An hour later she couldn’t ignore the ugly whispers in the back of her mind—whispers that reminded her how unattractive men had always found her; how not even a fortune could make her desirable. But he’d wanted me in the library! she argued back. He seemed eager. It’s one thing to give a woman kisses and quite another to do the deed, said the whispers. Perhaps he cannot bring himself quite up to the mark after all. No…no…Everleigh will come.
Another hour passed.
And another.
In a state of numbness, Eleanor found her dressing gown and slippers and padded softly down the hall past the sleeping footman—she wanted no witnesses to her night of ignominy—and descended the stairs to the first floor. She slipped into the library and summed up the pathetic situation in one sweeping glance. From the strong smell of the sweet Madeira wine and the gentle snores emanating from the sofa, Lord Everleigh had succumbed to drink. The whispers in her mind suggested he’d been in need of Dutch courage to face bedding her. Whatever the reason, his presence on the sofa instead of in her bed failed to flatter. She couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d fallen off a galloping horse. Indeed, she felt the same inability to draw breath and the same shocking physical hurt.
Eleanor fled to her bedroom and rang for her dresser.
“Yes, my lady?” Sally rubbed sleepy eyes and surveyed Eleanor’s bedchamber, straightening when she realized the bed was almost undisturbed and she stood alone with her mistress. Eleanor gave her credit for concealing any reaction she had almost immediately.
“Prepare a traveling bag for yourself and me—just the necessities. We are returning to Rutledge. Send a footman to John Coachman and tell him to put the grays to my post-chaise. I wish to leave within the hour.”
“Yes, ma’am, but...” Sally opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again.
“Speak up, Sally.”
“But what about Lord Miles?”
“What about him?”
Sally shrugged helplessly, her arms making vague gestures.
“My fervent prayer is that I will not set eyes upon Lord Miles Everleigh for the remainder of my life.”
Chapter Seven
M
iles opened his eyes to a fire gone cold and some sort of commotion in the hall outside. He shoved himself upright and blinked—then leaped up and strode to the library door turning the air blue with curses. Too many servants for this hour of night bustled back and forth in the hall.
“You there.” He grabbed the arm of a passing footman. “Get me Lady Eleanor’s maid. On the instant.”
The young man drew up stiffly. “Terribly sorry, my lord, but that is not possible. Miss Conway is no longer in residence.”
“What! For heaven’s sake man, where can she have gone at this hour?”
“She left with Lady Russ—Miles, sir.”
“Left?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where the hell did they go?”
“I believe my lady’s destination was Rutledge Manor, my lord.”
“The devil you say! How long ago did they leave?”
The footman sniffed and eyed Miles’ pants with disdain. Miles ignored his impertinence as he well understood its source. The red Madeira stain on his fawn inexpressibles could not be missed, and he stank like a winery. “When did Lady Miles leave?”
“The Lady Miles Everleigh departed thirty minutes ago with instructions to close the townhouse immediately, put the furniture under Holland covers and pull the knocker from the door. You will need somewhere else to reside the night, my lord.”
Horrified disbelief drove Miles to ascend the stairs two at a time and storm into the bedchamber Eleanor had said was hers. He stopped in the center of the room and turned in a complete circle. The wardrobe doors hung open with the inner contents in disarray. Stockings and gloves draped the open drawers of a chest of drawers. Everywhere his gaze landed, signs of a hasty departure greeted him. He moved to the bed. A transparent wisp of a nightgown had been thrown carelessly across it. A long rip marred the delicate bodice—torn as if its wearer couldn’t shed it fast enough. A faint waft of Eleanor’s clean scent reached his nose, and he groaned. “Eleanor...what you must have thought.” His shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes. “I’m so very sorry.”
His pace when he left was vastly more subdued than when he’d entered. One thought and one thought only occupied his mind. He must make this right.
A hansom cab dropped him off at Baron Stanton’s, and he went to his bedchamber and rang for a servant. In these aristocratic households, someone was always available even in the dead of night.
“Lord Miles? We weren’t expecting you back tonight, my lord. How may I help you?” The baron’s somewhat baffled housekeeper blinked sleepily.
“Yes, my plans took a sudden change. Sorry to roust you from your bed at this hour, Mrs. Batmin, but I need to speak with Baron Stanton.”
She dropped a polite curtsey and murmured, “I’ll send someone for him, my lord.”
Miles stripped off his wedding finery and dressed in serviceable riding clothes. A short search under the bed revealed a small portmanteau into which he packed several changes of linen and his toiletries. Reggie surprised him by appearing in less than an hour with his bony feet tucked into red velvet slippers. A long tasseled nightcap covered his head and hung down over his left shoulder onto a figured oriental banyan in Coquelicot red. “This better be good, Miles. I love you like a brother, but it’s half-past four in the morning…besides, I thought you’d be with your new bride.”
“May I borrow a horse, Reg? I’ll change mounts at the first available posting house and send him back. I need to leave town for a bit, and I can’t take Badger. He won’t be up to the hard pace.”
A frown wrinkled his friend’s brow. “This is very unlike you—to leave in such a harum-scarum way, but of course, you may have the pick of my cattle.”
Miles closed and latched his bag. “You are the best of men, Stanton. I’ve been extraordinarily careless and have inflicted immeasurable hurt on Lady Miles. I believe she is on her way to Rutledge Manor as we speak. I must see what I can do to correct the wrong I’ve done her, and I must do it quickly. The longer she believes that …” Miles shook his head. “I won’t go into particulars, but this must be remedied quickly.”
Reggie’s eyebrows flew up, and his posture became haughtily erect. “Disappointed in you, my lord. Very unlike you to inflict injury on a virginal female. I thought you possessed of greater finesse.”
Miles gave a bark of forced laughter. “By all that’s holy, Stanton, not physically. She’s quite—intact. The injury was emotional.”
Miles’ friend blinked like an owl and then relaxed. “Oh…well, then. I want the whole story when you return, or I shall expire of curiosity.”
“I’ll give you what I’m at liberty to share. Though… I may go on to my farm in Newmarket. I might not return to town.”
“If so, then Mary and I shall descend upon you like a plague of locusts.” His friend paused. “We shouldn’t have to sleep in the straw, would we? I doubt Mary would enjoy rusticating that much.”
Miles crushed his friend in a bracing hug and then stepped back. “I have very adequate guest rooms, never fear. I cannot delay. Give my love to Mary, and Stanton...” He winced. “Could you keep an eye on Ned?”
“Be off with you, Everleigh, and yes, I’ll keep an eye on your pesky brother.”
Despite his late departure from London, he dogged Eleanor’s heels the entire eight-hour journey to Rutledge Manor. He’d thought he’d catch her, but a combination of her coachman’s superb driving and the prime bits of blood and bone that comprised her teams—and she’d changed them twice at posting houses along the way—had frustrated him. When he’d stopped at those same posting houses to acquire a fresh mount, he’d been told, “Just missed her, my lord. She changed horses and was off—in a powerful hurry, too.”
He’d been within sight of her carriage; on narrow bits of road h
e’d heard the coach horn blown in warning, but at the spanking pace she’d set, he never caught up with her. Her pace had only increased as daylight broke. His admiration for John Coachman grew with every mile that passed under his horse’s galloping hooves. The rate of speed with which Eleanor traveled pounded into his brain with every step of his laboring horse, the degree of her fury and hurt. His mouth grew tight as he urged the slug he rode to a better effort.
To say the lands comprising the Rutledge estate impressed Miles would be a vast understatement. He’d grown up on a big estate and was no stranger to grand properties but nevertheless, the acreage and surrounding towns that were attached to Rutledge—from the thousands of acres in pastures and tillage to the prosperous villages he rode through—spoke of monied attention. Vast sums had been spent not only on the home estate but on the tenant farmers and merchant villages that surrounded Rutledge Manor. It was no stretch of the mind to understand why Eleanor was so desperate to hold Rutledge together and Prinny so anxious to acquire it. But to Miles, none of it began to address the true jewels of her inheritance—the splendid racehorses whose slender legs pranced onto England’s racetracks, and more often than not, bore Rutledge’s blue and gold colors into the winner’s circle.
Eleanor’s team had been unhooked from the traces and was being led off when he rode into the central courtyard at Rutledge Manor, dismounted and handed his job horse off to a groom with instructions to return it to the last posting house in the morning. He mounted the wide port cochere steps to the fifteen-foot, double oaken doors and with a deep breath and a straightening of his shoulders lifted the lion’s head knocker and rapped loudly.
The door opened, and Miles stepped through, handed a doorman his whip, stripped his hands of his gloves and shrugged out of his great coat. He draped his coat, top hat, and gloves across the stunned man’s still outstretched arm. “Good afternoon. I’m Lord Miles Everleigh. I’m here to see my wife.”
Miles gave a jerk to the skirts of his closely fitted riding coat, stretched his neck and checked his appearance in the entry hall mirror. His cravat was somewhat disheveled, his hair was more than a little tousled, and he could stand a shave, but under the circumstances, it would have to do. Nothing could be done about his mud-spattered top boots. However, he doubted he could get any further into Eleanor’s bad graces than he’d already done.
“Your w-w-wife, my lord?” the man stuttered.
“Yes. The Lady Miles Everleigh. Formerly, The Lady Eleanor Russell.” He bestowed his most winning smile on the doorman. “She arrived somewhat ahead of me. Where may I find her?”
The footman was rescued by the appearance of a dignified gentleman that Miles assumed was the butler.
“Baines, see to Lord Miles’s apparel. I’ll escort him to Lady…” the presumed butler bestowed a steady look of impervious calm on Miles, “…Miles Everleigh.” With a small bow, the man continued, “I am Walters, butler to The Earl of Rutledge. I apologize for my failure to greet you at the door. If you will follow me, my lord.”
With an unhurried, deliberate pace, the butler led Miles down a wide marble hallway of twenty-foot ceilings, one side of which was comprised entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows and lining the opposite side, open doors gave glimpses into opulent chambers. Walters stopped at one that remained partially opened, and Miles could hear Eleanor respond defensively to a gravelly male bark.
“…married, yes, that’s what I said.”
A raspy female voice, trembling with age responded, “Oh, my darling girl! How wonderful, but wherever is your groom? We must be introduced.”
“Mother, there is a slight irregularity. You see, I ah… ah… Here’s the thing… ah…”
Through the door, Miles could see Eleanor’s hands floundering awkwardly. He cleared his throat. “Walters, I’ll announce myself. Thank you.”
The man bowed. “Certainly, my lord.”
Miles thought the man muttered, “Good luck,” as he withdrew, but he might have misheard. With a bracing breath for courage, Miles strode boldly into the room to confront his runaway bride and two fragile persons of extremely advanced age, both wrapped in warm blankets and seated in front of a ripping fire—none other than The Earl of Rutledge and his Countess. He’d never set eyes on them before, but it couldn’t be anyone else. Eleanor’s father must have been a lion of a man, for even in advanced age he made an imposing figure with iron-gray hair and piercing blue eyes. Her mother was an unusually handsome woman whose face of classic bone structure was wreathed in a cloud of pure white hair.
“Lady Miles, how did you get so far in front of me? My dear, had I known you would set such a frantic pace, I’d have elected to ride with you in the carriage.” He strode forward and kissed a wooden Eleanor lightly on the cheek and, turning to her parents, made an elegant leg, first to Lady Rutledge and then to the Earl. “Lady Rutledge, Lord Rutledge, Lord Miles Wrotham Everleigh at your service. I am the third youngest to His Grace the sixth Duke of Chelsony, and as your lovely daughter was just informing you, I have the blessed good fortune to be her husband.” Miles gave Eleanor a warm look. “A mutual acquaintance made us known to each other, and three days later we agreed to be married. Isn’t that right, Eleanor?” Miles gave her a steady look that dared her to disagree.
“We did?” She blinked and shook herself. “Ah…yes, yes, we did. Three days later.”
“I apologize for what must seem precipitous actions and for not seeking your approval, my lord, but events quite swept us off our feet. I simply couldn’t wait to make her mine.”
“Oh…a love match. Oh, Eleanor, my sweet child, I’m so very, very happy for you.” Lady Rutledge brightened, held her hand to her breast and gave a heartfelt sigh of joy. “Such a pretty speech from such a handsome man.” She beamed at her daughter. “I knew someday someone would have the good sense to appreciate the treasure that you are.”
The Earl’s hawk-like gaze settled on Miles skeptically, as if he knew exactly how close to an outright lie Miles had sailed, but his lips quirked in amusement. “The Duke of Chelsony, eh? I knew the old Duke, your sire…knew him quite well. Good man. Can’t say as I care for the present Duke.” The old gentleman paused to catch his breath. “My daughter has a level head on her shoulders. I have no objection if you’ve won Eleanor’s acceptance. Eleanor…?” His gaze shot to his daughter and he narrowed his eyes. Eleanor appeared to be in another world, and it wasn’t until Miles nudged her gently that she returned to the present.
“Ah…yes, Father?”
Miles never knew what Eleanor’s response might have been as the Earl was afflicted by a spate of heavy coughing and struggled for breath. For the first time, Miles noticed a nurse who’d been sitting quietly in the corner of the room. She crossed to attend the Earl.
“Here you are, my lord.” She unstoppered a bottle, poured a strong-smelling syrup onto a spoon and offered it to the Earl, who swallowed it without complaint.
Lady Rutledge warbled, “Show your husband to your apartments, dear. Get out of your dirt, and we’ll see you again at dinner. I know I speak for Rutledge when I say we are delighted to have you as a new son-in-law, Lord Miles. Such a godsend.”
Miles bowed again, and Lady Rutledge offered a shaky hand, which he took, gently kissing the age-spotted skin.
“Lady Miles?” Miles offered his arm. With a face devoid of expression, she took it, and he led her out of the room.
When they had cleared the door, Eleanor shook off his arm and without inflection stated, “Follow me.” She picked up her skirts in both hands and proceeded to quick march—there could be no other way to describe her martial gait—down the wide hall to a grand staircase, whereupon she slapped one hand on the handrail and head down, attacked the stairs, never looking to see if he accompanied her. On the second floor, Miles strode after her down a densely carpeted hallway and into a suite of elegant rooms.
“Close the door, please,” she directed quietly. When he’d done so, she drew herself erect and hissed,
“Just what do you think you’re about?”
“Eleanor, I could not allow you to leave London thinking what you must have been thinking. Will you please let me explain my failure to—”
“Your failure to come to my bed?” she snapped. “I believe I put two and two together and arrived at four. I saw you in the library, foxed, stinking of wine and dead to the world hours after … after.” She clenched her fists and tightened her jaw. Her eyes appeared suspiciously moist. “You need not humiliate me any further, my lord.”
He closed his eyes and gathered his patience. “I deserve your animosity, and I am not here to humiliate you. The boot is quite on the other foot. It is I who am mortified. I greatly regret the events of last night, and I’m here to explain… if you will please hear me out?”
“I have no desire to hear anything you have to say, my lord. Your actions have spoken quite clearly, and I wish most heartily that you will leave here and never cross my path again.”
The vehemence of her statement was disheartening. There was little he could do if she’d closed her mind to him and he had enough male pride that he would not beg her to listen. That she was wrong about him did cause a ripple of irritation—particularly since he’d gone to some effort to disabuse her of her erroneous assumption and set the matter right, but what caused him the most disquiet was that she held a mistaken belief about herself—a belief confirmed in her mind by his inaction. He stood and regarded her with some empathy as she glared back at him, oozing hostility born from hurt and shame for which he held himself responsible. Regret was a bitter fruit, and he had partaken of it thoroughly in the last few hours. “I don’t suppose there is anything I can say that will make you hear me out or believe my sincerity should I force you to listen?”
She turned her back to him. “Nothing.”
He studied her erect back for a long moment and said gently, “Eleanor, I highly recommend that you don’t live the rest of your life clutching wounded pride to your breast. From personal experience, I can testify that it makes for a cold existence.”
A Husband for Hire Page 8