by Anita Mills
It surprised him that she was not one of those who beat about the proverbial bush. Nodding, he walked past her to hold open the saloon door. As she ducked beneath his arm, he looked to Burdette. "The best madeira for myself and the lady—and then I've no wish to be disturbed."
Instead of taking a seat, Elinor moved to the empty fireplace, staring into the bare iron brazier for a moment, then turning back to face him. "It must seem odd that I am here, I know—"
"Not at all," he assured her. "Though I must admit that I seldom entertain ladies in my home." He smiled wryly. "Usually I meet them somewhere. It's considerably more discreet."
"Oh." Her gaze darted about the room before returning to him. "I hope you will not think me improper, but—"
"I own the thought had crossed my mind," he admitted, "but no doubt given the circumstances, you have your reasons, my dear." She was as skittish as an unbroken colt, making him wish that Burdette would return with the wine. "Er—perhaps you would care to sit?"
"Oh—no."
"You look as though you are about to bolt, you know."
"Do I? Yes, I suppose I must, but this is quite new to me. You must understand that I am not in the habit of visiting gentlemen unattended." She smiled nervously. "But had I brought Mary, and Arthur discovered it, she should be discharged on the instant. Indeed, but she very nearly was over yesterday's scrape. And there was no one else who would not tell him, you see. I'm afraid I am surrounded by spies."
And with good reason, no doubt. But aloud he assured her, "You may count on Burdette's discretion, Lady Kingsley."
"How fortunate for you."
The butler entered with the tray, and an awkward silence ensued as he uncorked the bottle of madeira and poured two glasses. Lucien favored Elinor with a faint smile, then addressed Burdette.
"Take her ladyship's bonnet and shawl, will you? No doubt she would be more comfortable without them," he said smoothly.
"Uh—no."
"Nonsense, my dear. There is no need for formality, is there?"
To her surprise, the earl himself reached to tug at the ribbons under her chin, untying them, then pushing the hat from her head. The chipstraw caught one of the pins, pulling it, and part of her copper hair fell about her shoulders as he tossed the offending bonnet to the butler. She hastily reached to secure the loosened locks with another pin.
"Sorry," he murmured.
He was looking at her in such a way that she wished she had not come, but as she was there, she was determined to pursue her purpose.
"You are going back to the war, aren't you?" Even as she said it, she felt utterly foolish, for he'd told her he was but the day before.
"Yes." He handed her a glass of the wine, then lifted his own. "To the days between now and Monday."
She heard the door close, and she realized she was now utterly alone with him. To hide her unease, she sipped the madeira tentatively. "Uh—about why I am here—"
"I know why you are here." He set his own glass aside and moved closer. "And I do not mean to disappoint you."
Before she knew what he intended, he'd reached around to the back of her head, loosening her pins, letting her hair cascade over her shoulders and down her back. "Did none tell you how very fashionably you wear this, Lady Kingsley?" he asked softly as he combed it with his fingers. "It's like silk," he murmured, bending his head to hers.
Alarmed, she leaned back, but his hands twined in her hair, holding her. "Uh—I don't think—" Her words died against his lips, and her glass slipped from her hand, spilling the wine onto his boots. Her eyes widened in surprise, then closed, as she was overwhelmed by the hard, masculine feel of his body against hers. Later, she was to count herself an utter fool, but for the moment, she savored the passion of his kiss, the feel of his arms holding her, and she knew this was the way it was meant to be between a man and a woman.
Lucien de Clare's mouth teased hers, pressing, probing, tasting, sending tremors coursing through her until she was breathless, and all the while, she could only hold on, first to his arms, then to his waist. When he finally released her mouth, he moved along her jaw to her ear-lobe, nibbling it. His breath rushed loudly in her ear, and shivers traveled down her spine, nearly chasing rational thought from her mind.
"Lovely Elinor," he whispered hotly. "So little time... so few days..."
She arched her head away from his, only to have him find the sensitive hollow of her throat. She was drowning, falling into the maelstrom of a new, intense, answering passion. It was a heady, utterly overwhelming sensation that seemed to possess both mind and body— until she became vaguely aware that his hand had found the hooks at the back of her walking dress. Reluctant reason reasserted itself, and she stiffened.
"No!" She pushed him, backing away from him, nearly tripping over an andiron behind her. "No," she panted. "It's wrong! Arthur—"
"Arthur be damned! You came for this—admit it," he croaked, his voice thick with his desire. He moved closer, catching her, pressing her against the cold marble of the fireplace facing, and this time, his kiss was ruthless, demanding, daring her to deny him.
Panicked, she struggled against him, pounding at his chest, crying, "Let me go—I pray you—let me go!"
Telling himself that she was like so many others—that she wanted to be courted and conquered, absolved of any responsibility for what happened, he did not listen. He moved his hands over her, smoothing her dress and petticoat over her hips, pressing her body against his, feeling the firmness of her breasts against his chest, knowing that before he was done, they would sate each other's desire.
She twisted and turned, but he was far too strong for her, and she knew he meant to ravish her. This time, when his hand sought the hooks, she had nowhere to go, no escape. "Damn," he mumbled, fumbling with the metal fasteners.
For a moment, she sagged against him as though she meant to yield, then she murmured, "Let me do it."
Panting, thoroughly aroused, he released her, thinking she meant to undress for him. Instead, she bolted for the door, screaming for aid. He caught her from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth. She bit down hard, catching the fleshy part behind his thumb.
"What the devil—? You little vixen—you bit me!"
"Mmmmmmph—mmmm—nnnnnhhhh!"
As he took his hand from her mouth to shake it, she struggled in his arms, kicking backwards, catching his shin through his boot. She was slender, small in comparison to him, and yet she fought as though her life depended on escape. His ardor dampened by the realization that she resisted, that she was not being merely coquettishly coy, he pushed her away.
"I don't know your game, but I don't mean to play it," he growled, sucking the blood that trickled from the bite.
"Game!" she shouted, outraged. "Game? You would have ravished me!" Putting distance between them, she accused him, "You, sir, are no gentleman!" Her coppery hair fell forward in disarray, and she pushed it back angrily. "Never in all my life have I been subjected to such—such utter importunity1."
"You came here! You led me on like a penny whore!"
"Not for this! And I did no such thing!" Her bosom heaved with indignation, and she had to swallow to control her fury. "It's no wonder you are cut, sir! I came to ask a favor—not to sell my person to an—an—" Words failed her for a moment, then she finished furiously, "— an unprincipled rake!"
His jaw worked, but he managed to tell her stiffly, "Your pardon, madam. I thought—"
"It's obvious what you thought," she retorted acidly. Her chin came up as she sought to restore a semblance of her dignity. "And it's equally obvious that I should not have come to you for help. If you would be so good as to require my bonnet and shawl of your butler, I will go."
Her anger heightened her color, giving her beauty animation, as she stood there like an affronted goddess. He regarded her regretfully for a moment, then sighed. "We could have had such a good time of it, you know."
"How dare you—how dare you! I have never betrayed my m
arriage vows, sir!"
"You must surely be among the few," he observed sarcastically. But it was obvious that her indignation was very real, and he knew he ought to make amends. "All right. You have established my miserable reputation, Lady Kingsley." He bent to pick up her glass, then set it aside. Pouring more of the wine into his, he held it out to her. "It will make you feel more the thing."
"I don't-"
"Drink it," he ordered curtly. "Despite what you think, I am not given to rapine—cut or not, I don't have to. Go on," he urged her, "it's quite the best the smugglers can manage."
She still regarded him suspiciously. "No. I think I ought to leave."
Her manner intrigued him. "This favor—what was it?"
"I cannot think you would care."
"Sit down."
"No."
"Look, I seldom apologize for anything, Lady Kingsley, but you find me reasonably contrite—disappointed, but contrite. Clearly I misread the situation."
"Clearly," she retorted acidly, reaching to repin her hair.
"But I am not a complete fool, I think—if it was of great enough import to bring you here, it surely must be worth the telling now." He gestured to the chair again. "If you like, I shall sit across the room—at a safe distance," he promised.
She hesitated, staring into his black eyes long enough to satisfy herself that he meant it, then she took the chair, sitting forward primly, ready to run if he moved again. It was not until he dropped to a settee some distance away that she exhaled her relief. He regarded her soberly.
"Well?"
"Charles tells me you are in the dragoons," she blurted out finally.
"Charles?" For a moment, he was perplexed. "Oh— the boy."
"Yes."
"And—?"
"Well, you must have some influence! I saw your medal, sir, and—"
"You want me to get him a commission?" he inquired incredulously. "My dear Lady Kingsley, it's no soiree over there, but a war!"
"Of course I don't want him to have a commission, but Arthur is sending him—a cornetcy, I think—and I am afraid for him! And Charles has chosen the dragoons because of you!"
"Me? Acquit me—I scarce know of him even," he retorted.
"But he admires you!" she insisted, exasperated. "And he is ill-suited to the task—he is but a boy!"
"How old?"
"Not quite twenty—and he has had no training."
"Cannon fodder!" he snorted.
"Precisely. And—and I could not bear it if he were to perish. I'd not have him dead because of me," she added more calmly.
"Because of you?" Once again, his eyebrow rose.
"That, my lord, is none of your affair—indeed, I should not have said it."
"But you did."
"It's too preposterous to tell the tale, and I'd not dignify it in the repeating."
He leaned back lazily, studying her stiff demeanor, then nodded. "The old man wants no rival, eh?"
She started to deny it, then sighed. "Yes," she said simply.
He felt an unreasoning stab of jealousy. "So that's how the land lies, is it?" he asked cynically. "You and the boy but wait for the old man to die, eh?"
"No, of course not! Charley and I are of an age—and it's but his salad days! There's naught—"
"Spare me the Cheltenham tragedy!" he snapped, sitting up. "I know not what you think I can do if the boy is determined, so I am afraid you have wasted your time and mine."
"You are an officer!"
"There is more than one regiment, Lady Kingsley— and it's scarce likely he will be assigned to me." He rose and moved to stand over her. Seeing her recoil visibly, he felt anger. "I cannot aid you."
"You mean you would not," she contradicted him.
"Probably not."
"But you could use your position to see he is kept from the fray," she insisted, watching him warily. For a moment, she feared he meant to touch her again, but instead he pulled the bell rope beside her. "You know you could."
"Burdette! Burdette!" he shouted.
"Aye, my lord—?" the butler responded promptly.
"Lady Kingsley's bonnet and shawl, if you please."
The butler cast a sidewise glance at her and seemed surprised. "Of course."
"Even if I could, I would not, I am afraid," Longford declared coldly. "I don't mean to be nursemaid or mentor to any young fool. I have enough to do staying whole myself."
"But—"
"No."
As the butler presented her things, she rose stiffly. "I had thought better of you, my lord. I had thought you might care that a boy goes to fight unprepared."
"Your mistake."
"Sally Jersey is right—you cannot be brought to care for anything, can you?" She stared into his hard countenance, then added bitterly, "But no doubt had I been more amenable, you might have tried."
He bowed slightly. "I might—but I doubt it. I am not easily bought, Lady Kingsley." Again, one of his black eyebrows lifted slightly. "Never say you are thinking of relenting, my dear?" he drawled.
She tied her bonnet carefully beneath her chin, then draped the shawl about her arms before she replied. "No—I am not bought at all, sir—and even if I were, in your case, I should count the cost too great."
He had to admire the setdown, to acknowledge the girl was pluck to the bone to even be there. He waited until she was in the foyer, then he followed her. "How do you mean to get home?"
"The same way I got here," she answered truthfully. "I shall walk. It's no great distance, after all."
"Burdette, have Tompkins hail a hackney for her."
Her chin came up and her eyes met his, betraying her contempt for him. "Lord Longford, I should rather walk, I think. I'd not have it said I trespassed on your grudging kindness." There was no mistaking the derisive inflection she gave the word. Her back held straight, she turned on her heel and marched out the door, too angry to note anything beyond the fact that she'd made a fool out of herself before Longford.
A carriage rounded the corner, and for a moment, the lone occupant could only stare at her, then at the house from whence she had come. After brief consideration, he decided to lean back and pass her unnoticed. But there was no mistaking Bellamy Townsend's chagrin to learn that Longford had stolen the march on him. It was not until he was well past her that he could see a certain advantage in what he'd witnessed—the lovely Lady Kingsley was not nearly so unattainable as was generally thought—and Longford was leaving town.
And with that realization, Bell's mouth curved into a slow smile—with what he now knew, he did not doubt that it would be but a matter of weeks before she was his also. He need no longer play the game as though she did not know what he was about. And if she continued to keep him at arm's length, he could always lay down this new card and repique her. Not that he wanted to, of course, for he preferred to conquer with charm.
Inside the brick-faced mansion, Lucien returned to the saloon, poured himself another glass of the madeira, and half-sprawled on the settee to drink it. Damn Elinor Kingsley! he thought resentfully. Why couldn't she be like the rest of her sex? Why did she have to act as though she thought he had a conscience? Or cared if he did?
He held his glass up, staring at the amber-colored wine, thinking that the color reminded him of her eyes. "To the virtuous Lady Kingsley," he muttered defensively. "A pox on her!" But even as he drank, he did not want to forget that momentary, soft, yielding feeling of her in his arms—until it brought back memories long buried, memories of another woman who'd held him quite differently, reminding him that they were all weak creatures, capable of betrayal in different ways.
His eyes strayed to the portrait of the lovely woman that still hung almost defiantly over the mantel, and his black eyes locked with the painted blue ones. Lifting his glass once more, this time toward the image of a woman he barely remembered, he murmured, "Mother, I would that you beheld what you and Jack have made of me." And the old, bleak bitterness washed over him, confirming yet a
gain that despite his wealth, there was very little else in this world for him.
CHAPTER 14
There was no sign of Charles when she returned home, and she assumed he'd gone out. And Arthur, having been told by a nervous Mary that Elinor had merely stepped outside to potter in her garden, had accepted the explanation and merely left word that he intended to spend much of the day at Watier's. It was a retreat from unpleasantness, but Elinor didn't care—it was enough that he was gone from the house
As she moved about the large, seemingly cavernous mansion, it was as though Charley were already gone, as though she might never see him again, and she didn't know if she could bear it. In the short time he'd been at home, it had been as though a door had been left ajar in her prison, providing her a glimpse of life beyond the sterile, empty confines of existing with Arthur. Instead of the continuing round of visits to the modistes, there had been the Mint, the menagerie at the Tower, a visit to the undercroft at Westminster Abbey, a barge ride down the Thames on a fresh spring day—and the fateful but utterly exhilarating excursion to watch the fireworks at Vauxhall. With Charles she could share the exuberance, the liveliness of youth.
But the door was closing once again, forcing her back into the glittering emptiness Arthur craved so desperately. For a moment, she tried to imagine what it would be like when she were finally free, when she would be a wealthy widow in control of her own destiny, then guilt washed over her, making her feel like the lowest of God's creatures.
"Where were you?"
She spun around, and her heart lurched at the sound of Charles's voice. "As it's not raining, I went for a walk. I did not know you were at home."
"I guess he must've told you I was leaving, didn't he?"
"Yes—and I'm sorry—truly sorry." She swallowed, trying to drown the lump in her throat. "I know not how I shall go on without you."
"I ain't going forever, you know." He grinned, then sobered. "Funny, isn't it? I wanted to go, and he would not let me. Then I spent a couple of weeks with you, and it was like always—you're a great gun, you know—and now he won't let me stay."