Chapter Thirteen
An hour later Eleanor rummaged in her wardrobe to try to find a newer version of the same dress she had worn before at the Bromley town house. A dark primrose gown, with embroidery around the bodice and the bottom of the sleeves.
The décolletage was low, but she heightened it with a swathe of ivory Brussels lace that had been her mother’s. Today she needed courage and conviction. After this morning it was time to face the ghosts of the past whether Nicholas remembered what had happened or not.
He had been ill shaven when she had visited him and the jacket he’d worn had been covered with bloodstains. Another contretemps, she thought. A further recklessness.
Was his life going to be blighted by such violence for ever? Today he had not looked angry, only sad. That had thrown her more than the fury.
It was not his fault he had been shanghaied into a journey to the Americas and yet...
It was not her fault she had fallen in love with him so quickly and allowed him everything and yet...
They were both to blame for what had happened six years ago. There was only the desires of the present in all that they had done, the thrill of the flesh and the forbidden.
She had just lost her mother then and Nicholas’s uncle was becoming more and more impossible. Each to the other was a way out, a way to forget.
But now...
She liked him more as a man.
Stay here with me.
She swallowed hard and stood to look out the window into the winter. She knew what she wanted. Last time they had laid together it had been in the summer warmth. Now it was cold, but if they could find a path back to each other the spring came next and then new life. The smaller niggle of uncertainty also crept back again. He had never said that he loved her.
There was a knock on the door and Jacob’s head appeared.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ She knew her brother would want to have a conversation after the events of last evening.
‘Nick thinks Lucy is his, Ellie. I can see it in his eyes.’ Jacob did not beat about the bush and, given his lack of addressing her pregnancy this directly before, she was shocked because it was a statement more than a question. After her conversation with Rose she knew she owed him at least the truth.
‘He wants to talk to me tonight. At Bromley House.’
‘Is it true, Eleanor? Is he the father?’
‘Yes. We slept together once the night before he disappeared.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because you were too sad. Because you had just lost him and I knew that you would not be able to bear hearing his name everywhere in our house and in the tragedy of what had happened to me.’
‘Nicholas will marry you. I know he will. It is his responsibility and his duty.’
She smiled. Another honourable man. Her brother.
‘It is not quite as easy as that, Jacob. He has changed and so have I. We are different people from those that we were.’
‘You are parents of a little girl who needs a mother and a father.’
‘And you think I do not understand that? You think I don’t wonder about this every single moment?’ Her ire had built and Jacob raised his hands.
‘I am of the belief that every problem well discussed can be solved.’
The truth of that advice comforted her, made her calmer.
‘Which is the reason I am going there to see him tonight.’
With that he moved forward to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Then the carriage will be at your disposal and Rose will watch over Lucy. I will leave it to you to give the driver his instructions. Whatever you choose those instructions to be, they will be no one’s business save your own. If you are not home tonight, then I will see you on the morrow. I have every faith that you can make this right.’ Then he was gone.
* * *
Nicholas moved a pile of books from one desk to the next in his upstairs sitting room.
He had a roaring fire and good wine. Dinner would be served in an hour on the small table here. For the only time in his life he had asked the cook if he could peruse the menu.
He was nervous. He admitted this to himself as he paced the room. If this went badly...
‘No.’ He shook his head and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. The scar blazed red on his cheek and his nose was swollen from the carriage incident last night.
A noise from further afield told him Eleanor had arrived. He could hear her voice through the silence and then footsteps coming up the staircase. Tonight he had given all the servants, save for a few, the night off.
‘Lady Eleanor Huntingdon, my lord.’ Browne was the soul of discretion and formality.
She stood very still in her cloak, a dark woollen sheath that enveloped her completely. She did not speak at all as the door closed, but simply stayed there looking at him.
‘Thank you for coming.’
She nodded at that, both hands tightly clasping the brocaded edges of her apparel.
‘It is warm in here,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I could take your cloak?’
Her eyes went to the fire and she tugged at the fastening at her neck. Tonight she was in yellow, a dark yellow that picked up the lighter strands in her hair and the curve of her figure. The frothy cream lace at her throat suited her as did the way she had done her hair. It was not fussy. She had pulled the mass of it into a loose pile at the back of her head, the curls that had escaped making her look younger. More uncertain. Beautiful.
The kiss from this morning still simmered in the air around them and he made sure he did not touch her, not yet, not until they had spoken of their daughter for there was so very much he wanted to know.
‘We need to talk, Eleanor. About Lucy.’ When she nodded he waited.
‘I am sorry for the way you found out about her existence. It was unacceptable.’ The crisp sound of the word rolled from her tongue in a way that only she could say it.
Unacceptable. To her?
The frown line between her eyes was deep, her lips pursed in on each other in consternation.
‘In my defence I might say that your coming back was indeed a surprise and that I was caught in uncertainty.’
‘Does Lucy know that I am her father?’
‘No.’ He saw her swallow back emotion and saw her flinch, too, when he used her name.
Turning away, he poured them each a drink, handing a glass to her with care.
He wished he had not asked the question so baldly. He wished he could take it back and say it differently. She had been here only a few moments and already the barriers between them were rising.
‘I bought her something today.’ Crossing the room, he took out a small burgundy box and then placed it in Eleanor’s outstretched palm.
‘For Christmas?’
‘No. For ever.’
At that she half-smiled and, opening the lid, brought out the small gold locket in the shape of a heart that he had purchased from the jewellers Rundell, Bridge & Rundell in the early afternoon.
‘Perhaps it is not something a small girl might want...’ He stopped.
‘She will love it.’
Her hand reached out to touch his arm in reassurance and he felt the heat of it physically, the same punch of lust he was becoming used to in her company.
Go slow, his mind warned. Do not frighten her. He held his want in such check that he trembled with the effort and was glad when the small cuckoo clock chose that moment to beat out the hour, breaking the pressure into fragments that were less sharp and more manageable.
‘It’s never worked properly.’ His words, falling into the silence. ‘My grandmother bought it for me years ago.’
‘Ten minutes late is not too late, I should imagine.’
He swallowed away thickness. She often phrased her words like no one else did.
An image of the piano came, her fingers across his and tears in her eyes. And then left. The suddenness of it was shocking.
Bits. Pieces. Nothing.
Putting down his glass, he ran one hand through his hair, trying to soothe the ache that was building in his temples, trying to right the imbalance.
‘It was here we slept together?’ He could hear the truth of it in his own question.
‘Only once.’ Her answer.
And once had been enough. Lucy. Eleanor’s enforced widowhood and years away from the ton. She had been eighteen and alone, the kind and obedient only daughter of a duke when he had come into her life. One night had demanded a large payment.
‘Was anyone with you for the birth?’
‘Grandmama. Lucy was born at Millbrook.’
‘I should have been beside you.’
‘The midwife was a great believer in the idea of men being nowhere near a birthing room.’
‘Was Jacob at the manor?’
‘Yes.’
A stab of jealousy pierced his equanimity.
‘My papa was there, too, and he thought Lucy a miracle. Mama had died the year before and his sadness was lessened by her coming. A new life, I suppose, and new hope for the future, despite the circumstances.’
‘Was she a little baby?’
Eleanor nodded. ‘Small and perfect. She had blonde hair and then it turned darker on the ends so that she looked like a porcupine with its quills sticking out.’
He drank up such words like a man who had been lost in the desert for days without water, imagining.
‘She walked when she was ten months. She simply stood up and took six steps. Two weeks later she was almost running.’
‘Clever girl.’
‘Her first word was “dog”. Then she said “Mama” and she has never stopped talking since. She is learning the piano. She loves to dance. She puts on shows for us and we all buy little tickets to watch. Vic is one of her main players.’
Nervousness always made Eleanor talk and he smiled, liking every single thing he learned.
The silence re-gathered.
‘Does she have a middle name?’
‘Christine. After my mother.’
* * *
Please, God, do not let me cry.
Eleanor could see his eagerness and his loss, the poignancy of all those missed years written in every line of his face.
The golden heart was warm in her hand. When she flipped the necklace over she saw the Bromley family crest had been engraved on the back of it. Another effort that told her of his hopes.
His hair was wet, the curls falling with loose dampness upon the white of his collar and the jacket he wore was tight enough to define the muscle beneath the fabric.
How easy it would be to simply move forward and fall into his arms. With hope. But she had to know him first, had to understand what it was he wanted of them.
Was Lucy the only thing that held them together now? Just the promise of her? Eleanor drank the wine and liked the feeling of how it bolstered her courage. Ever since he had come back she had drunk much more than she had before.
Another difference. She struggled for a further topic, but he spoke before she could.
‘How did we meet, Eleanor? I remember you only as the much younger sister of Jacob whom I seldom saw?’
‘I had gone to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens with my grandmother and her friends to see the fireworks and you were watching me. When Grandmama was busy, we spoke.’
‘Just spoke?’
‘You touched me.’
And I thought I had been burned by flame.
‘How?’ He had moved closer now.
‘You took my hand and kissed the inside of my palm. The darkness allowed it. I knew you, of course, but at first you did not know me. The orchestra was playing Handel and when it was supper I escaped to eat it with you. Cold meats and cheese and puddings. You held a silver pass for the season and pots of beautiful red and blue flowers hung from every tree above our heads. The air smelt of fireworks.’
‘You remember details.’
Every single one of them, she felt like saying, but didn’t.
* * *
He wanted to remember so badly.
‘Did I kiss you?’ His finger reached out to touch her lips softly.
‘Not properly.’ She blushed bright red as she said this and he thought such reticence did not sound like him. When he desired something he had usually taken it without worrying about consequences. Then.
‘You kissed my hand and my wrist. Just there. Then Grandmama came to find me and you disappeared.’
Interrupted as he would not be tonight.
‘Can I try again? Now?’
Staying just where she was, she lifted her hand and he turned it over, his thumb stroking the patterns there carefully.
He could feel her draw in a shaky breath and was glad when her eyes came up to meet his, the blue in them as startling as he always found it.
‘And then you say I kissed it?’
She nodded, fear overwritten by something else entirely.
‘Like this?’
She tasted of lemon and salt and woman. His tongue drew along the same pathway his thumb had just left and he could smell the violets imbued in her skin.
The yellow gown was long sleeved so he pushed away the fabric to measure the pulse there with his lips. Fast and shallow. His own was probably much the same.
The first salvo was fired and, releasing her hand, he took his wine from the table nearby and held it out to her.
‘To beauty and to memory, Eleanor. And to Lucy, our daughter.’
She drank to that, her lips leaving a mark on the glass that he then covered with his own.
* * *
He was a thousand times more dangerous than the man she used to know, the light playfulness gone and in its place a scorching sensual certainty. He was also promising her nothing save for this one night.
Her worry increased. What if his memory was suddenly jogged back and he recalled how he had pulled away last time? A lover who thought she had not quite been enough? A man who had sampled all that she’d offered and decided it wasn’t for him?
A hundred thoughts whirled around in her mind, a vulnerability that had been so complete six years ago she had barely survived and one that she was only just now beginning to recover from. Could she chance it all again or should she leave?
Her heart sank at such a thought.
Tonight he had allowed her the space to come to terms with what he wanted, but he would not be denied. She knew that to the very core of her soul.
The wine was an interlude to be enjoyed, but that was all. The stories that she had heard of him through the gossip mills of the ton had been running around for years, but the living and breathing reality was so much more overwhelming.
She ought to call a halt to what he was proposing, cry enough and leave before she lost any will to say no. On his terms. Again.
‘I think perhaps I should eat. The wine is strong.’ She sounded like her grandmother, the rigid tones of sense discordant after the softer ones of lust.
His smile sent her heart into further spasm. Sensing her fear, he rang the bell on the small table beside him and instructed the man who came to serve the dinner immediately.
‘Can I show you to your seat?’
When his hand came up under her arm she felt the spark of connection like a shock.
It was a small table and they sat close. As the creamy chicken soup was served she saw the footman did not tarry, but rather closed the door behind himself and left them alone. When Nicholas locked it she was glad. Without interruption she could speak to him properly.
‘It was not my intention to deceive you about Lucy for I thought you were dead.’
‘To an extent I was. Deception is an emotion I have had lots of practice in, for when you do not know who you are you can be anything at all and make others believe it, too.’
She smiled at that because she understood the concept entirely. ‘And who were you? Then?’
‘A traveller. A businessman. A tramp. A card player. An outsider. It depended on the time of year and the places I was in. Summer usually found me in the back country far away from anyone. In winter I had to return to civilisation and shelter.’
‘A hard life for a lord?’
‘At first it seemed worse because, I suppose, I was softer.’
She could imagine him as a twenty-three-year-old without memory thrown into the chaos of a new country, without money, without a name.
‘Who were you there? How did you call yourself?’
The brown of his eyes was full of harsh memory.
‘A variety of different names all cobbled together by expediency. I was Peter Kingston when the man who did this found me in the town of Richmond tending a bar.’ His good hand gestured to his bad one and at his face.
‘It had been a while since I had moved so I was feeling safer and it was a shock when he tried to kill me as I was gathering wood for the fire from a shed by the river.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘No. But I did not know the others, either.’
This truth nearly broke her heart because in those few words she could imagine exactly just what his life there had been like.
As if he thought he had said too much he raised his wine glass, struggling for a lost ease.
‘But tonight I am in the company of beauty, grace and honesty, so here’s to the future, Eleanor. And here’s to faith.’
‘Faith?’
‘In that future. Faith to decide how we go on from now.’
‘Where do you want us to go?’ The words came unbidden, tumbling out over the top of her more normal caution.
‘I’d like to do away with your Scottish husband for a start.’
She could see naked desire scrawled across his face and the thick soup of chicken, veal and almonds became dry in her mouth. She was also far too hot. With care she removed her lace fichu, squaring her shoulders so that the bodice was not quite as revealing as it might have otherwise been.
‘The story of my marriage was Jacob’s idea. A way to protect me from the censure of society.’
‘And I thank him for it.’
‘But I promise that I never gave Lucy the same lie.’
He looked up at that, the gold chips on the edge of his irises caught in the firelight. ‘What did you tell her?’
‘That her father loved her. That one day he would be back because I...’
She stopped.
Loved him.
How easy it would be to simply move forward and fall into his arms.
The muscle along the side of his jaw moved, the scar on his cheek standing out further because of it. ‘I am grateful, Eleanor.’
And just like that she was back again, back six years sitting opposite him in front of the fireplace in his room.
I am grateful, Eleanor.
His words then, when they had dressed finally and he had got ready to return her home. She had sensed his distance then, but it was different now. Could the wasteland of the years lost finally end in salvation?
She laid her hand gently down across his damaged hand, feeling the ridge of bandages end under the fabric of his sleeve.
‘Once, I hoped that you loved me.’
There, it was said and she did not wish to take it back. If she was to trust him, she needed to have faith.
His other hand came down over hers, warm and solid.
‘Hoped?’
‘You did not say it, but...’
He swore softly, their fingers intertwined. ‘Sometimes I barely even like the man that I was and I should not have—’
She didn’t let him finish.
‘Being together was a mutual decision and if you didn’t say the words then—’
He placed his finger on her lips to stop her from admitting more.
* * *
She was frightened. He saw that her whole body shook with it. She had given her eighteen-year-old self to him, then he had disappeared and ever since...?
He was still dangerous to her, the attack from the early hours of yesterday morning leaving him agitated and on edge. He should make her go home to her brother and to safety, but in her words there were things he could no longer ignore. Nicholas had to tread carefully for it seemed that last time he had not.
‘Our daughter looks like you, but her eyes are mine.’
He could see her listening. Lucy was the centre of her world and it was a way in.
‘She has dimples, too.’
That brought a nod.
‘Could I meet her as her father, Eleanor? I would very much like to do that.’
He was gentle with his request. He took nothing for granted with his rights to see his daughter. It was her decision alone to allow it...or not.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, her eyes meeting his exactly and the fright there eased.
The soup was finished now and he knew he should open the door and ask for the next course to be brought in, but he couldn’t move.
One finger ran across the length of her thumb and across to the forefinger. She had freckles on the bridge of her nose and he looked at the smattering with a smile.
‘How could I forget this, Eleanor? How could I forget you?’
His whole mind struggled for a glimpse of her from back then, at Gunter’s or Lackington’s or here, but there was nothing save the ache of the trying for recall in his temples.
‘Last time we were here it was summer and the candles were warm because there were so many. After the dinner you loosened my hair...’
He stood at that and drew her up with him, their bodies almost touching as his hands rose to the pins she had tied it back with and he carefully drew them away. The brown curls fell in a curtain down to her waist, unravelling into silk.
Unravelling like his caution and his ever-present distance.
* * *
The floor tilted as he pulled her to him and took her mouth, not with softness but with a hard and desperate need, his hands at her nape as he slanted the kiss.
‘Eleanor.’ Her name was groaned in a broken whisper as he brought her closer.
He kissed her completely differently now. Before he’d left England he had been more careful and softer, but now he held a scorching sensuality that made her head spin.
She clung to his heat and took the offered breath as he seized what he wanted, quick and desperate. She heard the guttural sounds she made, but could not stop them, her breath slowed into only desire, her body melting into need.
‘Nicholas?’ Breathed out as his tongue came around the fullness of her lips, the feel of it shocking.
Her own mouth opened and she let him in to taste and to savour. There was no reason in their kisses now, logic lost beneath feeling until he turned her abruptly and his teeth fastened on the skin of her throat. She keened into the silence and pressed into him with demand.
Every touch he gave her left her more naked in spirit than the one before. She was stripped down into an intensity that held no fight whatsoever.
He could do as he wanted with her and he knew it. She could see it in the velvet brownness of his eyes which were so like her daughter’s.
‘Let me make love to you, Eleanor.’
When she nodded he took her up into his arms, striding towards a door at the far end of the chamber and opening it.
His room was filled with blueness, the same wallpaper as before with its patterned cut flock. The bed was a different one, however, the coverlet now a patched quilt of mismatched fabrics.
It was here he placed her before crouching down at her feet so that their heads were level.
‘This time it is your choice, Eleanor, and I need you to be sure...’
‘I want you.’ She gave him her answer without thought because she did. She was certain in a way she had never been before.
‘And if I never retrieve my memory?’
‘Then we will make new ones. Together.’
‘Starting now?’
She reached out to run her hand across his cheek, the skin rough beneath the pads of her fingers. ‘I wish I had been there for you when this happened.’
‘And I thank the God above that you were not.’
Tipping his forehead down against her own, he sucked in breath.
‘I have slept with other women, Eleanor, both here and in America, and while I have not been a saint I promise from now on it will only be you in my bed. For ever. Is that enough for you? To take all the parts of me that are damaged and still want what is left?’
His voice shook and she knew the depth of all he was saying, his years of lostness marked in sorrow. And, now, honesty.
She had loved him as a boy, but she loved him twenty times more over as this man. Strong. True. Hurt. Dangerous.
Her hand dipped into her bodice and she showed him the ring that hung at the bottom of her chain.
‘You gave me this one of the last times we were together and I have not taken it off since.’
The gold caught the flame in the fire and she saw the flash of it in his eyes, his pupils distending and tightened into brown as he looked away.
* * *
It was like turning a key in a lock and the door finally opening. He remembered. He remembered laughing with her as he had bought the ring from a small shop in Piccadilly after their kiss at Lackington’s. It was a celebration gift to go with the wine and hamper from Fortnum and Mason.
Her blue eyes had matched the stones and she had loved them. Zircons, the man had called them. Imitation diamonds.
And with that small crack in memory other walls began to teeter and fall and it all came tumbling in, his lost days and weeks.
He cursed as his hands flew to his head because colour slammed into his temples, not quite painful, but almost. Rushing words and images and the noise of voices. And there in the very centre of everything was Eleanor, laughing, crying, lying there beneath him with love in her eyes.
‘I saw you at the Vauxhall Gardens. You were with your grandmother and we met in front of the rococo Turkish tent.’
‘You remember?’
‘It was evening for the lights had just been turned on and you had dropped your coin purse as I passed you and I bent to pick it up.’
Her blush surprised him.
‘You told me your name was Antoinette? Why?’
‘I’d recognised you and yet you did not seem to know me and with all the stories that circulated about your exploits I thought I should be a more interesting acquaintance if my name was exotic.’
‘You spoke with a French accent?’
‘An accent and name which you knew as false in the first moment of conversation.’
He began to laugh. ‘Your grandmama called to you to come back to her and you grabbed my hand and ran.’
‘I was fresh out of the schoolroom and it was said by everyone in society that you were reckless and fascinating. It was my chance for an adventure and I took it.’
‘Six days?’
‘Pardon.’
‘We were here six days later. At Bromley House in bed together.’
‘Are you shocked I was so shameless?’ Her teeth sat on the fullness of her bottom lip.
‘No. I thank the lord that you were.’ Frowning he sought for another recall. ‘Ellie? I called you that, didn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were a virgin.’ He sobered. ‘And it was my fault. If you had never been at the Vauxhall Gardens you may have been spared.’
‘Spared?’
‘Of all that came next. It was my arrogance that led to the incident in the alley behind Vitium et Virtus. If you had not met me...’
He stopped because he could not quite say it.
You were the Duke of Westmoor’s only daughter with all the possibilities in life that such a position implied. And I took that away.
He saw her swallow and find her answer. ‘If I had not met you then we would not have Lucy?’
‘I want you, Eleanor. I promised myself that I would go slowly and let you choose the time and the place. I told myself that I could wait and court you, do it properly this time, with good food and the finest wine and music. But I can’t. I swear I can’t.’
Her hands came up to both sides of his face and she brought him in. ‘Then that is a good thing, for I do not wish any more to love a ghost.’
Love? The word vibrated on the end of his tongue, in question and in relief, but the heat that lay between them was building, a desperateness that held no mind of circumstance or propriety.
He wanted to claim her as his own, keep her here in his bed so that she might never leave him. He wanted to know every part of her as well as he knew his own body.
His mouth came down across hers in a single movement, her lips opening to his own, so that he could come inside and taste. Her sweetness and her fear.
‘I will not hurt you, Eleanor.’ He whispered this against the alabaster of her cheek.
‘I know.’
He should be careful, he should be gentle and tender, but he could be none of those things. He kissed her as though she had always been his. His. To keep and to hold.
His hands were on the long row of tiny buttons now at the back of her gown, fumbling, shaking. He could not recall a time he’d been so desperate or so clumsy.
And then the fabric gaped, exposing the lawn below and the skin beneath. Her breasts were round and pink tipped, the stuff of dreams and hope.
‘My God,’ he said quietly, as she simply stood there naked to the waist, watching him. ‘You are so very lovely.’ One finger trailed along the fullness to the nipple and he quickened the movement to run back and forward so that it tightened into hardness. She stretched, taken unawares, and his mouth fell to the corded elegance of her throat.
She was breathing hard now, the sound of it loud in the room, as she melted into acquiescence, shivers chasing each other across her skin. Undoing the gown further, he was pleased when the yellow wool pooled at her feet and the lawn of her petticoat covered only the thin lace of her drawers.
The chill of the room came across her bareness, her skin alight with the flame of the fire and the heat inside.
He was careful as he dealt with the last of her clothes and then she was naked before him, save for the silk stockings with the garters pulled up by pink ribbons and the soft silver slippers on her feet.
‘Eleanor.’ He moaned this, the breath of him reaching across the small distance between them and he knew only pain as he bent to lift her into his arms, close against his chest, because if he hurt her again he would never forgive himself.