The butler ushered him into a saloon painted pale blue with white trim. Large windows overlooked an expanse of formal gardens. The house was a sprawling Tudor mansion, but this room occupied one of the newer wings. “If you would wait here, I will see if her ladyship is at home.”
Why hadn’t she replied to his letter of a week since? Unable to sit, he wandered the room. A room full of family treasures, Meissen china, paintings, statues. The clutter of generations of Earls and their families. Nothing like Beauworth, where few reminders remained of his parents. Le Clere had put them all away, even the portraits, supposedly out of respect for Garrick’s feelings, but now he wondered if the old man hadn’t tried to make him forget the happy part of his childhood.
He studied the portrait of a woman above the mantel. Eyes grey and clear like Eleanor’s looked back at him from beneath a powdered wig. Eleanor’s mother, no doubt. She seemed to smile down at him.
He swept her a bow. “Lady Castlefield, you have a most beautiful daughter.”
“Garrick.”
He spun around.
She looked lovely, almost ethereal, in her white muslin gown. Tiny curls framed a face that seemed thinner and paler than he remembered. He could see no sign of Lady Moonlight in this very proper young lady, with her hands clasped at her waist in a dignified manner. This was Lady Eleanor.
In two strides he reached her, kissed each cool hand. “Ellie.” He cupped her lovely face in his palms, brushed his mouth across her lips, losing himself in her taste as she parted to his questing tongue.
God, he’d missed her. He dropped his hands to her shoulders, enfolded her in his embrace. She arched into him. Kissing him with avid desperation, clutching at his shoulders. He cupped her buttocks, pulled her against his length, felt the stirring of his blood and sighed. His woman. He pulled back, smiling into her lovely face.
She bit her lip.
“What is it, sweet?” he asked, tipping her chin to look into her eyes.
They were shadowed, wary. His stomach plunged in a sickening rush. “What is wrong?”
She pulled away, paced to the other side of the room before facing him. “Why are you here?”
The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet. “Didn’t you receive my letter?”
Her eyes widened. “Did you write, indeed?” She shook her head. “I suppose William…” She made a small helpless gesture.
Suspicion writhed in his gut. “I wrote to your brother for permission to pay my addresses to you. Didn’t he tell you?”
“William is angry, disappointed in me.” She averted her face. “I am fortunate he didn’t turn me out.”
Turn her out? The heat of terrible rage flowed like lava in his veins. The accursed Le Clere temper gripped him in vice-like claws. His clenched fists shook with the effort to hold them at his sides and not strike out blindly.
He drew in a deep breath, forced his hands to unclench. “Believe me, had I known who you were, I would never have offered you a carte blanche. I’m here to make it right as honour demands.”
“Honour?” She stiffened, drawing back. He felt as if he’d missed something important. He crossed the room to her side, took her hand in both of his, held tight so she could not pull away. He dropped to one knee and gazed into her face. “Lady Eleanor Hadley, please do me the honour of becoming my wife. I will protect and cherish you all the days of my life. I swear, I will never cause you harm. Please, Ellie. Give me a chance.” He was begging and he didn’t care.
Her eyes glittered with moisture. She pulled her hand free. “You don’t understand.”
He rose to his feet, paced away from her, then looked back, where she stood stiff and pale. She had never fully given herself to him and never freely. She’d only come to him because she’d needed money for her brother, but he’d been sure there was more between them than lust.
She swallowed. “What about what you did?” The agony in her voice ripped through his heart. In her eyes, he saw fear.
Pain speared his heart. She knew him better than anyone. Did she sense the evil lurking in his blood? The thought filled him with a grief so deep, he didn’t know how he remained standing. He forced himself to answer. “You said it yourself. Why admit to something I don’t recall?”
“What about what you did to William?” Her voice was a strangled whisper of pain. “Do you deny that, too?”
A knot balled in his gut. He felt as if he’d entered a maze to discover all of the exits blocked and a monster breathing at his heels. “Yes, I deny it. My friends vouched I never left the dorm.”
“Your friends.” Her lip curled. “How very convenient. He bested you in a fight and everyone heard you swear your revenge. What kind of monster beats a boy in his bed? He wanted a cavalry regiment. Because of you he can’t sit on a horse for more than an hour or two.”
She spun away. Left him standing mute, accused, trembling with rage and something deeper. Fear. Fear he was losing her.
She covered her face with her hands. “Back then, he told us it was an accident. After all, men don’t tell tales. If I had known, I never would have come to you. Never.”
“I didn’t do it.”
She raised her gaze, the grey of her eyes fractured, as if something inside her had broken. “Or do you simply not remember?”
The bitterness raked him like a cat-o’-nine tails. He hesitated. Oh God. His friends had said he never left his bed. But if he was honest, he really wasn’t sure. Because he feared it might be true. He shrugged to hide the pain of her words stabbing his heart. “I was asleep.”
“My older brother died for Beauworth’s cause and once again William’s dreams were shattered. He’s angry, Garrick. He swears if I have any more to do with you, I will never see him or Sissy again. I can’t let that happen.”
An iron band seemed to tighten around his chest. “You care more for your sister than you do for me.” A painful truth entered his mind. “You believe I did those things.”
Tears ran silently down her face. “I don’t know any more. I want to believe you. But…how?” She flung her arms wide. “And besides, it doesn’t matter what I believe. I promised Sissy I wouldn’t leave her.”
Her tears ran and he couldn’t think straight. Her family came first. She’d given up everything for the sake of her family. He’d ruined her and all she could think about was her sister. “What about you? About your reputation?”
She stared at him, silent, sad, an island, a lonely rock, the tears drying on her face. “No one else knows about us, unless you tell them,” she whispered.
She was ashamed of her time with him. And how could he blame her for keeping her word to a child? He felt as if someone had pitched him headlong into a bottomless well. He couldn’t see a glimmer of light, or any way to climb out of the depths.
A bitter laugh rose in his throat. All those days in his cell, thinking about her, about her kisses, about the warmth in her eyes for him, were the dreams of a fool. He’d been nothing but a means to save her family. If she cared at all, she’d trust in his innocence.
You don’t trust yourself, a small voice whispered in his head.
The sorrow in her face slid like arrows, wicked and barbed, between his ribs, tearing into his flesh, into his battered soul, releasing a monster of anger, a writhing twisting being with fangs bared and ready to strike.
“If you ever change your mind, Lady Eleanor,” he said softly, his lips drawing back in a caricature of a smile, “you will need to tell me so on your knees. After all, you owe me the rest of my three months.”
Her soft gasp didn’t ease his pain, nor did the glisten of moisture in her eyes. If anything, it made him feel like a wolf wounding a fawn and it was far too easy. None of this was her fault. He swung away, opened the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. God, he was a bastard. “I apologise. I did not mean that. I truly wish you and your family well.”
How he left the room on his feet, he wasn’t sure, because he seemed to be walking through chest-high water, w
et and cold and sluggish. He felt older than England’s green hills as he crossed the hallway.
A child ran down the stairs. She halted at the sight of him. “Oh, it’s Len’s wicked Marquess.” She beamed and started towards him.
“Lady Sissy,” he said harshly, “I bid you good day.”
He stormed out of the door to his carriage and Johnson set the horses in motion. As the carriage drew away, the truth seeped like bitter bile into his mind. She was right not to trust him.
Desolation, cold and empty, filled every corner of his being. She’d left him with nothing. Not even hope.
It was no more than he deserved.
Chapter Nine
London—May 1815
“Such a lovely girl, your sister,” Mrs Bixby said, touching Eleanor’s arm. “And so unaffected.”
Did the old bat mean Sissy enjoyed herself too much? William always said she did. Eleanor forced a smile. “Thank you.” Cecelia certainly sparkled like a ruby among pale pearls. Her deep-rose gown showed her dark hair and eyes to splendid advantage as she laughed up at her partner in a cotillion. Did she stand out too much, as William said? Perhaps she should have worn white after all.
“She’s a handful,” Aunt Marjory said on the other side of Mrs Bixby. “Never know what harum-scarum thing she’ll take next into her head.”
“Really, Aunt Marjory. It is simply high spirits,” Eleanor said. “Nothing more.”
“She’s a credit to you,” Mrs Bixby said.
Unlike herself, had Mrs Bixby known it, Sissy did indeed bring credit to the Hadley name. She was popular with her peers, also making their first Season, and the young gentlemen flocked around her without any sign of loose behaviour.
“Who is she dancing with now?” Aunt Marjory asked. The poor dear just couldn’t keep up.
“Lord Danforth. Unexceptionable family,” Mrs Bixby said. “He’d make a good catch, if he came up to scratch.”
“It is far too early to be thinking of marriage,” Eleanor said. Unless of course Sissy fell in love, which would be wonderful.
“Speaking of coming up to scratch,” Aunt Marjory said, “I haven’t seen Mr Westbridge this evening.”
“He is most likely in the card room,” Eleanor replied. “He knows I will not dance.”
Mr Westbridge, a serious man in his middle years, asked Eleanor to marry him at least once a week. He refused to believe she would never change her mind. Wouldn’t believe she was happy keeping house for William and Sissy.
Idly glancing around the room for another suitable partner for her sister, Eleanor’s heart stumbled. Head and shoulders above the man at his side, hair the colour of chocolate and his olive skin startling among the pale English faces around him, stood Beauworth. After four years she recognised him in an instant. He looked broader, more assured and certainly sterner of eye. Older, of course. All that she saw in a second. Her heart steadied, but her breathing remained irregular. What changes would he see in her, if he knew her at all? She looked away, determined not to notice.
As if compelled by some unseen hand, her head turned to once more bring him into view. Time had taken its toll. Deep lines bracketed a far more sardonic mouth than she remembered. Lean and axe hard, his face offered no quarter as he gazed with dark and cool remoteness at the world. As dark as a Moor, he must have spent years beneath a harsh sun. The legends of his female conquests, his dissipation, his hedonistic lifestyle, whispered of in salacious detail in the salons of the ton, hung over him like a dark cloud. The ladies of the ton loved hearing of his exploits. At first, she’d felt pain, a sharp jealousy. As the years passed, it had reduced to a dull ache she could ignore most of the time. To be jealous of a man she’d sent away seemed impossibly selfish. The females in the room, young and old, eyed him with barely concealed fascination, while some of the men looked strained. He was, after all, a close friend of the Prince Regent and commanded their respect, if not their friendship.
In the brightly lit room, dressed in sombre black, he had the look of a living breathing shadow.
She shivered.
Perhaps she felt chilled by the cold half-smile with which the Marquess listened to his fair-haired male companion. His gaze swept the room apparently without interest, moving swiftly and unerringly towards her corner.
Heart beating wildly, Eleanor lowered her gaze. Even if he did recognise her, he would surely not approach, not after what lay between them. Would he? Was that hope in her heart?
Dimly, she realised the set was ending. She started to rise, to go to her sister. Perhaps if she pleaded a headache, Sissy would leave. If not, perhaps she could leave her in Aunt Marjory’s care.
“Lady Eleanor, a pleasure to meet you again.”
The deep voice with its trace of a French accent thrummed a chord low in her belly, a long-forgotten thrill. Trembling inside, she raised her head and gazed into brown eyes flecked with gold. Cold eyes. The charming smile she remembered curved his lips, his teeth flashing white. Yet he made her think of a predator, a panther, dark and sleek and hungry. He held out his hand.
Her throat dried. Heat rose in her face. Her heart pounded so hard she couldn’t breathe. If she reacted like this to a simple greeting, people would talk. They would make guesses, gossip. She must not make a breath of scandal. She rested her fingertips on his pristine white gloves for no more than a second. “Lord Beauworth.”
She turned in her seat to the ladies beside her. “Aunt Marjory, Mrs Bixby, allow me to introduce the Marquess of Beauworth.”
“A pleasure.” Aunt Marjory gave him a speculative glance, assessing his worth and his lineage.
“My lord,” Mrs Bixby said, her eyes alive with curiosity and surprise.
“Ladies, a pleasure. May I have this dance, Lady Eleanor?” The words were no more than a polite murmur, but the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth issued a challenge.
Stunned to speechlessness, she could only stare. To feel his arms around her again would be wonderful, awful.
She never danced.
Mrs Bixby was nodding as if it was the most natural thing in the world. How would it look if she accepted? If she refused, would people think there was a reason and talk? Mrs Bixby loved to talk.
She inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord.”
He brought her to her feet. Two layers of cotton separated their skin, yet she felt his touch as if their hands were naked. Did he notice the way her fingers trembled in his? Hopefully not.
The orchestra struck up a waltz. Of all things. Had he known? She glanced up at his face, thinking to cry off, but he gave her no chance, sweeping her into the steps of the dance, masterfully, gracefully, powerfully in command. He swung her around the floor in soft glides and elegant twirls. How strong his hand felt beneath hers. He guided her steps with the lightest of pressure, yet his hand was all she could feel. The room disappeared into a swirl of pastel and shimmering candles. She saw nothing but shoulders hugged by a black coat, a froth of white cravat above a pale cream waistcoat embellished with tiny forget-me-nots. The scent of his cologne filled her nostrils. The warmth of his body reached out to caress her skin, though he held her no closer than was proper.
Sissy, who had not yet received permission to waltz, stuck out her tongue as they passed.
“Your sister is as charming as ever,” the Marquess remarked. He sounded almost wistful, which must be her imagination.
“Her first Season,” she said. “Lady Cecelia is a huge success.”
“I can see why. Are you also enjoying the Season?”
She glanced up, seeking assurance that this wasn’t some sort of barb. He looked merely interested. He raised a brow.
“Seeing Sissy so happy, why would I not enjoy it?”
“Why not indeed? You look lovely.”
“Fustian,” she said. “I look exactly what I am. A woman past her first blush of youth and firmly on the shelf.”
“Then perhaps I should rephrase my words. You look lovely to me.”
He
r insides fluttered. An instant flare of arousal, her body crying out for completion. She swallowed her gasp of shock. The pink in her cheeks must have turned carmine, because her face was scalding. “Why are you here? Why are you doing this?”
His hard mouth twitched at the corner, as if he guessed she spoke of her body’s reaction, not his request to dance.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
A twinge of disappointment pierced her heart. Had she expected he would seek her out for herself? If not expected, then hoped, perhaps? Against all reason. “Then ask it and be done.”
A woman gliding by in emerald and gold turned her head to look at them. She must have heard the sharpness in Eleanor’s tone.
Chagrined, Eleanor pinned a smile to her lips. He whirled her around the end of the floor, tucking her against his side, his strong arm at her waist in an almost lover-like embrace, then he turned her under his arm.
“Not here,” he murmured into her ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine.
Breathless, she glanced up. “I beg your pardon.”
“We can’t talk here. Drive with me tomorrow afternoon.”
Not a request, a command. She stiffened. William would be furious if he knew she had danced with him. What would he say to her driving out? And yet she was tempted. Her heart was galloping like an out-of-control colt, all fits and starts and wobbly. “And if I say no?”
The warm light in his gaze fled. “Then I must seek my answer elsewhere.”
An undercurrent of something dark coloured his voice. Not a threat exactly, but then she saw he was looking at Sissy.
The dance drew to a close and he escorted her back to her chair. Mrs Bixby had departed, no doubt eager to regale her cronies with Beauworth’s foray into the realms of respectable women. The news would cause a bit of a stir and some beating of matchmaking breasts, and Eleanor couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit triumphant.
“I’ll call for you at four,” he said.
Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress Page 16