by Ingrid Hahn
It had all been about the name. The scandal. The estate. And, most importantly, that damn debt.
Eliza’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. The way she’d looked at him at the edge of the gardens after Miss Burke and Lieutenant Hart had married…
Without so much as reaching for the instrument, he shut the case, tucked it away, and checked the mantel clock. Not quite ten, and he’d neglected to have his coffee. Normally, he’d go to the breakfast room, but Eliza could be there. Or could appear at any moment. But he didn’t want to call it up to his desk. It seemed so uncouth, and he hated the risk of knocking the cup over on his papers.
Having coffee was the one thing he did for himself every day. In light of the memories of his more musical days, it seemed all the more important that he not let the pleasure of his morning drink be pushed aside for business.
To hell with it. He could face his wife. There was no point in avoiding her, was there?
Jeremy had no more than stepped into the breakfast room than he instantly regretted his choice. The sight of Eliza at the table roused his base desires. He had no business being quite so up, as it were, at such a time.
The force of what surged through his bloodstream should have frightened him. There was no reason for such a heightened state. He was accustomed to being levelheaded, of doing what needed to be done and leaving his personal feelings aside.
After returning to his own room last night and once again relieving the worst of his urges with a quick tug, he’d stared into the blackness for a full hour replaying the conversation in his mind to see where he’d gone wrong. That was three nights in a row he’d been ready to do the deed. Three nights in a row he’d come within steps of her bed. And three nights in a row, he’d slunk away before attending to the critical business. It was beginning to skirt all too closely to being a pattern.
He should’ve had done with it. It didn’t need to be anything more than it was, so he told himself again. It was no more than a simple mechanism that all animals participated in when creating the next generation.
Inwardly, he cursed himself. He didn’t really think that, and he wasn’t going to convince himself of it. Not for a second. As much as he wanted to be cool and detached toward Eliza, he wasn’t. She stirred him in ways he should have been able to withstand. He wanted things to be better between them. In bed, that was. Not just a quick in and out and thank you very much, my lady, sleep well. There had never been anything polite about it in any of his past endeavors. He didn’t care to begin now.
Food. He needed to temporarily abandon this tangle of lewd thoughts and concentrate on the meal. He couldn’t avoid her forever. At least not until their nocturnal activities produced the desired result. He was strong enough to not lose his mind over a stiff cock in the presence of a beautiful woman.
One thing was certain. Tonight when he came into her bedroom—assuming she was fully willing—he wouldn’t leave before breaking this absurd barrier between them. So to speak.
Lieutenant and Mrs. Hart were not in evidence. Good for them. Jeremy hoped they were going at it like rabbits. Someone in the house should be enjoying carnal pleasures.
Eliza was frowning over a letter.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to ask.
Was there enough business in the day to keep him distracted from his absurd yearning to bed her? He’d probably have to go back to his room briefly to have himself off. This was one of those times requiring extra help. “Where’s the dog?”
“It turns out she’s quite untrustworthy in the presence of food, so I had a footman take her outside to run about a bit.” She folded the letter and put it aside.
“He, you mean.”
She took a sip of tea. “I suppose so.”
He had to tear his eyes away from her mouth. The shape her delicate pink lips took when she was about to place them on the china cup was more than he would be able to withstand. “I take it you haven’t thought of a more suitable name.”
Turning from fixing himself a plate, his eyes fell upon the graceful curve of his wife’s neck as she sat with her back to him studying her letter. A few strands of her dark hair curled artfully over her nape. He tensed. That damn glorious hair. What was it about those glossy deep-brown depths that turned him helpless before a woman?
Helpless before her.
No. Never.
She folded her letter as he came around and put it away. “Nothing seems right.”
With a plate full from his selections from the sideboard, he took a seat across from her. “How about Dash? Or…”
Was it his imagination, or did Eliza look pale?
Scowling, he took a breath. There was no need whatsoever to make conversation. He stuffed his mouth with a rasher and washed it down with the smooth splendor of perfectly prepared coffee.
She was still frowning. It didn’t sit well with him, her frowning. He didn’t like it. And he didn’t like that he didn’t like it, either.
Hell and damnation, but he was curious. “Is anything amiss?”
Her hand came to rest over the letter. “This came a few minutes ago by urgent messenger.”
“Bad news?”
“Yes. But I know what I’m going to do about it, because there is only one right thing.”
It didn’t take much effort to put the pieces together. “Saying that suggests you might be worried about my reaction.”
“I am, my lord.”
Which means Lady Rushworth is somehow involved. “Your mother?” Say no.
“She’s ill, and she needs me.”
An unwanted stab of jealousy pierced his heart. He didn’t want to share her. Which was absurd, because he didn’t want her—except in his bed, where he would make her the mother of his children—and, even if he did, she certainly didn’t belong to him.
He kept his voice level and hoped he sounded aloof. “She’s written to you?”
“She hasn’t, no. It’s our servant—Caruthers. He promised to care for my mother in my stead, and he told me she took the news of my marriage hard—and then she fell ill—”
Her expression irked him. It was like she expected him to forbid her. As if he were some sort of tyrant.
“I’m not going to forbid you anything. That way lies a person I don’t want to become.” The next words he spoke were as much for the dominant side of his nature raring to assert itself as they were for her. “You’re my wife, not my prisoner.”
If he sounded half as ridiculous as he felt, it would be too much. It didn’t help matters one whit when her eyes widened.
Jeremy drew a deep breath, his whole being stinging with regret. His control was slipping. He slunk back to stiff formality. “I must own that I don’t understand why you want to go.”
“I don’t expect you to. But I do expect you to support my decision.”
“Give me some credit and at least attempt an explanation, won’t you?”
“I want to be a good daughter.”
He wanted to ask her how that interacted with being a good wife, but doing so would have been unpardonably selfish. The last thing he wanted to do was suggest that he was the reason for her existence. Men who treated their wives as property were vile. Jeremy would not join their ranks.
“Do you want to be the good daughter, or do you want to run away from your duty?” His jaw clenched. Control. He needed to maintain control—to keep his anger in check. He wasn’t being careful enough.
Her color heightened. “I suppose you mean my duty to give you an heir.”
Jeremy could have hung his head in shame for letting his tongue fly loose before thinking through his words. He was better than this. “I did, but I must beg you to forgive me. Don’t answer my absurd question. Consider, however, that we have only just arrived at Idlewood.”
What little he knew of Lady Rushworth was enough to make him lay heavy odds on this sudden illness of hers being nothing more than a fabrication devised to separate her daughter from her new husband.
Gatheri
ng the vestiges of control so he could see the conversation through with as much grace as possible, Jeremy remained silent a moment. He took a deep breath. Whatever guilt she struggled with over having married him was not his to dismiss, absolve, or deny. “I won’t ask anything of you. What you do is, and always will be, entirely up to you.”
Her wide eyes were grave. “I have to return to London to be with her.”
“Does she live in London the year round?”
“She doesn’t like my cousin who inherited my father’s title and refuses the dower house because it’s too close to him.” Eliza nodded. “Margaret will be glad of going. She’s been homesick, I think, although she hasn’t said anything.”
“Homesick? Haven’t my servants been welcoming to her?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s the issue. It’s different for her, is all.”
“Very well.” Jeremy started for the door. “I shall alert the servants, we can be on the road by—”
“Oh, you don’t have to go to such trouble for me.”
He froze, not having entertained the possibility of her going without him with any seriousness. Slowly, he turned. “I’m sorry?”
“I mean, you don’t have to come. I’m not sure she would want it.”
It took him a few extra moments to find the right words. How carefully should he tread around the subject of her mother when their relationship was still so new? “She spent a lot of your life controlling you, didn’t she?”
“She did her best to try.” Eliza bowed her head—whether because she was abashed or because she didn’t like the reminder, it was impossible to tell. “But she is my mother, and I have dishonored her by going so far against her wishes. You might think me foolish, but I do earnestly want her forgiveness.”
A rush of tenderness took him by surprise. How could he think her foolish for having such a heart as that?
“You do?”
He must have sounded more surprised than he’d meant to, for Eliza returned with a flash of resolve that wedged in a tender place in his heart. “She’s my mother.”
Ignoring whatever he might have been feeling, he pushed the point. He needed a sense of how she viewed her mother. “Do you think perhaps this sudden illness of hers might be a way of trying to reassert control?”
Giving a little shrug, she took another sip of tea. “It could be. She’s capable of such things.”
Those were the exact words he needed to hear. He exhaled a released breath. For her to be at least somewhat aware of her mother’s shortcomings, to put it lightly, boded well. He shouldn’t have doubted her. She was highly intelligent. But even the smartest people could have such blind spots.
Which meant for now, he’d relax. By the time they reached London, he’d have to brace for battle, if not an outright war. Lady Rushworth would not take kindly to his accompanying her daughter. If he guessed correctly, it would foil her plans.
Then again, she was not a woman to be underestimated. One point in his favor would likely neither be forgiven nor forgotten. “I’m coming.”
Eliza set down her teacup and gave him a frank stare. “You don’t have to protect me from her, you know. I’ve been alone with her for years. I know how to manage myself around her.”
Something tugged at the back of his mind when she spoke of being alone. Like there were more to the statement than an offhand remark. He filed it away.
“I’m certain I don’t.” Like hell he didn’t. Lady Rushworth was ruthless. Eliza was strong, but his instinct to protect her was too much to overrule. And just let the coldhearted shrew try sending him away.
“My lord, I think I understand your point of view.” She spoke in a firm manner suggesting he might have been trying her patience. “However, you’re the very last person my mother would have wanted me to marry. It will be better for all concerned if I return for the first time alone.”
She possessed no small measure of quiet strength, his wife. It was exactly the sort of thing to make him weak-headed around her. It did not, however, abate his desire to protect her.
“Don’t worry, my lord.” She spoke as if reading his thoughts. “I withstood many years with my mother. And while I am eager to begin my own life, I can withstand a few more weeks.”
“A few weeks?”
“As long as it takes to see her well again.”
The thought of being so long without Eliza made a sensation ripple under his skin not unlike what an army of ants might have felt like.
The fact that he had such a visceral reaction to the mere idea of being without her said that maybe he should, in fact, be without her for a while. He needed distance. Time. Time to regain mastery over his control.
Chapter Sixteen
By one of the clock, Margaret had finished repacking their trunks. Half an hour later, Eliza was on the earl’s arm as he led her over the gravel drive toward the carriage. From the outside, it must have looked as it ought to—a man seeing his wife off before she departed on a journey.
Her internal perspective was entirely different. Whenever he was close, it was difficult to stop thinking about those two times their lips had met. At some point or other, they’d have to do more.
Except it was all so complicated. Part of her wished the dastardly business was already over and done with forever. That he’d come to her, done what was required, and returned to his own room no later than five minutes after knocking on her door, leaving her pregnant and in peace.
Another part of her wished that her whole life could be different. That she’d never been ruined, that she’d never met Captain Pearson, and that somehow she and Lord Bennington had found each other in the ordinary way—at a ball or via an introduction from a mutual friend. There was something between them. An energy. An attraction. It could have really been something if it weren’t for the sins that blackened her soul.
Her regrets had never been heavier than when he kissed her.
They stopped before the carriage. Margaret went in first. Eliza held out her hand to her husband, expecting stiff formality. Certainly nothing like the morning they’d married and he’d brushed his lips against hers in the street.
Abruptly, without speaking a word, he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. Their bodies pressed together. When their mouths met, it was with the force of determination. His determination. And more—he was angry with her, there was no question. The heat behind the kiss was at once helpless need and heady rage. It said, you’re mine, and this isn’t over.
Eliza went weak against him. Oh, yes, there was something between them. No doubt at all. It was strong and intoxicating. And that something would have to be reckoned with sooner or later.
The kiss ended as abruptly as it started. Before she knew what was happening, Eliza was shut inside the carriage with a yipping Daisy and Margaret, who, expression a little too innocent, was looking out the other window.
As soon as Eliza settled into her seat, Daisy happily in her lap, she plucked a stray clump of wool from the doorframe of the carriage. She was still breathless and shaking a little as the driver set the horses to trot.
The earl’s coat of arms on the door was an odd contrast to the current state of the interior. The conveyance had been made serviceable enough for use, but required restoration.
She bit the side of her lip. Who would have known lambs could do this amount of damage?
As they rattled along the drive, Eliza stroked Daisy’s silky ears, trying to banish that last kiss from her mind. At least Christiana hadn’t been there to witness it, leaving Eliza free from questions she couldn’t answer. Tom had three weeks of leave from his regiment, two of which he was using to take his bride to Lyme Regis, that they might walk along the sea and collect fossils on the shoreline. As happy as Eliza was for her cousin, she would miss her terribly.
The window was empty of glass, allowing in the sweet breeze of the grasses and fields they passed. She leaned out, watching Idlewood grow smaller and smaller, until it vanished behind trees.
<
br /> She hadn’t been entirely truthful with her husband. Again. Her mother was sick. Caruthers had said she should come.
When Margaret nodded off, Eliza pulled out a second letter from her reticule—a letter from her oldest and dearest friend, Hetty. Hetty was Lady Henrietta, the young sister of the Earl of Corbeau. The earl was Lady Rushworth’s godson and one of the few people who didn’t cause the woman any displeasure…until he’d married Jeremy’s cousin Lady Grace Landon, whose father had been the late Earl of Bennington.
Hetty wrote long missives, full of news and gossip. Several lines, however, had caught Eliza’s notice, which she reread now for the dozenth time.
And then there is that odious Sir Domnall fellow who has ingratiated himself with Lady Tutsby. They’re always together now, which means I don’t often see her or Fredericka anymore. It’s a loss to our musical endeavors, certainly, but I’d rather eat a rat than spend one minute in Sir Domnall’s company.
Lady Tutsby was a widow and a distracted mother, widely known to be eager to remarry before her daughter came out. And Miss Fredericka Chapman, Lady Tutsby’s only child, was a fourteen-year-old girl on the brink of becoming a beauty.
Fourteen. The girl was fourteen.
It sent Eliza tumbling back through time. In her mouth, she could all but feel the texture of those tart cherries he’d brought her.
She gagged.
Sir Domnall was a name she didn’t want to remember. He was the man from Eliza’s past, and she’d thought she’d never see him again. But he’d returned, this time venturing into the heart of London Society. He thought he was safe. Quite probably, he had been.
The image of the man being near that willful, headstrong young girl, Fredericka, made Eliza’s blood turn to ice. Because she alone knew what Sir Domnall was capable of doing, it fell upon her to stop him.
And stop him she would.
Upon arriving at her mother’s house, Eliza realized she hadn’t been away long enough. She scratched Daisy’s ears to remind herself that her marriage had not been a dream.