by Anna Bradley
It did. “I don’t like to think about what my husband did to Sarah and Camden, Lady Eleanor. It devastated me at the time, and I regret it even now, all these years later. Sarah was like a sister to me, and Camden is as dear to me as my own son. But James’s death broke Sarah. Changed her. Otherwise she would never have—”
Mary West broke off and turned to look at Eleanor. Her face was ashen, and etched with deep lines of pain.
Eleanor’s throat worked, but somehow she managed to keep her voice steady. “She never would have what, Mrs. West?”
“She never would have taken up with such a man. He pursued her relentlessly—wouldn’t leave her alone until at last she gave in, almost from exhaustion, I think. Either that, or she was so grief-stricken over James she just didn’t care what happened to her anymore.”
“What did he . . .” Ellie stopped, cleared her throat. “What did he do to her?”
Mrs. West looked down at her hands, still clutching the shears. “He used her—ruined her. Three years she stayed with him, so many years, and they turned out to be the last years of her life. But for all that, I don’t believe he ever cared for her. I’m sorry, Lady Eleanor, so sorry to say it, but he abandoned her the moment he found out she was with child.”
Ellie stared at her, puzzled. Why should Mrs. West apologize to her? Did she think Ellie was offended by Amelia’s birth? She would never hold an innocent child responsible for her father’s sins. Just thinking about such a man caused Ellie’s throat to burn with bile. Despicable, to seduce a woman broken by grief, then to leave her and his own child to suffer. What kind of man—
“Reginald found out, of course,” Mary went on. “One can’t hide a thing like that for long, and Sarah was careless. He turned her out of the house, though he hadn’t any right to. Lindenhurst belongs to Camden.”
Eleanor went still, the blades of rosemary still clutched between her fingers. It was all true then, what Winnie and Mrs. Mullins had said. Amelia had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Sarah was her mother, Cam was her half-brother, and her father . . .
Grief and fury gathered in Eleanor’s throat, choking her. That lovely child. Perhaps one could excuse Sarah West, but the father . . .
God only knew who he was. It hardly mattered. Amelia would carry the stain of illegitimacy all her life, even if by some miracle her father chose to acknowledge her, which was doubtful. If he intended to, he’d have done so long before now.
“I think Sarah knew she wouldn’t survive the birth,” Mrs. West said. “The pregnancy was a difficult one, but oh, she wanted Amelia. So badly. Loved her, and taught Camden to love her too, despite his hatred for Amelia’s father. Perhaps she thought the child would save her, but . . .”
Mary West’s eyes filled with tears. Without thinking, Eleanor reached for her, took her hand. “But?”
“There were complications. Bleeding. Sarah died within an hour of Amelia’s birth.”
Eleanor released Mrs. West’s hand, her arm falling slack at her side. “What of Cam?”
“Camden was filled with grief, with rage.” Mary swiped the back of her hand under her eye. “I wanted to help him. I wanted to bring him home to the manor house, but Reginald wouldn’t hear of it. He’s never liked Camden, you see—perhaps because Julian is so devoted to him. I suppose my husband is jealous of that. Camden left for India soon afterwards.”
Dear God. Cam. What had Mrs. Mullins said? That all might still have been well after his father died, and perhaps it would have been, if it hadn’t been for a man who’d cared for nothing but his own pleasure. He’d shamed and ruined Cam’s mother, and Reginald West, the one person left who had the power to protect them, had tossed them both aside. Abandoned them. Stolen from them.
Cam’s world had fallen apart.
Rage. Yes, it would have consumed him then—it did still, even now. She’d seen it, in the shadows of his green eyes. Rage. Bitterness.
The ghosts only he could see.
And Amelia, left motherless in her first hour of life, and burdened with her father’s sin. Cam was determined to give her everything that had been taken from them. It must have been terribly difficult for him to leave Amelia with the Wests for eleven long years, but he’d done it, because he knew it was best for a young child to have a home. Security. A mother, in Mary West.
He’d been young when he’d left for India, but he’d behaved like a man, risking everything to amass a fortune, to make an easier path for Amelia.
To clear it of the rocks others had thrown in her way.
Everything he did, he did for Amelia. Eleanor had known it, deep down in the dark part of her heart where she hid things from herself. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but she’d known his mad marriage scheme was as much about giving as taking.
Take from her, give to Amelia.
She wanted to hate him, but even as she gasped with anger and pain at the injustice of it, even as she vowed to thwart him still, his courage, the force of his will, and the depth of his love for his sister—it stole her breath away.
Mary turned pleading eyes on Eleanor. “I couldn’t help Cam, but I got a second chance with Amelia, and I tried to do what was right by her. I tried to do what Sarah would have wanted.”
Eleanor touched a gentle hand to Mary West’s shoulder. “Amelia’s lovely, Mrs. West. Truly. I’m sure her mother would have thought so, too.”
Mrs. West managed a watery smile. “You’re kind, Lady Eleanor. I didn’t expect you to be so kind.”
Shame clutched Eleanor by the throat. Kind. No. She wasn’t kind.
Even now she stood at the edge of Amelia’s path, a rock held in her hand.
Chapter Twenty
The lamb was roasted to perfection and liberally sprinkled with fresh rosemary, the bread was hot and fragrant with dill, the peas glistened with new butter, and the wine was excellent.
But no one was eating.
Aunt Mary sat, hands folded, her eyes on her plate. Charlotte Sutherland studied the dish of new potatoes the footman had just served. Eleanor, her face troubled, seemed to be speaking to Charlotte out of the corner of her mouth. Robyn Sutherland, who’d applied himself to his meal with gusto just moments before, had abandoned his plate in favor of his wineglass. The rest of the party was silent, not sure where to look next.
Cam forked another succulent piece of lamb into his mouth. It was a waste of an excellent meal, if you asked him. He took a sip of his wine and returned the cold stare aimed at him from the other end of the table.
Uncle Reggie, the author of all this distress, his heavy face flushed with drink, glowered back at him. “Well? What have you got to say for yourself, sir?”
“The lamb is delicious.”
Uncle Reggie’s face went a deeper shade of red. He sputtered, so furious the incoherent sounds refused to form themselves into words, never mind a sentence.
Cam sampled his peas. This could be it, at last—Uncle Reggie’s apoplexy.
His uncle drained his wineglass for the third time since the peas had been served. “It pleases you to make jokes, I see. I wonder if you’ll be so pleased when Boney sends your cousin back to England without his legs. That is, if he returns at all!”
Ah. That’s what the fuss was about. Uncle Reggie knew Cam had agreed to purchase the commission for Julian. He couldn’t fathom how his uncle had discovered it so quickly, unless Julian had sent word from London.
If he had sent word, it might mean he’d decided to accept the commission. Cam’s heart froze at the thought, but he kept his face expressionless. He wouldn’t give his uncle the satisfaction of seeing his concern. “I have more faith in Julian than you do, I see. He’ll return, and in one piece.”
Uncle Reggie slammed his fist down next to his plate. His fork skittered to the floor and a footman leapt forward to retrieve it. “Just how would you know that?”
Because any other outcome is unthinkable. So Cam wouldn’t think it.
“He’ll come back because you deem it so?
” Uncle Reggie gave a bitter laugh. “If the great Camden West with his spectacular fortune says it’s so, then it must be so.”
Cam looked down the table at his uncle with a mixture of disgust, frustration and a vague sense of pity. If Reggie could have kept Julian forever at Lindenhurst, wrapped in cotton wool, he’d have done it. He’d always doted on his son to such an extreme degree it was more mania than anything else.
It was a kind of love, Cam supposed. But a poor kind.
Spittle flew from his uncle’s mouth, and he was so sotted he was nearly face down in his plate. Watching him now, Cam understood more clearly than ever why Julian had to leave London. “Julian is an adult, and in full possession of his faculties. He’s made his choice. There’s naught for us to do now but trust it’s the right one.”
“You don’t want him to come back,” Uncle Reggie spat. “You see this as your chance to get rid of him, and you’ve taken it. You’ve always been jealous of him.”
Aunt Mary looked up, her face white. “Reginald! For pity’s sake.”
Enough. Cam placed his wineglass next to his plate. “Have a care, uncle.” He spoke in low tones that nevertheless carried to the other end of the table. “There is a limit to my tolerance.”
He was left to speculate whether or not his uncle would have been wise enough to heed this warning, for at that moment Eleanor half-rose from her seat and dropped her napkin on the table. “I beg you will excuse us. My sister—”
Lady Carlisle rose as well. “Charlotte?”
Cam took in Lady Charlotte’s pallor and motioned to one of the footmen. “Arthur, Lady Charlotte is ill. Escort her to her room, then send Winnie to attend her.”
Charlotte waved the footman off with a shaky hand. “It’s nothing. Just a sudden headache.”
“Nonsense.” Eleanor took Charlotte’s arm. “You look as if you’re about to swoon. Come along.”
The footman caught Charlotte’s other arm and he and Eleanor hurried from the dining room, supporting Charlotte between them. Lady Carlisle and Lily Sutherland followed behind them.
The room fell silent. Uncle Reggie had slipped into a sudden doze, exhausted by his fury and the better part of a bottle of wine. Aunt Mary touched a tentative hand to his arm, but Reggie only snorted and slumped further down in his chair.
Cam sighed, then gestured to the second footman. “George, attend my uncle, if you would.”
George darted forward, grasped Uncle Reggie under his arms, hauled him up from his chair, and dragged him from the room. Aunt Mary followed, her face red with shame.
“By gad,” Robyn murmured. “That was neatly done.”
“Handy thing to have about,” Lord Carlisle said. “An unusually large footman, I mean.”
Cam gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t wish to shock you, gentlemen, but that was not the first time George has been called upon to perform that service. Shall we have some port? I believe dinner is over.”
They sat in the dining room for another half hour, then his guests wandered off to pursue of game of chess in the drawing room, leaving Cam alone.
He rose, grabbed the bottle of port and made his way to the library. There was no point in sitting around like some besotted tragic hero. Eleanor wouldn’t come back downstairs tonight.
He sat in the dark and drank his port, running his finger over the top edge of his wineglass, thinking of how passionate she’d been with him in the kitchen last night. Her sighs and moans, the way she’d pressed herself against him—dear God, she’d driven him mad.
Did she know how much he wanted her? Had she understood he’d been one kiss away from snatching her into his arms and stealing away with her to his bedchamber? He’d dreamed about her, about laying her across his bed, pulling every pin from her hair, sliding those stockings from her long, long legs, and . . .
Damn it. This was becoming a habit, sitting alone in a dark library with a hard cock, drowning in fantasies about Eleanor.
One kiss away—so close, and yet not close enough, and one couldn’t seduce in half-measures. Either he’d had her, or he hadn’t. Either she was a virgin, or she wasn’t.
The party would return to London the day after tomorrow, and Ellie had no more reason to marry him now than she had when they’d arrived at Lindenhurst.
He was almost out of time.
He had one more night to make her his, but even if the opportunity arose, he wasn’t sure he could take her. He wanted her desperately, but if she asked for his promise again, he’d give it to her, and once he did, he’d keep it.
Cam downed the rest of his port in one swallow, then filled the glass again. Her sister’s indisposition gave her the perfect excuse to remain upstairs. If he hadn’t seen Charlotte’s near-swoon for himself, he might believe it was all a ploy so Ellie could avoid seeing him tonight.
Sweet, sweet Ellie, with her black currant lips and her hot, seeking tongue . . .
“May I come in?”
For a moment he thought he’d conjured her straight out of his fantasies and through the library door. He waited for her to come to him, sink onto his lap, brush his hair back with a cool hand and lower her lips to his.
Instead she stood at the open door, her expression growing puzzled. “Cam?”
Not a fantasy, then. She was really here. He leapt to his feet, amazed by his good fortune. “I—yes, of course.”
He hadn’t lit a lamp, and he didn’t make any move to light one now. In the feeble light from the hallway he thought he saw a faint flush rise to her cheeks, but she didn’t object to the dimness. Just as well. By some divine stroke of luck he had her here alone, and whatever might happen, he didn’t intend to lose this opportunity. “How does your sister do? She looked ill when she left the dining room.”
Eleanor frowned. “I don’t think she is ill after all, merely agitated, though she refuses to say why. She also refused every offer of assistance. In fact, she chased us all out of her room, even me.” She perched on the edge of the leather sofa, her hands folded in her lap. “It’s just as well, as I wish to speak to you.”
And I wish to make love to you, on that sofa, with your arms around me and your fingernails in my back.
“Perhaps we can both get what we wish for this evening, my lady.”
“I wish you would stop calling me that.”
Cam raised an eyebrow, surprised. “What? My lady? But that’s what you are, isn’t it?”
She clenched her hands together until her knuckles turned white. “It’s not the title. It’s the way you say it.”
“Oh? How is that, my lady?”
But he knew. He said it like a caress. Like a secret, whispered in her ear.
“Like you . . . like—I’m not your lady. I’m not your anything.”
“Ah.” He sat down next to her and reached for her, but slowly, the way one might reach out to stroke a wild animal. “But you will be.”
Eleanor leapt off the sofa, away from him. “No. I won’t.” She paced over to the fireplace. “That’s what I came to tell you. This is over, Cam.”
The devil it was. It hadn’t even begun.
“If it’s over, why do you run away from me every time I try to touch you?”
She lifted her chin. “You don’t need to touch me every time I get near you.”
Yes, I do.
“Run, then,” he murmured, an unmistakable challenge in his voice. “It won’t do you any good. There’s no place in the world so far away I won’t follow you—”
Cam stopped, stunned into silence.
Jesus. It was true. He’d follow her to the ends of the earth if he had to. Not because of Amelia, or to satisfy some twisted sense of justice, or because she was Hart Sutherland’s daughter.
Because she was Eleanor.
Eleanor, with that maddening blush, stubborn chin, and those dark eyes—eyes that turned so soft when she looked at Amelia.
Would her eyes ever soften for him like that? If they never did, it would be no more than he deserved. He’d to
ld himself he didn’t care if she despised him. He’d told her it made no difference if she were foolish or clever, mad or sane.
He’d told her she didn’t matter.
It was a lie.
She was all that mattered.
He rose from the sofa and moved toward her. “Eleanor, listen to me—”
“No.” She held out a hand to keep him away. “I spoke with your aunt this afternoon, while you were out hunting, and she told me everything.”
Halfway across the room to her, Cam froze. “Everything.”
“Don’t blame her. I—I said I already knew. Mrs. Mullins told me about your father. Your aunt assumed I knew the rest, and I didn’t correct her. I warned you, Cam.” She gave him a defiant look, but her lower lip trembled.
Cam stared at her and noticed for the first time the hectic flush across her cheekbones, the way her fingers clutched at the folds of her gown. “Yes, I suppose you did.”
Was that why he’d brought her here? In some deep part of his mind, where he tried to keep the scales of justice balanced, maybe he’d wanted her to fight him.
It was one way to justify seducing her.
He knew she wouldn’t pass up the chance to unearth his secrets, and what better place to do so than Lindenhurst? He’d suspected as much when he discovered her in the kitchen with Mrs. Mullins last night, but he hadn’t cared—hadn’t even tried to stop her. Not really. He’d been so desperate to taste her, to touch her, he couldn’t think of anything else.
Now she knew everything.
Or she thought she did. But how much did she know? She might know what had happened to his father, but did she know about Amelia’s father? “Tell me what you know, Eleanor. I give you my word I won’t lie to you.”
She straightened her shoulders and folded her hands in front of her again, stiffly, like a headmistress about to deliver a lecture to a room full of naughty boys. “Your father died when you were nine.”
Despite her dignified pose, her breath caught a little here, and Cam felt a hollow echo of it in his chest. Was she sorry for him? For the boy he’d been, perhaps, but not for the man he was. Not for him.