That foresight had stood her in good stead. If this life was not the one imagined for her, it was a far better one than what she would have had. Without those skills, she would have been passed from relative to relative; her husband’s legacy, his mines and her daughter Sophie’s inheritance would have been taken out of her hands and put into the care of an apathetic male relative. She’d seen it happen to women around her, women like her mother, who lost everything when their husbands died, even the very control of their own lives. When Huntingdon had died, she’d reaffirmed her vow that would not happen to her. She would secure her freedom at all costs and her daughter’s, too. Now that she had, she would see to it that others had the opportunity to develop the same skills.
Lynford finished speaking and gestured that she should come forward. She rose and smoothed her skirts, her head high. She wouldn’t let anyone see how this unnerved her. Lynford was right. She didn’t know how to fail. She knew how to fight. That gave them something in common. He no more wanted to see her fail in this speech than she’d wanted him to fail in having the school ready. It occurred to her, as she stood before the guests, that she and Lynford were compatriots whether they wanted to be or not. Philanthropy, like politics, made for strange bedfellows indeed.
* * *
She was magnificent. Eaton listened to Eliza Blaxland address the guests, her cultured tones confident and strong. He watched her, looking for little tells that hinted at her nerves and finding none. Still, he stood on guard, feeling protective, as if he had the right to defend her, to intervene if she faltered. But she didn’t falter. He suspected she didn’t know how. It was not in her nature. Eliza Blaxland was all cool competence in her dark blue silk and pearls, her shiny chestnut hair dressed simply, elegantly, in a braid that coiled at the nape of her neck. If he hadn’t seen the initial flicker of uncertainty in her eyes when he’d asked her, he never would have known she didn’t welcome such opportunities.
What else didn’t he know about her? What he thought he knew of her up until two days ago had been entirely wrong. An old rich woman, she was not. He found the prospect of righting those misnomers intriguing. He’d known widows before—women with a sharp worldliness to them—but they’d not got under his skin so quickly. Or ever. Who was Eliza Blaxland? Was she truly all cool smiles and sharp eyes, or did something hotter burn beneath that smooth, uncrackable façade, waiting for a reason to come out?
She was introducing Cade now, taking the opportunity to cede the room’s attention to the school’s headmaster and his musicians. When the applause began, she attempted to slip away to the gardens. If Eaton hadn’t been watching, he would have missed her. Seeing her go only made him impatient to follow her out. But it would be bad form to leave before Cade got the little concert underway. Was she counting on that? Was she hoping to slip away before he could find her? Did she think to hide from him, or was this an invitation to join her? Perhaps she wanted him to follow?
Eaton took the first chance he had to drift towards the French doors and then fade unnoticed into the gardens, aware he might be too late. An initial sweep of the garden suggested he was right, but a second survey revealed her, sitting on a stone bench, face tilted to the night sky in lovely profile. ‘Are you avoiding me or waiting for me?’ Eaton approached from behind, his voice low. ‘I thought for a moment you might have played Cinderella and slipped away before I could follow. What are you doing out here?’ It was a bold question, one that demanded a direct answer in return. But why not be bold? She was not afraid of him. Even now, alone in the garden, her widowhood protected her reputation and granted her the freedom to respond as she liked.
With that freedom, she might take a lover. Had she? Would she? Did she have a lover now? A man who knew the truth behind her façade, who was allowed the luxury of seeing her without her cool armour. Eaton found the prospect disappointing. He didn’t want Mrs Blaxland to belong to someone else. He didn’t want someone else to know what he did not. There was that sense of exigence again, the same urgency he’d felt in the drawing room while watching her slip away. Wanting to know her, to obtain information about her had escalated from merely acquiring facts to something bordering on obsession. He wanted to acquire her. She would be a delicious distraction from the darkness that had dogged his steps since Penlerick’s funeral. Perhaps she would be someone who could bring him back to life, someone who could hold his grief at bay.
It would not be the first time he’d taken a lover for such a purpose. His own lovers were women of the world who enjoyed time with him until it suited them both to move on to new experiences, new adventures. But it was the first time he’d wanted to do so with such covetousness. It was not the usual reaction he generally had towards his lovers. The intensity of that emotion must have showed in his gaze for in the next moment, Eliza Blaxland suddenly rose and made excuses to leave with far less fluency than she’d delivered her speech. ‘I ought to go, it’s getting late.’
Was she looking for an invitation to stay? It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a decision. He hadn’t believed she’d be a runner, but she showed every sign of wanting to do just that. How interesting. If she wasn’t running from him, that only left the option of running from herself. Was she running from her reaction to the attraction that simmered between them? Did this flame that sparked between them unnerve her? How intriguing that the unflappable Mrs Blaxland could be unnerved by the nascent overtures of a flirtation when barging in on a man unannounced hadn’t flustered her at all. But she’d been in control then. She’d been the one to do the barging.
‘Leave? Surely you don’t mean to return to Truro tonight?’ The protectiveness he’d felt in the grand salon surged again. He didn’t like the thought of her out on the dark Cornish roads. It was three hours on the road in daylight between Truro and Porth Karrek. A man could do the trip in a day on horseback, but it was a long day and a lonely one. Cornwall was full of wide, empty spaces, especially when one’s wheel or axle gave out. She’d be miles from any help if there was need.
‘I have rooms at the inn by the harbour. I need to visit one of my mines early tomorrow and then return to Truro. I’ve been gone from home for three days already and I am eager to return. Thank you for the evening.’ Such eagerness prompted the question of who or what was waiting for her? A lover? Was she already otherwise engaged? Was that the reason she was so fluttery now? Covetousness flared alongside his protectiveness.
‘Perhaps I shall see you in Truro. I often have business there.’ Eaton thought he might find a little more business in Truro. Cassian was in Truro, working on plans for his amusement gardens. Perhaps a visit was in order once the term started here and Cade no longer needed him. ‘Or should I be expecting any more surprise inspections?’
Her fan tapped his sleeve. ‘They wouldn’t be surprises if you expected them, my lord.’
‘Call me Eaton, please. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.’ He made the bold offer spontaneously, his earlier urgency surging to the fore once more. He did not want to be ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Lynford’ with her; he wanted to be something more intimate, more personal, something that would separate him from any other who attempted to claim her attentions. It was the fanciful wish of a schoolboy with a crush. He reached for her hand, bending over it. ‘You were a delightful hostess tonight, surely you’ve earned the right to address me more informally.’ He could count on one hand the people who had that right: Cassian, Inigo, Vennor, their fathers, of course. He didn’t need both hands for that count now. He pushed back the grief that managed to edge its way to the surface at the oddest times and in the oddest ways.
‘I was pleased to be of service. I hope the term begins splendidly. I’ll be looking forward to Mr Kitto’s reports on the students’ progress. If weather permits, I might make the journey for the Christmas concert.’
He doubted her on both accounts. ‘Don’t lie to me, Mrs Blaxland. You did not want to give that speech tonigh
t and the weather in December is too questionable.’
‘I was being polite.’ She withdrew her hand in a deliberate gesture.
‘I prefer you be honest.’ Eaton felt disappointed at the prospect of her leaving. How could he unravel her mysteries if she was three hours away? Already he was devising reasons why he might call her back. He might need her counsel on the school, for instance; they might want to discuss her own schools in person rather than through correspondence and, when that was done, he might take her truffle hunting in the Trevaylor Woods. Eaton leaned close, breathing in the peach-and-vanilla summer scent of her, his mouth near her ear as if imparting a secret. ‘And in the spirit of being honest, Eliza, I find you to be a complete revelation.’
‘I assure you, I am quite ordinary.’ But the words pleased her. He heard her breath catch despite her cool response and she hadn’t corrected him on the use of her first name, proof that this encounter, this response, was not ordinary for her, that he was not ordinary to her.
‘Then we must agree to disagree since I find nothing plain about you.’ Eaton let his gaze hold her eyes, let her see the interest she raised in him. They were both experienced adults. They needn’t play coy games. He would be honest, too. He did not want the conversation to end. ‘I’ve been wrong about you from the start. I thought you’d be older.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘It seems we have that mistake in common.’
‘My husband was considerably older than I. It is a common assumption.’
‘If you’d not come to the open house, I might never have known.’
‘What difference did my age make when we corresponded about the school? What difference did my age make to my donations? My age is of no import.’
‘Huntingdon Blaxland was sixty-five when he died.’ Eaton remembered his father noting it one morning over breakfast and newspapers. His father had commented that Blaxland’s death would leave a gap in the mining industry, a power vacuum. Eaton had assumed his widow was of a commensurate age. Never had he imagined Blaxland’s widow was in her thirties.
‘Yes, and he was fifty-five when we married. I was his second wife, of course, his first having died a few years before.’ Perhaps that was why he’d thought Mrs Blaxland would be older. He’d not realised the first wife had passed; he would have been a child, after all. It was hardly the sort of news an adolescent paid attention to, even if he hadn’t been recovering from the throes of his own illness. But now, it was like finding a pearl in an oyster and Eaton filed the precious knowledge away along with the champagne. It was the most personal piece of information she’d offered. His collection of facts was growing: she was a widow, a second wife; she was confident, strong, stubborn and direct; she was young, attractive; she liked to be in control.
She was asserting that desire now, perhaps sensing the conversation was fast slipping beyond her ability to command it. ‘I fail to see what consequence any of this holds. It doesn’t matter.’ But it did. She wasn’t as sure of herself as she wanted him to believe. Did she think he didn’t see the flutter of her pulse in the lantern-lit darkness, or the way her eyes met his and then slid away? She wanted to know, as much as he did, what it would be like if they acted on the spark that jumped between them when they argued, when they challenged one another, when they were merely in the same room together. He’d been aware of her tonight long before he’d gone to her. He’d been aware, too, that she’d been looking for him the moment she’d arrived.
What could it hurt to find out? She lived miles away and was hardly in the habit of haring down to Porth Karrek.
‘It does matter.’ He slipped his hand behind her neck, drawing her close, letting his gaze linger, letting the proximity of his body signal his intentions as he murmured, ‘I am not in the habit of kissing grandmothers.’
‘And I am not in the habit of—’
Eaton didn’t let her finish. He captured her lips, sealing her rejoinder with his mouth. They could discuss her habits—or lack of them—later.
Chapter Four
Apparently, she was not in the habit of completing her sentences. She certainly wouldn’t be capable of doing so now. All her mind could focus on was that he was kissing her. The realisation rocketed through Eliza, a bolt of white-hot awareness. There wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t aware of him—the sweet, sharp autumn scent of him in her nostrils, the feel of his touch on the bare skin at her neck, the press of his mouth against hers—all combining to stir her to life, perhaps for the first time.
His tongue teased hers; a slow, languorous flirt confident of its reception. His hand adjusted its position at her neck, tilting her mouth, deepening his access to her until she gave a little moan. She had never been kissed like this, as if the kiss was a seduction within itself, as if every nuance of mouth and tongue and lips communicated a private message of desire designed just for her. She felt herself wanting to give over; there was no question of resistance, no desire for it. She wanted this kiss, wanted to fall into it, wanted to see where it led. Perhaps it led to other wicked desires, other wicked feelings. But only if she let it—and she wouldn’t, she promised herself.
All the reasons why began to reassert themselves, slowly coming back to the fore of her defences after the initial onslaught of this new pleasure. She shouldn’t be kissing a stranger, a man she’d only met once. She shouldn’t be kissing a man with whom she meant to do business. She was a mother; she had to think of her reputation for her daughter’s sake. She was a business owner; she also had to think of her reputation for the sake of the mines. Kisses were for women who could afford them.
The last thought brought her up short. She pushed against the hard wall of his chest. Did he think she could afford to give away kisses? That she’d come out to the garden on purpose to signal her intention—that she was willing to acknowledge and act on the flicker of attraction? Had he taken what she’d intended as an escape as an invitation instead?
The white-hot burn of pleasure turned to heated mortification. ‘My lord...’ She should have been more astute. Widows often had a reputation for discreet licentiousness. The widows the Marquess of Lynford knew most certainly did. But she could not be one of them. It was for that very reason she’d been so careful of her own reputation for five long years. ‘I fear I have given you a most inaccurate impression of myself. I apologise, sincerely. I must go. Immediately.’ Eliza tried to step around him, but all the height and breadth she’d appreciated about him earlier worked to her disadvantage. He was not a man easily evaded. She should have left when she had the chance. She should not have lingered in the garden, tempting fate. She’d come out thinking to put some distance between herself and those dark eyes. But the garden hadn’t been far enough.
He moved, subtly positioning his body to block her departure, a hand at her arm in gentle restraint, his voice soft in the darkness. ‘When will I see you again?’ It was ‘will’ with him, not ‘may’. Lynford wasn’t the sort of man to beg for a woman’s attention. He went forward confidently, assuming the attention would be given. Will. The potency of that one word sent a frisson of warm heat down her spine. His dark gaze held hers, intent on an answer—her answer. Despite his confident assumptions, he was allowing that decision to be all hers.
‘I don’t think that would be wise. Business and pleasure should not mix.’ She could not relent on this or she would come to regret it. An affair could ruin her and everything she’d worked for. The shareholders in the mines would no doubt love to discover a sin to hold against her.
‘Not wise for whom, Mrs Blaxland?’ The back of his hand traced a gentle path along the curve of her jaw. ‘You are merely a patron of the school I sponsor. I don’t see any apparent conflict of interest.’
‘Not wise for either of us.’ If she stood here and argued with him, she would lose. Sometimes the best way to win an argument was simply to leave. Eliza exercised that option now in her firmest tones, the ones she reserved for announcing dec
isions in the boardroom. ‘Goodnight, Lord Lynford.’ She was counting on him being gentleman enough to recognise a refusal and let her go this time, now that any ambiguity between them had been resolved.
Eliza made it to the carriage without any interference. She shut the door behind her and waited for a sense of relief to take her. She’d guessed correctly. Lynford hadn’t followed her and it was for the best. He was probably standing in the garden, realising it at this very minute, now that the heat of the moment had passed. The kiss had been an enjoyable adventure. It had added a certain spice to the evening, but it was not to be repeated. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know the depth of her responsibilities, or that she had a child—Sophie—the true love of her life.
If he did, he’d most certainly run. A man like Lynford, a man in his prime with wealth and a title to recommend him, was expected to wed a young woman capable of giving him his own heirs. She knew precisely the sort of bride who was worthy of a ducal heir: a sweet, young girl, who had no other interests than stocking her husband’s nursery. Lynford would want, would need, a family of his own. All dukes did. The Marquess would never seriously consider a woman with another man’s daughter clinging to her skirts and who spent her days running a mining empire, any more than she would consider him as a husband.
She would never marry again. She had no inclination to give up her hard-won control over her future and her daughter’s. The risk was too great, even if the cost was also great. Sophie must come first, ahead of her own personal wishes for a family. Eliza had come to such a realisation early in her widowhood and it had been both a relief and a disappointment.
The Secrets of Lord Lynford Page 4