Return of Scandal's Son

by Janice Preston

  He’d had to steel himself against the hurt in those beautiful, tawny-brown eyes as he had treated her with cool civility during the first day of travel, when he barely trusted himself to even look at her. After that, it had become easier as Eleanor withdrew behind her grande dame persona. Matthew had busied himself as much as possible at every stop they made, lest he reveal the desire that burned deep within him every time he came within touching distance of her.

  ‘You still won’t be safe.’ The words were out there before he could consider them, or where they might lead.

  Eleanor lowered her knife and fork and fixed those luminous eyes on him, candlelight highlighting gold flecks he had not noticed before. They drew him in, charging his blood, making him wish the impossible.

  A man could drown in such limpid beauty.

  Pfftt. Next thing, I’ll be reciting poetry. That’s what happens when a man spends too long in the company of females. He gets soft.

  ‘Would you care to expand upon that remark, Mr Thomas?’

  ‘I meant to say, how will you keep safe in London? There have been no further incidents, but the closer we get to London, the more traffic there will be, the more people on the streets. How will you distinguish friend from foe?’

  Eleanor’s eyes narrowed before she returned her attention to her plate and resumed eating. Time suspended as he held his breath. Was she ever going to reply?

  ‘I was thinking the same thing myself,’ she said, finally, surprising him. He had expected vehement denial of the risk.

  ‘I shall have to employ extra footmen as guards,’ she continued. ‘I have Timothy, and there is William, who travelled ahead with the others to prepare the house, but I do not think I can rely on just those two. Not when they have other duties to fulfil as well.’

  ‘Do you truly believe a couple of extra footmen will suffice to protect you?’

  She regarded him steadily. ‘What action would you suggest I take, Mr Thomas?’

  Her tone was sweet, at odds with the challenge in her eyes. All day he had been telling himself they would reach London tomorrow and he could walk away. He should walk away. It was not his problem, no matter how attracted he was to her. But, deep down, he struggled against the notion of leaving her to her fate. She was still in danger; he would be leaving her unprotected. Yes, she was wealthy enough to hire a small army to guard her, but they would still be hired men, motivated by money. What if her cousin were to bribe one, or more, of them? No, he could never trust hired men to protect her as well as he would.

  It is not your problem. There is nothing you can do.

  It was true...and yet he could not abandon her.

  His dilemma had pounded incessantly at his brain. If he were to stay, how could he protect her? It would mean entering her world. He could not allow Eleanor and Lady Rothley to introduce him as Matthew Thomas, only to have his true identity revealed by someone who happened to remember him and what had happened.

  He was the black sheep of his family. He had never felt as though he belonged—the third son, his two older brothers providing the requisite ‘heir and spare.’ Then Sarah, two years his junior, fêted and spoiled as the only girl until, seven years later, the last of the five siblings—another girl, favoured as the baby of the family, leaving him, smack bang in the middle, with no place to belong.

  Yes, he had been a wild youth, up to all and every caper: expelled from Harrow; sent down from Oxford; drinking; gambling deep; huge losses; and affairs, not always discreet, with married women. He understood, looking back, his father’s fury. But, no matter how wild and impetuous he had been, Matthew could never forgive his father for believing his own son capable of not only cheating at cards, but also cold-bloodedly attacking and robbing his accuser, Henson, and leaving him for dead.

  Neither his father nor Claverley, Matthew’s eldest brother, would listen to Matthew’s protestations of innocence. Dishonourable conduct. Their easy acceptance of his guilt had deeply wounded Matthew. Their sole concern had been to get him out of the country in case Henson died. They had hauled him off to the docks and bought him passage on the first ship to India and to his great-uncle.

  He had long ago been cleared of the charge of attacking and robbing Henson—thanks to Uncle Percy’s efforts—but the accusation of cheating still hung over him and the knowledge that his father had discharged so many of Matthew’s debts still rankled. On his return to England he had vowed to repay those debts come what may. Other than that, he wanted nothing to do with his family...none of them had ever replied to the letters he had written in those early years of exile and he had given up writing after a while. They had disowned him. He would forget them in return—put them out of his mind.

  ‘Mr Thomas?’

  He came back to the present with a start.

  ‘I beg your pardon. I was thinking of my commitments. It so happens that I have some free time at my disposal at the moment. I believe I told you I have two cargoes en route from India—’

  ‘No, did you?’ Lady Rothley interjected. ‘I do not recall that, Mr Thomas. When was it you told us?’

  Matthew cursed beneath his breath. He had told Eleanor, that night in the parlour of the George. The night they kissed. He should be more cautious. Her ladyship was much too sharp to fool. ‘I apologise,’ he said, smoothly, ‘I thought I did mention it. Obviously not.’

  ‘No. I cannot remember anything about that at all,’ Eleanor said, nose in the air as her lips tightened.

  Ha! She says the words, but her eyes tell the truth. She remembers that night as clearly as I do.

  ‘To continue, I have a few weeks’ respite until the ships are due in dock. I can be available to escort you wherever you wish whilst you are in London—only until we can unmask the culprit, of course.’

  ‘Thank you for your kind offer, Mr Thomas.’ Eleanor’s words were so sweetly reasonable, with just the right hint of apology, they made Matthew’s teeth grind. ‘I must decline, however. I have no doubt you will still have some business to attend to and I have no wish to further complicate your life.’

  She was still flinging that ill-considered remark in his face. Resentment bubbled in his gut.

  So bloody superior. Leave her to her fate, man, and get on with your own life.

  Being back in London had been hard enough, with the memories it evoked, despite his care in avoiding the fashionable haunts where he might be recognised. His pride dictated he remain incognito until he was in a position to pay back his father—which he would be just as soon as Benedict arrived in port. If he reverted to his family name any earlier, it would be bound to rake up the past.

  ‘Very well, my lady. I shall say no more on the subject.’

  * * *

  The idea was preposterous. Did Matthew really believe he could pass himself off as a gentleman? Guilt nibbled at Eleanor at that ungenerous thought. She was being unfair. He was intelligent, educated; he had presence. Of course he could pass as a gentleman. She had long since stopped viewing him as anything but. He might be a merchant, but no one else would know, only herself and Aunt Lucy.

  That presence of his: he exuded raw masculinity—it enticed her, enthralled her, terrified her. Honesty compelled her to admit that her real objection to his protecting her in London was the way her heart leapt every time she saw him.

  The way her lips tingled every time she relived their kisses.

  The way her blood boiled every time she recalled those words: I do not need complications.

  How ironic that the only man who had ever made her heart beat faster was the one man she could never have. He might have the wherewithal to fool society for a short time, but she knew the truth. He was a merchant. He might be successful. He might even be wealthy. But she could never, ever, ally herself with a man of his class. Like mother, like daughter. It would bring all the old scandal tumbling out of the past, piling on to her head. It would bury her. She could never hold up her head in society again and she would never be accepted for Almack’s.
r />   Nevertheless, she could see by his scowl that her words had touched a nerve.

  She drew breath. ‘I meant no offence, Mr Thomas. I am persuaded you would loathe kicking your heels at those interminable society parties. You have had a fortunate escape. Members of the ton can be very narrow-minded and are not welcoming to outsiders.’

  Matthew’s eyes narrowed. ‘I quite see that you are doing me a favour.’

  Was that bitterness? The urge to soothe his ruffled feelings was strong, but Eleanor forced herself to continue eating. Their mutual attraction was undeniable. But that was all it was. There were no tender feelings there.

  Not on his part.

  Nor on mine!

  They had been thrown into one another’s company during the journey, and she had come to rely on him. Too much. Once she made new acquaintances in London, she would lose this dependence on him. It was all false. Not real. She rubbed at her temples and then pushed back her chair.

  ‘It has been a long day. If you will excuse me, I shall retire.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Matthew came awake instantly, his eyes wide as he strained to see. He leapt from his bed as he heard the click of the door latch and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of his bedchamber, he could make out the slowly widening crack as the door inched open. One stride and he hauled it wide. A tall figure stumbled against him. Soft curves, a feminine gasp and the scent of jasmine identified the intruder as Eleanor. Every fibre of every muscle tensed as his arms came around her in reflex.

  ‘What—?’

  ‘Mr Thomas!’

  Even in the extremes of arousal, he identified the panic in her whisper.

  ‘What is it?’ He gripped her upper arms, moving her away from his rampant body, giving thanks he had chosen to sleep in his nightshirt.

  ‘I thought I heard a noise downstairs. And I saw someone outside, from the landing window.’

  ‘What were you doing on the landing? No, never mind.’ Matthew grabbed his jacket from the chair and bundled it into her arms, pushing her towards the bed. ‘Stay here, wrap up and don’t, whatever you do, make a sound.’

  He slipped out on to the landing. At the top of the stairs he paused, straining his ears. Nothing. The window was along the landing, a few feet beyond the door of Eleanor’s bedchamber. Silent in his bare feet, he ran along and peered out. Nothing. Then a movement caught his attention. A bulky figure, in the shadows of the outbuildings. The figure moved, split in two, came together again. A flash of pale flesh as skirts were bundled up...and Matthew retreated from the window. That was the last thing he needed...to watch some lovelorn fool of a stable boy tupping his lady love when his own body was crying out for the same relief.

  He gritted his teeth, willing his desires back under control. He would check Eleanor’s room, then go downstairs to make sure there was no one there, even though it appeared likely one of the maids had slipped outside to meet her lover. Which was all very well, but it had left the inn insecure, despite his impressing on the innkeeper the importance of barring the doors and posting a guard.

  Where the hell was that guard? How had the maid got out without alerting him? The quicker he checked Eleanor’s room, the sooner he could go downstairs and find out what these fools were about. Galvanised into action, he entered her bedchamber. A quick glance around showed nothing amiss. He crossed to the window and flipped the curtain aside. It faced a different direction to the landing window. All was peaceful. He returned to the door and stepped out on to the landing.

  And collided with a soft, familiar body.

  ‘What the...?’ For the second time that night, he steeled himself as he forced Eleanor away from him. ‘I told you to stay put.’

  ‘You were gone an age. I needed to know what was happening. Have you seen anyone?’

  ‘Yes...no...look, wait in there...’ he pushed her through the door into her room ‘...and I will come to tell you as soon as I’ve searched downstairs.’ He grasped her chin, forced her to look up at him. Her eyes glittered in defiance. ‘Stay here.’

  Eleanor huffed a sigh but, thankfully, made no attempt to follow him on to the landing.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Matthew knocked softly on Eleanor’s door and went in. A solitary candle flickered, illuminating Eleanor, sitting on the bed, his jacket hugged around her shoulders, her hair...her glorious hair...framing her face, flowing over her shoulders...a river of silk. He itched to plunge his hands into those fragrant tresses.

  Eleanor bounced to her feet, his jacket gaping. After one glance at the thin nightgown beneath, Matthew riveted his gaze to her face.

  ‘Well? Was there anyone down there?’

  ‘Just one of the maidservants.’

  She had breezed in through the back door, bright-eyed and pink of cheek, as he had reached the kitchen. She had halted, momentarily disconcerted, then, with a calculating eye had swayed provocative hips as she approached him. He had declined what she offered, bolted the door, and searched the rest of the ground floor of the inn. The guard was sprawled on one of the settles in the taproom, snoring. Tempted as he had been to wake the fellow, solely in order to knock him senseless again, Matthew resisted. It was two in the morning. The inn was safely locked up again and, in a few hours, they would be gone.

  At that moment, it had seemed more important to return to Eleanor...before she decided to follow him again to find out what was happening.

  ‘What was a maid doing up at this time?’

  ‘She said she had forgotten to do something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’ He wasn’t about to tell Eleanor the truth about the maid’s night-time wanderings. ‘She’s back inside now and the doors are all bolted. It is safe.’

  Eleanor visibly relaxed. She took a step towards him, into a shaft of moonshine that slid through a gap in the curtains. ‘I am sorry I disturbed you,’ she said. ‘I...I was scared.’

  ‘And yet you came out of your room.’ His gaze returned again and again to her bare toes, washed by moonlight, as they peeped from the hem of her nightgown. Blood thrummed through his veins. The after-effects of danger, nothing more, he told himself. ‘You could have bolted the door—’

  ‘The door was already bolted.’

  ‘And you considered the wisest course of action was to unbolt the door and venture out on to the landing? Have you no...?’ He bit his tongue against the diatribe he longed to heap on her head. He did not want an argument now. Not here. Not with her standing there like that. Passion simmered dangerously close to the surface as it was. Anger would fuel an already tense situation. ‘Why did you not just shout for help?’

  She cast him a scathing look. ‘I had no wish to cause a fuss by waking everyone. Aunt Lucy would be petrified and, as for Lizzie and Matilda, they would be in hysterics. Can you imagine?’

  He could...but still...

  ‘You have no concept of your own safety, do you?’ he growled, closing the gap between them.

  Her eyes were large and watchful, glinting as they held his gaze. Her lips firmed. She did not retreat.

  ‘I was completely aware of the risk,’ she said. ‘The noise I heard was downstairs. I merely peeked out of my door. There was no one there, or I would have screamed. Loudly. I am not a fool. But neither will I cower in my bed until trouble finds me.’

  Her stubborn courage infuriated him; it terrified him; it made his heart swell with an emotion akin to pride. Her breath had quickened, her chest rising and falling. Without volition his gaze lowered to her pebbled nipples, outlined by the thin fabric of her nightgown. Blood surged to his loins. He forced his attention back to her face, his heart hammering.

  He could feel her heat. Her breath whispered over the suddenly sensitised skin of his face and neck. An intense feeling of protectiveness washed over him and he raised his hand to caress her cheek—soft and smooth. Her eyelids fluttered down and she drew in a tremulous breath.

  ‘Goodnight, Eleanor,�
�� he whispered. He dropped his hand and forced himself to turn for the door.

  ‘Wait!’

  He paused, his hand on the latch, not trusting himself to look round. There was a rustle and his jacket was thrust into his arms.

  ‘It would not do for Lizzie to find this in the morning.’

  Matthew opened the door.

  ‘Thank you, Matthew.’

  Her words stayed in his mind long after he had climbed into his cold, empty bed. He could not decide whether she was thanking him for what he had done, or for what he had not done.

  And she had called him Matthew.

  * * *

  She had long dreamed of falling in love. She would not give up her independence for anything less. What she had never considered was this confused state of mind that accompanied her feelings about Matthew Thomas.

  Desire.

  Yes, she desired him, and she recognised it and admitted it for what it was, despite her innocence. Was it possible to feel desire without love? Men certainly did.

  Think of it the other way round. Could I imagine loving a man without desiring him?

  She thought not.

  Desire.

  * * *

  The following morning, Eleanor studied Matthew, who was seated on the far side of a dozing Aunt Lucy, from under her lashes. He stared broodingly out of the chaise window at the passing scenery. The bump on his nose was more noticeable in profile. How had it been broken? Fighting? How little she still knew of him.

  Last night... In her mind’s eye she saw him again, clad only in his nightshirt, the neck open, revealing bronzed, smooth skin. It reached to just above his knees and she had drunk in the sight of his naked calves and feet—muscular, hair-dusted, so very different from her own pale, smooth limbs. She, thank goodness, had been totally covered by her nightgown and, apart from her hair being loose, she had been no more exposed than if she had worn a day dress. Less, in fact, as the fashion now was for a scooped neckline and her nightgown buttoned chastely to her neck.