Chapter Sixteen
There was a scratch on the door and Blake came in. ‘Am I disturbing you?’
Disturbing is certainly the word. But then he has been disturbing me since the first time I saw him.
‘Not at all,’ Ellie lied.
‘Murray tells me that there is no damage done.’
‘Yes. That is good news. He warned me that I cannot switch between using the raised shoe and limping, though. I must choose. I have decided that I will go back to how I was before.’
Some emotion she could not read showed on his face.
‘I am sorry, Blake. I know it is clumsy, but I will be free to walk anywhere—even barefoot in the bedchamber. It is how I am,’ she added awkwardly, unable to explain properly.
This is me—damaged, broken and not very well repaired.
Every item in this house, every garment Blake wore, every servant she had encountered—all demonstrated that he was used to perfection. If a vase was broken then it would be mended by an expert so that no one could tell or else it would be discarded.
He frowned and her heart sank. ‘I asked you to marry me as you were—as you are, Ellie. I hate the idea of you torturing yourself to try and become something else. You have never deceived me about your limp.’
She was suddenly irrationally happy. ‘Then you won’t be cross when you discover I have deceived you about my hair and this is really a wig and I am bald?’ she asked, trying to look anxious.
‘A...? You dreadful woman.’ Blake strode across the room, picked her up and deposited her on the bed. ‘I am going to take every stitch off you—starting with this wig.’ He tugged at a curl and she yelped. ‘Hmm...glued tight, I see. We will have to see if exercise will shake it loose. And we must test this bed thoroughly while we are about it.’
He really was indecently good at undressing a woman, she thought, laughing up at him while he stripped off his own clothes. There was an entirely new field of fascinating study in watching the way his muscles tightened and relaxed, in the contrast of his skin against hers, of feeling the hair on his legs against her own smooth skin as, naked, he straddled her hips with those strong horseman’s thighs and leaned forward on his hands, caging her in.
The thought led to another. ‘Dr Murray says I may learn to ride.’
‘Does he, indeed? You never have before?’ When she shook her head he grinned. ‘You can begin now, if you like.’
‘Now? But we are—’
‘Astride.’ He swung his leg over and dropped onto the bed beside her. ‘Try it—but not if it pulls at any painful muscles.’
‘You want me to...? How does that work?’
‘Find out,’ Blake invited.
Ellie straddled him cautiously, settled herself with a wriggle that made him groan, and found that although it did make her muscles twinge that was nothing against the delicious feeling of power the realisation of Blake’s arousal was giving her. She leant forward to kiss him, her breasts brushing his chest hair, and liked the sensation so much that she stayed bent over, teasing them both, until Blake grabbed her and pulled her down, opened his mouth under her lips.
It felt strange, upside down, and it took her a moment to learn how to kiss him all over again. Ellie thought that she could do this all day—explore the feel and taste of Blake, his body hard and safe and strong under her. Then he began to shift his hips, pushing up in obvious demand, and she sat again, feeling him hot and imperative against her. She was wet and ready for him, she realised, almost shocked at how quickly that had ceased to embarrass her.
‘Lift up,’ he said, his hands on her hips, so she did. ‘Now, put me where you want me.’
She fumbled, making Blake gasp, and she realised, once she was sure of what she was doing, that this kind of thing could be a delicious tease. Then everything suddenly fitted, and instinctively she sank down, taking him deep into her—so deep that she froze, her gaze locked with Blake’s, seeing his eyes wide and dark and hot.
‘When you are ready,’ he said, sounding like a man at the extremity of pain, ‘move.’
So she did—gasping at the intensity of it, unable to control the speed, the rhythm, the pleasure, lost in a mutual frantic race to completion that caught them both suddenly, fast, obliterating anything and everything.
I love you.
The words echoed in her head as she collapsed onto Blake’s sweat-streaked chest.
I love you.
Somehow she managed not to say it.
* * *
‘Eleanor, wake up—we are almost there.’
Ellie blinked and looked around. She was curled up in the corner of Blake’s travelling carriage and he was sitting beside her, relaxed in a sprawl that showed off the length of his legs to perfection. If he had been a vain man she would have suspected him of adopting the pose for just that purpose, but her new husband seemed to have no great awareness of his physical beauty beyond paying close attention to the state of his linen and his neckcloths.
‘What makes you smile?’
‘I was thinking that you look as comfortable as a cat.’
And just as certain that you are lord of all you survey.
Which was probably nothing but the truth, given that what he was surveying consisted of his wife, his carriage and, if they were almost at Hainford Hall, his lands.
‘I am—but I am willing to catch mice if there are any around that need chasing.’
The look in his eyes as he watched her brought the heat to her cheeks and he laughed, but not unkindly.
‘I love the way your face reflects your thoughts, Eleanor. You have no sly artifice, no tricks. When you are angry you show it honestly, when you are happy you glow, and when you are in my arms and you find joy there I am scorched by your passion.’
Her breath caught at the frankness of his words, the heat in his gaze, at how husky his voice had become as he leaned towards her, reaching for her. Then the carriage slowed and turned sharply and Blake fell back against the squabs, the moment lost.
I love...
But it was her lack of artifice he loved—not her, she reminded herself. And a niggling little suspicion surfaced that whenever she was in danger of coming close to him, to revealing her feelings for him the man, he treated it as physical affection on both their parts. It was as though it was safe to allow her to see that he desired her body, her lovemaking, but refused to let her see his inner thoughts and desires. His soul.
‘Most women show their feelings,’ she said tartly, almost needing to pinch herself because otherwise she might slip into delusion, into pointless hope, that his lovemaking, his desire for her, meant something else entirely. ‘But with the pretty ones, and certainly the beautiful ones, you look at their beauty, not at their expression. With me there is no perfection to linger on, so you notice my mood instead.’
‘I notice that your eyes change colour with your mood. I notice—’ The carriage stopped and Blake broke off and looked out of the window. ‘We are at the hall—those are the lodge gates.’ He lowered the window and leaned out. ‘Good day to you, Fallowfield. Wife and family well?’
‘My lord. Thank you, my lord. All well. My oldest’s gone to Fareham to apprentice to the farrier there.’
‘He’ll do you proud, I have no doubt. Here’s my countess, coming home for the first time, Fallowfield.’
He held out a hand to Ellie, who scooted across the bench seat and looked out of the window at the big man with one arm who touched his forehead to her.
‘My lady. Welcome to Hainford Hall.’
‘Thank you, Fallowfield. I know I am going to be very happy here.’
And I will be, if force of will can guarantee happiness.
‘How did he lose his arm?’ she asked as the carriage rolled through the gates and then through wide open parkland dotted with clumps of trees. Everything seemed lush and green and fertile. Rich.
‘He was our farrier. A big plough horse reared as it was being led into the forge, struck his arm, pinned him against the wall. The arm was too badly crushed to save, so I gave him the lodge here, and charge of all the other lodges, the boundaries and the woodsmen.’
All the other lodges, Ellie thought weakly. This isn’t an estate—this is a small kingdom.
Then she forgot her nerves at the sight of the house, long and low and golden in the sunlight, as beautiful and elegant in its sprawling grace as its master.
‘You like it,’ Blake said. It was a statement—he could see her face, her betraying expression, but she did not care if she was transparent.
‘I love it,’ she replied, and for a second thought she saw something in his face.
Pain? Regret? Surely not. Probably annoyance that she was exhibiting such strong emotion. Whatever it was it was fleeting, gone in the blink of an eye, and he was smiling back at her.
‘It looks like a home,’ Ellie explained. ‘I was fearing a palace and this is...this is...’
And suddenly her eyes were blurred with tears. She swallowed hard, fighting them back. So stupid. She did not cry, and there was nothing to cry about—only that she had been searching for a word that would please Blake and what she had said had been the absolute truth.
‘Eleanor?’ Her face had betrayed her again.
‘It looks like a home, not just a house. It looks like our home. I cannot recall feeling that I have had a home—not since my father died. Places to live, yes. But when my mother married again it was not our house, somehow.’
‘And then it became dangerous because of your stepfather?’
She nodded tightly. ‘And the house where I lived with Francis...that was just somewhere to be. It was perfectly fine, but somehow it was only a roof over my head. I think, if things had not been so difficult there, that Carndale Farm might have become a home, but it would have taken time. I would have had to create it. But this...’
This house will contain you at its heart.
‘It was a good house to grow up in,’ Blake said.
They had never spoken of children—not explicitly, not in terms of a family. There had just been that joking reference to the Pencarrrow nose. Ellie had a sudden vision of small boys racing their ponies across this green parkland, little girls shrieking with laughter as they chased a puppy and a ball along the wide terrace that was coming into view as the carriage drive swung round.
‘The West Front,’ Blake said, pointing. ‘We came in from the north, but the main entrance is on the South Front.’
As the carriage turned again Ellie looked away from the house and caught a glimpse of a distant tower beyond the trees that edged the park. ‘What is that? Another house?’
‘The next estate.’ Blake’s face had become expressionless. ‘That is the point where my neighbour’s land comes nearest to the house. Two generations ago my grandfather’s best friend, Charles Harper, Viscount Trenton, built his new mansion almost on the boundary, so their families would be as close as possible.’
‘That sounds like the preliminary to a marriage,’ Ellie said.
‘It might have been,’ Blake said, his voice strangely constrained. ‘But my father had only brothers and so did George Harper, the heir of Trenton.’
‘And you are the only child of the last Earl? Did the Viscount not have a daughter for you to marry?’
She’d said it lightly, meaning to tease, but Blake had turned away abruptly.
‘Oh, I am sorry—that was the home of Felicity wasn’t it? How clumsy of me not to realise.’
‘She...’ For a second Blake closed his eyes, and when he opened them again they were dark, hard. ‘As I told you, Felicity had other ideas. When she eloped with that damned poet she broke...she broke her father’s heart.’
His reaction to the failure of an arranged betrothal seemed somewhat extreme after what must have been several years. Unless it had been Blake’s heart that had been broken and not Felicity’s father’s.
‘We are about to arrive. You need to put your bonnet back on, Eleanor.’
You do not care? You expect me to believe that? You must have known her well enough to have fallen in love with her. Was she at least a friend? Did you have no feelings at all for what happened? Or perhaps your nose was so put out of joint by her implicit rejection of you that your pride became more important than your concern for a girl you had known all her life.
That was not a good thought to have about the man who was now her husband. She had considered him better than that.
Ellie found her bonnet, put it on and tied the bow with care while she got her expression back under control. She turned to find Blake perfectly composed and smiling.
He leaned forward and tweaked the bow. ‘Perfect. Welcome home, my dear.’
* * *
It had been inevitable that Eleanor would mention Felicity. At least he had told her enough to squash any curiosity, any desire to probe his feelings about the girl next door who had been so very rash.
The girl I drove to rashness by my arrogant neglect. The love I lost. Lost before I realised I loved her.
He had been young. Was that any excuse? Young and privileged and used to having what he wanted when he wanted it. Felicity—petite, pretty, apparently so docile—had been what he wanted. But not then. Not while he had still had his wild oats to sow and a father who had been carrying all the burden of the estate and its responsibilities and had been in no mood to acknowledge his own eventual mortality by handing over any part of that burden and its power to a son.
He’d had money, freedom and no responsibilities.
Except to Felicity.
Now he handed his new wife down from the carriage and wondered if his desire to marry Eleanor had not been some distorted reflection of his squandered love for Felicity. She had been pretty, docile—until provoked past bearing—perfect both physically and dynastically. Eleanor was plain, lame, independent, and came with no useful connections or wealth of any kind.
‘My lord.’ Tennyson, his butler, was advancing across the carriage drive, managing to hurry without appearing in any way flustered or out of breath—quite an achievement as he was elderly, rotund and red in the face.
The benefits of my best port, Blake thought, his spirits lifting.
He had known Tennyson since the butler had been a skinny under-footman, sneaking him leftover sweetmeats from the adults’ dinner table.
‘My lady.’ Tennyson bent almost double. ‘Welcome to Hainford Hall. I am Tennyson. We have been too long without a mistress.’
That was a jab at Blake, as both he and the butler knew full well. How much the servants knew of what had taken place before Felicity had fled with her poet Blake had no idea, although he suspected that staff always knew considerably more about their employers’ business than their employers ever suspected. But what they wanted now was clear direction, the kind of stability a family in residence with a countess who ran the household on a fair, firm rein would provide.
He glanced at Eleanor, wondering at the sudden tightening of her features, as though she had just stopped herself from pursing her lips.
Instead she smiled. ‘Thank you, Tennyson. I look forward to meeting all the staff, but particularly the housekeeper. Mrs—?’
‘Mrs Morgan, my lady. She will be at the front entrance with the rest of the staff to greet you.’
Blake offered his arm and guided Eleanor towards the sweep of steps, keeping his pace slow and pointing out features as they went so that she could walk as smoothly as possible.
‘The East Wing—that is the oldest part. The West Wing came next, and then the centre was built to replace an earlier single-storey connection between the two. A strange design, but it seems to work.’
He risked a downward glance, but Eleanor was smiling and seemed quite confident. She obviously understood enough about the management of a great house to know that the housekeeper was her point of contact with the staff and that the butler worked to Blake’s direction.
‘Mrs Morgan is experienced and capable,’ he said, hoping to reassure her.
‘Not so capable that she is entrenched and will expect your bride to dance to her direction, I hope?’ Eleanor said crisply.
‘So do I.’ Blake suppressed a smile and recalled what Eleanor had said about the work involved in managing a household. She might have no experience of one this size, but she knew the principles.
Beside him, he sensed rather than felt her take a deep breath as the staff came out and lined both sides of the steps.
He had written to Tennyson a few days before.
The Countess suffers from some lameness. Unless she asks for assistance, or refers to it herself, no member of staff in any department is to give the slightest indication that they are aware of it.
He watched now, intent for any betraying glance that might embarrass Eleanor, and realised just how much it mattered to him that nothing upset or hurt her. It was possessiveness, he supposed. She was his now.
He closed his hand over hers as they climbed the steps then, at the top, swept her up and carried her over the threshold.
Home—and for the first time in a long time being here really felt like home.