by Liana Lefey
“Incidentally, Miss Rutherford brings more wealth than Lady Eugenia,” she continued in a hushed voice. “I overheard her mother say she’ll bring sixty-three thousand to a marriage. Although a duke’s daughter, Lady Eugenia will bring only twenty-five.” She patted his arm absently. “Of course I know money means nothing to you, but you should still be aware. Given her vast wealth, you’ll probably find it more difficult to gain Miss Rutherford’s favor, if only because she’s already gathered so many admirers. Even so, should she be your choice, I have every confidence in your ability to win her.”
Wonderful. “I think you have a good deal more faith in me than perhaps you ought,” he said, trying to sound amused as opposed to miserable.
“Nonsense,” was her brisk reply. “Being an earl, you’re quite the catch yourself. You’ll have no trouble at all finding a bride. Now, I’m given to understand that Miss Rutherford enjoys outdoor sport more than most ladies—riding, archery, hunting, and such. She’s well-educated, of course, but not the bookish sort. Lady Eugenia, I’m told, is more content with reading or needlework. She also enjoys music and is highly appreciative of chocolate in all forms, an excellent bit of information for any gentleman coming to call.”
Unable to bear hearing any more talk of Miss Rutherford and Lady Eugenia, he stopped and turned to her. “Would you honor me with the next dance?”
She blinked in surprise and after a brief hesitation, nodded. He propelled her to the dance floor past several gentlemen who looked on with appreciative and eager eyes. When Sorin at last stopped in line to face her across the aisle for the danse écossaise, he suddenly understood why she’d attracted so much attention.
What stood before him was a completely dazzling woman, a perfect rose in full, glorious bloom. He’d been so unsettled by their conversation and so intent upon observing her face for even the smallest clue as to her true state of mind concerning him that he’d been all but blind to anything else.
He was certainly not so now. Dumbstruck, he could only stare at the slender curves revealed by the fall of her skirts as she moved. Creamy skin glowed in the candlelight, its velvet richness offset by the fiery glimmer of diamonds. Diamonds he’d helped select. His fingers itched with the memory of how soft the flesh of her nape had been as he’d helped her first try them on.
Desire threatened to drown him as he bowed in response to her curtsy, and then the dance commenced. Weaving through the line, they promenaded. Then began the series of turns that brought them together time and again. Her warm fingertips briefly brushed his palm, each touch fanning the embers within him until they blazed white-hot.
Their eyes locked, and everything else was cast into insignificance. All thoughts save those of want evaporated as wild imaginings rose in his mind. Visions of pulling her into his arms and kissing her right there on the ballroom floor, of sweeping her up and carrying her off to some secluded place and making slow, passionate love to her flashed through his head.
Then the dance was over. She again dipped before him, her breathing rapid and her color high, no doubt from exertion. It couldn’t be anything more, not with her trying to marry him off to Miss Weatherford or Lady whatever-her-name-was. Before he could say anything, another man stepped up between them and claimed the next dance. The next instant, she was gone without a backward glance.
A sense of loss engulfed him as he watched her trip the reel with her partner. Light as eiderdown, she was, and her smile shone like a thousand suns. But that smile was not for him. Jealousy raged in his blood until the heat of it was almost unbearable. In that moment, he knew there was no escape from the desire that bound him to her. It was an invisible, inexorable force, like gravity. How could she not feel it, too?
She passed by, and their glances caught and held for a moment. Heat rose in his face as her brows drew together in a look of consternation just before she was whirled away. Bollocks. He needed to regain his composure before he made an idiot of himself in front of the whole bloody assembly. He turned—and found himself face-to-face with Yarborough.
“You think I don’t know what you’re playing at?” the man accused him bitterly.
“I beg your pardon?”
The younger man’s eyes burned with malice. “You pretend to be a friend to me and to her. But I see the truth of it. You want her for yourself.”
Sorin froze. “Of whom are we speaking, exactly?”
“Eleanor, of course!” said Yarborough, spitting her given name like a curse. “You needn’t act the fool with me. I’ve seen you, the way you look at her, the way you hover over her and drive off her other prospects. Well, I can tell you that she wants none of you.”
Blood pounded at Sorin’s temples, yet he held himself in check. “You presume too much,” he said with far more calm than he felt. “If I’m protective of Eleanor, it is because I know what kind of men hunt her.” He stared pointedly at the other man.
Yarborough puffed up like a rotten carcass. “Protective!” He sneered. “Is that what you call it?”
“I’ve known her since before you showed your ugly face in Wincanton,” Sorin growled, stepping close enough to prevent anyone overhearing. “I have no shame in admitting she is dear to me. And as long as I draw breath, I will protect her from greedy little bastards like you. If you have any wisdom at all, you’ll leave off and seek your fortune elsewhere.”
“If you cannot have her, no one can—is that it?” said Yarborough, sarcasm dripping from each and every word. “I should think the lady has a right to choose her own husband.”
Ice filled Sorin’s veins, eradicating the heat of before in an instant. “Indeed she does—but she won’t choose you. That I can promise.”
Yarborough looked at him with open contempt. “You are neither her father nor her brother to speak for her. You are nothing to her. I will woo Eleanor, and I will win her—whether you approve or not.”
The time for gentle manners was long past. Time to take off the gloves. “You’ve already tried and failed,” Sorin told him bluntly. “The lady has ignored your invitations, eschewed your company, and given you no encouragement whatsoever. Why do you continue to lay siege to a woman who is so plainly uninterested in you?”
“She would not be so difficult if you did not influence her!” snapped the other man, his face reddening.
His words were a balm to Sorin’s soul. He crossed his arms and regarded the pompous little whelp with amusement. “First you say I am ‘nothing’ to the lady, and then in the next breath you cite my influence as a stumbling block. Which am I?” He chuckled, further enraging his would-be rival. “Don’t let temper overrule good sense, my lad. If you think I cannot put an end to your unwanted pursuit, you are wrong. One way or another, you will leave her be.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t make me call you out.”
Yarborough paled, yet still he had the stones to scoff at the threat. “Don’t be ridiculous. People don’t duel anymore. It’s against the law. Yet another sign that you’re a relic, an old man dreaming of something he can never have.”
Sorin skewered him with a hard stare and spoke quietly. “I wonder, were we to face each other on the field of honor, how quickly your bravado would crumble?”
“Are you challenging me?” said the other man, his voice trembling.
Sorin let a slow smile take over his mouth. How he would like to do just that! But it would cause a terrible scandal, and Eleanor would bear the consequences of it. “Consider this the warning shot across your bow,” he said lightly. Stepping an inch closer, he breathed, “You’ve already committed offenses against one whom I love. If you continue on your present course, know that I will indeed challenge you. Know also that should it come to that end, I won’t hesitate to kill you.”
All color fled Yarborough’s face.
“This is the only warning you will receive,” Sorin continued. “Think carefully before committing yourself to any act you might come to regret.” Not waiting for a response, he gave Yarborough his back and strode away.
Perhaps it had been unwise to show his cards, but he had no regrets. He’d be happy to lay down his life for Eleanor’s sake, but doubted Yarborough felt likewise. If the man’s greed was such that it drove him to act rashly, however, then so be it. Sorin, being a perfect shot and equally as deadly with a blade, didn’t fear a confrontation.
Ascending to the gallery, he leaned against the balustrade to observe the ballroom from a better vantage point. He wanted to have an eye on Ellie, not because he was worried that Yarborough might tell her about their little tête-à-tête—only a total fool would tell a woman he wanted for himself that another man was willing to die for her—but because Yarborough wasn’t the only man out to bag an heiress.
Unfortunately, she was nowhere to be seen. Where the devil had she got to? He peered out at the swirling mass, searching for her rose gown.
A hand touched his sleeve, causing him to start. Turning, he came face-to-face with the very one he sought.
“Come with me, quickly,” she urged, drawing him away.
The look on her face told him there was trouble. “What has happened?”
“It is Caroline,” she answered, her features pinched with concern. “She has just had an argument with…” Her eyes surveyed the closeness of the crowd, and she lowered her voice. “A certain gentleman of our acquaintance. Come. This way.”
She led him through the crush and then ducked down a relatively quiet hall. Stopping in front of a closed door near the far end, she knocked twice, paused, and knocked again. The door opened a crack, and a red-rimmed eye the color of cornflower peered through the aperture briefly before the door swung wide to admit them.
“I’ve brought Lord Wincanton,” murmured Eleanor as she entered. “He will take us home.”
“Thank you,” said the girl thickly, her face blotchy and streaked with tears.
“What of Charles and Rowena?” Sorin asked. “Why are they not here?”
A guilty look crossed Eleanor’s features. “I went to them first and told them Caroline was unwell and that you’d already agreed to escort us home. I know it was wrong of me,” she rushed as his frown deepened, “but I did not wish to upset Rowena.”
He stared at her reddening cheeks, incredulous. “You lied to them?”
“Sorin, please. You misunderstand my intent.” She came to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Rowena is with child again—but you must not tell Charles! She wants to wait awhile before informing him. I did not tell them about this because I did not want to increase her worry. She’s been so ill of late and the added stress…”
“I understand,” he said at once, joy for his friends’ good fortune warring with a sudden pang of envy. “Wait here,” he commanded, going to the door.
Finding a servant in the hallway, he paid the man half a crown to discreetly see to arranging transport. Briefly, he pondered the wisdom of seeking out Marston for a quick word, but quashed the notion. There was enough on his plate at the moment, and that would likely add another entire meal. He’d learn what happened soon enough anyway.
The servant returned and informed him that his carriage would be brought around to the back of the manor to avoid the congestion. Dropping another coin into his palm, Sorin told him to wait. Returning to the ladies, he brought them out and had the servant lead them through the halls, by request avoiding the ballroom.
The last thing he needed was for Yarborough to see him bundling Eleanor and her friend off into his carriage.
Only after they’d successfully boarded the conveyance did he finally relax. The atmosphere in the carriage was, at best, oppressive. Caroline stared, empty-eyed, at the floor, while Eleanor fussed over her and offered what comfort she could. He met her eyes several times, unable to help himself. But each time, she merely shook her head a little in warning and mouthed “later.”
The storm broke half a mile later when Caroline suddenly burst into hysterical sobs. “Oh, Eleanor!” she wailed. “I don’t want to love him, but I cannot help it! I’ve tried and tried, but no matter how I tell myself that I hate him, my heart gives me such pain when I see him!” Turning, she laid her head on Eleanor’s shoulder and wept such as only one with an utterly broken heart can.
“I know. I know, dear,” murmured Eleanor, stroking her friend’s hair.
He could do naught but feel both helpless and awkward when she met his gaze over her friend’s shoulder.
“The things I s—said to him,” the redhead continued, horror evident in her shaky whisper. “Such terrible things! And all he did was tell me that he still cared for me. But I was just so angry with him still!” Her ire quickly faded again into hopelessness. “I was hateful toward him when I ought to have been forgiving. We have both made egregious errors, but had I been a better person and able to overcome my temper we might be mending things even now instead of…this. And my heart might have what it truly wants.”
He watched as Eleanor held her tight, heedless of the water threat posed to her gown. “Love, it seems, never offers us an easy path,” she offered her friend softly.
Sorin stared at them, his own heart leaden. Would it not be better to just tell her the truth, have done, and see what happened? Part of him wanted to do so desperately, to be free of the terrible burden of secrecy. But fear still barred that path with sharp brambles. If she rejected him after such a confession, he would never recover from it. Their friendship would be over, and she would never again look upon him with trust or affection.
“I want to leave,” wept Caroline.
“We are leaving,” said Eleanor.
“No, I mean leave London. I can never face him again—I want to go home and I never want to speak of him again!”
For Sorin, her words were the validation of his greatest fear concerning Eleanor. He’d keep his mouth shut. At least for now. He started as Caroline unexpectedly addressed him.
“Lord Wincanton, you have graciously provided both your carriage and escort after bearing witness to my shame, and you’ve offered neither censure nor derision. I’m humbled by your generosity.” She dragged her watery gaze up to meet his. “My behavior toward you has been inexcusable, and I know that it has brought you great discomfort. I humbly ask your forgiveness and hope that in time we may become true friends.”
The misery in her eyes tugged at his heart. “I already consider us friends, Miss Caroline. And I will do everything I can to help you if you’ll permit me. I’m very good friends with Lord Marston.”
A faint smile shook the corners of her mouth for a split second. “Thank you for your kindness, but I’m afraid there is nothing that can be done now. I’ve just set fire to the last stick of bridge between us, you see. He will never forgive me for the things I said to him tonight.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as that,” soothed Eleanor.
“Allow me to at least try, Miss Caroline,” he insisted, something inside him desperate to see someone achieve the happiness that seemed destined to elude him. The look Eleanor cast him was one of hopeful adoration. That she should have such trust and confidence in him was almost unbearable when he couldn’t even admit to her the truth of his own heart.
Caroline shook her head sadly, more tears streaming from her eyes. “I doubt whether anyone can mend what I have broken. For either of us.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Yet another invitation from Yarborough.” Eleanor cast the page into the grate, her irritation mounting as its edges flared orange and began to shrivel amongst the coals. It was better to focus on her anger toward Yarborough than on how awful she felt every time she was reminded of Sorin. “Why can he not simply leave me alone? I’ve been polite, but no more than what good manners demand. I’ve certainly given him no encouragement to hound me so.”
“Well, he seems oblivious to your dislike,” said Caroline, looking up from her embroidery. “You’ll have to make your position clear.”
“If I made it any plainer, I’d be walking out with a sign hung ’round my neck.” With Caro
line, at least, she could vent her frustration openly. “The man is a menace! People are actually beginning to show him sympathy. Him! Thanks to his deceitful devil-woman of a mother, all of London ‘knows’ we were childhood friends and simply cannot understand why I slight him so. According to increasingly popular opinion, which everyone feels quite free to share with me at every opportunity, I ought to be delighted at the prospect of a suitor with whom I am so familiar. I’ll be a pariah by the end of the Season.” She plonked herself down on a chair and scowled.
“And yet thus far your only response to such comments has been, ‘We are not well suited.’ Eleanor, you cannot continue trying to deal with this passively. Being polite about it and then changing the subject won’t work anymore. People want to know why you choose to ignore him.”
“Of course they do,” Eleanor snapped. “As if they have a right to ask such intimate questions of me.” Yes, she’d heard the murmurs and whispers concerning her of late. And the more she heard, the more annoyed she became. The more annoyed she became, the less tolerant she grew to curious inquiry. “The next time someone asks me inappropriate questions regarding the matter, I’ll answer them with my back,” she vowed.
“And alienate those who might be counted among your allies, should it come to an open dispute like the one in which I currently find myself,” warned her friend.
“I don’t care what other people think!” Eleanor huffed. Which wasn’t entirely true, but those whose opinions counted already understood her plight. “It might be wrongheaded of me, but it seems far better to remain silent than to constantly dole out excuses in a vain attempt to placate those who should have more respect for another’s privacy.”
But Caroline shook her head. “They will never stop speculating. You really only have two options from which to choose. You must tell your inquisitors the truth—which we both know would lead straight to scandal—or confront him in private and give him the chance to walk away with his pride intact.”