Return of Scandal's Son

by Janice Preston

  He took her hand and, unable to resist, bent to press his lips against her sweet skin. ‘I hope to see you again very soon. Farewell.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Her ladyship is in the drawing room,’ Pacey said, when Matthew called at Eleanor’s house in Upper Brook Street that afternoon. He had delayed his visit until as late in the day as possible, in the hope that Eleanor’s usual pack of admirers had been and gone.

  ‘Does her ladyship have any callers with her at present?’ he asked the butler as he led the way up the stairs.

  ‘Indeed she does, sir. The door knocker has been busy all afternoon.’ The butler’s voice rang with satisfaction.

  Matthew’s heart sank. That meant he must kick his heels, waiting for the chance to speak to Eleanor and her aunt in private. Not a comfortable prospect when he had little hope Eleanor had yet forgiven him for the argument with James that morning. As they reached the top of the stairs, however, Matthew slammed to a halt, sick realisation twisting his stomach.

  ‘Pacey!’

  The butler looked round enquiringly.

  ‘My apologies, but I have recalled an urgent matter I must attend to.’

  That is becoming a too-familiar excuse—the sooner I reclaim my own name the better. I cannot continue like this. Spending time around the fashionable areas of London was proving riskier than he had anticipated.

  ‘I’m afraid I will not even have time to pay my respects to the ladies,’ he continued.

  Pacey bowed. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said, and began to descend the stairs again.

  ‘Do you know if Lady Ashby is to attend Lord and Lady Lexington’s ball this evening?’ Matthew asked, as Pacey handed him his hat in the hallway. If they weren’t, maybe he could risk not speaking to Eleanor until the next day.

  ‘As far as I am aware, sir, their ladyships’ only engagement this evening is to dine with Lord and Lady Ely.’

  Welcome news indeed.

  Back out on Upper Brook Street, Matthew leapt aboard his curricle and drove away, breathing heartfelt thanks that he had seen in time the trap that lay in wait for him in Eleanor’s drawing room. He pictured the scene: Pacey entering; announcing Mr Matthew Thomas; faces, studying him, sizing him up; the curiosity about this stranger in their midst.

  And then, when he was subsequently introduced as Matthew Damerel at the Lexingtons’ ball that evening, the gossip and conjecture as to how they met, and whether she had known his true identity all along, would be bound to encompass Eleanor. It would inevitably harm her campaign to banish the memories of her mother’s disgrace and her ambition to gain admittance to Almack’s.

  The past few minutes had emphasised the precariousness of his position. If he had any sense, he would cry off from the ball tonight, but could he delay any longer, knowing his father would arrive in London very shortly? Pring had recognised Matthew as he had left Stephen’s lodgings the previous evening, prompting Matthew to write to his parents and also to his sister, Sarah—now married—to inform them of his return. It was better for the news to come from him than from some interfering busybody. Now, he sensed that the sooner he established his presence in society the better. His father—ever wary of sullying the family name—would not publicly disown Matthew which, in turn, would help protect Eleanor’s reputation.

  When Matthew had returned to England, he’d had a definite plan. He had never intended to revisit that card game—his reputation and clearing his name hadn’t been a priority. Once those next two ships had docked, and their cargoes were sold, he had planned to repay his father and then fade back into anonymity as Matthew Thomas.

  But now...his plan had changed. Clearing his name had, suddenly, become urgent because Eleanor was in danger, and he had sworn to protect her and he could no longer do that from a distance.

  * * *

  ‘Mr Damerel and Mr Matthew Damerel.’

  ‘Oh, my.’ Aunt Lucy clutched at Eleanor’s forearm with urgent fingers. ‘I always thought there was a familiarity about him. He favours his mama, of course, and his brother is his father’s son. No wonder I missed the connection when we met Mr Damerel with Derham the other day.’

  Eleanor excused herself to the group of ladies she was chatting to, and turned to her aunt. They were at the Lexingtons’ ball, their dinner engagement with Lord and Lady Ely having been cancelled.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Aunt, what was that you said?’

  Aunt Lucy tugged Eleanor round to face the door. ‘Look who is there, talking to our hosts.’

  Eleanor perused the knot of guests at the ballroom door. As she spied a familiar shock of dark-blond hair, she gasped.

  ‘It’s Matthew... I mean Mr Thomas,’ she whispered.

  ‘Mr Damerel, it would now seem,’ Aunt Lucy said. ‘I wonder... I do seem to recall some scandal, years ago. Oh, tsk. My memory is not what it used to be. I have been buried in the country for far too long.’

  Eleanor struggled to make sense of what she saw. Matthew—tall, handsome...elegant, even—in immaculate black evening clothes. What is he thinking? He will never get away with...but... Stephen Damerel? Has Matthew somehow persuaded him to take part in this charade, or...? She could not think straight. Matthew was looking around, that keen blue gaze sweeping the throng.

  Eleanor turned away. ‘Aunt Lucy, I am feeling a little faint. Might we go into the other room and sit quietly for a few moments?’

  She struggled to keep her expression neutral as Aunt Lucy peered up at her. ‘Of course, my pet. Come, let us slip out of this door.’

  They made their way into a room that had been set aside for the older, less lively guests who enjoyed a quiet gossip away from the banter and bustle of the ballroom.

  Eleanor sank into a chair with its back to the door.

  ‘Who is he?’ she demanded, as her aunt sat opposite her.

  ‘It would seem his name is Matthew Damerel.’

  ‘He was with Mr Damerel, so...are they related?’

  ‘I think they must be brothers...it is coming back to me...there was a third brother...he was a wild youth, expelled from school, a black sheep. Left England under a cloud, although his father—Rushock, you know—hushed it all up. He was ever a stickler—couldn’t abide scandal. Disowned the boy, I seem to recall. I wonder if he knows Matthew has returned.’

  Eleanor listened with a sinking heart. Anger...hurt...humiliation...she could not sort one emotion from the other...they flooded her and she wanted to sink through the floor and never have to face Matthew again. Her behaviour had been shocking enough...succumbing to the hot looks and honeyed words of a man she believed beneath her station in life. But now...that man was one of her peers. The son of an earl, albeit disgraced. How he must have laughed at her naivety. What a disgust he must feel for her, knowing her to be so lacking in morality that she had encouraged...nay, instigated...such intimacies with a man such as she had believed him to be.

  And to think...she had even confessed her desire to be accepted into society and her desire to gain approval to attend Almack’s in order to banish the memory of her mother’s shameful behaviour.

  Oh, how he must have chuckled, to hear my hopes and aspirations, when all the time he had his own shady past to conceal. Scandal, Aunt Lucy said. The very last thing I need.

  She wanted to disappear. She wanted to die...to crawl into a dark corner and lick her wounds like an injured animal.

  But she wouldn’t.

  She stood up. ‘Come,’ she said to Aunt Lucy. ‘Mr Th—Mr Matthew Damerel might have made a fool out of both of us, but I will not hide away, afraid to face him.’

  ‘Ellie, my dear. I beg of you, do not do anything you may live to regret.’

  Too late for that, dearest Aunt, if you did but know.

  Eleanor headed for the ballroom, Aunt Lucy on her heels.

  I wonder what he did.

  I do not care. He is not a suitable acquaintance for me and that is that.

  As they reached the door, Aunt Lucy clutched at Eleanor’s
arm.

  ‘Do not forget that nobody, other than James and Ruth, knows we are already acquainted with Matthew Damerel. Just follow my lead when we are introduced.’

  Eleanor patted her aunt’s hand. ‘Do not fret. I am not about to ruin my chances of acceptance by enacting a vulgar scene. I shall be above censure at all times, you may trust me on that.’

  ‘Lady Ashby.’ A tall, russet-haired gentleman was bowing before her. Lord Derham. ‘We meet again. If you are not engaged for this dance, would you do me the honour?’

  Eleanor smiled. ‘Thank you, my lord. I should be delighted.’

  This is more like it. An earl. Tall. Very handsome.

  Eleanor gazed into green eyes...eyes that did absolutely nothing for her. No shortened breath. No quickened pulse.

  Mayhap I simply prefer blue eyes? It means nothing.

  As she skipped down the line of dancers, a figure at the edge of the floor—talking to Aunt Lucy—caught her attention. Her heart squeezed, then lurched, and she missed her step. She hastened to catch up with the music, concentrating fiercely on the steps of the dance until the end.

  Lord Derham returned her to Aunt Lucy, still standing with Matthew and his brother.

  ‘My dear, you remember Mr Damerel?’ Eleanor could hear the anxious undertones in her aunt’s voice.

  ‘Indeed. Good evening, Mr Damerel.’

  ‘And this is his brother, Mr Matthew Damerel.’

  Eleanor forced a gracious smile as she nodded her head at both men. She could feel the trace of those ice-blue eyes as they travelled from her head to her toes and back again. How very impolite! She tilted her chin and focused on Lord Derham.

  Only to find a wide-shouldered figure blocking her view.

  ‘Might I beg your hand for this dance, Lady Ashby?’ Matthew leaned in, lowering his voice. ‘As long as you do not consider a third son beneath your touch?’

  Had she imagined that hint of a warning? Could James be right? Was he another fortune hunter? After all, what did she know of him? She was a fool—she had kissed him, told him her secrets and, in return, he had given her a false name and now she discovered he was hiding a disreputable past. Well, she was wise to him now and this one dance would give her the opportunity to tell him so, and to caution him to keep his distance from her. After that, she would banish him from her life and her thoughts, for the sake of her reputation if nothing else.

  ‘Of course, Mr Damerel.’ She stretched her lips in a sweet smile. ‘I should be delighted.’

  It was a country dance. As soon as the opportunity arose she whispered, ‘You lied.’

  As he opened his mouth to reply, she carried on. ‘No, I do not want to hear your excuses. From now on...’ The steps of the dance forced them apart. When they came together again, Eleanor continued, ‘...you are to leave me alone. I do not want my name associated with yours in any way, shape or form.’

  His lips thinned. ‘That was not your view when you thought me a humble merchant.’

  Oh! How ungentlemanly, to throw that at her, even though it was exactly what she had feared he would think.

  ‘I have my reputation to think of,’ she whispered at the next opportunity.

  ‘And you want vouchers for Almack’s...and association with the likes of me might spoil your chances?’

  The steps of the dance separated them. They came together again. Eleanor hissed, ‘Precisely!’

  Then, after a brooding silence from Matthew, she said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’

  They parted. Came together again. His fingers curled around her gloved palm as he took her hand.

  ‘We cannot talk here. Meet me upstairs. I will tell you everything.’

  ‘No! How can you even ask...what if we were seen?’

  So far, her evening engagements had gone well, with only one or two barbed comments about her mother, which she had fended off with ease. She had even exchanged pleasantries with Maria Sefton and Emily Cowper, both patronesses of Almack’s, and although there had been no promises made, Eleanor harboured the hope that their approval of her membership would be forthcoming. Her confidence had begun to grow.

  ‘We can be careful—’

  ‘No! Do not ask again.’

  They finished the dance in tight-lipped silence and relief flooded Eleanor when it ended.

  * * *

  A succession of partners—and supper—came and went. Eleanor was in control of her emotions and her behaviour. Not one person could point an accusing finger at her and say ‘Like mother, like daughter’. It was not so bad—now she was over the initial shock of Matthew’s appearance in the ballroom and the fact he had lied to her, even though she could not quite suppress her conjectures over the scandal Aunt Lucy had mentioned. Surely the scandal couldn’t have been too dreadful, or Matthew’s brother would not openly acknowledge him like this.

  And then Arabella Beckford appeared. Or, as some kind soul informed her, Arabella, Lady Tame, as she now was—a wealthy widow. Of all the girls who had tormented Eleanor during her come-out, it was Miss Arabella Beckford who had stuck in her memory. The acknowledged beauty of the day, Arabella had been—and still was—petite and delicate, with golden curls, big blue eyes and pouting rosebud lips. In London for the first time, Eleanor had towered over Arabella, feeling utterly unfeminine—all clumsy angles and awkward silences—and she had suffered many unkind gibes from the other girl.

  No wonder, thought Eleanor sourly, as she watched Arabella pouting up at Matthew—gazing at him through fluttering eyelashes—she had hated her come-out. The old feelings of inadequacy washed over her.

  Why can I not be feminine, like Arabella? Why would any man prefer a huge lump like me?

  Eleanor turned abruptly from the sight of Arabella flirting with Matthew.

  ‘Excuse me, Aunt.’

  Aunt Lucy looked round from her engrossing conversation with Sir Horace Todmorden, a dapper gentleman with luxuriant side whiskers. ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘I am just going upstairs to the ladies’ retiring room.’

  ‘Shall I come—?’

  ‘No. There is no need. I shall sit in the quiet for a few minutes, to catch my breath. I declare, I am quite out of practice and all this dancing has exhausted me.’

  ‘Very well, my pet.’

  Eleanor left the ballroom and climbed the stairs to the retiring room. Finding it blessedly empty, other than the maid on duty, she sat for a short while, relaxing back in a chair, settling her thoughts and emotions.

  Anyone but Arabella. Surely Matthew will see through her to the spiteful little cat she has always been? She stifled those thoughts. What did it matter to her who Matthew talked to? Or danced with? Or...?

  She stood up, suddenly furious with herself. She was hiding again. If she was not careful, it would become a habit. She would not allow anyone to drive her away this time.

  She stepped out of the door to return to the festivities, then froze, sensing a movement in the passageway behind her.

  ‘Eleanor.’

  The quietest of whispers, but she would know his voice anywhere. And his scent. His unique maleness, plus the tang of citrus. She spun round to face Matthew Damerel.

  ‘I must talk to you.’

  ‘And I must not talk to you.’

  He stood by the open door into the next room. He held out his hand, beckoning.

  The chatter of female voices impinged on Eleanor’s awareness. A quick glance over the gallery rail to the floor below revealed a cluster of young ladies mounting the stairs, presumably on their way to the retiring room.

  ‘Quick. Or we shall be seen.’

  Eleanor reached for the handle to the retiring-room door. She would be safe in there.

  ‘I will follow you if you go back inside,’ Matthew warned, reaching for her hand. ‘Come. Please.’

  The voices were louder. Even if she headed for the stairs, the young ladies would see Matthew and wonder... The gossip would spread from mouth to mouth...

  Wretch! Scoundr
el!

  With no choice left, Eleanor swept past Matthew and through the open door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Despicable!’

  They were in a small sitting room, furnished in a feminine style. One candle, set into a candlestick on the mantelpiece, flickered, throwing shadows around the room.

  ‘You must allow me to explain.’

  ‘Must I indeed? You could have explained this morning. You could call on me tomorrow to make your excuses. You did not have to...to...blackmail me into coming in here with you.’

  ‘Blackmail? Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘Absurd? How dare you? You come into my life—I start to trust you, to rely upon you. You make me—’ Eleanor bit her lip, appalled by what she had almost said.

  You make me love you.

  She gulped, her throat burning with the effort of stifling the hot tears strangling her voice and blurring her vision.

  Stupid thing to even think. Just the heat of the moment.

  ‘I think I know you and then I find I do not even know your name. Then you threaten me with exposure if I do not do what you want...and you call me absurd for calling it blackmail? What would you call it, Mr Thomas, or Damerel, or whoever you are?’

  Her chest heaved. Her outburst had stolen the very breath from her lungs. She hauled in a desperate breath.

  ‘I don’t even know who you are.’ The cry burst from her, searing her throat.

  ‘Eleanor—’

  ‘And do not call me Eleanor. You have no right.’

  ‘No right? By God, what wouldn’t I give to have that right? You have no idea...’

  The grip on her shoulders tightened and she looked up through her tears into blazing eyes that churned with emotion. His face swam closer. He was going to kiss her. She felt his breath, harsh on her skin, as his lips sought hers.

  ‘No. I cannot. I must not.’

  Eleanor stumbled as Matthew tore his hands from her and strode to the window. She sank into a chair by the unlit hearth, dropping her face into her hands. What had just happened? He had been about to kiss her; she had wanted him to kiss her. It was he who had come to his senses and stopped before his lips touched hers. How could she be so weak-willed, so unprincipled? She gritted her teeth, determined to hide her bruised feelings. If Matthew should even begin to guess how she felt about him her pride would never survive—it was in tatters as it was.