Return of Scandal's Son

by Janice Preston

  In the meantime...

  ‘I am celebrating,’ he said, with a broad smile. ‘This...’ he waved the letter in Stephen’s direction ‘...is the best of all possible news. Benedict is alive!’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Somewhere in Africa.’ Matthew bent his head to the letter, straining his eyes in the dim interior of the tavern. ‘Lagos. The Laura May was badly damaged in that storm, but she survived. She was blown off course, which is why the Venetia couldn’t find her when they went back to search. Benedict writes that they carried out basic repairs at sea, then headed for the nearest port. He wrote as soon as he could and handed it to the captain of another ship bound for England, to deliver to me.’ Matthew leaned back, relief settling in, supplanting the race of excitement that had sent his blood coursing hot through his veins as he had read the letter.

  ‘That,’ said Stephen, raising his tankard, ‘is news to celebrate indeed.’

  ‘It is. And what is more,’ Matthew said, ‘I am now in a position to—’

  A silky voice cut in. ‘Damerel—your man said I’d find you here. Been lookin’ for you all day.’

  Lord Hugo Alastair stood over Matthew, who stiffened. This was a time for rejoicing. Hugo’s expression did not suggest he sought a friendly chat.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  Hugo lifted an enquiring brow.

  ‘You’ve found me.’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Hugo sat next to Stephen without waiting for a reply. He retrieved a letter from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘Best get the business out of the way first. It came this morning. From Rothley.’

  It seemed to be his day for receiving momentous communications, Matthew thought, as he read the words that confirmed it was Henson who had cheated in that long-ago card game.

  ‘Thank you, and I will write to thank your brother also. I’m grateful for your help.’ Even as he spoke, he wondered what else was on Hugo’s mind.

  ‘Saw my cousin this morning...’ Hugo said, then paused. Matthew’s fingers tightened on the handle of his tankard. Eleanor. ‘Just before she left.’

  Matthew stilled, his eyes riveted on Hugo. ‘Left? Where has she gone?’

  ‘Home. And what I should like to know is—why?’

  Gone? Why would she leave London when she was at the pinnacle of her success? With an effort, Matthew kept his expression blank. Any decision about Eleanor was his to make. He would not allow the likes of Hugo Alastair to push him around. Affecting an air of nonchalance, he raised his tankard and took a long swallow, before raising his eyes to look at his brother.

  ‘As I was about to say—’

  Stephen’s grey eyes narrowed. ‘You seem remarkably calm at Alastair’s news.’

  Matthew forced himself to shrug dismissively. He was good at hiding his feelings. He’d had a lifetime of practice.

  ‘Or,’ Stephen continued, ‘you are remarkably good at concealing your feelings. I suspect the latter.’

  ‘You may have noticed,’ said Hugo, ‘that I still await an answer.’ His voice hardened. He leaned over the table, dark eyes hard. ‘What happened between the two of you, that one glimpse of you at Vauxhall last night was enough to send her fleeing London, once again, in a state of despair?’

  Matthew’s stomach balled into a hard knot of fury, his eyes boring into Hugo’s. ‘I hope you are not suggesting what I think you are, Alastair.’

  ‘I shall allow your conscience to provide the answer to that.’

  ‘My conscience is clear.’ Apart from those kisses. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say why the lady left town. I have not seen her since my return from Rushock.’

  Hugo sat back. ‘Why not?’

  Such a simple question. Almost impossible to answer. The tangled threads of reason barely making sense to him, let alone anyone else.

  ‘I see no reason to justify my actions to you. Or to anyone else,’ Matthew growled, glaring at Stephen, who was watching with a faint smirk. ‘Lady Ashby leaving town has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘My dear fellow, loath as I am to contradict you, my mother—who is, you will have noticed, exceedingly astute—is convinced your failure to even call upon my cousin is precisely the reason she decided to leave so suddenly.’

  Matthew shrugged again. There was a protracted silence during which Hugo contemplated Matthew, who tamped down his irritation. He would explain himself to Eleanor. No one else.

  After several tense minutes, Hugo sighed, leaning back. ‘I find myself in agreement with your brother. I believe you are concealing your true feelings...’ He paused, his dark eyes calculating. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

  ‘I’m goin’ to regret this,’ he said. ‘Ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same. Alastair? A bad lot—cares for nothing and nobody but his own pleasures and doesn’t worry who gets hurt in the process. I don’t permit interference in my life and I make it a rule not to interfere in anyone else’s.’

  Matthew exchanged a perplexed look with Stephen. What was Alastair talking about?

  ‘It so happens that my cousin Eleanor is an exception to that rule,’ Hugo continued, carefully examining his fingernails. ‘I do care what happens to her. When I’m forced to watch her tryin’ to be brave and pretend her heart’s not breaking, then I’m persuaded it is time I intervened.’

  His mouth quirked into another brief smile. ‘Devil take it, there’s something about you, Damerel. Trustworthy—that’s what I thought when we first met. And you were good for Ellie, too—she was blooming when I first saw her in town and, when I saw you together, I knew why.

  ‘So, what I fail to understand is—why have you let her go?’

  There was a lengthy silence. Hugo studied Matthew and Matthew forced himself to meet that knowing gaze.

  ‘Deny that you love her and I shall leave right now.’

  It was like a punch to his gut. It stole his breath. Hiding his feelings was one thing. Baldly denying them...

  ‘I do not deny it. That is...was...precisely the reason why I cannot be part of her life.’

  ‘Is? Was? Pray explain, for I fail to understand.’

  ‘My brother’s financial circumstances have vastly improved since yesterday,’ Stephen said, ‘although, to be blunt, I have always failed to see what difference that should make if you love one another.’

  ‘I had nothing to offer her. She could do much better for herself than an impoverished third son. And I am no fortune hunter.’

  Hugo wagged his head at him and Matthew set his teeth.

  ‘Pride?’ Hugo said. ‘Is that it? You damned fool! You’ll allow your pride to ruin both of your lives? No doubt you are congratulating yourself on your honourable behaviour in leaving the way clear for another man, Damerel, but let me tell you something.

  ‘I know Eleanor well enough to know she will only ever marry for love, after the misery of her experience with Aldridge. She will never marry if she doesn’t marry you. How can you deny her the chance to have a family?’

  Matthew froze as Hugo’s words hit him with the force of a lightning strike. Why had he never once considered Eleanor’s point of view? Hugo was right. He had made his decision with no reference to her wishes, putting his pride first, denying her any choice over her own future.

  ‘You have left her with no choice and no hope, Damerel.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Eleanor was roused from her slumber by the liquid, warbling notes of a song thrush, singing its heart out outside her window. She listened, enthralled, caught up in the magic, until cruel reality flooded in, drowning the beauty of the song as the bitter truth of her life surged to the forefront of her mind.

  She flung herself over in her bed, dragging the covers over her head as she buried it in the pillow, squeezing her eyes tight shut, in what she knew would be a forlorn attempt to go back to sleep. It was still early and she was in no hurry to face the day, or Aunt Lucy’s pitying looks. At least James, who had travelled up to prepare Waycroft Farm for Ruth, was too preoccupie
d with his own troubles to concern himself with Eleanor’s.

  Finally, as sleep continued to evade her, she pushed back the covers, eased out of bed and shuffled over to the window to draw back the curtains. The weather was fine, with fluffy white clouds scudding across the cerulean sky, but the weather did nothing to lift her mood. She did not ring for Lizzie, but poured cold water into the basin from the pitcher on her washstand, washed quickly, then pulled on her shift and a lightweight pale-blue sprigged-muslin dress. She dusted a little rouge on her pale cheeks, determined to shield herself from her relatives’ critical gazes.

  Despite the early hour both Aunt Lucy and James were already at breakfast when Eleanor entered the morning parlour. Two pairs of eyes lifted to view her with concern as she sat at the table. She gritted her teeth. It was James who had suffered the most; why were they worried about her? Thank goodness Aunt Phyllis had declined to return to Ashby Manor until the renovations were complete. At least Eleanor did not have to face her at breakfast.

  ‘Good morning.’ She injected a bright note into her voice and plastered a smile on her lips. ‘What a beautiful morning.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Aunt Lucy responded. ‘You are up early, my pet. I was sure we would not see you until much later this morning.’

  ‘Why ever not? I am not in the habit of lying abed half the day, as you well know, particularly when there is work to be done.’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘You had a disturbed night,’ James said. ‘I heard you.’

  Eleanor bit back her sharp retort. Even James had noticed. It seemed, since her return to her beloved Ashby, it had been nigh on impossible to stem the flood of tears she had successfully controlled whilst in London. In London there had still been hope, however slight. Now... Last night, she had cried herself to sleep. Again.

  ‘I am looking forward to consulting with the decorator,’ was her only comment as she picked at her breakfast.

  * * *

  By mid-afternoon, Eleanor’s temper was teased to breaking point. Aunt Lucy, in her determination to lift Eleanor out of the doldrums, dogged her footsteps with such relentless cheeriness that Eleanor’s nerves were in shreds. From viewing the renovations and discussing the decoration of the East Wing to visiting Joker—fully recovered from his fright when Bonny was shot—in the home paddock, Aunt Lucy was by her side.

  Eleanor tried to be patient. She knew her aunt had been sad to leave London before the Season was over and also, she suspected, to leave Sir Horace. Aunt Lucy’s heart was in the right place but, everywhere Eleanor turned, Aunt Lucy was there—watching her anxiously...taking her arm...patting her hand...attempting to coax a smile—until Eleanor was ready to climb the walls.

  Finally, after partaking of tea and cakes in the drawing room, Eleanor headed for the door, announcing that she was going for a walk.

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ Aunt Lucy said, struggling to her feet. ‘I shall enjoy some more fresh air.’

  Eleanor stopped and looked around at her aunt, ready to snap her head off. But she bit her tongue, taking in Aunt Lucy’s drawn expression.

  ‘No, you would not,’ she said instead. ‘Just look at you—you are exhausted.’ She took her aunt by the arm and drew her back to the sofa. ‘Please, stay here and rest.’

  Aunt Lucy sank on to the sofa with a small sigh and Eleanor crouched by her side, taking her hand. ‘I know you are worried about me and I appreciate your efforts, but—’

  ‘But you are plagued by the sight of me?’ Aunt Lucy’s dark eyes twinkled under arched brows.

  Eleanor smiled. ‘Oh dear; am I that transparent? I do beg your pardon, Aunt, but I truly would enjoy some time on my own. I shall walk around the lake and sit and rest a while in the summerhouse. It is always so peaceful there. I promise I shall be all right on my own. It is perfectly safe, you know, for the lake is in the middle of the estate and quite private.’

  The weather was perfect for a walk. Eleanor strolled down the path that led to the lake. She was relieved to be free of the need to constantly school her expression in case anyone suspected she was unhappy. She sighed. Her life stretched before her in a never-ending round of duty and care. Soon, Aunt Phyllis would be home and Aunt Lucy would return to Rothley, and it would be as if the past few months had never happened.

  On a whim, she turned and meandered through the woodland that skirted the path. The dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves and she watched, enchanted, as birds darted hither and thither, gathering food in response to the insistent cries of their young, crowded in the nest or, in some cases, perched in rows on branches, beaks gaping, demanding, never satisfied. Her loneliness—her aloneness—intensified.

  She even caught sight of a vixen slinking through the undergrowth at the far side of a sunny glade, followed in procession by three cubs. That, too, emphasised her solitude—the whole world was happily playing families, and she was devastated she would never now have that chance. Angrily, she dashed away a lone tear that spilled on to her cheek, chiding herself for her self-pity. She joined another path, rounded a curve, then stopped to admire the stunning vista that lay before her.

  It never failed to enchant her. The lake sparkled in the sunlight, gently rippling in the faint breeze. It was studded with water lilies, the bright green pads interspersed with white crown-shaped flowers, with the summerhouse on the far shore, facing south, framed by a wooded backdrop of majestic oaks and beeches, under-planted with silver birches and other smaller trees. Two huge weeping willows grew, one each side of the summerhouse, their dangling fronds sweeping the crystal surface of the water.

  She turned on to the path that skirted the lake, passing dense clumps of reed mace—a few early dark brown velvety spikes providing a vivid contrast with the bright yellow of water flag irises in full bloom. She walked slowly, pausing frequently, breathing in deep gulps of fresh air, concentrating on the birdsong and the hum of busy insects, filling her thoughts with her beautiful surroundings, drowning out the painful memories that lay submerged. She watched, smiling, the amusing antics of a family of ducklings, then continued on her way until, eventually, she approached the first of the large willows that stood sentinel over the summerhouse, which it masked from view.

  She had one foot on the narrow footbridge that crossed a stream gurgling down into the lake before she saw the figure on the opposite bank.

  Matthew.

  A torrent of thoughts and emotions cascaded through her mind. Heart and breath alike stalled. Numbly, dumbly, she stood frozen, greedily drinking in the sight. He was as handsome as ever: tall and broad-shouldered, his dark-blond hair reflecting the sun’s rays. A muscle bunched in his jaw as he held her gaze. She couldn’t read his expression. He was tense, but she could see neither pleasure nor apology in his look. Why was he here? Her stomach churned as she attempted to decipher his mood.

  Then fury overwhelmed her. How dare he? How dare he stand there and make her feel all these swirling emotions, and not even try to ease the tension? Abruptly, she turned on her heel and strode back the way she had come. She heard running footsteps behind her and a hand grasped her shoulder, pulling her round to face him.

  She wriggled out of his grip. ‘Leave me alone!’ She turned again, striding away as fast as she could.

  He overtook her, stood square in her path.

  ‘Eleanor. Please, wait. Let me explain.’

  ‘There is nothing to explain. My understanding is quite adequate to the task of recognising a lost cause.’

  ‘It was for your own good—you must see that. What can I offer you?’

  ‘Nothing, clearly. And in that case, please let me pass.’

  ‘No. Wait.’ He raked one hand through his hair in the dear, familiar gesture that wrenched at her heartstrings. ‘This has come out all wrong. Please, give me a minute. Let me tell you why I am here.’

  ‘I do not care why you are here. You are nothing to me, apart from the fact you are ruining a perfectly pleasant walk.’

  She coul
d hear the tremble in her voice. She was desperate to get away before her emotions overwhelmed her. She would not let him see her cry. She clenched her teeth and crossed her arms, pinching the inside of one arm as hard as she could in an attempt to keep the tears at bay.

  ‘Eleanor! Ellie, my dear, my love—do not, I beg of you. I have been such a fool! I have hurt you, I know. I had no intention—’

  At those words Eleanor’s temper reignited. ‘Don’t you dare to use those words to me again. Don’t you dare. I know you had no intention. You told me so—no intention of kissing me, no intention of raising false expectations, no intention of making me fall in love with you, no intention of humiliating me. But you did. I thought you c-cared,’ she ended, with a sob.

  She lifted her fists to pound at his chest.

  He caught her hands, gripping tightly so that no matter how she struggled she could not break free.

  ‘I do! Oh, Ellie, I do care for you, more than you know. I love you, so very, very much. And I was wrong, when I said I have nothing to offer you. I allowed my pride to overcome my good sense. You were right. I do have something to offer—something that is more important than all the wealth and all the titles in the world. I have my heart to offer.

  ‘My heart is what I offer you now, my darling Eleanor. My heart and, for what it is worth, every other poor, humble thing that goes with it—my body, my self, my soul.

  ‘All that I am—it is yours, if you will have me.’

  Eleanor stilled on hearing his words and her gaze lifted to fuse with his.

  ‘This is not how I envisaged this meeting,’ he said, with a tentative, rueful smile. ‘I will explain myself properly, I promise, but I need to do this now.’ He dropped to one knee, still clasping her hands in his.

  Her heart lurched, then accelerated, pounding in her chest until she felt as though it would burst through her ribs.

  ‘Eleanor, would you do me the greatest honour in the world? Will you marry me and make me the happiest man alive?’