Lady Eleanor's Seventh Suitor

by Anna Bradley

  He dragged his tongue across her lower lip and slid his palms up her calves until he reached the inside of her knees. Warm fingers dipped under her garters to tease against her bare flesh, then he pressed her knees apart and moved between them so he was there, the neck of his shirt open, his body hard, primed from the teasing touches of her hands and mouth.

  She’d wanted this—wanted him, and she wanted him still.

  “You drive me mad. You’re all I can think about.” He caught her earlobe between his teeth and bit down, then pressed his hot mouth behind her ear, against her neck. Eleanor’s head fell back as he nipped and teased the sensitive flesh. He wedged his body tighter into the space between her legs, his breath shuddering through him. “Do you think I won’t take you? Because you’re right, my lady. I do know how to take. God help me, it’s all I know.”

  Eleanor moaned as he dragged his hands down her legs and out from under her skirts. Relief or protest, that moan? Oh, she didn’t know, and Cam, ruthless in his desire, gave her no time to think before his hands gripped her waist. He stroked her there, then teased his fingers higher, so slowly she wanted to scream, did scream, silently, when at last he cupped the firm curves of her breasts in his palms. He found her nipples and his clever fingers slid over the silk of her gown, his fingertips relentless against the straining peaks.

  “How else shall I take you?” He pressed his lips to her neck, then the base of her throat. “With my mouth?” He slipped two fingers into the neckline of her bodice, dragged it lower, and opened his mouth over the top of her breast. “Here,” he whispered. His hot breath fanned over the damp spot he’d made on her skin.

  Dear God. As if in a dream, Eleanor felt her ankles lock together behind his hips.

  His laugh was soft, dark—triumphant. He traced his tongue along the narrow band of lace at her bodice, then pressed his lips to the top of her other breast. “Here.”

  She plunged her fingers into his hair, held him tight against her as she arched into his mouth. He groaned and slid lower to scrape his teeth over the tip of her breast before he sucked her nipple into his mouth, wetting the silk. “Here. This is what you want, isn’t it, Ellie? You want me to take you here.”

  Eleanor couldn’t speak, only writhe against his mouth as his tongue flicked against the hard peak. When she thought she’d go mad from the caress, he raised his head. His palms rested against her neck for a moment, then he took her face in his hands and turned it up to his. “Ah, my lady, I’m a villain, after all, because I’ll take you any way I can get you.”

  His eyes dropped to her lips right before he took them again with a pained groan. He kissed her and kissed her, his tongue plundering the depths of her mouth until she could do nothing but kiss him back, her body aching with a desire she’d never believed possible.

  “Which are you doing now, Eleanor,” he gasped, when he released her lips at last. “Giving, or taking?” He let his forehead rest against hers. “Do you even know?”

  God, she was such a fool. Giving, taking—what difference did it make? Could she even do one without the other? She didn’t know—she knew only she shouldn’t be doing either. Not with him. He was far too dangerous, because if she let him touch her again, she’d give him everything.

  Not just her body. Everything.

  She stared at him, dark eyes into green, her skin on fire, still panting from his kisses and the wicked touch of his hands. “Let me go, Cam.”

  She placed her palms flat against his chest and forced herself to push him away.

  “No. Ellie, I—”

  “Yes.” She grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands away from her face. “Will you go back on your word?”

  He didn’t move or answer, just stood there and looked down at her fingers, wrapped around his wrists. His labored, shallow breaths seemed loud in the otherwise silent room.

  Eleanor released him and held her own breath, and after what seemed an eternity, he stepped back, away from her.

  Without a word she slid down from the table. She’d taken a few steps toward the door when his voice stopped her.

  “I told you I’d let you go. I never go back on my word, my lady.”

  No. He never did. She froze for a moment, her back to him, his words echoing in her head until she couldn’t deny the truth any longer.

  He wasn’t a villain, and he wasn’t a hero.

  He was both.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Eleanor leaned her forehead against the window and dragged her fingertips over the cool glass. The sky over the garden had been pale pink when she’d first looked out, but the sun had long since crested, and now it shone with a determined brightness, turning the rhododendrons below into a mass of blazing purple.

  It would be a warm day today. It was warm even now, but Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself to contain a shiver, and turned away from the window.

  I never go back on my word, my lady.

  Of all the things Cam had whispered in her ear last night, it was this, oddly, that echoed in her mind. She’d dreamed of those words, and of green eyes gone dark with desire, of warm hands sliding up her calves to her knees, his long fingers skimming under her stockings, opening her to him . . .

  In her dream, she gave him everything—her body, and her heart. In her dream, she’d offered her heart even as she’d known she’d never get it back.

  But it hadn’t mattered. It didn’t, in dreams.

  I never go back on my word.

  His words troubled her because they were true, and they shouldn’t be. The sort of man who’d force a woman into marriage, a man of his word? Ludicrous. A villain with a hero’s scruples? Laughable.

  But it was true. He’d honored every truce, kept every promise. Now it only remained to be seen if he’d have his way in the end. Have her. He’d sworn he would, and he hadn’t broken a promise yet.

  And she . . . she hadn’t any promises to break, because she hadn’t made any, aside from the one she’d made to herself. To marry only for love.

  Nothing had changed. Cam wanted her, but desire wasn’t love. It was a dream only, an illusion that faded into nothing without love to feed it. The only true thing was the promise she’d made to herself.

  Eleanor crossed over to the window with halting steps, and gazed down at the profusion of purple flowers below. She saw Amelia as she’d been yesterday, her fair hair haloed by the sun, her face alight with excitement and pride as she dashed from flower to flower, and Ellie’s fingers curled into the windowsill.

  See how they’re all different shades of purple, Lady Eleanor?

  There was a faint knock at the door, and she froze, turned, a hand to her mouth. Surely the hunting party had left by now? Even if they hadn’t, surely he wouldn’t—

  He would. He had. Last night. He’d entered her bedchamber. She hadn’t been here, but if she had been, and they’d been alone . . .

  “Eleanor?” Charlotte called. “Are you awake? Open the door.”

  Eleanor heaved a sigh of . . . relief? Yes, of course it was relief, and hurried across the room.

  “You weren’t at breakfast.” Charlotte closed the door behind her. “I was worried. Did you ring for a tray? Goodness, Eleanor, you’re not even dressed yet.”

  “No. I didn’t sleep well.” Eleanor dropped onto the bed and slipped under the coverlet, shivering. Her whole body felt cold.

  Charlotte perched on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry.”

  Eleanor studied her sister, who despite her pink cheeks, had shadows under her eyes. “You look as if you didn’t sleep much yourself, Charlotte, though I must say you look well in spite of it.” She tilted her head to the side. “You’re glowing, rather.”

  Charlotte flushed an even deeper pink. “Am I? Well, I, ah—I believe I got too much sun yesterday, that’s all. Shall I ring for tea?” She leapt off the bed, made a great show of ringing the bell, and then busied herself with rearranging the items on Eleanor’s dressing table.

  “I suppose,” Eleanor
replied, without enthusiasm. The nerves in her belly whined in protest at the thought of eating. “Have the gentlemen left for their sport yet?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Mullins sent them off with a large hamper, so I doubt we’ll be troubled by them until much later this afternoon.”

  Cam was away for the entire day then, which left the way clear for Eleanor to finish what she’d begun with Mrs. Mullins last night. When he returned this evening, he’d find his marriage plans had gone up in flames.

  Her heart shuddered in protest at the thought, but this madness between them had to end. She’d never trust Cam—not now, after the way they’d begun, and she couldn’t love a man she couldn’t trust. Absurd, then, the sinking feeling in her stomach. She should be pleased. She was pleased, only there was this pain in her chest—

  Charlotte studied her, her expression shrewd. “You look ill. You’ve found out something, haven’t you?”

  Eleanor hesitated. “I have, yes.”

  “Well?” Charlotte made a beckoning motion with her fingers. “What is it?”

  Eleanor bit her lip. If she told Charlotte what she knew about Amelia’s birth, there would be an end to this. She may find she couldn’t bring herself to use the information, but Charlotte might not have the same scruples.

  That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To free herself from Camden West, and never look back? Yes, yes—of course it was. And yet . . .

  Part of this drama had yet to unfold. She still didn’t know why Cam insisted on marrying only her. The Sutherlands were known to be a tight-knit family, and they’d never turn their backs on Amelia because she’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Certainly it was to Amelia’s advantage for Cam to make this marriage, but there was more to it than that. There had to be.

  “Eleanor?”

  Tell Charlotte what you know, and end this.

  “I can’t say just yet,” Eleanor said, disgusted with herself even as the words left her mouth. “It’s only servants’ gossip at this point, and we need more than that.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her brow. “More? Well, where do you plan to get it?”

  Eleanor plucked at the covers. “Mary West. I need to get her away from her husband if I want the truth, though.”

  “Yes. He looks like the sort of man who’d lie on principle, doesn’t he? How the father could be so different from his—ah, that is, it shouldn’t be too difficult to get her alone. I think she avoids her husband. I know I would, in her place.”

  Eleanor looked at Charlotte’s flushed face and frowned. “Are you quite all right, Charlotte? You look strange.”

  “Very well, indeed. Now, this information you have. Is it the sort that will put an end to Camden West’s scheme for good?”

  Eleanor drew in a deep breath. “Yes, but I warn you, Charlotte. It’s ugly. So ugly, I’m not sure I can bear to . . .”

  But she had to, didn’t she? Cam hadn’t left her any other choice. He may be a man of his word, but he was also a man who’d used threats and coercion to manipulate her.

  Everything he’s done, he’s done for Amelia.

  Eleanor wrapped her arms around her knees. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything—

  You’ d do the same in his place.

  She would. She was.

  “I didn’t suppose it would be pretty, Eleanor.” Charlotte’s voice softened when she looked into Eleanor’s face. “Oh, dear. That bad? Well, perhaps you won’t be forced to use it, after all.”

  “Not use it?” Eleanor stared at her sister. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t see any way around it.”

  Her only hope was Cam would see reason, and the threat against Amelia would be enough to silence him about Charlotte’s lapse with Julian West. She prayed he wouldn’t force her to make the secret about Amelia’s birth public, for if he did, well . . .

  Then she’d see how far she was willing to go to hold onto her chance for love. Perhaps, after all, she was the villain.

  Charlotte shrugged, but she didn’t quite meet Eleanor’s eyes. “Oh, one never knows. Something could happen, something unexpected that will change the situation entirely.”

  Eleanor couldn’t imagine what. They’d been rather short on miracles up to this point, and she didn’t expect one now. “I wouldn’t plan on it, Charlotte.”

  But Charlotte didn’t appear to hear her. She’d turned away to study her reflection in the glass, a dreamy expression on her face. “You’ll speak to Mary West today?”

  “Yes, if you’ll keep her husband away.”

  “I will. Perhaps we can return to town early, if all goes according to plan.” Charlotte’s cheeks flooded with pink again, and she smiled at her reflection. “I find myself quite anxious to be back in London.”

  * * *

  Eleanor was anxious as well. To be in London, or anywhere but Lindenhurst, doing anything but what she was doing, which was sneaking about after Mary West like a thief intent on pilfering a pocket.

  She’d dressed and made it downstairs in time for luncheon. As Charlotte predicted, the gentleman were absent, including Reginald West, who’d left to settle some business in Watford. After luncheon Amelia and the other ladies had gone off to sketch some local ruins.

  “Are you sure you won’t come with us, Lady Eleanor?” Amelia asked before they left. “Lady Charlotte said you like to sketch. I wanted to ask your advice on my drawings.”

  Eleanor winced at the hopeful note in the girl’s voice, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I’ve the headache, and I don’t want to make it worse by being in the sun all day. But I’d like to see your progress, and I can see the ruins, after all, if you’ll come to my room this evening and show me your sketches.”

  Amelia had brightened at that prospect, but her sweet smile had only made Eleanor feel worse, and she struggled to smile in return.

  Now she was struggling again, this time to make her feet follow Mary West, who’d disappeared into the kitchen garden a few moments ago. “Good afternoon, Mrs. West,” she called as she ducked through the door leading from the stillroom to the walled garden behind it.

  Mary West was leaning over a tall rosemary bush, a pair of shears in her hand, and a basket at her feet. “Why, Lady Eleanor. What are you doing out here? I thought you had the headache.”

  Eleanor forced a smile. “I rested a bit this afternoon, and I feel much better now. I thought perhaps some fresh air—oh, how pretty it is.”

  She glanced around the garden, wondering if Sarah West had designed it. Neat gravel paths lined a series of well-tended garden beds. In the corner, Eleanor saw a row of trellises, all of them loaded with peas, and in the opposite corner a handful of espaliered apple trees, so tall they reached the top of the wall and were hanging over the other side, heavy with unripe fruit.

  “What have you there?” She crossed over to Mrs. West and gestured at the basket. “Rosemary?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Mullins says we’re to have lamb tonight, and Camden is partial to fresh rosemary with his lamb.”

  Eleanor’s heart twisted in her chest as she looked down at the heaping pile of rosemary in Mary West’s basket. Such a little thing, and yet it was plain to see the woman cared for Cam as much as she did for Amelia.

  Did he know that? Had he ever known it?

  Mrs. West looked down at the shears in her hand, then back up at Eleanor with a self-conscious smile. “I could ask Mrs. Mullins to do this, of course, but she’s so busy, and I like to muck about in the gardens when I get the chance.”

  How often was that? Not very, Eleanor guessed. Reginald West seemed like the kind of man who’d care little if his wife had her pleasures. “It smells lovely out here. May I help you?”

  Another smile. “All right.” She handed Eleanor the basket. “I’ll cut if you’ll carry the basket. We can get some dill as well, for the bread.”

  Eleanor took the basket from Mrs. West’s outstretched hand. “Another of Cam’s favorites?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. West set to work on
the rosemary, clipping where the herb’s woody stalks had grown too long. “Camden seems quite . . . fond of you.”

  Eleanor nearly dropped the basket. Fond? Cam felt something for her, but Eleanor didn’t imagine it was fondness. Frustration, yes. Irritation, certainly.

  Desire. Her stomach fluttered at the thought.

  She took care to keep her voice light. “Indeed? What makes you say so?”

  Mrs. West kept her eyes on her work. “He doesn’t come to Lindenhurst anymore. He’s certainly never brought friends here.”

  “Oh, well, I’m afraid my brothers teased him into making the invitation. They’re keen to hunt, you see.”

  Mrs. West gave her a sidelong glance. “I don’t think he did it for your brothers, Lady Eleanor.”

  “Perhaps not.” She paused, then, “His memories of Lindenhurst are not, I gather . . .”

  Say it, you coward.

  “. . . all pleasant ones?”

  Mary West’s hand never faltered over the rosemary, but Eleanor felt the woman stiffen beside her. “He told you about his father, then? About. . . what happened?”

  I found out. “Yes,” Eleanor lied, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood on her tongue. “Cam’s father died when he was a child—nine, I think he said.”

  Clip, clip, clip. Rosemary fell into Eleanor’s basket, but for a time Mrs. West didn’t speak. At last she darted a glance at Eleanor. “He must be fond of you, indeed, if he told you that story.”

  Eleanor pressed her lips together, afraid if she opened her mouth the truth would tumble out.

  Mrs. West sighed. “James West doted on them, you know, both Camden and Sarah. Camden was devastated when he died, and Sarah, well, she fell apart, and she never could pull herself back together again.”

  Eleanor plucked a few blades of rosemary from a stalk, rolled them between her fingers, and inhaled the sharp lemon scent. She remained quiet, hoping the silence would further loosen her companion’s tongue.