Dante returned from New York to discover that all of Boston was buzzing about the news that not only had Eleanor’s reputation been ruined by him, but that she had had a visit from a lawyer who informed her that the late Amos Rayburn was a bigamist.
At first, his own guilt in Eleanor’s predicament was a shock; he had left Boston on business so quickly, the gossip hadn’t had time to catch up with him.
But the other news was no surprise to Dante. Once he read the captain’s obituary in the Boston Evening Bulletin, he had made it his business to learn everything there was to know about the man. It was information he’d kept to himself, at first to use against Eleanor if he wanted to, then to keep from her, for to tell her would mean hurting her needlessly.
And now she knew. Dante had no doubt that she was not only hurt, but humiliated.
“It’s quite scandalous, sir,” Horace related, as he unpacked Dante’s Italian leather valise and removed his clothes and toiletries. “Everyone is talking about it.”
Dante undressed, anxious to bathe. “Poor Ellie.”
“Yes, sir,” Horace responded. “I wonder how she’s taking it.”
“Aren’t you acquainted with someone who works next door to her brother?” Dante shed the last of his clothes, stepped into the tub, and sank into the hot water.
“Oh, yes, sir, but Miss Eleanor isn’t living there anymore.”
Dante bolted upright, splashing water onto the expensive Oriental carpet. “Why not?”
In spite of Horace’s normal reserve, he appeared agitated when he relayed to Dante all the details of Eleanor’s current dilemma, including Willa Simmons’s visit from Theodora Conway, Sylvester’s blatant absence, and Eleanor’s banishment from her brother’s home.
When Horace had finished, Dante was seething. To have every person she had once relied on turn his back on her was indefensible, and that included him. He stepped from the tub, accepted a towel from Horace, and rubbed himself down.
He should have been there for her. She was a courageous woman, but she shouldn’t have had to shoulder all of this herself.
“She holds her head high, sir.”
Dante’s laugh held no mirth. “She would. And you say she is living in a boarding house?”
Horace nodded, handing Dante a freshly laundered shirt. “That is where she learned the captain already had a wife and five daughters. The boarding house is dockside, sir. I don’t know the name, but the proprietress is a woman named Lauder. She’s the one who has been spreading the gossip, I believe, not only about the captain’s misdeed, but about…the two of you and your stay on Middle Brewster.”
Swearing, Dante slipped into his shirt and angrily stuffed it into his trousers. “That tightfisted, degenerate old crone.”
“Pardon me, sir, but some are calling Miss Eleanor a Jezebel because of what happened.”
Dante’s stomach continued to churn. “Horace, while we were marooned, I discovered many things about Eleanor Rayburn, and one thing she is not, and that’s a Jezebel.”
“I know that sir. And you know,” he said, hesitating, “she is no longer a Rayburn. She never legally was.” His voice was kindly, understanding.
“God, what a mess,” Dante growled.
“Others are making jokes about her,” Horace continued. “Some say they pity her, but I feel it’s only lip service, for they, too, are relishing the gossip.”
Frustrated, Dante ran his fingers through his damp hair. “She doesn’t want pity. And not that I give a damn, but what are they saying about me?”
Horace lifted one eyebrow. “Oh, you are the scoundrel, sir. The rapscallion. The rogue who could take the starch out of a prig—pardon me, sir—like Miss Eleanor.”
Despite his bath, Dante hardly felt refreshed. Every neighborhood in Boston was glorifying his reputation and sullying Eleanor’s.
“You like her, don’t you, Horace?”
“Very much.”
“Why do you like her?” Dante urged.
Horace had placed Dante’s shaving soap and razor on the shaving stand Dante had brought back from a trip to China. “Because she’s kind, and she listened to me as if she were truly interested in what I had to say. And,” he finished, “because she is intelligent.” He gave Dante a wry look. “And you know how I feel about intelligent women, sir.”
Dante’s answering look was similar to Horace’s own. “How could I forget?”
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
With a shake of his head, Dante answered, “No. Thank you, Horace.”
After Horace left, Dante shaved, his mind on Eleanor and her last request of him before they left the island, one with which he hadn’t complied. That he kiss her.
Knowing Ellie, it probably had something to do with an experiment, as most of her requests were, and nothing to do with her feelings for him. But he’d been reluctant. Why? Why had that appeal for a simple kiss been so hard for him to give? God knows he’d kissed enough women in his time, more than he could count, if he thought about it.
But after she had asked him, and before she had strode away from him, she seemed…different, somehow. Surely in appearance, for the mists had softened her, made her skin even more dew-kissed than before, and the damp air had turned her lush hair into masses of thick, wavy, even curly dishabille. But also in demeanor. She had been…desirable. And it had scared the living hell out of him.
As to the bigamy, Dante still didn’t know the particulars. And no offense to Ellie, but Dante didn’t think Rayburn had married her because he couldn’t help himself. The fact that they had rarely been together attested to that.
Dear, spirited Ellie. How had he ever thought her plain and stiff? She was quick-witted, clever, resourceful. She was funny. Warm. And to endure what was happening to her now, she had to be the most courageous woman he had ever known.
A great share of this was his fault, and somehow he had to rectify it. The possibilities were few, and those there were did little to make him feel better.
Horace appeared at the bedroom door. “Sir? Mr. Pogue has just sent this note.”
Dante took the note, opened it, and read the contents. “Horace, call the footman. There’s a fancy San Francisco lawyer waiting to see me at my office.”
Seventeen
Eleanor flopped onto her bed, removed her shoes, and rubbed her aching feet. She’d spent the better part of the day following up on leads for jobs—which had come to naught—and rooms for rent—which had been filled by the time she’d gotten there. She was suspicious about a few of the positions, for she was perfectly suited for them, but she had the sense that because of who she was, and what had happened to her lately, she wouldn’t get them.
She still had two weeks before rent was due again; hopefully something would come up before then. If not…well, she’d deal with that situation if it came about.
There was a knock at her door. “Come in,” she answered, too weary to get up.
Mrs. Lauder barged in, a note dangling from her bony fingers. “This just came for you. The delivery brat said it’s from the fancy man. Better watch your step, missy, or you’ll be out on the stoop with no place to park your supposedly high-minded ass.”
Eleanor bit back a scathing reply, crossed the room, and snatched the note. Her name on the front was in Dante’s script. “Thank you, Mrs. Lauder,” Eleanor said as pleasantly as she was able. “Would you mind leaving me alone?”
The landlady shrugged and left the room, shutting the door soundly behind her.
Eleanor’s heart did a little dance in her chest. Dante had returned.
She turned the note over and noticed that the seal was broken. A slow, angry burn steamed through her. Whatever Dante had to say, her landlady undoubtedly knew it before she would. Eleanor read the contents, which revealed nothing, but in which he informed her that he would send a carriage around for her at half past six that evening. Glancing at the old clock that sat on the table by her bed, she discovered she had only a few hours before th
e carriage would arrive.
She crossed to the mirror, studied her reflection, and frowned. She appeared nothing less than bedraggled. Her gown was old and well worn, for it was one of the few she had been wearing since she thought she’d become a widow.
Her gaze went to her trunk, which Calvin had sent over from the house. It contained gowns and underwear that she had not worn since her marriage—or whatever it was—to Amos. Perhaps there was something more suitable. At least something different. It would doubtless be out of date, but that hardly mattered.
It wasn’t that she was trying to impress Dante; she had gone beyond trying to impress anyone anymore, and she could imagine he was only going to tell her how awful he felt about her current situation.
But she was tired of looking like a dowager. She removed the pins from her hair, shook it, and gave it a good, long brushing. She wanted a softer hairdo, something she’d had many years before. And, she rationalized, it had nothing to do with an evening at Dante Templeton’s townhouse.
Dante arrived home later than he’d expected and found Eleanor in the kitchen with Horace and Hoshi, his new cook.
“Hoshi has been entertaining Horace and me.” She graced him with a warm, genuine smile, one he couldn’t help but return.
She looked wonderful. Her glorious hair was softer and she wore a pale blue two-piece dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a flattering neckline. It wasn’t new, nor was it particularly fashionable, but she looked very nice. And she obviously was no longer in mourning for a man who hadn’t legally married her in the first place.
“Horace tells me your housekeeper has gone to Nantucket to take care of the children while her daughter recovers from a difficult birth,” she said.
Dante lifted a cover off a pot on the stove and inhaled the succulent aroma of an oyster sauce. “It’s an unfortunate loss for me, but her daughter’s gain.”
“She won’t be returning?”
“I’m afraid not,” Dante answered. “Mrs. McGill arranged for someone to come in now and then to clean, though.”
He took Eleanor’s arm and led her toward the door. “Horace, some sherry, please?”
They entered the library and each took a seat in front of the fire.
“There can’t be much to keeping the house tidied,” Eleanor observed, glancing toward the door. “One person alone can’t be too hard to pick up after.”
“Horace keeps my things in good order, and this room is constantly in a state of clutter, and I insist that it stay that way. It’s the only way I can keep track of things.”
His disparaging smile tugged at Eleanor’s heart. Since they had become friends, he had graced her with many such smiles, and she understood in part what it was that gave him a hold over women. “And I imagine Mrs. McGill served as both housekeeper and cook?”
“Very often, yes. That’s something I’d wanted to rectify for some time, but she refused to allow it. At least on a permanent basis, anyway.” He gave Eleanor a quizzical look. “Why do women become so possessive about cooking and cleaning?”
Eleanor’s laugh was delightfully genuine. “It’s a mystery to me.”
He studied her, her uniqueness and frankness refreshing. “Then you don’t suffer from that malady?”
“Hardly. I’ve done very little cooking, except for myself, and I had my fill of housekeeping when I stayed with Calvin and his family, for Willa pressed me into service immediately. Not that I minded,” she amended quickly and without rancor. “I didn’t expect to stay there without doing something for my keep.”
She was remarkable. Most women in her position would have held a grudge, especially against a shrew like Willa Simmons. Not Ellie.
“I see.” He touched his chin thoughtfully. “Eleanor, there is a position available for you here.”
She sat back, surprised. “You’re offering me a job?”
Horace entered, placed a silver tray with a bottle of sherry and two glasses on the table between them, then silently retreated.
Dante’s hands shook briefly. He hadn’t really thought this out, hadn’t gone over the scenario in his mind. “Actually, yes.” He poured her a glass of wine.
“As your housekeeper?” She took the goblet.
He watched as her dainty hand cupped it, and he remembered how fascinated he had been with the delicateness of her limbs, which, he thought at the time, had been in contrast with her abrasive nature. One tended to miss such subtleties when doing constant battle with her quick and clever mind and forthright manner.
“No, not really,” he answered, his stomach churning.
She sipped slowly, her full lower lip clinging gently to the elegant rim of the glass. “Well, then as what?”
She held the sherry glass by the stem. Afraid she might snap it in two when she heard what he had to say, Dante reached across the table, took it, and put it down in front of her.
“As my wife.” He managed to sound confident.
She didn’t respond. Her expression told him nothing.
“Eleanor?”
Suddenly she pressed her fingers against her lips and chuckled. “Of course you’re joking.”
He leaned into the back of the chair. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
She didn’t believe him. “You had me going,” she admitted, “but only for a moment.” She reached for her sherry goblet, not surprised to see that her fingers shook.
“So your answer is no?”
“Dante,” she said, laughter in her voice. “You don’t want to get married, least of all to me.”
“How do you know, Ellie?” His tone verged on belligerence.
Admittedly, the sound of her familiar nickname on his tongue sent her stomach spiraling into dandelion fluff. “Well, you told me on the island that you would never marry, and, let’s be honest, I’m not your type. And,” she hurried to add, “you’re not exactly mine.” A lie.
“What is your type, Ellie? Sylvester Conway? I seem to have heard that he’s no longer calling on you, thanks to me. And,” he added, “his tyrannical, overbearing mother, of course.”
She glanced at him, then at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “I suppose you heard about Amos, too.”
A slight pause, then, “Yes.”
“And the dowry?” At his puzzled frown, she relayed to him the story that Willa had told her about why Amos had agreed to marry her in the first place.
Dante looked stunned. “I can’t believe it. I knew he was married, but I—”
Eleanor sat bolt upright. “You knew? When?”
“After I read his obituary, I dug into his past,” he admitted.
“And you didn’t feel the need to tell me?” She was both horrified and puzzled.
He didn’t look at her. “I thought about using it against you in the beginning, but—”
Her heart thumped hard. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
He finally met her gaze. “No. He was dead, and it would only have hurt you.”
Eleanor didn’t know how to respond. She was angry with him for keeping the news from her, yet somewhat placated that he hadn’t wanted to use it to hurt her.
“Well, the plot thickens, as they say.” She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
“So let me get this straight,” she said, feeling oddly detached. “Now that you know my problems, you’ve taken it upon yourself to put the poor old bigamist’s bride out of her misery by offering to marry her.”
His gaze was unreadable. “Is that how you see it?”
“That’s how it is. Oh, Dante, don’t you see? We spent three days together, during which I begged you to teach me something you knew well, and I didn’t know at all. And I practically had to force you to do it.”
“Ellie—”
“Dante, don’t. Let me remind you that you wouldn’t even kiss me.” Something that still tended to hurt a little.
She managed a condescending smile. “You don’t want to marry me. You want to rescue me because you blame yoursel
f for what’s happened.”
“Dammit, Ellie.” Frowning, he stood and strode to the mantel. “Don’t tell me what I want and what I don’t want. And for God’s sake, just once can you not analyze everything? For once can’t you take something at face value?”
“I could,” she answered, still a bit stunned, “if it were something reasonable.”
He turned and studied her for so long, Eleanor wondered if he’d lost his train of thought.
“There’s another reason,” he finally said.
“What is it?”
“I want to adopt Victor.”
Before she could utter a sound, he held up his hand to keep her from speaking. “I wasn’t going to tell you yet, because I know how you feel about him, and I didn’t want your answer to be contingent on your dislike for the boy.”
“I don’t dislike Victor,” she assured him. In fact, she had come to feel very strongly about him, because she knew he was very much like the boy Dante had once been. That realization alone had softened her toward the child.
Dante continued to frown. “You don’t?”
“Of course not,” she answered softly. “I admit he gave me reason to pray for patience many times, but…I do think he and I have developed an understanding.”
She gazed at him, her heart filling with emotions she wasn’t sure she could deal with. “If you need someone to care for him, why not just hire me to do that?”
He snorted a harsh laugh. “You think that would save you from the rumormongers? You, living here, under my roof, as my—wink, wink—housekeeper and nanny for my newly acquired eight-year-old son?”
“It would be the truth, and I wouldn’t have to live here, I could…find another place.” Easier said than done.
He examined her, his gaze probing. “Haven’t you already tried to do that?”
She bristled. “Are you having me followed?”
“I don’t have to,” he answered calmly. “You’re the most talked-about woman in Boston. You had no sooner left the Stanton’s on Beacon Hill this morning after applying for the housekeeping job when their footman told the neighbor’s butler, who informed the cook in the house across the street, who saw Horace’s nephew at the market…Do you see what I mean?”
Dragon Tamer Page 18