Chapter Twenty
The lamb was roasted to perfection and liberally sprinkled with fresh rosemary, the bread was hot and fragrant with dill, the peas glistened with new butter, and the wine was excellent.
But no one was eating.
Aunt Mary sat, hands folded, her eyes on her plate. Charlotte Sutherland studied the dish of new potatoes the footman had just served. Eleanor, her face troubled, seemed to be speaking to Charlotte out of the corner of her mouth. Robyn Sutherland, who’d applied himself to his meal with gusto just moments before, had abandoned his plate in favor of his wineglass. The rest of the party was silent, not sure where to look next.
Cam forked another succulent piece of lamb into his mouth. It was a waste of an excellent meal, if you asked him. He took a sip of his wine and returned the cold stare aimed at him from the other end of the table.
Uncle Reggie, the author of all this distress, his heavy face flushed with drink, glowered back at him. “Well? What have you got to say for yourself, sir?”
“The lamb is delicious.”
Uncle Reggie’s face went a deeper shade of red. He sputtered, so furious the incoherent sounds refused to form themselves into words, never mind a sentence.
Cam sampled his peas. This could be it, at last—Uncle Reggie’s apoplexy.
His uncle drained his wineglass for the third time since the peas had been served. “It pleases you to make jokes, I see. I wonder if you’ll be so pleased when Boney sends your cousin back to England without his legs. That is, if he returns at all!”
Ah. That’s what the fuss was about. Uncle Reggie knew Cam had agreed to purchase the commission for Julian. He couldn’t fathom how his uncle had discovered it so quickly, unless Julian had sent word from London.
If he had sent word, it might mean he’d decided to accept the commission. Cam’s heart froze at the thought, but he kept his face expressionless. He wouldn’t give his uncle the satisfaction of seeing his concern. “I have more faith in Julian than you do, I see. He’ll return, and in one piece.”
Uncle Reggie slammed his fist down next to his plate. His fork skittered to the floor and a footman leapt forward to retrieve it. “Just how would you know that?”
Because any other outcome is unthinkable. So Cam wouldn’t think it.
“He’ll come back because you deem it so?” Uncle Reggie gave a bitter laugh. “If the great Camden West with his spectacular fortune says it’s so, then it must be so.”
Cam looked down the table at his uncle with a mixture of disgust, frustration and a vague sense of pity. If Reggie could have kept Julian forever at Lindenhurst, wrapped in cotton wool, he’d have done it. He’d always doted on his son to such an extreme degree it was more mania than anything else.
It was a kind of love, Cam supposed. But a poor kind.
Spittle flew from his uncle’s mouth, and he was so sotted he was nearly face down in his plate. Watching him now, Cam understood more clearly than ever why Julian had to leave London. “Julian is an adult, and in full possession of his faculties. He’s made his choice. There’s naught for us to do now but trust it’s the right one.”
“You don’t want him to come back,” Uncle Reggie spat. “You see this as your chance to get rid of him, and you’ve taken it. You’ve always been jealous of him.”
Aunt Mary looked up, her face white. “Reginald! For pity’s sake.”
Enough. Cam placed his wineglass next to his plate. “Have a care, uncle.” He spoke in low tones that nevertheless carried to the other end of the table. “There is a limit to my tolerance.”
He was left to speculate whether or not his uncle would have been wise enough to heed this warning, for at that moment Eleanor half-rose from her seat and dropped her napkin on the table. “I beg you will excuse us. My sister—”
Lady Carlisle rose as well. “Charlotte?”
Cam took in Lady Charlotte’s pallor and motioned to one of the footmen. “Arthur, Lady Charlotte is ill. Escort her to her room, then send Winnie to attend her.”
Charlotte waved the footman off with a shaky hand. “It’s nothing. Just a sudden headache.”
“Nonsense.” Eleanor took Charlotte’s arm. “You look as if you’re about to swoon. Come along.”
The footman caught Charlotte’s other arm and he and Eleanor hurried from the dining room, supporting Charlotte between them. Lady Carlisle and Lily Sutherland followed behind them.
The room fell silent. Uncle Reggie had slipped into a sudden doze, exhausted by his fury and the better part of a bottle of wine. Aunt Mary touched a tentative hand to his arm, but Reggie only snorted and slumped further down in his chair.
Cam sighed, then gestured to the second footman. “George, attend my uncle, if you would.”
George darted forward, grasped Uncle Reggie under his arms, hauled him up from his chair, and dragged him from the room. Aunt Mary followed, her face red with shame.
“By gad,” Robyn murmured. “That was neatly done.”
“Handy thing to have about,” Lord Carlisle said. “An unusually large footman, I mean.”
Cam gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t wish to shock you, gentlemen, but that was not the first time George has been called upon to perform that service. Shall we have some port? I believe dinner is over.”
They sat in the dining room for another half hour, then his guests wandered off to pursue of game of chess in the drawing room, leaving Cam alone.
He rose, grabbed the bottle of port and made his way to the library. There was no point in sitting around like some besotted tragic hero. Eleanor wouldn’t come back downstairs tonight.
He sat in the dark and drank his port, running his finger over the top edge of his wineglass, thinking of how passionate she’d been with him in the kitchen last night. Her sighs and moans, the way she’d pressed herself against him—dear God, she’d driven him mad.
Did she know how much he wanted her? Had she understood he’d been one kiss away from snatching her into his arms and stealing away with her to his bedchamber? He’d dreamed about her, about laying her across his bed, pulling every pin from her hair, sliding those stockings from her long, long legs, and . . .
Damn it. This was becoming a habit, sitting alone in a dark library with a hard cock, drowning in fantasies about Eleanor.
One kiss away—so close, and yet not close enough, and one couldn’t seduce in half-measures. Either he’d had her, or he hadn’t. Either she was a virgin, or she wasn’t.
The party would return to London the day after tomorrow, and Ellie had no more reason to marry him now than she had when they’d arrived at Lindenhurst.
He was almost out of time.
He had one more night to make her his, but even if the opportunity arose, he wasn’t sure he could take her. He wanted her desperately, but if she asked for his promise again, he’d give it to her, and once he did, he’d keep it.
Cam downed the rest of his port in one swallow, then filled the glass again. Her sister’s indisposition gave her the perfect excuse to remain upstairs. If he hadn’t seen Charlotte’s near-swoon for himself, he might believe it was all a ploy so Ellie could avoid seeing him tonight.
Sweet, sweet Ellie, with her black currant lips and her hot, seeking tongue . . .
“May I come in?”
For a moment he thought he’d conjured her straight out of his fantasies and through the library door. He waited for her to come to him, sink onto his lap, brush his hair back with a cool hand and lower her lips to his.
Instead she stood at the open door, her expression growing puzzled. “Cam?”
Not a fantasy, then. She was really here. He leapt to his feet, amazed by his good fortune. “I—yes, of course.”
He hadn’t lit a lamp, and he didn’t make any move to light one now. In the feeble light from the hallway he thought he saw a faint flush rise to her cheeks, but she didn’t object to the dimness. Just as well. By some divine stroke of luck he had her here alone, and whatever might happen, he didn’t intend to lose this opportunity. “How does your sister do? She looked ill when she left the dining room.”
Eleanor frowned. “I don’t think she is ill after all, merely agitated, though she refuses to say why. She also refused every offer of assistance. In fact, she chased us all out of her room, even me.” She perched on the edge of the leather sofa, her hands folded in her lap. “It’s just as well, as I wish to speak to you.”
And I wish to make love to you, on that sofa, with your arms around me and your fingernails in my back.
“Perhaps we can both get what we wish for this evening, my lady.”
“I wish you would stop calling me that.”
Cam raised an eyebrow, surprised. “What? My lady? But that’s what you are, isn’t it?”
She clenched her hands together until her knuckles turned white. “It’s not the title. It’s the way you say it.”
“Oh? How is that, my lady?”
But he knew. He said it like a caress. Like a secret, whispered in her ear.
“Like you . . . like—I’m not your lady. I’m not your anything.”
“Ah.” He sat down next to her and reached for her, but slowly, the way one might reach out to stroke a wild animal. “But you will be.”
Eleanor leapt off the sofa, away from him. “No. I won’t.” She paced over to the fireplace. “That’s what I came to tell you. This is over, Cam.”
The devil it was. It hadn’t even begun.
“If it’s over, why do you run away from me every time I try to touch you?”
She lifted her chin. “You don’t need to touch me every time I get near you.”
Yes, I do.
“Run, then,” he murmured, an unmistakable challenge in his voice. “It won’t do you any good. There’s no place in the world so far away I won’t follow you—”
Cam stopped, stunned into silence.
Jesus. It was true. He’d follow her to the ends of the earth if he had to. Not because of Amelia, or to satisfy some twisted sense of justice, or because she was Hart Sutherland’s daughter.
Because she was Eleanor.
Eleanor, with that maddening blush, stubborn chin, and those dark eyes—eyes that turned so soft when she looked at Amelia.
Would her eyes ever soften for him like that? If they never did, it would be no more than he deserved. He’d told himself he didn’t care if she despised him. He’d told her it made no difference if she were foolish or clever, mad or sane.
He’d told her she didn’t matter.
It was a lie.
She was all that mattered.
He rose from the sofa and moved toward her. “Eleanor, listen to me—”
“No.” She held out a hand to keep him away. “I spoke with your aunt this afternoon, while you were out hunting, and she told me everything.”
Halfway across the room to her, Cam froze. “Everything.”
“Don’t blame her. I—I said I already knew. Mrs. Mullins told me about your father. Your aunt assumed I knew the rest, and I didn’t correct her. I warned you, Cam.” She gave him a defiant look, but her lower lip trembled.
Cam stared at her and noticed for the first time the hectic flush across her cheekbones, the way her fingers clutched at the folds of her gown. “Yes, I suppose you did.”
Was that why he’d brought her here? In some deep part of his mind, where he tried to keep the scales of justice balanced, maybe he’d wanted her to fight him.
It was one way to justify seducing her.
He knew she wouldn’t pass up the chance to unearth his secrets, and what better place to do so than Lindenhurst? He’d suspected as much when he discovered her in the kitchen with Mrs. Mullins last night, but he hadn’t cared—hadn’t even tried to stop her. Not really. He’d been so desperate to taste her, to touch her, he couldn’t think of anything else.
Now she knew everything.
Or she thought she did. But how much did she know? She might know what had happened to his father, but did she know about Amelia’s father? “Tell me what you know, Eleanor. I give you my word I won’t lie to you.”
She straightened her shoulders and folded her hands in front of her again, stiffly, like a headmistress about to deliver a lecture to a room full of naughty boys. “Your father died when you were nine.”
Despite her dignified pose, her breath caught a little here, and Cam felt a hollow echo of it in his chest. Was she sorry for him? For the boy he’d been, perhaps, but not for the man he was. Not for him.
“A fever. Mrs. Mullins said it was quick.”
Quick, yes. Wasn’t it supposed to hurt less if it was quick?
It hadn’t. His father’s death had nearly killed his mother, and his nine-year-old world had cracked open and splintered into thousands of tiny shards. He’d been buried in the debris. There’d been so much of it when he emerged at last, much later, he didn’t recognize himself anymore.
Had Mrs. Mullins told her that?
Eleanor began to rush over the words now. Poison was like that. Once you’d swallowed it, you became desperate to purge yourself. “Your uncle and aunt and cousin came to live with you then, and Julian became like a brother to you. Mrs. Mullins said all might still have been well, despite your uncle’s cruelty, but—”
She stopped, and Cam saw she was shaking. She didn’t want to say it—didn’t want to know this story. Knowing it hurt her.
But not as much as it hurt him.
He laughed a little, but the sound was bitter. “But what, Ellie? You’ve come this far, and now I’ll have the whole of it. You’ll want to get such an ugly story out, you see, otherwise it will fester and burn inside your heart until it leaves a gaping wound.”
Her composure fled then, and she brought her hands up to cover her face.
He did cross to her then, to grasp her wrists and force her hands back down. “Look at me. What did my Aunt Mary tell you? Something about my mother, I think?”
She shook her head, her dark eyes huge in her white face.
“You said you wanted the truth, Eleanor. What did my aunt tell you about my mother?”
“She said—she said . . . your mother was shamed. Ruined. Your uncle found out about it and forced you and your mother from your home.”
Cam dropped her hands. “My mother’s downfall was a great stroke of luck for my uncle. He’d been trying to find a way to steal Lindenhurst for three years by then, and this—well, you can imagine how delighted he was to find a reason to be rid of us at last.”
Her face flushed with anger. “Why did you let him, Cam? Lindenhurst belongs to you. He had no right. Even your aunt said he had no right.”
Cam ran a hand down his face. God, he was tired. Tired of this tragedy. Tired of himself. “I was a boy. Just a boy, and still grieving.”
Her hand went to her mouth, but he heard the sound just the same—a soft sob.
Pity. She pitied him.
His jaw went hard. No one pitied him. Not anymore. “I’m not a boy any longer. No one takes anything from me now. I’m the one who takes. When I want something, I take it, and I want you, Ellie. So much.” Despite his harsh tone, his voice broke a little on the last words.
“No, you don’t,” she whispered. “You want something, but you don’t want me.”
But he did want her. More than he’d ever wanted anything. He held out his hand to her. “Yes, Eleanor. I do.”
For one moment her face softened, and his heart surged in his chest. If she’d only believe him—
But then her eyes went flat, and she backed away from until she came up against the fireplace and could go no further.
He followed her. “Don’t run away now. You haven’t told me the best part yet.”
“The—the best part?”
His lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Come now, Eleanor. Clever as you are, you must have drawn your own conclusions. My mother was disgraced to such a degree my uncle was able to snatch Lindenhurst out from under our feet, and my father died years before Amelia was born. You’ve said this much. Why not unburden yourself completely?”
She must have seen he’d allow her no quarter, for she lifted her chin and said, “You and Amelia don’t share a father. She’s your half-sister, and she’s illegitimate.”
He cupped her cheek gently in his palm, but his face felt stiff and hard. “That’s right, Ellie. Amelia was born on the wrong side of the blanket. She’s a by-blow, a bas—”
“Don’t!” She put her hands over her ears and shook her head. “Stop it, Cam.”
His hand dropped to his side. “Do you think it’s any less true of if I don’t say it aloud? How naïve you are. You may cover your ears all you like, but it doesn’t change anything.”
She lowered her hands, her face defeated.
He moved closer to her—close enough to touch her again, but he didn’t. He kept his arms at his sides. “Tell me, Eleanor. Earlier, when you came in, you said “this is over,” or something equally dramatic. What did you mean?”
She pressed her hands flat against the fireplace in back of her, as if she wished she could push it out of the way and escape him. “Just what I said. It’s over. You have information on my sister I would prefer didn’t become public, and—”
“And now you have information on my sister, too. Is that it?”
“I should think it would be obvious.”
His hands closed around her upper arms. “But I want to hear you say it just the same, and don’t think to look away from me when you do. When you threaten someone, you look them in the eyes.”
Eleanor Sutherland was no coward. She did look into his eyes, just as he’d bade her. “If you ruin Charlotte, I’ll ruin Amelia.”
He shouldn’t have looked into her eyes.
He should have known better, because as blinded with fury as he was, he could see the wretchedness in those dark depths, the shadows underneath that spoke of her sleeplessness. Her misery.
She didn’t want to do this, not to Amelia, and perhaps not even to him. Would she go through with her threats? She’d told him she wouldn’t give up, and he believed she wouldn’t.
Even when she should. Even when holding on would devastate her.
She took a deep breath. “I will not marry you, Cam. You will release me at once from your demand. If you do not, as surely as you will ruin my sister, I will ruin yours.”
Cam went still. He’d known she was going to say it. He’d expected to feel rage when she did. Rage and bitterness and yes, hate—the same hate he’d felt for Hart Sutherland. But Eleanor wasn’t her father, and even now, when she had such hateful words in her mouth, he could never hate her.
God, it was so simple. Had it always been this simple? He could never deceive her. He could never manipulate her, or coldly seduce her. He could never hurt her.
He loved her. He could only ever love her.
But with that love came an aching sadness. So far down, that ache. Deeper, even, than his heart.
This is how badly she wants to be free of me.
Cam looked down at her, into those dark, pained eyes. She didn’t know. She thought she knew everything, but she didn’t know it all.
Your mother was shamed. Ruined.
She’d never once mentioned Hart Sutherland.