Return of Scandal's Son

by Janice Preston

  ‘This is so exciting,’ Eleanor said after Hugo had left.

  She gazed up at Matthew with glowing eyes and Matthew’s heart sank. Did she not know him at all?

  ‘You can reconcile with your family,’ she continued, ‘and take your rightful place in society with no fear of those past lies lurking in the background to sully your name.’

  She was all eagerness, her wealth and position giving her the confidence that her vision of the future was a rosy certainty. He knew what she felt for him: it radiated from her eyes whenever she looked at him, even when she was angry with him. And his feelings, also, had grown far beyond the initial attraction and the subsequent lust. But he would not allow those feelings to turn to love. She deserved better than him. She deserved to take her rightful place at the pinnacle of society. It had been her goal in coming to London and she was on the brink of achieving it.

  ‘You forget, my lady,’ he said. ‘I have neither the desire nor the intention of taking any place in society. I have a life of my own and to that I shall return once the danger to you is past. Come, we should rejoin your aunt.’

  He hardened his heart against the flash of hurt in her eyes. He could protect her from her unknown assailant, but he could not protect her from the pain of his snub.

  It is for the best. But...if only...

  No. Regret was pointless. He had kissed her. Twice. Those kisses burned in his memory. He should have resisted her. He should never have called upon her once they returned to London.

  How easy it was to be wise after the event.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Aunt Lucy watched with interest as Eleanor examined the muff pistol purchased by Matthew. Surprisingly, her aunt had raised not a single objection to her having the weapon—a circumstance that made Eleanor even more fearful for her safety. Even Aunt Lucy thought her in enough danger to warrant having a weapon to hand for protection. When would this nightmare end? But...the end of the threat to her life meant the end of her association with Matthew. He had made that abundantly clear. Unconsciously, she sat straighter, lifting her chin. He must never know how his earlier words had plunged ice into her heart.

  ‘I say we should confront that weasel now, Damerel—you and I together. What do you say?’ Hugo had returned with a packed valise, his valet in tow, and an eagerness to act.

  He was talking about James. The truth tore at her. The truth she could no longer deny.

  ‘We have tried before,’ Matthew said. ‘He will only deny it and we have no evidence. We must get hold of that fellow who accosted the servant girl. That is the only way we might get evidence.’

  Eleanor concentrated on the pistol, its curved walnut grip smooth under her stroking thumb. The pistol blurred and she blinked hard to prevent her tears from spilling. What a fool she was. Of course Matthew did not care for her. Who would? Her mother hadn’t. James didn’t—he was prepared to kill her, for goodness’ sake.

  Why should I care? She was at the pinnacle of her success, fêted as the Catch of the Season and her ultimate ambition was within her grasp—Emily Cowper had dropped her a hint just the other day, saying that her approval for Almack’s was all but secure.

  ‘Will you teach me to shoot this?’ she asked Hugo, uncaring that she interrupted his quiet discussion with Matthew and Sir Horace.

  ‘I am flattered you should ask, m’dear, but I’m afraid I won’t have the time. We’ve come to the conclusion that, if confronting Weare is not the answer, he must be tailed, at all times. Sir Horace and I are to organise it, as Damerel has so few acquaintances in town. But never fear, I shall be back to escort you this evening and I told Pacey to place me in the next bedchamber to yours, so you may sleep easily tonight.’

  Eleanor and Aunt Lucy exchanged startled looks. This brisk-talking, resolute gentleman was nothing like the nonchalant and care-for-nothing Hugo they were familiar with, the man who never stirred himself on anyone else’s behalf.

  ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘although it pains me to admit this, Damerel was always a far better shot than I. He will teach you.’

  Not the news she wanted to hear, but she acquiesced, determined not to reveal any hint of dismay. From now on, she must look upon Matthew as a dear friend. Nothing—and never to be—more.

  Hugo and Sir Horace said their goodbyes and left.

  ‘Well, Mr Damerel? Where do you suggest we go to practise? To the park?’

  ‘First, I shall teach you how to care for it and load it. Then...’ he hesitated. ‘I fear it will be too public in the park—you will not want to attract attention. And you will be very exposed. What about here? Not indoors, but outside in the back yard?’

  ‘It is not very big. Will there be room?’

  His lips twitched. ‘It’ll be big enough for our purposes. This—’ he plucked the pistol from Eleanor’s hand, leaving a trail of tingles where his skin brushed hers ‘—is not designed for long distances.’

  She tried to bite back her gasp of consternation.

  Matthew crouched beside her chair. ‘Are you certain you want to do this?’ he asked. ‘Now Alastair will be here overnight, and Weare will be followed, I doubt you will ever need it.’

  He touched her hand. She raised her gaze to his, searching his expression. Compassion and concern: emotions prompted by fondness for a close friend.

  ‘I hope I will never have to use it,’ she said, ‘but I want to learn. I will feel safer.’

  ‘Very well. I suggest we go outside and begin.’

  ‘Aunt Lucy. Will you come, too?’

  ‘Oh, no, my pet. I can think of nothing worse than all that noise. Take one of the footmen with you—I am sure that will suffice for the proprietaries.’

  Outside, Matthew showed Eleanor how to load the gun by unscrewing the short barrel, seating the gunpowder and the ball and carefully screwing the barrel back in place, first ensuring no powder had spilt on to the threads. He showed her the action of the sliding safety catch and explained how to carry the pistol in the half-cocked position to prevent accidental discharge. She repeated the actions several times until she was confident. By then Timothy had joined them, carrying a tightly stuffed sack.

  ‘What is inside it?’ Eleanor asked, eyeing the sack with horrified fascination as Timothy placed it on an old stool brought outside from the pantry, the garden wall behind serving to prop the sack upright. That, according to Matthew, represented her attacker. The man she would have to shoot if ever he got close enough to her to threaten her life. She swallowed down the sour bile that flooded into her mouth. She must not flounder at the thought of shooting into a sack. If she could not do this, how could she ever defend herself?

  ‘Old rags and the like, milady. Mrs Pledger gave them to me.’

  Matthew stood behind her. Close behind her. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe...his scent and his heat enveloped her as he lifted her arm to demonstrate how she should aim at the target.

  ‘Close your left eye.’ His voice in her ear, the rumble of his words vibrating through his chest, through her muslin dress and reverberating through her body, deep into her core. She sucked in a breath, willing her hand not to shake. ‘Steady now.’ He covered her white-knuckled hand where she gripped the pistol, his fingers gentle; reassuring. ‘Relax.’

  It was easy for him to say, nigh on impossible to do. She tried to breathe more evenly; tried to relax her arm and fingers.

  ‘Aim for the centre of the sack. Gently now. Squeeze.’ His breath tickled her ear, causing a ripple of gooseflesh down her neck. Her arm jerked as she pulled the trigger.

  Bang! Smoke puffed from the pistol and Eleanor stifled her scream as the recoil vibrated up her arm. She had braced herself for the noise, but had not realised the power of the kick of such a small weapon. She swallowed hard; turned to Timothy, who held the powder flask and spare balls; began to reload.

  ‘I will do better this time,’ she announced, to no one in particular, and took her stance as Matthew had showed her.

  Matthew moved be
hind her.

  ‘No. I will do this myself.’

  She took aim, squeezed—striving to keep the movement smooth—and fired again.

  ‘Yes!’

  Matthew’s triumphant shout bounced from the surrounding garden walls and Eleanor prised open her eyes, which she had screwed shut—quite without intent—at the moment she fired. A ragged, black-rimmed hole had appeared in the sack. Not in the centre, but at least she had hit the target.

  ‘Well done,’ Matthew said. ‘Try again.’

  She glowed with his praise. Donald had never praised her. He had always found fault.

  She practised until the sack was in shreds and her right arm trembled with fatigue.

  ‘That is enough for today,’ Matthew said, gesturing to Timothy to clear everything away. ‘You must be worn out. Let us go inside.’

  Aunt Lucy was nowhere to be seen when they returned to the drawing room. A maid followed them in, bearing a tray laden with a jug of lemonade and a plate of sandwiches.

  ‘Cook said as you would welcome some refreshments, milady.’

  ‘Thank you, Nell, that is most thoughtful. Where is Lady Rothley?’

  ‘She’s gone up for a nap, milady. Would you like me to sit in with you?’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary, thank you, but leave the door open on your way out, will you?’

  Eleanor sat on the sofa, a glass of lemonade in her hand, whilst Matthew propped one arm along the marble mantelpiece.

  ‘Thank you for teaching me,’ Eleanor said.

  Matthew sipped at his lemonade. The sweet yet sharp drink reinforced his bittersweet thoughts throughout this long day. What would the future hold for Eleanor? He knew his own future—the days would be filled with running his business. But what of hers? Would she wed? He tamped down the pain such a thought evoked. Maybe she never would marry. She certainly seemed content with her independent life.

  ‘Why have you never wed?’

  He hadn’t meant to ask the question quite so bluntly, but he did not regret asking it. A memory stirred. Lady Rothley...talk of a betrothal. Or a near betrothal. He racked his brain, trying to recall her exact words, as Eleanor stared pensively into her glass, as though it might provide answers.

  ‘I almost did,’ she said eventually. ‘Three years ago, just before my father died. I was on the brink of getting betrothed, when I found out...’ She paused. ‘I was fortunate I discovered his true nature before all the settlements had been agreed. I withdrew my acceptance of his offer.’ She looked up, eyes glittering defiance. ‘I have never regretted it.’

  ‘And what was his true nature?’ He could guess what was coming.

  ‘Avaricious!’

  ‘He was after your wealth.’

  ‘He was. He was quite the expert at hiding his true intentions, though. He intended to live a life of luxury in London whilst I remained at Ashby, running the estate to fund his pleasures.’

  Bitterness surfaced, breaking through that outer shell of confidence she customarily hid behind. No wonder she was so uncertain of her own allure as a woman.

  Before he could probe further, she continued, ‘It is the reason Ruth never liked me.’

  ‘Ruth?’ What did Ruth have to do with it?

  ‘Donald was her brother.’

  ‘Her brother?’ Whatever he had expected, this was not it. ‘Why have you never told me?’

  Her brows snapped together. ‘Why on earth should I tell you? It’s in the past. All finished with.’

  ‘But...could it not be him trying to kill you? Revenge is a motive.’

  ‘No!’ Eleanor jumped up from the sofa and crossed the room to the window. She stood rigidly, her arms wrapped around her waist. Matthew set his glass down and followed her.

  ‘He is dead,’ she said. ‘He was a soldier. He had planned to leave the army but, when I refused to marry him, he had no choice but to return to the military life. He was killed in battle. At Talavera.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Matthew said.

  She turned to face him. ‘It is in the past, as I said.’

  Matthew cleared his throat. He must say this without a single tremor in his voice to betray him.

  ‘You will find someone worthy of you, I am certain.’

  Only the slightest flare of her nostrils revealed her emotions. ‘I am sure I will,’ she said, her voice flat as she stepped to one side and glided past him to gain the centre of the room. ‘Thank you once again for obtaining the pistol and teaching me to shoot.’

  Her dismissal of him was plain. It was for the best. He must concentrate on finding proof against her cousin.

  ‘It was my pleasure. Are you engaged this evening?’

  ‘No. We were to have gone to the theatre but, after such an eventful night and day, we have decided to stay at home.’

  ‘In that case, I shall see you tomorrow. I hope you will feel safer now, with your pistol and with Alastair staying in the house.’

  Her pursed lips stretched into a semblance of a smile. ‘I shall indeed. Goodbye, Mr Damerel.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was the night of Eleanor’s soirée, several days after the intruder had broken into the house on Upper Brook Street, and there had been no further incidents, to Matthew’s relief. If she never had to use that pistol he would be a happy man—it went against his every instinct, to hand over even the smallest part of her protection to her or, indeed, to others. He had found fewer and fewer excuses to call upon her now Hugo was in residence and, although he still escorted her to her evening entertainments, the presence of her ‘guardians’ meant she was well looked after. His position was fast becoming redundant.

  He arrived early at her soirée, hoping to snatch a few moments with Eleanor before her guests arrived. Pacey showed him up the stairs and there she was, her back to him, fiddling with a flower arrangement on a side table set into an arched alcove on the first-floor landing.

  As Pacey stepped forward to announce his presence, Matthew stayed him, then crossed the landing to stand behind her.

  ‘Good evening, my lady.’

  Eleanor started, then turned to laugh up into Matthew’s face, soft lips parted revealing white, even teeth, her eyes glowing, the gold flecks in her irises reflecting the candlelight.

  ‘Goodness, you startled me.’

  Matthew’s heart turned in his chest. She looked so beautiful, her elegant pale rose gown displaying her womanly curves to perfection. He drank in the vision. How much longer would he be able to do so? How much longer could he remain part of her life?

  Eleanor brushed a wisp of hair from her face. Her hands were bare, her gloves lying abandoned on the table behind her.

  He sketched a bow. ‘My apologies for my early arrival—I thought I would come early in case your cousin showed his face before the appointed time.’

  ‘He is not attending,’ Eleanor said, as she led the way into the drawing room, ‘and neither is Ruth. I feel...such lightness of spirit. I shall be able to enjoy this evening without the constant apprehension of what James might say or do. I felt obliged to invite them despite my dread of seeing him again.’

  The doors between the drawing room and the sitting room beyond had been thrown wide, the furniture removed and the carpets rolled up ready for the dancing. The piano was set at one end of the room, the pianist already there, running his fingers up and down the scales.

  ‘James sent a note round this morning to say he was going out of town on urgent business and Hugo has confirmed he left on the mail coach,’ Eleanor continued, as she crossed to the front window, twitched the curtain aside and peered out into the twilit street. She laughed self-mockingly, and shook her head. ‘It is foolish, I know, but I cannot help but look outside every so often, in case I see him.’

  ‘It is not foolish. You are right to stay alert. Where is Alastair? Is he here?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled at Matthew over her shoulder, eyes twinkling. ‘He is upstairs, completing his toilette. He attends society events rarely and
his pride dictates he is not found wanting.’

  ‘He does not enjoy such gatherings, then?’

  ‘No, and judging by what has remained unsaid, I suspect that, in my cousin’s case, it is a case of mamas and chaperons beware.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He leads a reckless life and my uncle did not leave the family fortunes in a robust state. Not many parents would countenance an impoverished second son courting their daughter.’ She flushed. ‘Oh! That was tactless indeed. I am sorry, I did not mean... I hope I did not cause offence?’

  ‘My shoulders are broader than that, I hope,’ Matthew said. Her words might have stung if he had not already inured himself to that truth. ‘Besides, Alastair’s position as second son is positively charmed compared to mine. A third son is a far more hopeless proposition, would you not say?’

  She looked up, laughing again. ‘Only if those parents were fixed upon their daughter marrying for position. Or wealth.’

  Their gazes fused. Matthew’s waistcoat suddenly seemed too tight to draw breath as Eleanor’s smile faded and her eyes questioned his. Without volition, he raised his hand to her cheek and trailed his fingers down soft, silken skin to her mouth.

  ‘Eleanor.’

  Her eyes widened, darkening as her lips parted. A quick glance to the pianist, who was absorbed by his trilling chords, and Matthew tilted her chin, lowering his head to touch his lips to hers. It felt like home. Where he belonged. With a deep groan, he gathered her to him, backing her through the curtains into the narrow bay beyond, ignoring the clamour of caution in his head.

  Her arms snaked around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair as their tongues entwined. The rush of blood to his groin kept his conscience at bay as he plundered her sweet mouth. The press of her body to his, her full breasts squashed against his chest, her unique perfume—jasmine, interwoven with the tantalising scent of feminine arousal—flooded his senses as his hands roamed her voluptuous curves. Lost in the most arousing kiss of his life, he forgot time, place and propriety as Eleanor cupped his face, then slipped questing hands beneath his coat to caress his chest.