“I didn’t know you had such strong opinions about it,” Eleanor said, reaching out to stroke her sister’s cheek. “And it’s not as though I am going to cause more scandal. I promise that.” He had promised as well. Even though he had also—well, she couldn’t think about that, or her sisters would wonder what was setting her ablaze. “It is just that I want to see more of the world than a few ballrooms and museums.”
She wouldn’t tell her sisters—nor Cotswold, for that matter—that Lord Alexander was taking her to a gambling house that evening. There was only so much honesty she could muster.
“And it’s not as though Eleanor is tromping around in a red dress or anything,” Olivia said, sounding as though she wished she could tromp around in a red dress.
Eleanor looked down at what she was wearing. It wasn’t scandalously red, but then again, it wasn’t demurely white either. It fit her figure perfectly, making her admire Cotswold’s skill with a needle—it had been a discard from their mother, who thought it made her look “like a blueberry.”
The gown was made of printed blue satin, discreet roses making the relatively plain gown seem sumptuous. White lace edged the neckline and the sleeves, while darker blue ribbons encircled Eleanor’s waist. Cotswold had dressed her hair in a more mature style and had found dark blue gloves that went past Eleanor’s elbows.
She looked at herself in the glass, her sisters’ admiring faces behind her, and smiled at the reflection.
The woman she saw looking back at her wasn’t nondescript. She was . . . descript, if such a word existed. She looked as though she was fully capable of making her own decisions, would live a joyous and wonderful life, and could wear colored gowns anytime she felt like it.
She looked, in short, as though she had made a delicious bargain with an altogether too-tall and too-handsome man.
Olivia and Pearl both got up to stand behind her, one on either side.
“You look marvelous,” Olivia said in an admiring tone.
“You do,” Pearl echoed.
“You be careful,” Cotswold warned, the pleased expression on her face showing the Howlett sisters’ admiration had been appreciated.
“I will,” Eleanor promised, hugging her sisters and taking her purse from Cotswold’s outstretched hand.
“And you’ll have to tell us all about it,” Olivia said. “Because how else will we know what we have to live up to if you don’t share the details?”
Eleanor laughed as she walked out the door, glancing up and down the hallway to make sure nobody—meaning her parents—was about.
She stepped down the stairs feeling as full of emotion as she ever had.
This was life. This was what she wanted.
Would she be able to turn it away when it was time?
She couldn’t answer that now. Wouldn’t answer it either.
What she could answer was that yes, she was going on a clandestine journey to a place no young lady should go with the entirely wrong gentleman.
And she had never been happier.
Alex heard the quick knock on the carriage door and swung it open, reaching his arm out to help her inside, quickly, before anyone saw her.
And then felt his throat thicken as he caught a glimpse of her.
She looked—radiant. Her gown was some sort of dark color, and her hair was piled on top of her head, making her look like a queen.
The gown was cut low in front, giving him a view of her breasts, and suddenly it wasn’t just his throat that was growing thick.
“You look . . .” he began, then shook his head.
“What?”
He heard the anxiety in her tone, and rushed to reassure her. “Beautiful,” he said, rapping on the roof of the carriage so the coachman would know to get moving. He crossed over to sit on her side as the coach began to move.
“Do you think that is a good idea?” she asked pointedly. “For you to sit next to me? We can’t just—” And then she stopped, as though even saying the words was too shocking for her.
Even though she was alone in a carriage with him heading to a gambling den, a place no decent young lady would know about, much less frequent.
“We can’t just what?” He leaned over and grazed her lips with his. “Kiss like this?” And then he grasped her upper arm and kissed her again, deeper this time.
He heard her make some sort of approving noise, and she curled her fingers in his hair, her tongue darting out to lick his mouth.
She broke the kiss and placed her palm on his chest, her fingers sliding under his jacket in what he thought must be an unconscious caress. “We should not start all this again,” she said, “or we will never reach our destination.”
“I suppose that depends on what destination you want to reach, Eleanor,” he replied. He didn’t press the matter, however, removing his hand from her arm and clasping his fingers together to prevent himself from touching her.
From finding out just what destinations they could reach together. From bringing her to that place where she broke apart, her soft sighs of pleasure the most delicious thing he’d ever heard.
“I brought money so I could gamble,” she said, turning her head to gaze out the window. He noticed her fingers were knotted together too. He wasn’t the only one affected by what they had been doing, or more importantly, were on their way to doing.
Not that he didn’t know that already; he could tell, not just because she’d asked him for more, but also because of how her chest rose and fell more rapidly, her cheeks turning pink, the desperate need of her fingers on him.
Fuck, and now his cock was throbbing inside his trousers and the last thing he wanted to do was—was anything that wasn’t removing all of her clothing and making her scream with pleasure.
What would it sound like if they were in a bed with no one around to hear? If he could bring her to climax with his mouth and then again by thoroughly fucking her?
What was he doing?
Oh, of course. Fantasizing about the last woman in the world he could possibly have. And here his father had always said Alex didn’t aspire to anything.
“Do you know how to play?”
That did not come out the way he wanted.
“Cards, that is,” he said, before he accidentally asked her if she wanted to fuck right in the carriage or something. Or perhaps not so accidentally.
She turned back to him, a forced smile on her face. The polite one she used in company when she couldn’t truly see. “I have played vingt-et-un with my sisters. Ida is a sharp.” Her smile widened, a real one now, and he settled back against the cushions, content to watch her, watch the play of expressions on her face. “She fleeced us when she was only eight years old. She won the twins’ favorite ribbons, and she got a shell I had picked up in Brighton.” She smiled more broadly. “But I was able to win it back, although I have to admit I peeked.”
“How could you see? What with your eyesight?”
She looked startled, as though surprised he would remember. As though he could forget anything about her.
“Well, I used that to my advantage. I was wearing my spectacles, but then I said I had a bit of dust on them, and asked to borrow Ida’s handkerchief. While I was cleaning them, I was able to glance at her cards.” Her smile was mischievous. “I confessed later, of course, but it was wonderful when I won.”
“There will be no cheating this evening,” he said sternly, folding his arms over his chest and giving her an exaggerated look of disapproval.
“Of course not, my lord,” she replied. Then stuck her tongue out at him so quickly he thought he might have imagined it, only to realize he hadn’t when her eyes widened and she clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Oh my goodness,” she said. “I didn’t—that is, I . . .”
He unfolded his arms and touched her arm. “It’s fine. It’s more than fine. I want you to be who you are, Eleanor, even if that means you stick your tongue out at me. I want you to be as honest as you can be.”
At his words, her face grew thoughtful. “I don’t even know who I am myself,” she replied. Her mouth tightened. “I suppose that is what this is truly about,” she said, gesturing between them. “I mean, it is lovely to—” And then she stopped, and he could see the color flooding her cheeks. “To have this bargain, but it isn’t about that.” She paused, and one corner of her mouth lifted. “I just realized that.” She met his gaze. “Thank you. I want to find out who I am.”
As do I, he wanted to reply, but that was too close to the truth. He’d never not just blurted things out before, but he couldn’t now. Not with her, not with this situation as it was.
“I am glad to join you on the journey, Eleanor,” he said instead.
Lady Eleanor’s Good List for Being Bad:
Visit a gambling house place den.
Chapter 18
Eleanor wanted to do everything all at once: throw herself into his arms, kiss him everywhere, drink champagne from a shoe or some other ridiculous drinking vessel, gamble all night, sing loudly without caring what anyone thought.
It felt as though she had drunk champagne, actually; she had a fizzy sort of feeling bubbling up inside her, making it seem as though all the colors were brighter, her skin was more sensitive, her hearing more acute.
“Thank you,” she blurted out, her words sounding sharp and clear in the darkness.
“It is I who should be thanking you,” he replied, that low voice sending a shivery feeling through her body. As though his proximity in the carriage wasn’t doing that already.
“Why?” She tilted her head and regarded him, her eyebrows drawing together. “We will not be doing anything you haven’t done before,” she said, then heard the words and gasped, making him chuckle in response.
“You never know, Eleanor,” he said, his words a dark promise that made her throat grow dry.
“I mean,” she continued in a firmer tone, “that you have gone to this gambling place before.”
“It’s a gambling den,” he corrected. “A gambling place would be far too dull.”
“Fine. Gambling den,” she repeated grouchily. And here she thought she’d left correctional pedantry behind with Ida.
“But I have never gone there with you,” he said in a softer tone. A tone that made all of her definitely want to throw herself into his arms. “I want to see it through your eyes. It can be quite wonderful, these late-night excursions to places people don’t discuss in polite society. Or it can be depressing.” He smiled. “I am guessing it will be wonderful because of you.”
Because of you. The words hung in the air, a challenge and a compliment all at once. She had never been so singled out before, not in society, not even in her family.
Della was the adventurous one, Olivia and Pearl were the twins—one talkative, one not—while Ida was the intelligent one.
Eleanor was just . . . Eleanor. The oldest daughter, the one whose only attribute was that she had been born first.
Nobody had ever thought something would be different, would be special, because of her presence.
Until him.
“I did not bring a mask or anything. What if someone recognizes me?”
He shook his head. “Nobody will recognize you. You don’t look like yourself. You’ll be wearing your spectacles, so you can take it all in, plus you are wearing a colored gown. Anybody who sees you will think you are someone entirely different than Lady Eleanor Howlett, the demure debutante.”
His description sounded so dull. And accurate.
“People see what they want to see,” she mused. “Except when they can’t see at all,” she continued in a rueful tone. “Are you certain you wish to be seen with me in my spectacles?” He’d said she was beautiful, that she was gorgeous, but she had been told far more often than that that a lady wearing spectacles was not an attractive lady.
He slid closer to her and placed his fingers on her jaw, turning her face to his. She would have been able to see him clearly even if she hadn’t been wearing them, he was that close.
“I want you to be able to see clearly.” He paused, and she saw his jaw tighten. “Everything.”
What did that mean? Perhaps more importantly, why did that make her body prickle in awareness?
“Well, then,” she said, pushing her spectacles farther up her nose, “we should go inside so you can overwhelm me.”
And she couldn’t resist giving him a smile that she hoped was as alluring as one of the ancient seductresses she’d read about in her books—strong, fearless females like Helen of Troy or Venus (who had the added benefit of being a goddess). Not Lady Eleanor Howlett, nondescript eldest daughter of the Duke of Marymount.
She heard his sharp intake of breath when he looked at her, and a new sensation, one of feminine satisfaction, coursed through her.
“Shall we?” she asked, gesturing for him to leave the coach. He brushed by her, his fingers trailing over her bare skin as he stepped down onto the pavement.
She shivered, taking his hand to help her down. He drew her to him as her feet touched the ground, his hands at her waist. He leaned down, and down, and down some more, until he could reach her mouth.
She did appreciate how tall he was, but she did wish it wasn’t so difficult to make this kissing thing happen.
And he brushed his lips over hers, his tongue darting out to lick at the corner of her mouth. She sighed, and he withdrew, his expression one of teasing triumph.
“Let’s show you an adventure, Lady Eleanor,” he said, turning so he was at her side, holding his arm out for her to take.
“Let’s,” she echoed, walking with him up the stairs to where a servant in an old-fashioned powdered wig waited, his hand on the door.
If he hadn’t promised her, if he wasn’t so keenly aware that this was temporary, a temporary madness that had overtaken them both, he would have told his coachman to keep driving so he could explore every inch of her. Kneel in front of her as she sat on the carriage seat, her knees wide, her skirts pushed up so he could see her legs. And more. Taking advantage of the additional length of the carriage to place her as he wished he could see her, her breasts undone from that pretty gown, her legs wrapped around his as he thrust inside.
Alex shook his head, knowing that it might be too shocking even for a gambling den if he walked in with an obvious erection.
He had to gain control of himself before—well, damn it, there was no before. There was only this, and they were knee-deep in it together. In their madness, in this desire to discover who they were and how they could be important before things were resolved. Her marriage, his marriage, and the rescuing of their respective families’ fortunes—both literal and figurative.
Think of unexciting things, he thought to himself. Things like all the bills Bennett had to juggle, how horrible his friend Charles looked after a particularly vigorous cricket match, and what it would be like when he had to watch his brother marry this woman, a woman he was fast coming to believe was exceptional, and possibly too good for even his very good brother.
And definitely far too good for him.
“I can’t call you by your name,” he blurted out as the thought struck him. At least he hadn’t lost the ability to completely speak his mind.
“Oh, you can’t. I hadn’t thought of that,” she replied. She turned her face up to look at him, her eyes mischievous behind the glass of her lenses. “Can I choose the name? How about Cordelia, King Lear’s daughter?” She paused, and then her expression brightened further, if such a thing were possible. “Or Zenobia. She was a queen who challenged Roman authority. Ida was telling me about her,” she explained.
“Or Dejanire?” he replied.
Her cheeks began to flush. “Dejanire. You remembered.”
How could he forget?
“And so, of course, you will have to refer to me as Hercules,” he continued, cocking a brow at her.
“But everyone there will know you already!”
“I didn’t say you had to call me that i
n public. Just in private.” He watched as the meaning of his words settled over her, making her rosy cheeks turn that flame-red he used to dislike.
Not anymore. He didn’t dislike anything about her anymore. Except that she was supposed to marry his brother.
“Fine. Hercules.” She tossed him a playful smirk, practically skipping up the stairs, him following behind.
Eleanor had to force herself not to gasp and drop her mouth open like the most naïve young lady—which she was, actually, until a few days ago—when they walked into the gambling house. Den, she corrected to herself.
It was more opulent than anything she’d ever seen, and that included a party where the servants were handing out drinks from gold-plated trays.
The first impression she had was of red, from the dark red flocked wallpaper, to the red velvet upholstery on the chairs, to the red baize covering the tables. The people who appeared to be working there were also all wearing red, with only a few touches of gold accents to relieve the redness. Olivia would likely love it.
The guests were red-faced as well, matching the room, the noise a clamor that indicated that most of the guests had been drinking copious amounts of (likely) red wine.
A thick haze of smoke hung over the tables, while the mixed odors of perfume, tobacco, and sweat mingled in Eleanor’s nose, making it tickle.
It probably wasn’t customary for gambling den habitués to start sneezing, was it?
She felt his hand at her back, steering her to an empty chair. Nobody was looking at her, which was a relief, if also something that happened to her when she was not in a gambling den.
She might have eschewed a white gown for something more colorful, but that didn’t mean she was any more noteworthy. A lowering thought, but also somewhat freeing—if nobody noticed her, she could do what she wanted. To whom she wanted, she thought wickedly, feeling herself blush at her own thoughts.
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