Deverill’s mouth twitched. “Very orderly. You’re determined, then.”
“Yes, I am. So, what do you think, Valentine?”
“What I think would fill volumes,” he said. “I’ll look into finding a suitably wicked adventure for you. I’m not a matchmaker, so you’re on your own with the husband bit.”
Well, she had an offer of assistance from him. She could talk him into more, later. What mattered at the moment was that she had an ally. Impulsively, Eleanor stepped up and threw her arms around him. “Thank you.”
Valentine took her chin in his fingers, tilting her head up. Slowly he leaned down and touched his lips to hers, soft, beckoning, tantalizing. She stopped breathing. Electricity shivered down her spine. Though they didn’t move, she could swear her feet had left the grass. No wonder women practically swooned at his feet. As he straightened, she found that she was leaning along his chest.
“I told you not to thank me yet,” he murmured, setting her back onto her own feet and then turning to continue their walk.
But she already was thanking him. The memory of Stephen Cobb-Harding’s hard, selfish, fumbling mouth attaching to hers abruptly fled. She had something much nicer, and much more troubling, to think about now.
Chapter 8
Claiming a nonexistent appointment with his tailor, Valentine returned Eleanor well before her two o’clock deadline. As soon as he left the Griffin House drive he stopped the team again.
“Wiley, drive them home,” he said, handing over the ribbons and jumping to the ground.
“My lord?” the tiger queried, climbing forward into the driver’s seat.
“I’m going to walk.”
“Yes, my lord.” With a cluck, the servant sent the curricle rolling down the street.
Nothing had gone as he’d intended. For one thing, he’d meant to convince Eleanor to abandon her plan of rebellion, or at least to abandon him as her instructor. But now he appeared to be firmly entrenched in the middle of the Griffin clan battlefield. He’d actually volunteered to help her find something that would satisfy her craving for adventure. Him. Volunteering. And then it had gotten worse.
True, her query about his father had hit him like a fist in the gut; he’d thought he held no more than a vague memory of the old scarecrow, but obviously he’d been wrong. The entire first eighteen years of his life held nothing worth remembering, but once the thoughts stole in…At least today he had something to keep the memory of those mad, blind green eyes at bay.
And that something was even more disturbing. He had kissed Eleanor Griffin. “For God’s sake you’re an idiot, Valentine,” he grumbled to himself, ignoring the questioning looks from passersby. “And a madman. And a fool.”
Soft, virginal lips, the soft sigh of her breath—that would haunt him even more than thoughts of his mad, raging father. Her brothers trusted him. She trusted him. And she had a good heart, and a good nature, which under normal circumstances would have sent him fleeing. Nothing made sense.
And to hear her define the whys and wherefores of her plan to find freedom and a husband who would understand that had been nearly as unsettling. Women were supposed to be prizes and games. Before he’d gone mad, his father had at least taught him that, and had demonstrated it at every opportunity and with commendable regularity. All of the women he’d known during and since that time had only served to prove the old marquis’s point. This female, though, seemed to have goals of her own—goals that didn’t involve climbing into the beds of wealth and power. How very strange. And how strangely arousing.
He’d said he had nothing to teach her. That hadn’t been strictly true, though the sensation of a man’s hands on her bare skin, the feeling of a hard cock moving inside her—those probably hadn’t been among the items on her list. Jesus Christ, he needed a drink.
A horse snorted directly behind him, so close he could feel the animal’s hot breath on the back of his neck. Instinctively he dodged sideways. A carriage wheel rolled past nearly on top of him. It scraped his elbow, shoving him between it and the stone line of fence wall.
He slammed back around, ready to flog whichever idiot cart driver thought it clever to send his vehicle up onto the sidewalk and attempt to run down pedestrians. The carriage, though, didn’t slow down.
Phaeton, he corrected, though there was no crest on the back and the driver was hunched so low between hat and greatcoat that he couldn’t make out much more than an inch of blond hair. That, though, and the pair of bays pulling the vehicle, was enough for him to be fairly certain who’d just nearly killed him.
“Stephen Cobb-Harding,” he breathed, fingering the ripped sleeve of his coat. The heavy material was likely the only thing that had kept him from a broken arm. If he’d been a chit wearing a gown, he might very well have been caught up in the wheel spokes and dragged.
Other pedestrians closed on him with mutters of “Are you injured?” and “By God, that’s Deverill.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered to the crowd in general, otherwise ignoring them.
Well, this was an interesting development. Act of a coward or not, it didn’t make Cobb-Harding any less dangerous. Just the opposite. And not only to him.
His first thought was to return to Griffin House and warn both Eleanor and Melbourne that they should be ready for further trouble from the bastard, but he’d made a promise. And this was precisely why he hated giving his word. It led to all sorts of nasty predicaments. He couldn’t warn Melbourne without betraying Eleanor’s trust. And Eleanor’s previous interest in Cobb-Harding had been both surprising and public enough that if he took it on himself to roust his attacker, her name would come up as well. “Damnation.”
And to top everything off, his lie to Eleanor about needing to see his tailor had just become the truth. After that, he would be calling on a few friends to see what they might know about a man who drugged females and then attempted to rape them, and who now apparently had a new hobby of trying to run down noblemen who objected to his methods of seduction.
“Aunt Tremaine!” Peep squealed, dashing around the butler to slam her slim body into the legs of the sturdy matron standing outside her morning room.
“Decorum, Peep,” her father cautioned, entering the foyer behind Eleanor.
“Nonsense, Sebastian,” Lady Gladys Tremaine scoffed, embracing her grand-niece’s head—the only part of Penelope she could bend enough to reach. “Decorum is for acquaintances. Hugs are for families.”
“I stand corrected,” the duke said, stepping forward to offer his aunt a kiss on one round cheek.
“And you, Nell?” the Countess Tremaine continued, “which are you going to offer? A hug or a kiss?”
“Both.” Eleanor swept in, hugging her aunt over Peep’s head and making the young girl giggle hysterically.
“You’re squishing me!” She made a show of wriggling out of the sandwiched embrace and then scampered into the morning room. “Biscuits with globs of chocolate!” she reported.
“Oh, good God,” Melbourne rumbled, following her.
Eleanor chuckled, her grip still tight around her aunt’s shoulders. In her brothers’ company she felt safe and protected, but only Aunt Tremaine could make her feel so…cozy.
“My goodness, Nell,” Gladys muttered, hugging her back just as firmly. “You’ll worry an old woman, holding on so tightly. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve just had an interesting few days,” Eleanor replied, releasing her aunt reluctantly and stepping back, “and I felt in need of a good embrace.”
“Aunt Nell declared her independence,” Peep announced stickily from the doorway, her mouth already smeared with chocolate.
“Did you, then?”
“She did,” Penelope supplied, tugging on Eleanor’s hand to drag her toward the morning room, “and at first I thought she was going to move to the Colonies, but she’s not.”
“I may yet,” Eleanor muttered, catching the superior look Melbourne sent her as she entered.
“Y
ou must tell me all about it,” Aunt Tremaine said, sending a footman for more chocolate biscuits. “It sounds very exciting.”
Eleanor did want to tell her aunt all about it, but certainly not with Peep and Sebastian sitting three feet away. “It wasn’t that dramatic,” she returned. “I only wanted to have a bit more freedom, and the opportunity to find my own husband before Melbourne picked one out of the barrel for me.”
Peep looked at her father. “You don’t keep husbands in a barrel, do you, Papa?”
“No. They’re in a box. A very large one, with holes knocked into it for air.”
Aunt Tremaine laughed. “Your father is bamming you, Penelope. If potential husbands were in a box, someone would have to feed all of them. And I can’t think of anyone who would want to have to pay for that.”
“Not if they eat as much as Uncle Zachary.”
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Melbourne drawled.
They chatted for the next hour about what Peep was learning from her governess, Mrs. Bevins, which seemed to concern monkeys and Madagascar, and about fashion and who was engaged to whom and who had held the best and worst soirees so far this Season.
“I’ve heard there’s already been at least one fight over a girl this Season,” Aunt Tremaine commented. “Lady Easton told me.”
“And we know how seriously to take anything she says,” Sebastian commented. “Really, Aunt.”
“Whether her tales are true or not, at least they’re interesting. But Lady Easton said that she heard the story from an acquaintance who heard it from someone else, because she would never attend one of Belmont’s naughty soirees herself, so I’m not certain how seriously to take it. It does make for good gossip, though.”
“Who got into a fight?” Peep wanted to know.
Eleanor wanted to sink through the Persian rug and into the floor. If Melbourne ever found out what had happened and that it had occurred at Belmont’s, everything would be over. And she would deserve whatever fate he assigned her.
“No one knows, dear. It was a masked party, so all Lady Easton could say was that a panther reportedly punched a fox in the nose, and then carried a crimson and black swan out and bundled her into a carriage.”
“I think that’s romantic,” Penelope stated.
Closing her eyes for a brief moment, Eleanor sent up a silent thanks that no one had seen her in that dress. Deverill had been right to tell her to destroy it—though after Stephen Cobb-Harding had mauled her in it, she would never have worn it again anyway.
“Whose carriage was it?” Melbourne asked, waggling a finger at Peep when she tried to sneak another biscuit.
“That, I’m afraid, is where the details get absurdly fuzzy. Since Marigold heard it thirdhand, she wasn’t certain whether it was Prinny’s coach, Lord Westfield, or your friend Lord Deverill’s.” She chuckled. “I would tend to believe Westfield, myself, since he’s been known to punch people before.”
Melbourne snorted. “I’d wager it wasn’t Deverill. I’ve never known him to get into fisticuffs over a woman.”
“Valentine?” Peep commented. “He’s very strong. He picked me up in the air with one hand once. Of course I was little, then.”
Aunt Tremaine chuckled at the six-year-old, but Sebastian’s attention was on Eleanor. For a moment she nearly panicked. Until the accusation was made, though, she wasn’t going to confess to anything.
“And that is why you have to show some decorum, even in this little adventure of yours,” he said. “If that had been you in that swan mask, you would no longer be residing in London.”
“It’s hardly fair to make threats based on other people’s actions,” Gladys commented. “And I’m sure Nell knows precisely what’s expected of a young lady of her family and station.”
Yes, she did know, but that didn’t make doing what was expected any easier. “I thought you didn’t even believe the tale, Sebastian.”
“I heard a similar one myself, this morning,” he returned. “Which doesn’t make it true, but does make it more likely.”
“I want to know when I can go to a masked ball.” Peep sat on her father’s lap and looked up at him. “I would be a princess. Or a peacock.”
“You would make a lovely peacock, my love,” he returned, kissing her upturned nose. “But at the moment, I think we need to take our leave before you eat every chocolate biscuit in London.”
“I didn’t eat every one.”
“You tried.” He set her back on her feet and stood. “Kiss your Aunt Tremaine, and let’s be off.” The girl complied, and they walked together out to the foyer. “Eleanor?”
“I’ll be there in just a moment,” she said, grasping her aunt’s hand.
Melbourne and Peep headed out to the coach, but Eleanor pulled Aunt Tremaine back toward the morning room. “May I call on you tomorrow?” she asked.
“Of course, my sweet. Something is wrong. I sensed it.”
“It’s not that it’s wrong, but that it could be,” she returned. “Please don’t tell Melbourne.”
“We young ladies must form a united front. You may tell me anything, Nell. You know that.”
“Thank you, Aunt.” Delivering another kiss to Gladys’s round cheek, Eleanor joined her brother and her niece in the coach.
“What was that about?”
“It was private. But don’t worry, we weren’t discussing you.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” He straightened one of the curls on his daughter’s head. “Are you attending the Feryon soiree this evening?”
“I think so.”
“And who will be escorting you?”
“Sebastian, this is not part of our agree—”
“I’m not preventing you from doing anything,” he countered. “I’m merely asking a question.”
True enough. And it was still close enough to her near-rape by Stephen that she was grateful for the question. “I thought I might join you, if you haven’t made other plans.”
“I never make plans that exclude my family.”
Eleanor frowned a little. “That’s because you’re perfectly happy with your life as it is. You can make grand statements about your benevolence because you have everything you want, just where you want it.”
Gray eyes looked calmly back at her for a long time, giving her a glimpse into their depths of what for a moment looked like pain. “That is a very short-sighted statement, Eleanor. And not at all like you.”
Penelope reached across the seat and took her hand. “Aunt Nell is fighting for her independence,” she said wisely. “I think it’s difficult for her.”
Eleanor sighed. “Thank you, Peep.” Gazing back at her oldest brother, she gave a small smile. He didn’t have everything, though at one time he had. If Peep hadn’t been there three years ago when Charlotte had died and he’d become a widower, she wasn’t entirely certain what Sebastian would have done. What he had done was round his bachelor brothers back up and give them free rent in the old ancestral manor just to keep all of his family close by him and safe. No, Melbourne had a great deal, but he didn’t have everything. Not any longer. “I apologize, Sebastian,” she said quietly. “But you could make this a little easier for me.”
“I know I could. But I have no intention of doing so.”
Rather than arguing back and forth about who was making life difficult for whom, Eleanor elected to retreat to her bedchamber with a book. Once she was inside her room, though, she stopped by the window. She couldn’t exactly imagine Valentine retreating to his private rooms with a book when the late afternoon crowds of Bond Street and Hyde Park beckoned.
She supposed she could have a groom drive her to either location, or to the London Zoo or the British Museum—though those didn’t sound particularly exotic today, either. What did one do when one wanted to be wild and wicked?
One could always kiss the Marquis of Deverill again. Eleanor ran a finger along her lips. She’d dreamed about being kissed by him for six years, since she’d bee
n fifteen. Then she’d been a child, and as she’d grown older there of course had been the rules. Friends of her brothers were allowed to chat with her and dance with her when the occasion called for it, but they were never to look at her as a woman, and they were never, ever, to kiss her.
Deverill obviously knew the rules, and yet he’d kissed her anyway. And oh, my goodness, what a kiss. She’d been kissed before, in those rare moments when some rake or beau or other had managed to maneuver her away from her brothers for a second or two, but no one had ever made her toes curl before. Of course, she’d never been as…infatuated with anyone as she was with Valentine Corbett.
Eleanor shook herself. Her agreement wasn’t about Deverill; it was about her. Her choices, her wishes—and yet a great deal of her time seemed to be spent thinking either about the marquis or what he would do in a given situation.
“Oh, stop it,” she muttered, and plunked herself down at her small writing desk. What she needed to do was make a list of what she wished to accomplish and a list of potential husbands. That would do it. Then she could focus on her goals, and dismiss those things—and those people—standing between her and her adventure. Perhaps she could even match the adventure with the man, and in choosing her most-desired activity, find her best matrimonial prospect.
She pulled out a piece of paper and dipped her pen into the ink. “Number one,” she stated, writing the number neatly at one edge of the page. “Acquire a more daring wardrobe which better reflects how I feel,” she wrote.
That was a splendid start, she decided. She could even check that one off, since she now had nearly a dozen gowns from Madame Costanza, even without the infamous red one.
“Number two,” she continued. “Speak with any man or woman I choose, and not just those preapproved by my family.”
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