger released itself in a frenzy that demanded that he possess her fully.
Eleanor cried out and so did he, but all around them the people in the great house slept and the lovers were unheard.
Sated and heavy with a contentment she had never believed possible, Eleanor heaved a soft sigh and settled in the sheltering arms of her lover. How wonderful it was to linger in his arms, to watch the flickering firelight wash over their naked bodies still entwined and feel him hold her close, to rest her cheek on his chest and feel his heartbeat, to revel in the warmth of him, the smell of him, and to see his eyes fill with a hungry need as he rolled her on to her back and took possession of her once more, and for a while made her forget everything else.
Later, while she slept in his arms, William lay awake, staring up at the tasselled tester, his mind occupied with how he was to keep this woman who had come to mean so much to him in his house and in his life.
With the dawn came cold, harsh reality for Eleanor. Leaving the man sleeping amid a tangle of bed covers, his arms above his head and his powerful body stretched out, emotionally spent, she slipped out of William’s bed and silently made her way back to her own where she laid down and closed her eyes.
Never had she felt more desolate or more ashamed. What she had done betrayed herself, her upbringing, and worst of all, her parents—and she had betrayed them with the traitor who had betrayed her father, resulting in his execution. She despised herself for it, she despised herself for being so easily tempted and for the unprecedented weakness that had driven her to it. Her weak will and fragile moral fibre had crumbled in the face of William’s dangerous appeal. Only a fool without pride or sense would have done what she had done. It was totally inexcusable and she had sunk beyond social and moral redemption.
Later that same morning a messenger arrived at Staxton Hall from Lady Sandford. He brought two messages, one for Lady Alice and one for Eleanor, demanding that she go to Cantly Manor, insisting that her place was with her family. She wrote that Eleanor must inform her of what she intended doing and that when she decided to come she would send men who would escort her to Kensington. She also mentioned that Martin Taverner had been offered a profitable post at Court—thanks to the kindness of the Queen.
‘Will you go?’ Anne asked when Eleanor told her the contents of the letter. The three of them were in the solar, altering another gown for Eleanor.
Eleanor, who was mechanically going through the motions of carrying on and survival, nodded, ignoring the sudden knot in her chest. William had ridden off with Godfrey after breakfast and didn’t know about the letter. The night she had spent in his arms had altered everything. The agony she had felt when she had crept to her room earlier had receded to a dull numbness. All she wanted to do was to leave Staxton Hall and never look back, to forget everything. All her attention must be focused on that, on forgetting that she had ever met William Marston, and that she had been foolish and vulnerable enough to surrender her body to him like a common strumpet.
‘In truth, Anne, I think I must. You have all been very kind to me and I am most grateful, but I realise that I cannot remain here indefinitely. Hollymead is no longer my home—I have come to accept that, and I have no wish to return to Fryston Hall.’
‘Did you live at Fryston Hall with Catherine?’ Anne asked.
‘Yes. She was my stepsister.’
‘Did you like her?’
‘Of course I did. We spent a great deal of time together.’
‘It’s odd—you think so too, don’t you, Jane?—that William didn’t spend longer in London before coming here. After all, they were to have been married. He must have missed her—being away from her all that time.’
Eleanor looked from one to the other. ‘Catherine married someone else. Didn’t you know?’
They stopped sewing and gaped at her. ‘What?’ Anne asked disbelievingly. ‘Oh, poor William. How awful that must have been for him. Why did she do that?’
‘I suppose she got tired of waiting,’ Jane said. ‘She probably thought he was never coming back and she couldn’t be expected to wait for ever. But you must know how she felt when William suddenly turned up, Eleanor. Was she overjoyed, upset—or is she so much in love with her new husband that she no longer cares?’
‘I—I think Catherine does still care. When William arrived at Fryston Hall Catherine had only been married for a few hours. It was her wedding day—and, yes, she was greatly affected by William’s sudden appearance.’
‘Poor William.’ Anne sighed, resting her sewing in her lap. ‘Little wonder he doesn’t speak of her. He must be hurting terribly.’
‘He—William—loved her?’ Eleanor enquired tentatively.
‘Of course he loved her,’ Anne told her with all the passion of youth. ‘William told us how beautiful she is, how fine and gentle—indeed, none more so. How could he help himself loving her? The worst of it is that I think in his heart he still does.’
Eleanor felt the vicious thrust of foreboding. Anne’s words tore into her heart and mind with a rending impact that shocked her. She felt more hurt than she cared to admit. She listened in cold disquiet as Anne went on to sing Catherine’s praises, and she found it difficult to equate this loving, caring woman with the Catherine she knew.
‘Do you think Catherine will divorce her husband?’ Jane asked, threading another length of silk through her needle.
Eleanor shook her head. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Her father would never permit it. Did—either of you ever meet Catherine?’ she asked, hating discussing Catherine, but feeling compelled to know all there was to know about how close she had been to William.
‘We never did,’ Jane said with a note of regret, ‘although William used to speak of her all the time when he was home.’
As the two girls continued chatting like two vivacious humming birds, blithely impervious to what she was feeling and the hurtful jealousy scraping at her heart, Eleanor lowered her head over her work, a sick feeling of disappointment welling up within her. She longed to give vent to her own bitter pain. Never had any man appeared so attractive to her, and never had her heart called out so strongly to another.
Was his heart still entwined with Catherine’s, she asked herself, and, if so, how could he have taken her, Catherine’s stepsister, to his bed? She should have repulsed him, which was what any good, decent, God-fearing young woman would have done. But that wasn’t what she had done, she thought with self-revulsion. No, indeed. Instead she had allowed her father’s betrayer to kiss and touch her, and worse.
Chapter Seven
The arrival of a second messenger from London later that day brought a letter for William. It was from an associate informing him of matters at Court and other matters that might be of interest to him. The messenger was known to William and, closeted in the privacy of the library, they talked well into the night.
The following morning he brusquely announced to his mother that he was leaving for London that very day.
‘What on earth for?’ his mother said, alar
med and clearly upset by his sudden decision. ‘The roads will be atrocious, as they always are at this time of year. If you must go, then surely the most sensible thing would be for you to wait until spring.’
‘I can’t wait that long. I have some urgent business to attend to that cannot wait. I shall hire extra men to add to your protection while I’m away.’
‘I see. Then, if it is so important, I suppose you had better go. But you will not be away too long, I hope. Staxton Hall has been too long without its master.’
From where she sat, Eleanor watched William in silence. Ever since that letter had come the change in him was immediate and Eleanor could not determine his emotions. There was a new tension in his body, a new tightness about his jaw and a restlessness about his manner. She tried to read his thoughts, trying not to be distracted by the curve of his mouth and softened by the lock of hair falling over his worried brow. What was so urgent that he had to hurry back to London?
She was alone in a small parlour, settled before the fire sewing some buttons on to the bodice of a gown when she heard the door open. She knew it was William and she held her breath as his soft footfalls echoed around her.
‘Can you stop that for now?’ he asked quietly.
Raising her head, she looked up at him. She studied the terse lines of his face revealed by the firelight. There were dark shadows around his eyes, and the uncompromising lines at the sides of his mouth had not been there when she stole from his room the day before.
His close presence emanated a sense of controlled power straining beneath the surface. Just when she thought that she would not be affected by him he appeared and all her carefully tended illusions were dashed. Why had he sought her out? Why hadn’t he just gone away and let her be reconciled to his leaving? Why did he have to prolong her misery?
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