She moved around the four ladies, toward the cricket pitch.
The men still sorted themselves out. It seemed to be a casual game. Eleanore walked up to the man holding cricket ball. Peter, she reminded herself.
Peter raised his brow at her. “Do you like cricket?” His voice was low and deep.
Eleanore saw that Cian was one of the men standing about the pitch. He said nothing.
“I thought perhaps, you might let me bowl,” she said to Peter. “I am far less of a threat to Ben than you.”
Peter smiled. “You might be at that. Have you ever bowled?”
Eleanore was pleased. Peter had not snorted in derision. He had not looked her up and down, examined her shortened dress, or made some disparaging remark about women playing cricket.
“I have bowled a little,” she said. Over Peter’s shoulder she saw Cian smirk.
Peter tossed the ball to her. She caught it. He whirled and strode toward the other end of the pitch. “New bowler,” he called.
Everyone looked up. As Eleanore held the ball by her side and the fold of her dress hid it, the men all looked puzzled.
“Who?” Jasper asked.
Peter grinned. He pointed at Eleanore. “The lady asked.”
Ben held a cricket bat under his arm. “Marvelous!” He took his place at the crease.
Eleanore walked behind the opposite stumps and moved a few yards beyond them for her run-up.
Everyone else spread around pitch. They would act as fielders until it was their turn to bat or bowl or act as catcher.
“Ready?” Eleanore called.
“Ready!” Ben called back.
The men prepared themselves, their heads up, ready to catch the ball when Ben hit it.
Eleanore took her run-up, the ball placed in her fingers to maximize the spin. She wind-milled her arms as she reached crease line and sent the ball down the pitch.
Ben stepped forward to hit the ball, the cricket bat coming up. He lifted it too high. The ball bounced six inches in front of his bat, skewed and slid beneath the bottom edge. It slammed into the stumps, knocked off the bails and shot past the catcher, Dane, who lunged to catch it. Dane cursed softly and sprinted after it is it ran across the open grass.
Everyone straightened and turned to look at her. Ben leaned on his bat, a look of disbelief on his face.
Cian crossed his arms. “Two pounds says she can’t do that again.”
Dane came running up with the ball in his hand. “The spin on that thing was absolutely amazing! I’ll take that bet.” He threw the ball to Eleanore.
She got her arm up and heard her sleeve tear. The tear would give her more room to move. She returned to where her run-up began. The blond-haired man called Will was in front of the stumps now, tapping the bat on the crease line.
She bowled. The stumps splintered and spread.
Will shook his head and handed the bat to Jasper.
Jasper didn’t smile as Eleanore set up to bowl. He wore a fierce expression of concentration and wielded the bat with a confidence which said he had played before.
Eleanore shifted the ball so the seam was against her index finger. If Jasper was a skillful player, then he would anticipate she would bowl a topspin ball, because he had just seen her bowl two of them. She aimed for the narrow gap between his bat and his knee, removed all spin and bowled as hard as she could.
The stumps were flattened this time.
Someone snorted with laughter.
Cian looked at Ben. “What was that you said about Peter bowling?”
Peter threw Eleanore the ball. “Keep going,” he told her.
With a smile, Eleanore turned and walked back to her starting spot.
She bowled for the rest of the afternoon, taking a few moments here and there to rest and drink iced tea. Every single man took his turn at the crease with the bat. She bowled all of them clean.
By the time the sun sank toward the horizon and everyone made comments about an early dinner, not just the men watched the cricket game. Everyone in the house had come out and were standing around the cricket pitch, clapping and laughing each time she bowled someone else out.
Jasper, who had more experience playing cricket than any of the others, was one of the few who hit any of the balls she bowled. When the game ended, he came up to her with the bat under his arm and held out his hand. “It has been a long time since a bowler made me sweat,” he said. “It’s absolutely marvelous that it be you.”
Eleanore shook his hand, pleased.
When she went upstairs to wash and change for dinner, Cian straightened up from his lean against the wall beside her bedroom door. He uncrossed his arms. He was smiling.
“Then you didn’t mind that I played cricket?” she asked him.
Cian pressed her against the wall, his long body holding her still. He kissed her, taking his time. Only when she moaned into his mouth did he let her go. “I’ll see you at supper.” He moved away again, leaving her with her heart racing.
Dinner that night was a placid affair. Everyone was tired. People still arrived at Innesford and there was much climbing of the stairs. Footmen carted trunks upstairs. New arrivals would come into the drawing room, to be greeted by everyone else.
Eleanore learned that the first evening of the gather was always like this. Even though many of the family lived at Marblethorpe with Natasha and Raymond, everyone still spent the evening chatting with everyone else, finding out what their year had been like.
That night after she retired, she laid in her bed with the moonlight streaming through the window. The lace curtains threw pretty patterns on the coverlet. She did not think Cian would visit her tonight. There were too many people here, now.
Besides, she had left Cian in the drawing room with a group of men, the decanter and glasses between them. The decanter had been nearly empty. Travers had been bringing a new one as she left. She sensed Cian would stay up late, drinking with his cousins and brothers.
Barely an hour after she had retired to her room, the connecting door between her and Cian’s room opened. He slipped through like a silent shadow and came over to the bed and removed his robe. He slid under the sheets and pulled her to him.
Eleanore sighed and relaxed as his heat and strength enveloped her.
He kept his lips close to her ear and said, “We cannot speak. Not loudly. The walls of this old house are far too thin.”
The words he spoke with his lips and hands and body were more than enough, though.
There were few occasions during the week when she could speak freely with Cian. There were always people around. Despite that, Cian found times and places where he could snatch a few moments to run his hands over her body or kiss her until her knees weakened. He would push her up against the wall, or into a corner, or pull her behind a tree or bush, and while not speaking a word, tell her that even though they might be on opposite sides of the estate from one another, he was still thinking of her.
It added spice to every interaction she had with the family. She constantly wondered when she might run into him again and what he would do to her this time.
Chapter Thirteen
The day after she played cricket, Eleanore found herself in the drawing room again. This time she was sitting with Bronwen, who had just arrived from Denmark with her husband, the Archduke. Bronwen was tired and didn’t want to go outside, so they sat and observed everyone cavorting in the sunshine.
Eleanore found it interesting that no one stayed in the same group for long. The men playing cricket would wander over to where women sat in the chairs soaking up the sun. Or the women would join in the fun on the croquet court or watch the cricket. Others would wander into the tent for food or drink, and emerge with someone else, who they would laugh and chat with.
There were no divisions within the family.
Even Bronwen’s formal Archduke shrugged off his jacket and joined the men at the cricket pitch.
One of the men, Iefan, used his walking stick like a croquet mallet to
whack the cricket ball down the pitch, while everyone else tried to redirect it with their feet. It was impromptu fun and everyone laughed and joked, and in the way of men, insulted each other.
The walking stick told Eleanore that this was the man whom Cian had dashed to Algeria to save. She had thought Iefan to be a dark and moody man, yet he was laughing as loudly as the rest of the men and pushing and shoving as strongly as any of them, despite the cane.
The golden blonde woman, Lisa Grace, moved into the drawing room, trailing lace and satin. Her dress was as golden as her hair. She came right up to where Bronwen and Eleanore were sitting with the teapot between them. “Lady Eleanore, would you mind terribly much standing up for me?”
Eleanore looked at her, startled.
So did Bronwen. “That’s an extraordinary request to make of a stranger among us, Lisa Grace.”
Lisa Grace’s smile was knowing. “Oh, Eleanor has not been a stranger for a long time. Please, would you stand?”
Curious, Eleanor got to her feet. Lisa Grace picked up her hand and drew her to the center of the room, away from the furniture. Then Lisa Grace walked around her in slow steady circles. As Lisa Grace was the artist of the family, Eleanore suspected she was being measured with an exacting eye.
Eleanore tugged on her sleeve and patted her hair. “Do I pass inspection?”
“Whatever are you doing, Lisa Grace?” Bronwen asked.
Lisa Grace stopped in front of Eleanore, with a smile. “It is simply amazing how accurate the artist was.”
Alarm settled in Eleanore’s stomach like a cold rock. She did not dare ask what Lisa Grace meant by “the artist” because she knew very well to whom she was referring. Eleanore remembered only now that Lisa Grace was the one other person in the family who has seen the portrait which Sidney Gordie Strange had painted. Cian had assured her the portrait was out of sight, tucked away in an attic somewhere, never to be seen again.
Bronwen, though, had no compunction against speaking. “An artist? Did someone paint your portrait, Eleanore?”
Lisa Grace looked startled as she realized what her careless remark had revealed. She bit her lip.
Eleanore shook her head. “It was a silly painting. I burned it.”
“But Cian…” Lisa Grace began, then closed her mouth.
Bronwen’s eyes narrowed. “I sense a scandal,” she said. “Oh, please do tell me about it! I have been far too respectable for far too long. I am dying to hear of someone else’s adventures.”
“It was a full-length nude,” Cian said from the doorway. Everyone looked up.
He stood at the archway between the drawing room and the front foyer. His arms were crossed. He did not seem worried that everyone was talking about the painting.
“A nude!” Bronwen breathed. “Oh, how daring of you!” Her face fell. “You really didn’t burn it, did you?”
“No, she didn’t,” Cian said. He walked over to where Bronwen was sitting, bent and kissed her temple. “Hello, cousin,” he murmured.
Bronwen smiled up at him. “It is good to be here, Cian.”
“How do you fare?” he asked just as softly.
“Well enough,” she said. “The painting?”
Eleanore realized that despite her frailty, Bronwen would relentlessly pursue this matter, until she got the answer she wanted. Eleanore glanced at Cian for help.
Perhaps Cian sensed the same thing, for he shook his head. “I can show you the painting, only you must promise me you will not make a fuss about it. After all, you are insisting upon seeing it.”
Bronwen smile was full of wickedness and unexpected. Her eyes danced. “I will not breathe the word,” she promised.
“I thought you said it was in attic and unreachable,” Lisa Grace said to Cian.
“Well, it is upstairs.”
Bronwen got to her feet. Eleanore reached for her elbows to help her. Bronwen glanced at her in thanks. Then she looked at Cian.
“Now?” Cian said.
“I want to see it before you change your mind. Lisa Grace seems to think this painting is particularly good. I trust her taste. Come along. Show us.”
Wordlessly, Cian turned and trudged back up the steps, into the foyer. There were four people sitting on the stairs—actually sitting on the steps. One of them was Ben, who held Sharla’s hand as he spoke to the other two men. One of the other two was Dane, the Duke of Wakefield. The other was the redheaded man, Stephen Spearing. Those two sat shoulder to shoulder, on the steps above Ben and Sharla.
As Cian walked into the foyer with the three ladies trailing him, the four looked up, their expressions curious. “Are we in the way?” Stephen Spearing asked.
Cian squeezed past them and continued up the stairs. “Apparently not,” he said.
Ben glanced at everyone as they walked past. “Where are you going with so many women in tow, Cian?”
“Cian has a portrait of Eleanore hidden away, where no one can see it,” Bronwen said, as she lifted her skirts to climb the stairs.
Her heart sinking even further, Eleanore followed Bronwen up the steps, squeezing between the men and the wall.
The Duke rose to his feet. “That sounds rather intriguing,” he said. “Do you mind if we look, too?”
Cian hesitated. “If I say no, it will only make you more determined to see it. So you may as well come along.”
“Now I really must see it,” Sharla said.
All four of them got to their feet and climbed behind everyone else. At the top steps, they met Lilly and Jasper as the couple moved down the wide corridor. Lilly’s brow lifted. “Where are you all going?” she asked.
Cian didn’t answer. Yet the pair turned and followed everyone, all the same. Cian moved down the wide corridor to the big double doors at the end, which were embellished with guilt flourishes on the light blue paint. He pushed them open. Both doors swung open and bright sunlight greeted everyone.
The bedroom beyond was the master suite. The bed was a huge thing which must have been built right here in the room. There was no way to move it through the doorway. It was simply too big.
There were three big windows which matched the windows downstairs. This was the source of the bright sunlight, for the late afternoon sun was shining straight through the glass. The room was large, airy and felt unused.
Eleanore glanced around the walls, alarmed. Surely her portrait was not hanging in this room?
Cian crossed the carpet to a smaller door on the inner wall. He pushed it open and waved everyone in. “Ladies, I did warn you. This is my dressing room. You must take it as you find it.”
His warning seemed to increase everyone’s curiosity. They all crowded into the room. Reluctantly, Eleanore followed them in. The absurd notion struck her that she should pick up her skirt and run away. When she had sat for the painting, it had been merely another adventure. At the time, she had not stopped to consider that once the painting was finished, other people would see it.
Now the people who were about to view it were members of the family she was beginning to greatly admire. They were tolerant people, only she wondered if this might not push them beyond the limits of their tolerance.
The painting was not tucked away. It hung on the wall as any painting should.
“The light is perfect here, for this picture,” Lisa Grace softly.
It was such a large frame that Eleanore was surprised there was enough spare wall for it to hang. Had Cian cleared out other pictures to make room for it? There were wardrobes on either side of it and a plinth which held a copper pot containing a soft-leafed fern. The fronds of the fern framed the gilt at the edge of the picture.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Lisa Grace sighed. “Now I have met the original subject,” she said, “I can see what a marvelous job Mr. Strange did. It is quite lovely.”
“Indeed, it is,” Stephen Spearing said.
Her heart pattering uneasily, Eleanore scanned the expressions of everyone staring at the picture.
Did they disapprove? Or worse, had they drawn the natural conclusion, the only conclusion they could make, from the fact that Cian had hung this picture of her in his dressing room?
Ben crossed his arms, flexing his massive shoulders. “It looks as though she is trying to escape,” he said. “I know that feeling well.”
“You once knew that feeling,” Stephen Spearing said. “We both did, once.”
“It makes my heart ache,” Lilly said softly.
Sharla came over to where Eleanore stood gripping the door handle with a damp palm. Her smile was small. “You have far more daring than I,” she said softly. “It is a lovely picture.” Her eyes danced with mischief. “Although I quite understand why it is hidden away. Society would be shocked out of its britches if they saw it.”
“Indeed,” Wakefield said. “Any artistic merit would be quite lost in the resulting scandal.”
“I would’ve placed it right here, too,” Jasper said. He looked around the dressing room. “Somewhere where I could see it every day.”
Cian said nothing. There was an expression in his eyes which Eleanore recognized. He was proud.
IF CIAN HAD CONSULTED with her about the painting, Eleanore would have told him not to show it to any of the family. For hours after he had displayed the painting the first time, other members of the family trouped upstairs in ones and twos to examine it.
Eleanore stayed in the drawing room near the fire, unsettled and unable to relax as she monitored the people departing the drawing room for Cian’s dressing room.
Invariably, when they returned, they would seek her out with a gaze and stare at her. Eleanore kept her chin up, although no one breathed a word which could be interpreted as negative.
Cian’s mother, Natasha, smiled at her.
Eventually the trickle of people returning from upstairs came to a stop. Decanters were unstopped and drinks served. As the afternoon became overcast, everyone lingered in the drawing room. There were nests of conversation across the room. Eleanore watched closely. None of the conversations involved heads together and whispers, and no one glanced at her sideways. Bit by bit she relaxed even more. It appeared no one was talking about her.
Rules of Engagement Page 14