Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (17 page)

Silas rose to his feet then, and took Minerva’s hand. “Yes, it has, Miss Easton,” he said, bowing over it. “My condolences upon your loss.”

“Thank you, young man.” She turned to Eleanor. “Your clothes are—”

“Yes, Aunt. I was just going up to my room to change.” Eleanor started to go, but stopped and spoke on impulse. “See if you can convince Maryfield to join us for supper.”

“F-for supper.” Minerva said it as though she could not quite believe her ears. No doubt she thought it would be a good time for Eleanor and Beckworth to sort out their differences and get on with the business of marrying each other.

“Yes, do,” she said, and could almost feel Beckworth’s anger. She made a quick escape upstairs to her room where she found herself blessedly alone. Lizzie must be in the laundry or kitchen. And Aunt Minerva had had no choice but to remain in the drawing room with Silas and Beckworth.

Eleanor struggled to unfasten the buttons that trailed down her back to her waist, but the trouble was worth it, not to have to face Lizzie or anyone else right now. She needed a few minutes alone.

Something must be wrong with her. She wanted nothing to do with Beckworth, and yet she’d kissed him as though her life depended upon it. She’d wrapped her hand around his—

“Dear heavens,” she muttered. “I’ve lost my mind.”

She opened the wardrobe and chose one of her favorite gowns, a simple, pale blue dress that she’d often worn in Italy. It was not black, but she was not expecting any more guests, and Silas was unlikely to notice. She would wear what she liked in her own home. Besides, it was the only gown she owned whose few fastenings were easy to reach.

She stood before her mirror and made a few minor repairs to her hair, then breathed in deeply and left her room. She had no plan other than to entertain Silas as though he might have been the man of her dreams.

And Beckworth a poor second. Or even third, if she considered Joshua Parris.

She stopped in the doorway, pressing a hand to her breast. It was all so absurd. She would never want a man like Silas, one so full of himself he seemed to think his mere presence was a boon to the household. Why, he’d barely stood to take Minerva’s hand.

Beckworth would never believe he was actually a contender for her hand.

She started for the staircase but came to an abrupt stop when she encountered Beckworth, who must have come up to divest himself of his own wet clothes. He carried his sodden coat over one arm and approached her without hesitation.

His eyes smoldered the way they’d done only a short while ago in the Roman ruins, and Eleanor felt a corresponding heat begin to pool in her nether regions. She forced herself to ignore it.

“If you think to distract me from my purpose with the arrival of the oily viscount downstairs,” he said, “you are mistaken.”

Eleanor swallowed. He had been the one to put a stop to their reckless, wholly imprudent lovemaking, and she knew she had given him entirely the wrong impression.

She raised her chin defiantly. “And if you think your presence here, or that . . . that misadventure in the Roman ruins has changed my mind, you are mistaken, Duke.”

She stood her ground, but when he moved forward and cupped her jaw with his large hand, she had to fight the urge to close her eyes and lean into his caress.

She did not want this.

Eleanor stepped back. “If you’ll pardon me . . .” She moved past him to the stairs and descended, forcing a composure she did not quite feel.

She met Lizzie in the foyer. “Oh! Miss Easton, I would have helped you change. You only had to ring.”

Eleanor shook her head. “I knew you must be busy, and it was no trouble. Is Mrs. Thornberry ready to serve supper yet?”

“Nearly so, Miss. She sent me to tell you that the meal will be ready in half an hour.”

“Very good.”

Lizzie went away, and Eleanor thought about what she should do. March back upstairs and tell Beckworth to get out now, when he would have a long ride to London, much of which would have to take place after dark?

Take him to her bed tonight and satisfy the urges he brought out in her?

She felt faint for a moment, at the very thought of it.

“Eleanor? Is that you?” Minerva gave a gentle, ladylike call from the drawing room.

Eleanor mustered the courage she needed to get through the evening and joined Minerva and Silas. “Yes, Aunt. I’m here.”

“Oh, but you’re wearing—”

“Yes, I know, but I did not think Silas would be offended by my lack of mourning attire. We are just at home, and no one else will see me.”

“But the duke . . .”

“Can go hang,” she muttered.

“Pardon, my dear?”

“He is changing clothes.” She went to the sofa and sat down across from Silas.

“So . . . Beckworth is your houseguest?” Silas asked, his tone suggesting the impropriety of such an arrangement.

Minerva rushed to answer before Eleanor could say a word. “The duke had business in Reading, so . . . of course I invited him to stay here at Primrose Manor.”

Eleanor hid a smile behind her hand, and somehow endured a half hour of Silas’s braggadocio regarding his recent exploits during his travels in Germany and France. It wasn’t until Beckworth joined them and asked him why he intended to stand against Sir Robert Peel’s new law that he stopped talking about himself.

“It is absurd, of course,” Silas said.

“Absurd?” Beckworth glared at him.

“Of course,” Silas responded. “I have friends in the midlands who rely on those brats to make their factories profitable.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Of course I am,” Silas said. “They are lucky to have employment, else they would be in the poor houses with their useless relations.”

“So, these children ought to be glad for the opportunity to work in a filthy factory where they must labor from dawn till dark?”

“Well . . . yes,” Silas responded with a shrug, as though the conclusion were obvious. “These people are a drain on society. They are drunkards and derelicts, mostly, none of whom contribute to the greater good. Except for the work they do in the factories.”

Eleanor was as shocked as Beckworth was angry, judging by the way the duke’s color darkened and his jaw tightened. It was time to change the subject.

“Tell me, Silas,” she broke in quickly, “how does your mother fare these days?”

Before he could answer, Beckworth shoved his chair away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and took his leave from the dining room with no excuse, and without a backward glance.

The damned fool spoke as though he had not just offered the most inane logic for opposing the labor bill. Andrew knew the idiot’s opinion – Carrick had already told him Maryfield was a lost cause. But such callous stupidity never failed to raise Andrew’s ire.

He went to the back of the house and found Carrick having his meal in the kitchen with the other servants.

“When you are finished, Carrick, meet me in the study.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Right away.”

“Do not rush your meal.” Andrew went to the study, his appetite ruined by the simpleton in the dining room. He knew there were others who held the same views as Maryfield. And they were so firmly convinced of their ridiculous opinions there was no argument that could counter them.

Of course the poor were not responsible for their low state. Maryfield owed his own status to the luck of his birth. Beckworth would love to see that bird-wit try to survive without wealth or privilege.

Andrew crossed his arms over his chest and gazed out the window. As to survival, he did not know how much longer he could survive without Eleanor. He knew her dinner invitation to Maryfield was merely a ploy to put some distance between them after their passionate encounter in the ancient shelter. But it was not going to work.

He intended to renew their intimacy on a far deeper level as soon as possible.

Rain pelted the window, and Andrew realized Maryfield would not be leaving any time soon. It served Eleanor right, having to put up with that vacuous sapscull until the weather permitted him to leave.

Carrick entered the study, giving Andrew a reprieve from his circular, unproductive thoughts. “Your Grace,” he said.

Andrew turned to face him, gesturing for him to sit. “Lady Claymere said there is to be a luncheon tomorrow at the Royal Arms Hotel.”

“Yes?”

“I think I’d better attend.” Because Maryfield wasn’t the only leather-head who believed the misinformation and distortions spewed by Squeers and others like him. “We cannot afford another defector from our cause.”

“I agree, sir.”

They spoke of business matters, and by the time Andrew dismissed Carrick, it was late and the rain had passed, but he was nowhere near ready to sleep. He felt a nervous energy that was due, in part, to the challenge of besting Weatherby at his game.

But mostly it was the frustration of having to share Eleanor with Maryfield. He’d noted her expressions during their meal and knew the viscount’s company had not amused her, either. And yet she did not seem at all inclined to bid the fool good night and send him on his way.

When Andrew finally came out of the study, the house was entirely quiet. Somehow, he’d missed the moment of Maryfield’s departure, and now Eleanor was likely in her bedchamber, no doubt being attended by her maid.

He jammed his fingers through his hair and headed for the conservatory. He could use a smoke just about now.

Eleanor awoke with a start and quickly realized she was not in her bed. She’d gone out to the conservatory after Silas had left, and must have fallen asleep in a chair. She’d been dreaming again, this time, of Beckworth.

She could still feel the kisses he’d pressed to her mouth and neck, feel the ache deep inside that only he could fill. If only—

She sat up quickly and looked around. She was alone, and it was dark.

Eleanor felt more than a little bit horrified at having fallen asleep in her chair. It must have been a while ago, for it had been just past dusk when she’d come out.

Rising to her feet, she staggered slightly, still feeling some drowsiness and a deep-seated yearning for something that would never be.

And then she saw him. Andrew, standing at the conservatory door.

He came to her, his gait slow and steady. Confident. “You have a crease here . . .” he said when he reached her. He touched her face. “From the chair. You were asleep?”

Eleanor nodded, more than a bit surprised at herself. Silas had left shortly after the meal, and Eleanor had not been able to settle herself anywhere in the house. Not with reading or sewing, not with drawing.

Not after Andrew had roused such a mad lust in her. She hadn’t believed she would ever be able to fall asleep.

“It has been a long week for you, Angel,” Andrew said, cupping her cheek. “Come on, I’ll walk you upstairs.”

“No, I—”

“No arguments.” He took her hand. “’Tis late, and you need some real sleep.”

He lit a lamp in the conservatory and picked it up to light their way through the house. Eleanor found she did not have the energy to protest his attentions. She let him escort her upstairs to her bedroom and stood close to him as he opened the door.