What a thought! His body and imagination were far ahead of his relationship with Eleanor Blackwood, already wanting to copulate with her, planning the moment he entered her. He needed the cold rainwater to wash over him and bring him back to reality.
“Coffee,” she reminded him. “Do you like it?”
He frowned. She was so mesmerizing; he couldn’t remember if he did or not.
“I think it’s time to climb down. Parts of me are numb,” he confessed. Though definitely not all of him.
“Very well. I shall move forward so you can get your leg over, and then you can climb down, and I’ll come after.”
His plan exactly. If she slipped, he would steady her. If she fell, he would catch her and probably never let her go.
“Careful,” he instructed, as she inched forward.
“Goodbye, tree,” she said. Then more loudly, she called out, “Goodbye, birds. Until next time Mrs. Robin and Mr. Finch. Oh, Grayson, I saw a grouse yesterday.”
She continued to talk as he got onto the next branch and held his arms up to assist. She didn’t need his help, it was clear. Though as she slid down onto the next branch, most of her body managed to touch most of his, and his hands ended up steadying her by clamping around her waist.
In fact, Eleanor climbed down expertly, following his lead. Soon, they were standing on the still damp, spongey ground. Close, too close.
“Come along,” she said, stepping away from him, her dress still tucked up. “I’ll race you.”
Without further warning, she took off at a run toward the house.
Strange lady, he thought, chasing after her. They had a moment alone and could have easily snuck a kiss under the boughs of the oak, but she’d run off like a child.
Didn’t she feel what he felt? Maybe she wasn’t ready for a grown-up relationship, after all. Or maybe she’d decided a servant’s son was not her destiny.
Eleanor dashed away from the man who was making her heart pound and the rest of her body feel strangely as if it were on fire. Half a dozen times, she’d caught her breath while resting in his arms. And she was sure he could hear her heart thundering. She wanted to press farther back against him and rub her cheek on his clothing like a cat.
When they’d started climbing down, parts of him were touching parts of her. She had prattled on about whatever came into her head to keep from saying something stupid, like “kiss me, please” or “I believe I love you.”
Then, she’d dropped to the ground nearly into his arms and had to run away before he saw her feelings plainly on her face. She’d never been good at prevaricating. In fact, she loathed those who could lie well. Her father had lied to her mother about something as mundane as their finances and, ultimately, left them all in grave peril. Lying, especially to someone you professed to care about, was evil.
“Wait, Eleanor,” he called out behind her.
After a few exhilarating yards, she stopped and waited for him. Just hearing him freely use her given name was a thrill.
“Yes?” she asked him politely.
Would he say something endearing again, about how wonderful she was?
“Your dress. You ought to tidy yourself up and untuck it before we get closer. Anyone looking out the back windows might see you.”
Glancing down, she realized she probably didn’t look all that enticing. Most ladies didn’t wear Wellies for a start, and there was bark stuck in her hosiery, and by the feel at the back of her, she’d torn them as well.
Tugging her hem out of her waistband, she let her skirts loose to fall in a hopelessly wrinkled mess around her legs.
“Oh, dear! Do you think anyone will notice?”
When he laughed, heat crept up her face.
“Turn around, all the way, let me take a look,” he insisted.
She twirled in a slow circle so he could see all of her.
“The back of your gown is rather soggy and dirty, I’m afraid.”
Feeling crestfallen, Eleanor considered her options. If Lady Angsley saw her in such a state, might she think less of her? Doubtful. Her ladyship was used to loud and messy children, except for Beryl, who was extremely ladylike.
More worrisome was the appearance she would make if she entered with Grayson with her skirt in a rumpled mess. The entire household might think the worst—that he’d compromised her, and she’d let him.
“Don’t worry,” he said, reading her thoughts upon her face. “We’ll go visit my mother. She was a seamstress after all. Surely, she can make your dress look presentable.”
“Whatever will she think?” Eleanor asked while already having changed direction toward the old granary lodge.
“She’ll think you’re an adventurous lass who does more than sit indoors and do needlepoint.”
“True,” she agreed. “I’ve never really been good at that, but I can sit for hours sketching or with a book.”
“I know. I’ve seen you. You’re a very good artist.”
Her entire body suffused with warmth, and this time, not from embarrassment. Grayson thought her a good artist. Very good.
She decided she would reward him with a drawing of something he liked. What did he like?
“You’re very fond of your horse, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Why?” he asked as they strolled along.
“The one you rode here?”
“Actually, my favorite horse is back at Turvey House. I’d ridden him from London, so I left him to rest and rode another.”
“Oh.” That made things a little more difficult, though a horse was a horse except for its markings. As long as she knew if it was a male or a female.
“Tell me the name of your favorite horse. I’ll tell you if I remember which one it is.”
“Percy.”
Hm. It had been nearly a year since she’d been to Maggie’s country house and seen Grayson or his horse, but she recalled one he rode most often.
“Black gelding with a white blaze.”
“That’s him,” he agreed.
Good. She could sketch from any of the horses in the Angsley stables, and then use her Staedtler oil pastel pencils to make it look like Percy.
However, before they reached Mrs. O’Connor’s room, one of the servants from the hall intercepted them.
“Her ladyship has had us looking high and low for you, Mr. O’Connor. She’s had word from the Earl of Cambrey.”
“Apparently not high enough,” Grayson muttered. He turned to Eleanor. “Would you like to continue to my mother’s or…?” he trailed off, looking at her dress and shrugging slightly.
“No, never mind about my skirts. Let’s go find out what John wrote.”
Chapter Seven
“I hope I did not alarm you,” Lady Angsley apologized, though when she saw the state of Eleanor, she looked quite alarmed herself.
Not knowing what else to do, Eleanor curtsied to her. “I was in a tree, my lady, watching the river. Grayson came and found me and brought me back safely.”
Best to make it sound like an act of heroism. Then she realized with disgust how easily she’d fallen into prevaricating.
“Actually, that’s not true precisely,” she amended. “I wasn’t in the tree when he found me, but since I was going up it anyway, he helped me climb and then helped me get back down.”
Lady Angsley frowned, either not caring about the lengthy explanation or displeased with her guests.
“I see,” she intoned. “I have no doubt one of our maids can clean and repair it, and there’s always Grayson’s mother.”
“About the message from Turvey House,” Grayson interjected, sounding impatient.
“Oh, yes! My husband’s nephew says all is well with little Rose. Margaret doesn’t seem feverish anymore, but she has been unable to keep down her food. Her stomach is in the midst of upheaval, and John says his is, too.”
“And Cam’s fever is also gone?” Grayson asked.
“Apparently so.”
The three of them stood there a mo
ment.
“Is that all?” Grayson persisted.
“Yes.” Her ladyship gave a small shrug. “I told you I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“Was there nothing specifically from my sister for me?” Eleanor hoped maybe Lady Angsley had simply neglected to mention it.
“No.”
After another brief pause, her ladyship smiled invitingly. “Would you care to do some needlepoint with me? I believe Phoebe is also going to be in the drawing room working on a cushion.”
Eleanor would rather go back to a stuffy London ballroom. At least there, she would be moving and drinking champagne or lemonade, but pricking one’s fingers over and over to make an ugly cushion cover or wall hanging seemed ridiculous.
“Thank you, but I had best go change out of these clothes before I get any dirt on your furniture.”
“That’s fine. Phoebe and I shall still be at it for hours. You may join us after.”
“Yes, of course.” She could almost feel Grayson grinning at her attempts to get out of the needlepoint session. “You see, my lady, I was about to go into your extensive library and look for a book. I finished all those I brought during my long carriage ride.”
“A book?” Her ladyship frowned, then she guessed, “Not one for needlepoint, Eleanor?”
“No, my lady.”
“I’ll meet you in the library,” Grayson suggested. “I’m not one for needlepoint either.”
Luckily, that made Lady Angsley smile. “Very well. I will see you two at afternoon tea, unless you take lunch, in which case, I’ll see you sooner.”
And she sailed off in a billow of burgundy satin.
Grayson cocked his head. “You looked as though you might gnaw your own hands off rather than use them for needle work.”
“Was my dislike so evident?”
“I don’t think she was offended. I’ll see you in the library later.”
Eleanor agreed. It seemed he was going to stick close as his mother and Beryl had hoped. Surely, he didn’t think they could read a book together though.
Gray found himself awaiting Eleanor with eagerness. He was besotted. That much was plain. She was simply the best female company he had ever encountered, and he could see himself spending the rest of his days enjoying life with her.
He tried to read the book titles but couldn’t focus until, after about ten minutes, she reappeared. She had not only changed into a clean, fawn-colored gown, she had tidied her hair. Gone was the loose bun from which most of her hair had escaped. Now, she wore it in a single thick plait.
“I had to take it down and comb some leaves and twigs out of it,” she explained when she saw him looking at her braid. “And putting it back up seemed such a nuisance.”
“You look lovely either way,” he told her.
In truth, though, this style was more that of a young girl, and he was back to wondering about the difference in their ages.
Immediately, she went to the shelves and began perusing the leather spines.
“Don’t you adore a library? It is the next best thing to being outdoors. And while I usually prefer the smells of grass and flowers to anything indoors, I admit, I love the aroma of books.”
“The aroma of books?” What an unusual thing to say.
“Yes, open one and get a good whiff of it. Here, try it.” She pulled one off the shelf, noted its title, opened it, and stuck it in his face so the page touched the end of his nose.
“Yes, I suppose.” This particular book smelled like a mix between used hay from the stables and a musty basement, but he would agree to practically anything she said.
He watched her, fascinated, as she pressed it to her own nose and rather loudly breathed in its aroma. Then Eleanor sneezed daintily.
“You’re eight years younger than I am, I believe,” he said.
“I’m not certain since I don’t know your age. But if that’s true, then it is soon to be only seven.” She crouched down to look at books on the lowest shelf. He bent, too, so he could keep talking to her easily.
“Why? Is your birthday coming up?”
“Yes, next week. I was supposed to be celebrating it, as much as anyone does at my age, with my sister this year. No matter. If I’m still here, we can talk the Angsleys’ cook into making a cake as easily as the Cambreys’ cook.”
“True.” Still, it was probably a disappointment to her not to be with Maggie, Cam, and little Rosie. She could go home to be with her mother, older sister, and her husband, but she was undoubtedly holding out hope she could soon go to Turvey House.
He could try to make her birthday a special day in any case.
Next, she read off the names of a few books he’d heard of, Gulliver’s Travels, Tom Jones, Clarissa, some of Dickens’ works, and a Shakespeare collection in one volume. The Angsleys had a good library although he had only gone in once or twice, looking for a book on horse-breeding or some equally practical matter.
“Oh,” she exclaimed.
“What have you found?”
“Northanger Abbey.”
“Another of your Gothic novels?” He liked her choice in the unusual and the dark macabre, rather than an insipid novel of manners. When he did read for entertainment, he tended toward travel stories but had run into a few Gothic tales.
She pulled the book out and ran a hand over its cover before opening it and flipping its pages.
“Not strictly. It has all the elements, but Miss Austen was writing a parody. Still, it’s a very interesting story.”
“Then you’ve already read it.”
“Only once, and it was so enjoyable, I look forward to reading it again.” She placed it on the round, polished library table before going back to the shelves.
“Here’s one I’ve never read at all. The Necromancer by Flammenberg. He’s German, and it’s supposed to be very scary.”
He watched her do an exaggerated little shiver.
“And this one,” she said. “Mrs. Radcliffe’s A Sicilian Romance. In an essay, she said she tried to evoke terror, not horror, which she looked down upon as causing one to freeze, thereby stunting the reader’s faculties. On the other hand, terror, she said, stimulated the reader with imagination. I agree with her, and she so superbly causes one to feel terror in her stories. Do you agree with the distinction?”
“Yes, I think I do,” Grayson said, reminded of a literature class from boarding school. “Though I am not sure, Professor Blackwood, if I could make the distinction myself.”
She offered him her lovely smile.
All at once, he thought of a gift—perhaps the perfect birthday gift for her.
“The other evening you said you hadn’t yet read Edgar Allan Poe, is that right?”
“I haven’t yet come across one of his tales in any bookshop. Just bad luck, I suppose. I take it you’ve read him.”
“I have read some of his stories and even some of his poetry. I believe you would enjoy him, though he tends a little more toward the horror.”
“That’s no matter. I would welcome the chance to read someone new to me. He only died a few years ago, I believe.”
“Yes, would you go light the extra lamp, and then we’ll see if we can find anything by him.”
“But it’s broad daylight,” she pointed out.
“Then maybe you could open the other curtains. You know I am old enough to be your father, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry I said that. You know I didn’t mean it.” But she got up and did what he asked.
When her back was turned, Grayson slipped a slim volume off the shelf and tucked it into his pocket, confident it was the only copy in the library.
“Is that better?” she asked.
“Yes, what little sunlight we have can now stream in. Come, help me look for something by Poe.”
After a few minutes, when their search turned up nothing, he said, “I give up. How about we go riding before lunch and then dine with my mother? She will be thrilled.”<
br />
“All right,” Eleanor agreed, rising from where she’d ended up on the floor and then stretching.
He could not take his gaze from her as her lithe form bent this way and that, her lush curves visible through the cotton of her gown. Suddenly, his mouth had grown dry.
“If we are riding, I guess I had better change again,” she said. “I’ll take these books upstairs, too. If you pick out a good horse for me, I’ll meet you down at the stables.”
“With your antics around here,” Grayson told her, “I think you should wear your riding habit at all times.”
She made a face at him as he gestured for her to precede him out of the room. At the same time, he fingered the book in his pocket, a Poe collection of stories including The Gold Bug. Quietly pleased with himself, Gray followed after her.
Eleanor didn’t like to benefit from her sister’s illness. Yet now she had accepted the idea of not going directly to Turvey House, she was enjoying herself. If she was truly honest, she would have to say she liked being in the company of Grayson and having him mostly to herself for the first time in the years she’d known him.
She had made one massive error, and he had forgiven her. The day before, after an exhilarating ride, when at lunch with his mother, Eleanor had brought up Grayson’s father, asking about the deceased Mr. O’Connor.
After all, why did something ordinary like a man living and then dying have to be shrouded in mystery? she wondered.
However, when Grayson’s mother became visibly flustered, looking neither at her son nor at Eleanor, but keeping her head down absently stirring her tea, she knew she’d made a terrible error.
At once, Eleanor had apologized to both of them.
“It’s all in the past,” Mrs. O’Connor said quietly, while Grayson said naught at all. Thus, Eleanor had learned nothing new and had caused discomfort to her lunch hosts.
Afterward, as she and Grayson walked back to Angsley Hall, she again apologized.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “Anyone would be curious. I am, but she has never said a word about him and told me she never will.”
“And Lord and Lady Angsley know nothing about your father?”
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 59