Lady Eleanor's Seventh Suitor

by Anna Bradley

  “I’d be more than happy to take you aboard. I love to show her off.”

  Eleanor tightened her grip on her spoon. Show her off? Is that why Mr. West wanted her, then? To show the ton that the finest gentleman among them couldn’t bring her to heel, but he could? Despite his denials, perhaps that was the real reason he wanted to force marriage on her. He already had the best ship in London, and now he wanted a famously unattainable woman as his wife.

  Another conquest.

  Ellie looked at Robyn’s eager face, then glanced at Alec, who looked as impressed as Robyn did. Blast it. She’d counted on her brothers to despise Camden West, or at least to be suspicious enough of him to hold his feet to the coals. Instead they both looked as if they were about to beg him for a bedtime story.

  Tell us more about your ships, Mr. West, do!

  What was happening here? Even Charlotte hadn’t said a word during his story about India, and Eleanor could swear at one point her sister looked as enthralled as everyone else at the table.

  Why did no one see Camden West for the villain he was? Did they not see the man thought to court her? Or, good Lord, was it possible they saw him as a potential match for her, and wished to encourage him?

  For pity’s sake. Alec had nearly thrown Lord Ponsonby out on his ear when he asked for her hand, and Mr. Fitzsimmons hadn’t got the first word of his proposal past his lips before Alec refused him. But now here her brother sat, chatting with Mr. West as if overjoyed at the prospect of welcoming him into the family.

  Eleanor narrowed her eyes on Camden West and tried to see him as her brothers might. She supposed his was a commanding presence, in part just because of his height, but also because of the way he carried himself. He had the air of a man confident in his abilities.

  Confident. Eleanor felt a scowl tighten her lips. Arrogant was more like it.

  Still, her brothers would respond to a man like that, a man who’d turned challenges into remarkable successes. Alec and Robyn weren’t like many gentlemen of the ton. They’d admire a self-made man like Mr. West, rather than look down on him for being in trade.

  Mr. West. Camden. She rolled the name around on her tongue. It had a smooth feel to it, rather like sweet, thick cream. She quite liked it, but then smooth could turn bitter in the blink of an eye.

  “Your ship, Mr. West. The Amelia,” Lady Catherine said. “The little girl you brought to Lady Abernathy’s garden party yesterday is named Amelia. Did you name your ship for your sister?”

  “I did, my lady.”

  Delia and Lily both sighed at the sweetness of the gesture, and even Charlotte’s face softened a bit.

  “What a lovely thing to do,” Lily said. “I imagine she liked that very much.”

  Mr. West smiled. “She was . . . quite pleased, yes.”

  Eleanor stared at him, and a strange feeling blossomed in her belly at his expression. All of his sarcastic grimaces and warning glances hadn’t prepared her for the wide, lopsided smile that lit his face now. Two deep dimples flashed at the corners of his lips, like a special reward for those fortunate enough to tease a genuine smile out of him.

  He didn’t smile much. Perhaps he should do so more often.

  What would it be like to wake up next to him every morning? To be the woman who coaxed that smile from him, before his head even lifted from his pillow? She thought of his face this afternoon as he’d kissed her hand, her wrist, his green eyes hidden under heavy lids, his mouth open against her skin, his hoarse whispers . . .

  Eleanor twisted her hands in her lap. Foolish, to imagine such a thing. The best she could hope for as his wife was a lifetime of sarcastic grimaces and warning glances.

  You don’t matter, Ellie, remember?

  Or worse. A lifetime of no glances at all. How long would she be married before her feet didn’t make a sound when she crossed the marble floor? How long before she became a ghost?

  She reached for her wineglass and found Mr. West staring at her from across the table with that same indecipherable expression she’d noticed earlier. This time she didn’t look away, but gazed back at him.

  His green eyes warmed as she looked into them. Eleanor caught her breath. So green and soft, like lying back onto a carpet of sun-warmed grass—

  “Amelia isn’t more than ten years old, is she, Mr. West?”

  He tore his gaze from hers, and turned to Lady Catherine. “She’s eleven, my lady.”

  “She can’t have been more than an infant when you left for India, then,” Charlotte said, “and you’ve only been back in London for a month. How is it you and she are so close?”

  Charlotte’s question sounded more like an accusation than a mere inquiry. Now it was her sister’s turn to face the puzzled frowns of everyone else at the table.

  Mr. West only raised an eyebrow at her, however. “Amelia was only a few weeks old when I left, yes, but I wrote to her every single day while I was gone.”

  “Every day?” Eleanor’s voice sounded too high to her own ears.

  “Yes. Every day. My aunt read her my letters, even when Amelia was still an infant. When she was old enough, my aunt made sure she wrote to me every day, as well. We’ve kept up quite a correspondence, so even with such a distance between us, we’ve remained close.”

  Eleanor sighed. A caring brother, then, as well. He’d have her mother in the palm of his hand now too, right along with her brothers.

  “Amelia and I are all that’s left of my immediate family,” he went on. “Our parents are dead. Amelia doesn’t remember them, so I’ve always been more of a parent to her than a brother, especially given the difference in our ages.”

  Eleanor sucked a breath into suddenly airless lungs.

  Not only a caring brother, but a father to that child. Even as young as he’d been, off on his wild adventures, seeking his fortune in India, he’d written to his sister every day, determined to be a part of her life even from that distance, determined she’d know him when he returned.

  Devotion such as that, a love so deep as that, was . . . rare.

  How could such a hard man be capable of such tender feelings? She’d never have imagined it of him, but then, what did she really know about Camden West? Her eyes met his across the table and her heart began a wild fluttering against her ribs at what she saw in those green depths. She’d seen hints of it before, but never had she seen his eyes burn with it as they did now.

  Hunger.

  He looks at you like a starving man looks at a Christmas pudding.

  She’d dismissed Charlotte’s words, had thought it impossible Camden West looked at her as anything more than a means to some mysterious end.

  But this afternoon . . . a simple caress on her hand, nothing more, but the moment he’d touched her, heat had exploded between them, as if a spark had been set to dry tinder.

  She saw the same heat in those green depths now, and an answering heat rose inside her. He desired her. Not just as a convenient wife or a mother for his sister, but as a woman. A shiver chased up Eleanor’s spine as the spark kindled to life inside her leapt into flame.

  His eyes darkened as they swept over her face, lingered on her eyes, her lips. She couldn’t tear her gaze away—

  Delia’s voice broke their stare. “Does your sister still live with her aunt, Mr. West?”

  His gaze remained fixed on Eleanor for a heartbeat before he turned to Delia. “No. While I was in India she lived with them at Lindenhurst, my estate in Hertfordshire, but I moved her to my townhouse in Bedford Square when I returned to London.”

  “Hertfordshire?” Alec asked. “Any good sport to be had there?”

  Cam blinked at the change of topic, making Delia laugh. “You’ll have to excuse Lord Carlisle, Mr. West. Our own estate in Kent was beset with floods this spring. There was so much water damage we’ve undertaken some long overdue renovations, and the manor won’t be fit for habitation until next spring. Lord Carlisle is quite vexed to lose hunting season at Bellwood.”

  “He was n
ever so fond of hunting until he found he must miss it,” Robyn added with a laugh.

  “I haven’t been to the estate in some time, but my cousin Julian was there a month or so ago, and he predicted good sport when the season opened.” Mr. West hesitated, then, with a glance at Eleanor, “I don’t suppose you’d care to spend a few days hunting at Lindenhurst? The estate isn’t grand, but it’s comfortable, and an easy journey from London—about six miles south of Watford.”

  Alec rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Sounds just the thing. Kind of you to offer, West.”

  “Yes, very kind,” Delia said. “Not that you had much choice, after such a broad hint from Lord Carlisle. Are the ladies invited, or is this to be a gentleman’s party?”

  “Ladies as well, of course.” Cam returned his gaze to Eleanor. “What enjoyment is there in a party without ladies?”

  Eleanor stared back at him. A hunting party. They would be three days at least, and when they returned, her two weeks’ grace period would be nearly up. She’d be forced to accept Camden West’s proposal, or see Charlotte left to the tender mercies of the ton.

  She could refuse to go, but she doubted Mr. West would let her slip though his fingers so easily, and in any case it was plain she couldn’t trust her brothers to dismiss her unwanted suitor. If she wanted him gone, she’d have to get rid of him herself.

  Very well. She’d go to Lindenhurst, but she’d make quite sure to turn the visit to her advantage. The gentlemen would be off hunting every day. Who knew what she could uncover about Camden West in that time? Lindenhurst must have servants, and servants had secrets.

  Eleanor glanced across the table at him. He met her gaze and held it as he wrapped his long fingers around his wineglass and raised it to his lips. Before he took a sip, he tilted it subtly in her direction in a mocking toast.

  Eleanor’s heated skin cooled to an icy chill. What a fool she was, to believe even for a moment he might desire her. He cared only that he succeeded in forcing her into this sham of a marriage, whatever it took.

  I don’t matter. Is that what you mean, Mr. West?

  The wine burned its way down her throat.

  That’s what he’d meant, and she wouldn’t be foolish enough to forget it again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You don’t care for sweets, or from what I could see at dinner, food of any kind, and you don’t appear to care for chess, music or conversation. May I ask, my lady, what exactly you do care for?”

  For a moment she went still, as if she could evade such a dull-witted predator if she didn’t move. When he didn’t go away, she laid aside her book with a heavy sigh and looked up at him.

  “Perhaps I don’t care for anything at all.” She glanced toward the other end of the room, where the rest of the party was gathered, then lowered her voice. “You won’t wish to be married to such a dull lady, one with no pleasure in food, music or entertainment. A sad prospect, indeed. Don’t you agree?”

  “Not at all.” He came around the edge of the settee and seated himself next to her. He left a respectable space between them, but he lowered his voice and held her eyes as he murmured, “I’m certain I’ll find a way to give you pleasure.”

  Her eyes went darker as her pupils dilated, and a faint flush rose in her cheeks. She knew what he was thinking now, just as she’d known it at dinner.

  Cam’s mouth went dry as the dainty wash of color spread over her cheekbones and drifted down her throat. Such a delicious pale pink hue, but not what he’d expect for a lady with her lush coloring. He wanted a deeper color, one that matched those black currant lips and dark, silky hair. A heated surge of warm red she felt everywhere, not just on her face and neck.

  What would it take to get a true blush out of her?

  The room, the music and the snatches of conversation floating toward them faded into insignificance. Nothing else mattered to him but finding out. His gaze drifted over her face, then down to the place where the silk neckline of her gown met her smooth skin. “Such pleasure, my lady, and my privilege and honor to be the one to give it to you.”

  Her eyes went wide and she lifted a hand to her bosom, as if to shield herself from his gaze. “You take delight in teasing me, Mr. West.”

  She meant to scold him, but such a low, husky whisper from such plump red lips turned the words into an invitation.

  He held her gaze. “I will tease you, touch every inch of your skin with my fingers, my lips, but my delight will come when I can take you at last, and it will be your delight, too, I promise you.”

  Her lips parted on a gasp.

  The sound touched his chest, his belly, his cock, as if she’d dragged her palm over his skin. And, God, there it was, the blush he’d known was hidden beneath the girlish pink one.

  A woman’s blush.

  He watched, riveted by that hot, deep surge of red. It flooded her face, throat and bosom then vanished under the neckline of her gown, hidden from his gaze and yet more enticing somehow, because he could imagine the way it would rush across her breasts and her soft belly, her thighs—

  “You go too far, sir,” she said, but again her voice gave her away, for she couldn’t hide her breathlessness.

  “Not as far as I’d like to go.” Not nearly as far. He’d like to slip his hands under her skirts, wrap his fingers around her ankles and ease her flat onto her back on the settee. Then he’d slide his hands up her calves, coax her knees wide, skim his palms higher, to the inside of her thighs, then higher still, until his fingers brushed against her—

  “Too far, nonetheless,” she hissed, the breathlessness giving way to panic.

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the fireplace, but no one else in the room seemed to take any notice of them. Charlotte Sutherland continued to play the pianoforte. Lady Carlisle and Lady Catherine listened and chatted while Lily Sutherland watched her husband and Lord Carlisle play at chess.

  “Not as far as I will go, once you’re mine.”

  The words hit his ears with the force of a blow, and his desire cooled at once to dismay. Mine? Christ, is that how he thought of her now? As his? When the bloody hell had that happened?

  He’d thought her beautiful the first time he saw her—as he’d told Julian, he wasn’t blind. But he’d admired her in much the same way one might admire a lovely piece of sculpture, or a horse with a graceful gait. He’d looked forward to bedding her with the same sort of detached anticipation he felt when he bedded any desirable woman. She was to be his wife, after all, and a man bedded his wife.

  For a time. Until he tired of her.

  He hadn’t expected to want her. Hadn’t wanted her, either—not more than any full-blooded man would want any beautiful woman.

  Not at first. But now . . .

  Want her? Christ. It seemed a pale phrase to describe how he felt about her. He burned for her. Her taste, her gasps, and that blush . . . he was so hard it felt as if he had a fireplace poker shoved inside his breeches.

  His. He thought of her as his. He sure as hell hadn’t expected that.

  “My brothers, Mr. West.” She gestured with her chin toward the other side of the room.

  Cam followed her gaze. “They don’t appear concerned.”

  They didn’t, much to his surprise. Her brothers weren’t what he’d expected, any more than Lady Eleanor was. He’d thought to find two proud, arrogant aristocrats looking down their noses at him from across the dinner table, but instead they were polite and amiable, and their wives no less so. So amiable he’d invited them all to Lindenhurst, for God’s sake.

  Uncle Reggie was going to have an apoplexy.

  “My mother, then.” Her throat worked. “For my own sake, as well, I ask you to show me the same courtesy you would show any lady in her home.”

  It had cost her an effort to say it.

  Now it was Cam’s turn to flush, and from something far less pleasant than desire. Jesus. He’d spoken to her as if she were a common doxy and this were a whorehouse. He ran a dis
tracted hand through his hair and tried to pinpoint the exact moment he’d lost his mind.

  He took a deep breath and gathered his wits. “Asked so prettily, I can hardly refuse, but I’ll ask for a favor in return.”

  Her lips tightened. “I believe I’ll withhold my consent until I know what the favor is.”

  Cam couldn’t prevent a smile at that. “Nothing so terrible. I want you to call me Camden, and permit me to use your given name, Ellie.”

  Odd, how natural the name felt on his lips. He’d never called her by her first name before, but at some point he must have begun to think of her as Ellie.

  Her full lips turned down at the corners. “That’s two favors, Mr. West.”

  Cam stared at her mouth. Dear God, was that a pout? The fireplace poker in his breeches seemed to think so. He couldn’t resist a pout at the moment, not if he were going to act the gentleman and treat her like the lady she was. A gentleman did not suck a lady’s pouting lower lip into his mouth and tease it with his tongue.

  He tore his gaze away and cleared the hoarseness from his throat. “Is that a refusal, Eleanor?”

  “I doubt it would make any difference if it were, for you’ll have your way whether I agree or not.” She plucked at a fold of her gown, worrying it between her fingers. “I see what you’re doing.”

  Good. At least one of them did. “Is that so?”

  She kept her eyes on the crushed bit of silk. “You think to work on me by small degrees. One moment I’ve agreed to use your given name, and the next we’re joined in marriage. It won’t work, you know.”

  Cam laughed. “If it were so easy, we’d be enjoying wedded bliss even now.”

  “Bliss? That’s a bit much, even for you.” She glowered at the fold of silk between her fingers.

  He reached across the settee and snatched the cloth away, determined to make her look at him. “Come, Eleanor. You just said it won’t work, so you’ve no reason to deny me the favor. If you do, I’ll be forced to conclude you think it will work, and you’re afraid of me.”