Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (18 page)

“Where is your maid?” he whispered.

“Asleep, I suppose.”

“You should ring for her.”

Eleanor hesitated. Yes, she ought to call Lizzie. But the dream still teased her senses. “Andrew, when we . . .”

“When we what, Ellie?” His voice was soft and seductive, and whatever she was going to ask him slid from her mind. All she wanted was to feel the clasp of his arms around her. She wanted her cheek pressed against his chest. Wanted to taste the masculine tang of his skin.

She shook her head, and when she turned to face him, he pulled her close. She felt his hands on the buttons that closed the back of her gown.

She shivered, her body warring with her mind. “No, Andrew.”

“Yes.”

Andrew released the buttons at Eleanor’s nape, and worked his way down while keeping her in the circle of his arms. She was so close he could feel her heart pounding against him, feel her warm breath on his throat.

The window was open and a slight breeze rippled the curtains, and brought in the night scents. The air felt sultry and seductive. Andrew could think of little else but taking Eleanor to the wide bed and easing her down to the cool, crisp sheets. He wanted to kiss her senseless, to make her understand that he did not deserve her mistrust.

He released each button slowly and carefully, relishing the warmth of her skin against his knuckles as he worked his way down. He felt her shiver, but he managed to resist kissing her.

“Now your stays,” he said as the bodice of her dress fell forward.

“Beck—”

He turned her gently, then performed the task her maid would have done. A task he would gladly perform every night after they were wed.

He loosened the garment enough that she could slip out of it herself, then bent and kissed her shoulder. He released her. “Good night, Angel.”

He left her bedroom and descended the stairs, moving reluctantly but purposefully, to the ground floor. Once down, he went through the house to the conservatory and out the door to the rain-scented air. He needed to clear his head.

The best way would be through a cold swim in the lake, but it was too late and too dark for that. Instead, he lit a cheroot and took the path from the garden toward the stable. He needed to focus his thoughts on something, anything but Eleanor.

But that turned out to be impossible.

After a few frustrated moments, he tossed down his spent cheroot and returned to the house. He did not bother to rouse Grayson, but prepared for bed on his own, painfully aware that he was no more likely to get a good night’s sleep now than he had the previous night. Not when Eleanor was lying in her bed, so very close to his own.

He hoped she was as aroused and sleepless as he was.

Lizzie came into the bedroom far too early the next morning, and Eleanor could not help but notice the puzzled glance her maid cast toward the clothes draped haphazardly over the chair. Eleanor gave no explanation. Lord, she hardly had one for herself.

Except that she had spent a good deal of the night lying awake and restless, hear heart full of confusion and dismay.

Had Lord Weatherby somehow figured a way to trick her? It was impossible to fathom why in the world he would do such a thing. He was an old family friend who only wanted what was best for her, in spite of her father’s plans for her.

Eleanor could not help but mourn what she had lost – the life she had dreamed of with Beckworth.

She still wanted him. She wanted far more than he’d given her last night when he’d undressed her and then left her alone. She’d yearned for his kisses, for his intimate touch.

She’d missed him quite desperately during the past year, though a week ago, she would have denied it to the very depths of her being. Even now, she did not know if she could trust him to care for her as she cared for him. Because anything less than his whole heart would be devastating.

Eleanor asked Lizzie to fetch a cool wet cloth for her eyes. They still felt puffy and raw after the long night, and she needed a moment’s peace before she faced the day.

Faced Beckworth.

Luckily, Lizzie said nothing about Eleanor neglecting to summon her last night. The last thing she wanted was to try to come up with an excuse for her unconventional behavior.

As Lizzie quit the room, Eleanor tried to purge her mind of all her troubling thoughts, but she could not forget Lord Weatherby’s accusations, nor could she unsee those papers he’d shown her with Beckworth’s seal on them. There was no question that he’d purchased a house in Chelsea for that horrid Mrs. Dumont.

Mrs. Dumont. It made her ill even to think of Beckworth lying with such a woman. A widow, or some sort of person with loose morals, sharing the intimacies Eleanor had believed belonged to her and Beckworth alone.

Eleanor had known Lord Weatherby all her life, and he and her father had been on very friendly terms. He wouldn’t have wanted to sabotage what everyone had called a brilliant match – for her, at least. Not without good reason.

Andrew could have done far better than Eleanor for a wife; Lord Weatherby had said so. But a more sophisticated woman, one with marriage terms negotiated by a respectable father, would not have been entirely beholden to Andrew. Such a wife would be more likely to take exception to her husband’s mistresses, unlike a wife who had little more to offer her husband than a charming smile.

Even now, it hurt to know that on the very eve of their wedding, Andrew had purchased a house in which to keep his mistress. It was as humiliating as it was hurtful.

Lizzie returned, and Eleanor let the cool, wet cloth work some magic on her tired eyes and a niggling headache. When she finally rose from her bed, Lizzie helped her to dress, and she left her bedroom.

Eleanor started for the stairs, where the aroma of Mrs. Thornberry’s cooking was strong. But her mother’s bedroom door was wide open, as though beckoning to her. Unable to face the myth of her parents’ lives, she pulled the door closed and went downstairs.

There’d been so many lies. Lies that had ruined lives. Eleanor did not understand how her mother could have renounced her marriage and then allowed the world to believe her husband bore the blame for it. It had been a hateful thing to do.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs, feeling helpless. She could not change the past. All she could do was protect her heart. She could not bear to have it broken again.

Minerva was just going into the breakfast room when Eleanor alighted on the main floor. “Have you seen Beckworth yet?” she asked her aunt. She should make him leave Primrose Manor, at least until she understood exactly why Lord Weatherby had interfered with her marriage to him. She had to find out how he’d gotten hold of those purchase papers. Until then, Eleanor needed to keep her distance from Beckworth. She needed to stay rational, and not be swayed by his kisses or his touch.

“He’s left the house,” Minerva replied. “It seems one must arise quite early in the morning if one is to see him before he goes about his business.”

“Where did he go?” Eleanor asked.

“I do not know,” she replied. “But you ought to be concerned, Eleanor. Carrying on with Silas Winter as you did last night.”

“Carrying on? I was merely being hospitable toward an old friend.” And keeping Beckworth at arm’s length – until she’d awakened in the conservatory and found him waiting for her.

“Well, you will be fortunate if Beckworth does not misinterpret your hospitality as something entirely different.”

By the time Lady Fairmont’s luncheon had concluded, Andrew’s throat was raw from talking about Sir Robert’s bill and all the others that were currently being debated in Parliament. It was the last place he’d wanted to be this morning.

But he had done what he could, and he was going to make Eleanor his priority from now on.

“How did it seem, Your Grace?” Carrick asked when Andrew rendezvoused with him and his footmen near the livery. “Did you win over enough votes to make the difference?”

Andrew shook his head. “It will be close. I’ve spoken to a lot of Members over the past two days, but Weatherby has been right behind me at every turn. I wish I knew what he planned to do next.”

“With your permission, sir . . .”

“Yes?”

“I should like to remain here in Reading this afternoon and see if I can uncover any other plans Lord Weatherby might have. We saw quite a number of peers coming and going from the Three Horsemen Tavern. I could stay there and perhaps hear something useful . . .”

Andrew nodded. “’Tis a good idea.” He turned to his two footmen. “Matthew, stay with Carrick. Harry, back to Primrose Manor with me.”

It was a fine afternoon with only a few wispy clouds in the sky. Even so, Andrew could not find fault with the rain yesterday that had sent him to the ancient shelter with Eleanor. She was coming around. He had felt it then, and again last night, when he’d undressed her.

There were guests at Eleanor’s home when they arrived. Andrew did not recognize the carriage, but it was well-appointed and expensive. Harry took charge of the horses, taking them to the stable, and Andrew went into the house through the front door, where he was greeted by Thornberry.

“Who is here?” he asked the butler. He did not think that sort of carriage would belong to Solicitor Evanhurst.

“It is Mr. Parris, along with the Fieldings – his sister and her husband.”

“Ah. The barrister.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Andrew went into the drawing room, where the first person he saw was Eleanor, sitting on the sofa next to Joshua Parris. He had to force himself not to grit his teeth.

“Ah, Duke,” Minerva said. “May I present to you our friends, Mr. and Mrs. George Fielding? And you know Mr. Parris, of course. Mrs. Fielding is his sister.”

Mrs. Fielding was quite obviously with child, and she remained seated as her husband stood and greeted Andrew. Though they were pleasant company, it was turning out to be something other than the afternoon he’d hoped for.

At least Viscount Maryfield wasn’t present.

Mrs. Thornberry served lemonade and pastries while Eleanor chatted sociably with her company. If anyone thought it was odd that her jilted fiancé happened to be residing at Primrose Manor, no one mentioned it.