Chapter Ten
Ellie blinked and swallowed salt. Blake had just asked her to marry him. Lord Hainford was asking her to be his countess. But it could not be true, of course. She was so tired, so worried, so miserable that she had made herself ill and now she was hallucinating in the grip of a fever. Or she was dreaming.
But if this was a fantasy, she might as well enjoy it until she woke up.
‘Yes,’ she said as his face blurred and she felt herself slide from the chair.
* * *
Where was she? Somewhere warm. Somewhere that was not damp and that did not smell of woodsmoke. Somewhere exceedingly comfortable, with deep feather beds. Oh, yes. She was going to be a countess. That explained it.
Ellie sat up in bed with a muffled yelp and clutched at her swimming head. That had been a dream, not real—so where was she now?
There was a bell-pull right next to the bed and she tugged on it. It would not bring Polly. She was still up in Lancashire, keeping an eye on the farm. Unless that was all part of the dream as well...
‘Good morning, Miss Lytton.’ Not Polly, but a tall, dark-haired maid in neat blue, with a crisp white apron. She was holding a tray. ‘I was just coming up to see if you were awake yet and to bring you some chocolate. Would you like breakfast in bed? Or I can lay the table over there if you would rather get up, miss.’
‘Where am I?’
‘London, Miss Lytton. The best guest bedchamber in Lord Hainford’s townhouse in Berkeley Square. No wonder you are confused, miss, after that faint. And it’s so lovely and quiet here at the back you’d never believe you were in town, would you?’
So this was real and perhaps...
Oh, no, she had not agreed to marry the man, had she?
Impossible—he would never have asked her in the first place. How embarrassing it would have been if she had said something before she’d realised it was a dream and she hadn’t been quite well.
The maid put the tray on the bedside table and went to pull back the curtains. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, Miss Lytton. There is actually a little bit of sunshine.’
‘It is not raining?’ Ellie struggled up against a mountain of pillows and blinked at the watery glow. ‘No, it isn’t.’
More unreality—although the maid seemed solid and rational, and the chocolate, such a luxury, slid over her tongue like warm velvet. But she must get up, have breakfast, confront Blake and make him give her the deeds back.
‘I will get up and wash and then have breakfast,’ she decided.
‘I’ll run the bath then, miss.’
The maid went out through what must be the dressing room door and almost immediately there was the sound of running water.
A bathroom?
She would marry the Prince Regent himself for a bathroom with hot water, Ellie thought wildly, and put a hand to her forehead. No, she wasn’t feverish.
* * *
She was still attempting to separate reality and memory from dreams and fantasy as she made her way downstairs to the study where they’d told her Blake awaited her.
He was alone when she entered. He stood looking out of the window, one arm bent and resting on the window frame, so that his whole lean, elegant form was silhouetted against the light. He turned when he heard the door close and came to move one of the chairs before the fireplace slightly for her.
‘How do you feel this morning, Eleanor?’
‘Much better, thank you.’ She sat, and he took the chair opposite, leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes focused on her face. ‘I apologise for fainting,’ she added.
‘I suppose you came tearing down here without stopping to eat properly. What was it? The Mail?’ When she merely nodded he sat back with a grunt of annoyance. ‘You have made yourself ill. Look at you.’
That was satisfactorily un-lover-like.
‘I was...upset.’
‘Yes,’ Blake said drily. ‘I gathered that. Now we must consider carefully. I had intended getting a special licence and marrying you immediately, but with you looking so unwell I think it would be best to postpone it for a few weeks, so I will just get an ordinary one. There is no need to advertise our business by having banns read—’
She made an inarticulate sound and he stopped.
‘What is it?’
‘A marriage licence?’
‘Yes. Don’t you remember? Yesterday afternoon you agreed to marry me.’
‘No, I couldn’t have. It was a dream. A hallucination. I am not well—you said so yourself.’
‘Eleanor, if you are the one hallucinating, how is it that I am the one certain that we agreed to marry?’ He was smiling at her as the logic of that sank in. ‘I am in perfectly good health.’
‘But why would you want to marry me?’ Was this some kind of cruel joke to punish her for involving him in her problems? But he had involved himself—all she had done was try and get rid of him after that first demand that he take her to Lancashire. And he was smiling in a way that made her want to slide forward from the chair into his arms and...
‘Why shouldn’t I? I need to marry sooner or later, and sooner is probably better. You are of perfectly good family, and we know each other a little now. You are intelligent, capable, and you are in a difficult situation that would be resolved by marriage. A situation I helped put you in.’ When she still simply stared at him he added, his face suddenly expressionless, ‘And I have absolutely no commitments to anyone else, if that is worrying you.’
There it goes again. That door slamming shut. There is no one, and I believe him. So what is he hiding?
‘I am plain. I limp,’ she said.
And why is there no one else?
‘I am used to my own company, and stubborn and argumentative when I am out of it. I have no dowry as I have just lost my farm to a confidence trickster. I have never had a come-out and have no idea how to go on at the level of Society I imagine you live in.’
‘Yes, I know all that.’ He did not even attempt to counter the plain. ‘But do you actively dislike me? When I am not stripping off in White’s or trying to assist you, I mean?’
‘I frequently want to throw things at you.’
‘But in the intervals between?’
The smile was back and she wondered if it was a weapon, or perhaps a mask. He reached out and took her hand, turned it over and began to trace a pattern round and round on the inside of her wrist—a delicate, barely-there touch that seemed to go straight to something deep inside her.
‘When we kiss, for example? I seem to recall you found that...interesting.’
‘I found that very... It was not at all unpleasant.’ Ellie found that her eyes were closed, and every inch of her body, of her concentration, was focused on the drift of Blake’s fingertips over her wrist.
‘It could be not unpleasant every day if you marry me.’ There was the faintest thread of laughter in his voice. ‘You slept in my arms—you trusted me then. Wouldn’t you like to be a countess? Think of the good you could do...the charities you could support or found. Or the artists you could sponsor if you wanted a salon.’
Ellie opened her eyes. With them closed, and only his deep, warmly persuasive voice to focus on, she could almost believe it was possible.
‘I have responsibilities. The Grimshaws have been good to me and there are problems with the water supply. I cannot just walk away from that. I thought I was selling to someone who would deal with the problems—not someone who was tricking me in order to give me charity.’
Blake did not blink at the accusation. ‘I will have my legal people sort it out. I would have done so anyway. And if the stream is a lost cause I will have a well sunk. Say yes, Eleanor, and stay down here. I really would find attempting to court you over such a distance exceedingly wearing, you know.’ When she looked up at him, indignant, he said, ‘But I will do it if I have to.’
‘I need to think.’
She drew back her hand and he let it go.
‘Very well. I will be at home all morning.’
‘I mean I need time to think,’ she began.
But he shook his head and went out, leaving Ellie to stare at the door.
I cannot marry him.
Then... Why can’t I marry him?
He is infuriating, stubborn, and refuses to be serious...except when he is. He is cunning and determined and manipulative. He does not love me and he certainly cannot desire me...except when he literally falls on top of me or is half asleep. He will probably stray as soon as we were married. I will be an embarrassment in Society, although that is his problem, not mine. But I desire him. I like him when he isn’t being infuriating. I am tired of being poor and anxious. I would do my very best to be a good wife in return for all the things he would be giving me.
But one other anxiety nagged at her. Blake was eminently eligible. Titled, wealthy, handsome, personable, intelligent. So why was he not already married or betrothed? Why had he waited for her, of all unlikely brides?
Because I am not at all the kind of woman he might be expected to want? Because he is in no danger of ever falling in love with me?
Without asking him directly—something she was not willing to do—there was no way of answering that question. All she could do was examine her own feelings.
It was pride and the anticipation of certain heartbreak that had made her say no. But would her heart break? Blake had made no promises of love or eternal devotion, so he would not be betraying her when he strayed. She had lived without love, without anyone to care for her feelings, for so long that this would be nothing new. Provided she did nothing idiotic like fall in love with him, she was safe.
What could she bring him? Loyalty, a determination to be a good wife, the intention to be a good mother if she was so blessed. It did not add up to very much—and certainly nothing that another woman could not offer.
But he had asked her, not another woman. So what should she say?
* * *
‘Have you completely lost your mind?’ Jon paced down the length of the study, then back, his hair standing on end from where he had dragged his hand through it. The other arm was still weak, although he constantly forgot his sling. ‘You really mean to go through with this marriage to Miss Lytton?’
‘Yes.’
Yes, he would marry her. Yes, he probably had lost his mind.
‘She is a baronet’s daughter,’ Blake said, studying his fingernails.
‘That is the one positive—although you know you can do better. Considerably better. She has no money—except the inflated amount you are attempting to give her in exchange for that farm—no connections of any use whatsoever, and she is a plain, lame beanpole.’
‘And intelligent, loyal, courageous,’ Blake added. He lifted his gaze to skewer Jon’s. ‘And might I remind you that you are speaking of the lady I have asked to be my wife?’
Jon stopped pacing, but with more courage than sense did not back down.
‘I thought you liked her,’ Blake said mildly. Jon was only defending what he saw as his brother’s best interests, he reminded himself.
‘I do. She is all you say. But... We can buy her off—it isn’t too late.’
‘Buy her off—?’ Blake began, half out of his chair.
But Jon was pacing again, his back to Blake. ‘I know you have not had the best of experiences with marriage proposals, but there is no need to go from one extreme to the other.’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Blake was on his feet now and round the desk, and when Jon turned they were face to face.
‘Oh, hell... All right—if you must make me spell it out. You were betrothed to the perfect young lady. She was well-bred, well-dowered, beautiful, and I strongly suspect that you loved her. It did not work out, and ended in tragedy, so now you have gone to the opposite end of the scale—presumably in reaction.’
‘“Did not work out” is one hell of a euphemism for drove the girl to her death, is it not? And five years is quite a long time for a reaction to set in, don’t you think?’ Blake enquired evenly. ‘Normally reactions are much faster. Like this.’
He balled his right fist and hit Jon squarely on the chin—just as the door opened and Eleanor walked in.
She leapt back so that Jon crashed to the floor at her feet, then fell to her knees beside him. ‘Jonathan, are you all right? Blake, what on earth do you think you are doing?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Jon said, his voice muffled as he worked his jaw with one hand. ‘I do apologise, Eleanor, we were...er...sparring.’
‘Poppycock! Blake punched you. What exactly is going on?’ The question was quite plainly directed at Blake. ‘And shame on you,’ she added, looking daggers at him. ‘Hitting a man with only one good arm to defend himself.’
Jon got to his feet and held out his hand to help Eleanor to hers. ‘I was exceedingly tactless and provoking and I deserved all I got. I will leave you to discuss things.’
The door closed behind him, leaving Eleanor on the inside, brows raised.
She probably had too many questions to articulate, Blake thought bitterly, flexing his smarting hand as he stooped to pick up a fallen chair.
‘Please, sit down.’ He waited until she was settled, then went back to his own chair behind the desk. It felt like a retreat. ‘Jon reminded me that I do not have a very successful history of betrothals. I felt that it was inappropriate of him to bring that up now, but he would not let the matter drop.’ He shrugged. ‘I lost my temper.’
‘Were you going to tell me about the other unsatisfactory betrothals?’ she enquired politely, as though the matter was of only the faintest interest to her. Perhaps it was.
‘Only one.’ And that was bad enough. He was going to have to tell Eleanor something, however difficult it was. ‘I was promised to a young lady I had known all her life. One of those cold-bloodedly suitable matches thought up by our respective fathers when we were both minors. Her family were our closest neighbours.’ He shrugged. ‘I had no strong feelings one way or the other.’ Or so I thought. ‘But I liked Felicity, and we had always got on well. It was, as my father had ensured, very advantageous on both sides.’
He was all too conscious of the steady gaze of a pair of clear hazel eyes and made himself meet it—made himself stick to the story he had decided to tell and not get sidetracked into the emotions, the damnably complicated feelings, the sickening realisation of what he had done to Felicity and to himself and how it had left him. Shattered.
‘I went to university, went on the Town and enjoyed myself. I didn’t really think much about marriage until my father died. Then I found myself with the title, and Felicity’s father enquired—somewhat impatiently—when I was going to get on with it.’
‘At which point you discovered that she did not want to marry you.’
‘How did you guess that?’
‘You had neglected her, taken her for granted, and then you turned up and demanded that she marry you, at your convenience.’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘Why on earth would she want to marry you?’
‘That just about sums it up. She said she did not want to marry me and I put my foot down. Bullied her, I suppose. I told her that she was breaking a long-standing agreement, pointed out that the gossip would be harmful to her, that she would have the reputation of a jilt. I kissed her with rather too much enthusiasm. Nothing I am at all proud of now, believe me, but at the time I thought it was for the best. Best for her.’
I told her everything except the truth. But of course I did not know what that was until it was too late...until she was gone.
‘And?’
‘She ran away with another man. A poet, of all things. I suppose he seemed more sensitive than I.’
It would not have been difficult.
‘There was one hell of a fuss. And that was the end of my marriage before it began.’
Do not ask me any more.
But of course this was Eleanor, so she did.
‘What happened to her?’
‘Her caring poet left her when he discovered that Felicity’s father was not going to release her dowry. They had fled to Rome. She caught one of the summer fevers that plague the place and...died.’
Alone and in poverty and betrayed. And that was all he was going to say about Felicity. He could hardly bear to think about what had happened—he certainly was not going to talk about it.
Leaving aside his own pig-headed stupidity in failing to see what had been under his nose, and failing to do anything as unmanly as actually analyse his own emotions, he had thought that Felicity had no choice other than to marry him, and that by forcing the issue he had been doing the right thing. And he had been wrong. She’d had plenty of choices—only he had panicked her so that she had failed to see them. And he... He had been left staring into the empty space that had once contained the woman he’d realised he had loved all along.
Now the very different woman on the other side of his desk watched him through clear hazel eyes that were apparently unclouded by any emotions at all—except distress for Felicity and extreme irritation with him.
Unlike Felicity, Eleanor had very few options. They boiled down to genteel poverty if she was lucky, and real hardship if she was not. Or marriage to him. And by giving Eleanor that choice he might, somehow, make up for taking Felicity’s choice away from her. Whether it did or not, or if anything ever could, he knew he could not walk away from Eleanor. Not and live with his conscience. And that, damn it, was increasingly difficult to keep locked away.
‘And you think that, having heard that, I will still marry you?’ It did not, somehow, sound like an aggressive question, more a puzzled one—as though she really did want to understand.
‘I am hoping that you can overlook my past, overlook the unfortunate beginning to our relationship and say yes.’
‘Because that will soothe your conscience?’
The woman had been born with a scalpel instead of a tongue. He would swear it. Fortunately she thought it was only his conscience in question here. He had not revealed that he had loved Felicity—still did—and that whatever he could offer a wife in terms of position and comfort he could not give her his heart.
‘Because I am never going to be at a loss for a stimulating exchange of views with you in the house,’ Blake said, throwing away all attempts at diplomacy.
‘Then, yes. How could I refuse such a flattering proposal?’
For a moment the sarcasm stopped him hearing exactly what she had said, and then it hit him.
She has surrendered!
For a moment he was not certain whether the emotion tangling inside him was shock, relief or horror. Perhaps all three. It took him a second to realise that Eleanor was still speaking.
‘I assume you have calculated how much damage marriage to me will do to your political ambitions and your social life? If not, I am sure Jonathan will soon point them out to you. I would only ask that you do not...that you are not...’
For the first time Eleanor lost her composure. Blake glanced down at her hands, twisting a handkerchief into a knot in her lap, and realised that her composure had been lost some time ago, and what he had been looking at was a desperate mask of serenity.
‘I would ask that you do not flaunt your mistresses...that you leave me that much dignity,’ she said, all in a rush, and went crimson.
‘If you give me the same assurance about your lovers, ma’am.’ She looked shocked. ‘I take my promises seriously, Eleanor,’ he said, dropping the mocking tone. ‘While we agree that our marriage is real then you will have my fidelity—not only the appearance of it.’
‘And you will have mine—which is an easy promise for me to make.’
Blake felt a flare of irritation at her self-deprecation. He had stopped noticing the details of Eleanor’s appearance, he realised. Stopped assessing the details of her figure or profile or hair. She had become familiar, had become something of his—and as his she should accept that she was perfectly adequate just as she was, he told himself, realising that that was at the core of his anger with Jon’s criticisms.
A small stirring of discomfort warned him that perhaps he was being a trifle arrogant. He pushed it aside. How to convince her? You could not tell a woman that she was perfectly adequate.
‘So you say now—before you are tempted.’ He smiled to show it was a joke and she narrowed her eyes at him, whether in threat or speculation he was not certain. ‘But I am certainly not going to discuss infidelity on the day we become betrothed. I am delighted that you consent, Eleanor.’