Forbidden Lord

by Helen Dickson

  ‘I realise my situation is dire, Aunt Matilda, with nothing of my own. I—I will do as you wish and marry Martin—if he still wants me, that is. Whether we will be happy is another matter entirely,’ she remarked drily.

  ‘Marriage was never intended to be happy. Fruitful, yes, and we will have to pray that you will succeed in that.’

  Eleanor winced at her aunt’s plain speaking, but said nothing.

  Later, when she was in bed, she felt tears fill her eyes and slant from the corners to her temple and into her hair. For the first time since entering Cantly Manor she allowed herself to think of William.

  Had Catherine been ready to receive him with open, possessive arms? Lovely Catherine, elegant and graceful—marriageable and highly suitable for a man like William. Was he with her? Was he kissing Catherine like he had kissed her? The memory only served to remind her of the bleakness of the future that filled her world. William had stolen her heart, but his own had not been his to give. Catherine still had claim on that.

  Eleanor forced herself to go over every detail of that one night of blissful passion they had shared. It was like a self-scourging, a deliberate act on her part to try and purge herself of the feelings she had for William. If she was able to make herself accept it, to believe it, to be unconcerned that he had returned to Catherine, she had to wallow in the pain of it—like salt in an open wound that was agonizing, but healing—and then she must learn to suffocate all her feelings for him, not think of him. She must force herself to believe that their embraces had never happened, that everything was the same as before, and she must never compare Martin Taverner with him.

  But she knew that the despairing pain she felt would always be there. It might dull with the years, but it would never leave her and she grieved for his loss as though he were dead.

  Lord Taverner and his son were expected at any time. Aunt Matilda was excited by the visit. Eleanor noted her high colour and the way she fidgeted nervously with her handkerchief. Why, she thought, her aunt was like a young girl awaiting her first swain, whereas Eleanor was seated in the window bay shivering convulsively, partly from dread at the expected visitors and mainly because it was bitterly cold in the big gloomy room with its tapestried walls and carved gilded ceiling. She drew her wrap closer about her as the icy chill seemed to penetrate her very bones, and her aunt’s presence did not serve to distract her thoughts from her misery.

  And suddenly they had arrived. Eleanor rose to meet the guests, forgetful now of the cold and having made up her mind to be calm and reasonable. Lord Taverner preceded his son. He was a man whom Eleanor had no particular liking for. She had seen him bully Martin in the past, and that had not created a favourable opinion of him. He was of medium height and thickset with a balding pate, his face showing all the signs of good living.

  Two paces behind his father, Martin was staring at Eleanor owl-eyed, obviously pleased to see her again and enchanted with his bride-to-be.

  Lord Taverner beamed at her. He knew Eleanor Collingwood to be a high-spirited girl and that she had a temper—better if she had been more docile, but beggars can’t be choosers, he thought. She was not possessed of a particularly submissive nature, a fact of which her aunt was painfully aware, having disobeyed her stepfather’s stricture by running away.

  ‘We are delighted you have agreed to Martin’s marriage proposal at last, Eleanor. I am looking forward to welcoming you into the Taverner family.’

  ‘I aim to please.’

  Lord Taverner laughed loud. ‘Not only have you a pretty face, my dear, but a pretty tongue, too. As for pleasing me, you will find it an easy task when you and Martin are wed.’

  ‘As long as her desire to please you is not greater than her desire to please your son,’ Matilda ventured, bestowing on her guest one of her rare smiles.

  Martin moved to stand in front of Eleanor. His smile was warm. ‘I-I am w-well pleased, Eleanor. It’s been so l-long since I saw you—at Catherine’s wedding, in fact. I never thought y-you’d accept.’

  She made to curtsy but Martin caught her hand tightly in his. ‘Nay, Eleanor, y-you must not kneel to me. You are t-taller than I remember.’

  Seeing his shy smile and hearing his stammer—not quite so pronounced as it had been when she had first known him—she relaxed and returned his smile. His remarkably attractive face, his skin as soft as a girl’s, was marred only by the hint of sulkiness about his soft, bow-shaped mouth. ‘I have not grown all that much since our last meeting, Martin. You are not tall, but none the less taller than I remember.’

  ‘You are k-kind, Eleanor. Please believe me,’ he said earnestly, ‘that I have no wish to rush you into anything you w-will regret, but if you will allow me, I—I would like for us to be married very s-soon.’

  His father’s eye fell on him like a black cloud. Martin’s stammer was a curse and just one of the numerous grievances he held against his son, and watching the boy survey his own fingernails in a lazy fashion and buff them against his doublet only added to his anger. He had known for years that Martin was soft and weak and not like other men, and he doubted he would ever take a woman. People would always take advantage of him.

  Lord Taverner would rather pass the estate to John, his other son, who was five years Martin’s junior. He had been hankering after a betrothal between Eleanor and Martin for a long time, and although he doubted the marriage would prove fruitful, he would live in hope that his effeminate son would surprise him and prove him wrong. If not, when John eventually wed he would pass the estate to him and his heirs.

  When his father fell into conversation with Lady Sandford, Martin drew Eleanor aside. ‘I was so happy when I knew you’d come to live at Cantly Manor, Eleanor, and th-that you’d agreed to marry me. We will be happy, I know we will, and you m-must come to Court. It’s so exciting—one can’t f-fail to be impressed.’

  ‘Aunt Matilda tells me your position at Court has to do with organising entertainments for the Queen.’

  Martin grinned, puffing his chest out like a cock pheasant, pleased with himself. ‘I assist Lord Robert Dudley—who as you will know is Master of Horse and Ceremonies, which m-means he is asked to organise all manner of entertainments for which the Queen has an insatiable appetite—masques, banquets, jousts, tennis matches, horse races and masquerades, to name but a few. A most delightful programme of entertainments has been planned for the Court season.’

  Eleanor noted how eager he had become and an animated gleam glittered in his eyes. He also had a tendency to babble when he became excited, overcoming his stammer. ‘You obviously enjoy your work, Martin.’

  He smiled affably enough, yet Eleanor found herself mistrusting it—it was a smile that hid something, and that something she felt instinctively would not be to her liking or advantage.

  ‘I’m h-hardly a member of the inner circle, but I d-do like being at Court—as you will, when we are w-wed.’

  ‘And are you still writing your verse, Martin?’

  ‘P-plays, satires, lampoons. They are all the fashion at Court.’

  As Eleanor listened to Aunt Matilda and Lord Taverner making plans for her marriage to Martin, in her breast was a leaden weight and yet at the same time she felt a great emptiness, hollow and dragging her down. She was glad of her own detachment, her sense of disorientation, as if she were watching another woman’s agony.

  There was a foolish refusal to believe what was happening because it was too dreadful to contemplate—too dreadful to consider a life without William in it—that she would never see him again. And so she tried to blank out of her mind that which was unbearable, but must be borne.

  Bear it she did, as best she could, but she felt a curious need to see Catherine again, to offer her condolence for her loss—and no matter what had gone before, she did want her stepsister at her wedding. So, three days before her wedding, accompanied by one of her aunt’s ladies and a groom, she rode to Chelsea to visit her stepsister, arriving during the afternoon at the house in which Catherin
e had lived briefly with Henry Wheeler. It was a splendid, well-proportioned mansion, with a gatehouse that commanded the approach to the courtyard, and the River Thames flowing past the bottom of the formal, terraced gardens.

  Eleanor dismounted and handed her horse to the groom. Moving towards the steps at the front of the house, on seeing a stable boy leading a horse to the stables at the back of the house, she paused. The huge chestnut hunter with four equal white socks and flowing blond mane and tail she recognised as belonging to Godfrey. There could be no mistake—and if Godfrey was here, then William was sure to be.

  Her heart was heavy as she was shown inside the house and taken to a small parlour to await Catherine and, in all probability, William. To her relief Catherine entered the room alone.

  Catherine was sorely chafed as to who would come visiting at such an inconvenient time, and she was unable to hide her surprise on seeing Eleanor. Her initial reaction was one of pleasure, but she quickly recollected herself. Her mouth tightened and an icy coldness hardened her eyes. She would like to show her stepsister the door, to send her back from whence she came. It was the snip she deserved.

  Her resentment began to rise as her eyes flickered over Eleanor, noting every detail of her crimson gown and jacket, the way she held her head, the stray lock of hair escaping from her hat and the way she fixed her eyes calmly on her, yet Catherine’s resentment was marred by the reluctant pride she felt for her stepsister’s courage to stand up to her father and leave Fryston Hall.

  However, Catherine had not forgotten how Eleanor had taken off with William Marston and that had upset her greatly. Crushing the green monster beneath the heel of her will, she stiffly smiled a greeting and entered into the proper role of mistress of the house, reaching out to embrace her stepsister.

  ‘Eleanor! This is a surprise. I did not expect to see you here. You must stay for refreshment,’ she said solicitously.

  Eleanor turned and nodded to her companion, who took herself off to the bay window and seated herself in a bright circle of sunlight to give her mistress some privacy.

  ‘I’ve come to offer my condolences,’ Eleanor said with quiet sincerity. ‘I should have written and I apologise for not doing so.’ False pleasantries were exchanged as they sat sipping spiced wine and nibbling sweetmeats and small pastries, and it didn’t take Eleanor long to realise that Catherine, who was as graceful and lovely as Eleanor remembered, didn’t want her here. She would make her visit brief. ‘Henry was a good man. I was sorry to learn of his death.’

  Catherine smiled blandly and shrugged in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Yes. It was tragic. I told him he shouldn’t go on the river at that time of night—he was going to Westminster—but he was determined.’

  ‘And now you are a widow.’

  Catherine arched her brows. ‘I have no intention of being a widow for long.’

  Eleanor looked at her, not having noticed when she had first seen her stepsister how flushed her cheeks were—the flush of passion, and the warm light of desire in her eyes, and her clothes looking as if they had been put on in a hurry. This was no grieving widow, but a woman in the full flush of love. An icy shiver travelled down her spine. The thought that William might at that moment be in Catherine’s bedchamber, waiting for her visitor to leave, was too much.

  ‘Being married to Henry was a disappointment,’ Catherine told her bluntly, ‘and not at all what I expected. He was staid, his mind unable to focus on anything other than his business. When I marry again, it will be different.’ She relaxed into her chair, looking comfortably smug. ‘With my husband who bored me to death now dead, and out of my father’s clutches and an extremely rich widow—and a desirable one, I hope—the whole world lies before me and I can have whatever I want. Already I have my sights set on the man I want.’

  ‘I see. H-have you seen William?’ Eleanor asked, trying to make the question sound casual, yet unable to keep the hesitation from her voice.

  ‘William?’ Catherine studied her stepsister, her eyes as hard and brilliant as gemstones. Eleanor was poised, her expression calm, but in her eyes there lurked a question, a desperate need to know something that was important to her. Catherine’s brows rose as a thought struck her. Was Eleanor enamoured of William, even though he had sent Eleanor’s father to the block? Just how close had they become on their journey north?

  If this was the case, then perhaps there was much to be salvaged of her revenge by letting Eleanor believe she would marry William after all. It didn’t matter that she no longer wanted William. The malicious streak in her didn’t want Eleanor to have him either. Her lips curled in a slow, knowing smile, a hard gleam lurking in the depths of her narrowed eyes.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I—I have not seen him for some time. He is in London and naturally I thought…’

  ‘That he would come here—now that Henry is dead.’

  ‘Yes. After all, you and he were to have been married once.’

  Catherine set her goblet down and let her words fall like a dead weight upon her stepsister. ‘We were. We still might,’ she lied flippantly.

  Eleanor felt her heart sink to the very depths of despair. Catherine’s mouth curved derisively, her eyes smoky with vindictiveness. She knows, Eleanor thought. She knows why I have come here. Yes, she knew and now she was exulting in it.

  ‘When I recall the angry confrontation between William Marston and your father at your wedding, I think you will meet firm opposition. Your father will not allow it.’

  ‘My father no longer has any say in what I do or who with. As far as I am concerned, when I decide to wed again then I will let nothing stand in my way. He looks remarkably well, by the way—still the same handsome, irresistible William. The two of you must have become well acquainted on your journey to Yorkshire,’ Catherine murmured, feeling very much the victor in this game of hearts.

  ‘No, not really, but we did become friends—of a kind.’ Eleanor fought the conflict raging within her, and with a soft, wistful smile she said, ‘I hope—after all this time that the two of you will be happy together.’ Wanting to get out of the house, she stood up. The last thing she wanted was to come face to face with William, to watch him turn those extraordinary silver-grey eyes on her stepsister, to see him smile that lazy, heavy-lidded smile and address her lovingly, with the engaging charm that he exuded in abundance.

  ‘I must go. It is a long ride back to Cantly Manor and I have much to do.’

  ‘Of course, I understand, but are you not going to ask after my father—your stepfather? Since the blow you administered to his head, he has not been the same. He suffers greatly from headaches and memory loss, and his vision is impaired,’ Catherine told her, following her to the door.

  ‘You know how I feel about him, Catherine. Whether he is in this life or the hereafter matters little to me. Your father assaulted me, and it was Sir Richard who prevented him harming me further by rendering him senseless.’

  Catherine’s eyes opened wide. ‘Richard? I had no idea. And did he not try to stop you running away?’

  ‘No—quite the opposite, in fact. He was glad to see the back of me and for the life of me I cannot think why.’

  Catherine frowned, becoming thoughtful. ‘Then that could explain a great deal of what’s been happening.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Father doesn’t have a mind of his own these days. For weeks after you left he was so ill he refused to leave his bedchamber. All visitors were turned away. A rumour spread that he had been poisoned, and another that he was suffering from the effects of his latest perversion.’

  Eleanor looked at her. ‘You don’t seem to feel any sympathy for your father, Catherine.’

  ‘Why should I? You of all people should know why I don’t. He was—and still is—a bully, and I thank God I don’t see much of him. One good thing out of my marriage to Henry was that it got me away from him. Of late he’s come to rely on Richard and Richard has made it his business to know everything that goes
on at Fryston Hall. He behaves as if he already owns it. He’s greedy for power and riches and controls everything, even Father, and Father hates losing command. They’re constantly having differences of opinion and have begun to grate together like a couple of rough stones on a fast-flowing riverbed.’

  ‘I am astonished. He always seemed invincible.’

  ‘No one is invincible, Eleanor. He can’t remember what happened on the morning you left and truly believes it was you who struck the blow. He will never forgive you for it or for running away. I advise you to have a care.’

  ‘He has already exacted his revenge, Catherine, done his worst,’ Eleanor uttered fiercely. ‘When I left he sent two of his men after me. They set fire to Hollymead—did he tell you that?—and the most dreadful thing of all was that my uncle, John Collingwood, died as a result of it. Your father is not just wicked, Catherine, he is evil, the most evil man I have ever met and I pray to God I never have to set eyes on him again. Ever. He has blood on his hands and he should be brought to account for what he did, but with all his wealth and power behind him he would find some way to wriggle out of it.’

  Catherine was surprised by the savagery of Eleanor’s words and for a moment there was accord and understanding between them.

  ‘Then you are right to hate him,’ she said quietly. ‘I can understand that, and I am truly sorry about your uncle.’

  Standing in the open doorway, Eleanor pulled on her gloves and turned to her stepsister. She had imagined how she would feel when it was confirmed that Catherine and William were together, but none of her imaginings had produced the icy calm she was experiencing right now, the complete severing of all emotions, the coldness that left her in control.

  ‘How remiss of me. I quite forgot to tell you my news, which, apart from offering my condolences for your loss, is what brings me here today.’

  ‘Oh?’