Candice Hern (17 page)

“He is Belinda’s father?”

“Yes.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Mention of her family brought the infamous untold story into the room, looming like a dark, unwelcome specter who would not be ignored. Simon would not be the first to broach the subject. It was her story, and
if she had decided not to tell him, that was fine with him. Disappointing, but fine.

He rose and went to the sideboard. “Shall I fill a plate for you?”

She gave a soft chuckle and rose to join him. “Please don’t. I would not be able to see you over such a mountain. I will do it myself.”

They each filled their plates—his heaping, hers scarcely sufficient to feed a cat. When Simon returned to the table, she had put off all cheerfulness and donned a serious expression.

“I suppose you are wanting to hear my sorry tale,” she said.

“Only if you want to tell me. You don’t have to, you know.”

“I know. But I do want to. It will be a relief to get it out in the open.”

She seemed a little reluctant to begin, however, and took a bite of veal pie instead. She licked her lips, flicking her tongue into the very corner of her mouth to remove a crumb of pastry. Simon had to force himself to look away, else he would never be able to get up from the table again. God, he adored her mouth.

Her heard her take another bite and then a sip of wine before she finally spoke.

“I was just turned eighteen,” she began, without preamble, “and had come to London for my first Season. My mother had hoped for a great match for me, and pulled every string she had to get me into all the best balls and parties. I’m afraid I was a green
rustic with no polish, a true wide-eyed innocent.

“It was at a very elegant
ton
ball that I first met Henry. I won’t tell you his full name. It does not matter. I am sure he is unknown to you. He was older—well, he was thirty, which seemed very old at the time—and he was devastatingly handsome. When he began to pay attention to me, I was beside myself, giddy with excitement that he should single me out. My parents didn’t like him and discouraged an attachment. I did not know then that they were aware of his past notorious behavior, that he had ruined several young girls’ reputations and was generally considered a scoundrel. My mother hinted as much to me, but I was too naïve to understand what she meant. And I was determined that she should not destroy my hopes for a match with Henry.”

Simon could just imagine Eleanor as a young, headstrong girl with stars in her eyes. He wished he’d known her then.

“He was a seductive charmer,” she said, “and I was susceptible to his every move. He knew it, and played on my gullibility to sweep me off my feet. I thought him the most glorious creature I’d ever known, and I was madly in love with him. When he suggested we run away together, I had never heard anything so romantic in my life. Without a second thought I agreed to travel with him to Scotland.

“At least I thought we were going to Scotland. He kept mentioning the Great North Road, and so I assumed we would go to Gretna or some other
town and be married. Of course, I submitted to him on the very first night. Since we were to be married, what difference did it make?”

She looked down at her plate and pushed her food around with a fork. She had not looked at him once since she began her story. Simon, however, could not keep his eyes off her. His dinner sat forgotten on his plate. “But he did not take you to Scotland, did he?”

She shook her head but did not look up. “No. We got as far as Derbyshire when Henry said we were going to drop by the house of a friend. I was a bit anxious about getting to Scotland but he convinced me that we were in no particular hurry. I was so blinded with love for the man that he could have taken me anywhere. Since I had already given myself to him, I felt we were practically married anyway, that we had a special bond forged by a physical relationship. The minor detail of a marriage ceremony could wait a few days.”

Her voice had grown flat, without expression or timbre. It was as though she recited a well-memorized story about someone else. Simon felt hot anger in the back of throat and his hands, resting on the tabletop, curled into fists.

“He took me to a small manor house in Derbyshire,” Eleanor continued, “but his friend was away from home, as Henry had, of course, known he would be. It had all been arranged. I daresay I was not the first girl he’d brought there. He con
vinced me to stay a few days and enjoy the countryside. But, quite frankly, we didn’t often leave the house.”

Her voice had dropped to barely a whisper, and her chin had dropped almost to her chest. Shame had wrapped itself around her like a cloak. Simon wanted desperately to reach out and touch her, to pull her onto his lap and hold her tight, but he did not. It was not the right time.

“When I finally told him I thought we should leave and continue on to Scotland, he pretended not to know what I was talking about. He said he had never mentioned Scotland or marriage, and that I had presumed what he never intended. He laughed and said he would not be taken in by my pretense of innocence, he would not be manipulated into an unwanted marriage by a cunning little schemer. He would publicly ruin me first. He even implied”—her voice faltered, almost broke—“that he was not my first lover.”

“Bloody hell!” Simon slammed his fist on the table before he realized what he was doing. Eleanor gave a startled little gasp. The dishes and cutlery rattled and his wineglass fell over, sending a blood red stain of claret spreading across the white cloth.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “It just makes me so angry.” His voice rose with each word until he was almost shouting.

She offered a wan smile. “Please don’t be. It was
my fault for being such a fool. Needless to say, I was devastated. Heartbroken. Angry. Scared. That night, when he was sleeping, I stole money from his purse and ran away. I took the stage back to London.”

“Good God. Alone? In the middle of the night?”

“Yes. I didn’t know what else to do. My parents were furious and packed me off to Surrey in disgrace. Shortly afterward, I realized there was to be a child.”

She looked up at him then, for the first time. He could not imagine what she saw in his face. He felt sick.

“My father found a man who agreed to marry me,” she said, “a business acquaintance about his own age. Maurice Tennant. I was so heartsore and ill that I agreed to the marriage without argument. Nothing mattered anymore. I didn’t care what happened to me. Maurice apparently asked for a larger settlement than my father could afford—I was used goods, after all, and carrying another man’s child. They came to some sort of arrangement, but I never knew the details.”

Good Lord. No wonder she was a cynic. It all sounded like one of those wretched stories in the
Lady’s Monthly Museum
. Simon wondered if his own idealism could have withstood such a blow. He reached for the fallen wineglass, refilled it, and drained it in a single swallow.

“So I became Mrs. Tennant,” she said, “and
moved with my husband to Bristol. I lost the baby shortly afterward, and I was condemned to a distasteful marriage to a man who never let me forget my past.”

Worse and worse. He did not believe he could stand much more.

“Maurice was capricious in his business dealings, always investing in some scheme or other, and always losing his money.” Her voice had regained some of its color, and was now tinged with bitterness. “We’d been married six years when he died, and he left me nothing. I didn’t have two shillings to rub together.”

Simon reached over and refilled her wineglass, and with a tilt of his head indicated she should drink it. Lord knew, she must need it after such an exhausting tale. He certainly did. Eleanor thanked him with a nod and took a sip, then closed her eyes and took another. She expelled a long breath before continuing.

“You can see now why I am so anxious about Belinda. It is as if I am watching my own pathetic melodrama played out again on the stage, with a different set of actors. And Geoffrey Barkwith is
so
much like Henry. A charming seducer. He even has the same dark good looks.”

“Poor Eleanor. This must be exceedingly distressing for you.”

“And not only because of Belinda,” she said. “Quite selfishly, I am also concerned about my own
situation. When Maurice died and left me destitute, I had no place to go. Even had they offered, I would not have returned to my parents. We’ve been estranged since they sold me to Maurice. There is no affection between us, far from it, and I could not have lived with them again. But my brother Benjamin had lost his wife some years before Maurice died. Since he was so often away from home, he suggested I become a companion to his daughter. And so I’ve been living in his London house with Belinda these past five years. I am entirely dependent upon my brother’s goodwill, Simon. He will throw me out on my ear if I allow his daughter’s life to be ruined as mine was.”

He fully comprehended her concern, though the Romantic in him still believed Belinda would be Mrs. Barkwith when they found her. Surely two such blackguards would not strike the same family.

“It is a delicate situation, to be sure,” Simon said, “but I cannot believe your brother will cast you out. It would be a hateful thing to do when none of this is your fault. And your life is far from ruined, my dear. You made a mistake and paid dearly for it with an unhappy marriage. But you are a free woman now with a lifetime ahead of you.”

She glared at him as though he were mad. “A lifetime of what? Being passed around from family to family as the poor relation? Or should I perhaps strike out on my own and try to find employment as a governess, or a lady’s companion? It is a pretty
bleak future, in any case. But I daresay I should be grateful. My father might just as well have tossed me in the gutter to fend for myself.”

“Allow the optimist to suggest another alternative. You are a beautiful woman, Eleanor. You might marry again.”

She smiled—a full, genuine smile. “Dear Simon, ever the Romantic.”

“Ever hopeful, anyway.” More than she could possibly know. “Whatever became of that damnable Henry fellow?”

“Living in Bristol kept me away from London society. It was, of course, one of the reasons my father approached Maurice in the first place. He and Mother would have done anything to avoid a scandal in London. Anyway, I never saw Henry again. A few years after my marriage, I heard he’d been killed in a duel.”

“Thank God. I wish I’d fired the shot that killed him.”

“So do I,” she said. “That is, I wish
I’d
fired it, not you.”

“Well, I am glad someone fired it, else I would have to hunt the cur down and do it myself. What a black-hearted scoundrel.”

And then the most amazing thing happened. Eleanor reached over and laid her hand over his. Simon had been so careful not to touch her, so afraid she would not welcome it, that she might misinterpret and believe he only meant to seduce her like
that scapegrace Henry. Yet now
she
touched
him
. His heart soared.

“I am glad I told you, Simon.”

He covered her hand with his. “So am I.”

She smiled and said, “Now you had better eat something before you become faint with hunger.”

E
leanor had slept like the dead. It had been an emotionally exhausting day, and she had been thoroughly drained by the time she’d gone to bed. This morning, however, she had awakened with a new resolve. Relating the events of her past had renewed her anger with Geoffrey Barkwith, and her determination to find Belinda, shake some sense into her, and take her back home. She would
not
allow her niece’s life to be ruined as hers had been. One way or another, she was going to make things right for Belinda.

Simon, bless his idealistic heart, still believed Barkwith would marry the girl. Now that he knew about Eleanor’s past, though, he was willing to concede that he might be wrong.

They had talked, and eaten, late into the night. Once the principal secrets had been laid bare—his
politics and her shame—it had been easy to reveal more. They grew almost giddy with new insight and discovery as each of them sought to learn more about the other. She learned that he collected Italian landscape paintings and thought Mrs. Siddons highly overrated. He learned that she played the harp and liked to garden. But they never forgot the primary issue at hand, and spoke at length about Belinda, using the lessons of Eleanor’s history to determine how best to handle the girl’s situation.

On one point, however, Eleanor was unyielding: the need to get Belinda away from Barkwith, against her will if necessary. They could sort out matters afterward, but it was essential to remove her from Barkwith’s influence. Even Simon acceded to that plan, in the event there had been no marriage, which, of course, there would not have been. Steadfast Romantic that he was, he promised to ride up on his white horse, sweep Belinda away, and deliver her into the arms of her doting aunt.

It was a lovely, chivalrous image straight out of a fairy tale, and he would probably do it if he could. Silly man. White horses were scarce and Belinda would probably scratch his eyes out. But it was a charming offer.

She and Simon breakfasted early in the large dining room that catered to stagecoach passengers who generally had little more than twenty minutes to spare before the stage departed. A long buffet was laid out to provide a fast meal. One group was
just finishing when they entered the room, and waiters lined up to assist each passenger with hats, shawls, coats, and umbrellas so no time would be wasted. The sound of the guard blowing his yard of tin could be heard outside.

Even after such a large supper the night before, Simon had been ravenous and took full advantage of the groaning board. How he managed to remain so thin was a mystery. They spent little longer on breakfast than the stage passengers, however, and were soon back on the road through Lancashire toward Westmorland. The Runners had tracked the fugitives as far as Kendal.

The rain had stopped during the night, leaving the morning air fresh and clear. The road to Lancaster was straight and broad, and despite mud and rutting from the rains, they made good time. The wild, windswept northern landscape was fascinating to Eleanor, who’d never been farther north than Derbyshire.

Beyond Preston, there were limestone dales to the east with cliffs and gorges and craggy outcroppings bright in the morning sun. They passed broad sweeps of rough grassland and heathered moors. They crossed several rivers descending from the fells in the east, cutting into deep, lush river valleys. To the west was only flat pastureland supporting vast herds of sheep and the occasional windmill.

Simon watched the scenery with a keen eye,
now and then pointing out some especially beautiful or remarkable feature. “I love the fells,” he said. “I suppose I am partial to hills and mountains.

Eleanor smiled and said, “Wordsworth again?”

“Westover.”

They spoke less often as they took in miles and miles of rolling moorland hills and long vistas across wide valleys. He made one or two disparaging remarks on the new enclosures, but most of the time they enjoyed long stretches of comfortable silence. A new bond had been forged between them the night before—friendship? amity? understanding?—and it seemed to have changed the very air they breathed.

As they sat side by side in the carriage that had been their tiny, confined world for five days, there was no longer any hint of awkwardness or tension or unease. They were perfectly relaxed together, as if they’d known each other all their lives. If there hadn’t been the uncertainty about Belinda weighing heavy upon her, Eleanor would have said she was perfectly happy for the first time in years.

It was almost frightening.

There was room enough for three on the carriage seat, so there was more than enough space to ac
commodate the two of them. But when the swaying and bouncing and jostling of the carriage bumped them up against each other, neither of them moved. They sat close together in the center of the bench, their shoulders and thighs touching, and sometimes their hips, their arms, their hands, their feet.

There were moments when Eleanor was so aware of Simon’s physical presence, points of contact sparked shimmers of heat that danced through her body and gathered in a single spot pulsing low in her belly. Once she had to let the window down partway to cool off. For the most part, however, it was a comfortable closeness, and that, too, was frightening. She did not want to become too accustomed to Simon’s presence, though it would be the easiest thing in the world to do.

His interest in her was obvious. He did not even try to hide his regard. And though she knew very well that he was nothing at all like Henry, she was not quite ready to let down her guard. After all, he adored women, according to his brother, and apparently had been involved with several. But he was not married and claimed still to be seeking his true love. That could only mean that he dallied and flirted and trifled without purpose. Eleanor had no intention of being the object of his or any other man’s dalliance ever again.

If only he didn’t feel so good beside her.

Simon was prepared to spend the rest of his life in the carriage. Though it was normally cramped
for a man of his height, he could not recall when he’d felt so cozy and comfortable.

She felt so good beside him.

The more he learned of Eleanor Tennant, the more infatuated he became. He’d learned a great deal last night, and had come closer to tumbling off that ledge into something deeper. In fact, he was fairly certain he had already tumbled and was falling. There was a strange light-headedness about him, as though he were floating.

It was odd to think he might have found the woman of his dreams in someone so very different from himself. It wasn’t so much her cynicism, which was justifiable given what she’d been through and could probably be mollified over time once a little joy entered her life. The differences were more basic.

Simon would most likely always be a Romantic at heart, whereas Eleanor’s nature was practical. He did not believe her youthful folly had been the result of any romantic disposition so much as simple naïveté. He could not imagine her ever succumbing to sentiment. Where he was sensitive, she was sensible. Where he was whimsical, she was level-headed. Where he preferred to lose himself in an epic poem, she preferred a history or biography.

Perhaps the old saying about how opposites attract was true, for he was definitely attracted to Eleanor. So much so that he had thought he might die if he didn’t touch her, and had exaggerated the jostling movement of the carriage just to bump
against her. When she hadn’t moved away, he had closed his eyes and savored the sensation.

It was almost more than he could bear. He was so damned aware of her that his skin seemed to tingle all over. It was like having an itch he couldn’t scratch. He
could
scratch it, he supposed, though he didn’t believe that, once started, he’d be able to stop.

And there was the problem in a nutshell. He wanted her so badly, with so a fierce hunger, that he wanted to devour her. Bite by delicious bite. If he gave in to those urges, however, she would think him no better than old Henry Scapegrace.

So he took what pleasure he could—quite a lot, actually—from the simple closeness of her and the occasional chaste touch of an arm, a hand, a leg. But, Lord, how he would like to kiss her again.

They were to stop at Garstang for their first change of horses. The postboys slowed the team as they entered the town, and Eleanor said, “Oh, look at all the oak boughs. How lovely. I’d forgotten what day it is.”

“By Jove, so had I.” Most of the brick houses and whitewashed cottages had boughs of oak leaves tied in bunches over their doors or decorating their windows. “Oak Apple Day. And look where we’re going.”

The carriage was being led into the yard of a posting inn serendipitously called the Royal Oak. The galleried yard was festive green with boughs and garlands. Simon hopped out to pay for the
new team—the postillions would stay with them until Lancaster—and was almost struck down by the thundering entrance of the Royal Mail. He dashed to safety beneath the overhanging gallery and watched the action.

The sleek black and maroon coach, with its distinctive red wheels and royal cipher on the door, rocked and swayed with the hurried, efficient action of the ostlers. The caped coachman kept his seat, but leaned down for a brief word with a pretty maid in white apron and cap who handed him a mug of ale. The dour red-coated guard, who had sat rigid and important upon the seat in the back, blunderbuss and horn at the ready, now jumped from his perch to receive the mail. A bag was handed to him, and he opened the boot beneath his seat, tossed it in, and hopped back on board. By the time the coachman had taken a long swallow of ale, the new team was in place and ready to go. He quickly handed down the mug, saluted the maid with his whip, and with a blast from the guard’s horn, steered the team out of the yard and down the road at a cracking pace. It had all taken place in little more than two minutes.

Somewhat less important than the Mail, Simon had to wait his turn for his own change of team as there was one other post chaise ahead of him. He used the time to procure a tankard of ale for himself and a glass of lemonade for Eleanor. He handed it up to her through the carriage window. “Quite a sight, eh?” he said.

“Indeed. And all I can say is thank heavens Be
linda and Barkwith didn’t take the Mail. We’d never have caught up with them. They don’t waste a moment, do they?”

“They have a very strict schedule, to be sure. As boys, Malcolm and I used to sneak down to Picadilly to watch the Mail coaches depart. It was the height of excitement, as I recall.” Their new team was almost ready, so he took Eleanor’s glass and handed it, along with his tankard, to a passing maid with a tray. He opened the door and took his seat once again, wondering if she would notice if he slid over a bit toward the center.

“Here’s another thing I remember from my boyhood,” he said. “Since you are not wearing an oak leaf, I believe you are going to have to be pinched, my dear. It’s an Oak Apple Day tradition.”

She smiled warily. “But you are not wearing one, either.”

“Oh, but I am.” He held open his coat to show a bright green leaf stuffed into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I took the liberty of filching one from the inn. But you, madam, are oakless, and you know what that means.”

She laughed and scooted across the seat as far away from him as she could get. Damn. He’d bungled that one.

“If you dare to pinch me, sir, I shall be forced to defend myself. And you have already suffered one of my blows, so you should know I have no qualms about doing it again. Besides, I don’t believe I know you well enough to allow a pinch.”

“How can you say so?” He pressed a hand to his chest as though wounded. “I thought we were old friends?”

“Hardly old. We’ve only known each other five days.”

“Oh, much longer than that. Only think. In these five days we have spent upward of sixteen hours a day together. If you break that down into minutes, and compare the total against all the minutes spent in the company of friends, I would say ours is the equivalent of an acquaintance of several months at least.”

She smiled and said, “You have a point there. I think.”

“Yes, and because that makes us old friends, I must act as one and protect you against any other threats of pinching you may encounter today.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out two more oak leaves, crushed but green. “Here you are, my dear. Wear them in peace, in honor of that merry old monarch, King Charles.”

She tucked the leaves into the buckle of her pelisse and hurriedly grabbed the strap just as the postillions gave the horses their heads, jerking them both hard against the seat back.

They continued to see signs of the day as they passed through tiny hamlets and villages on the road north, with festive boughs over doorways and hung from church towers. As they spoke of childhood memories of Oak Apple Day, Eleanor—
and this was his own fault, dammit—kept her place on the far side of the bench, with only the most pronounced jostling of the carriage bringing them into momentary contact.

They eventually came to the town of Lancaster, where they would make another change of horses. It was an old town situated on the looping River Lune, dominated by the castle on a rise overlooking the tangle of narrow streets and lanes below.

The yard at the posting inn was crowded with several yellow bounders, two other private chaises, and the great hulk of the Liverpool & Kendal
Expedition
preparing to depart. The coachman was already at his post, and the horses snorted and pawed the ground, anxious to be off. The cocky, officious guard was rounding up passengers as they left the coffee room, herding them like geese toward the big stagecoach, shouting out warnings that stragglers would be left behind.

Simon’s stomach growled at the sight of the coffee room and suggested they stop for a quick meal.