Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (22 page)

Eleanor slid her thumb across the tip of his manhood, and he shuddered, then raised himself above her. He parted her legs with his knee and claimed her, advancing inside with one powerful thrust.

He held still for one interminable moment, then began to move.

Eleanor took all he that he gave, sliding against him as the sensations grew and built inside her. Every nerve in her body hummed. Her blood boiled and her bones seemed to melt under his sensual onslaught.

He grasped each of her hands, raised his head and looked at her, spearing her with sensual promise. Intense waves of pleasure shuddered through her suddenly, shattering the tautness in her legs and chest, making her cry out with abandon.

Beckworth continued to move inside her, and the tension built as he quickened his rhythm. Eleanor felt close to shattering again. She could not tear her eyes from his as she wrapped her legs around his hips and forced an even greater contact between them.

This time, she squeezed her eyes closed as the powerful sensations overtook her. Beckworth’s body contracted once, then again, and he gave a guttural cry of release.

For several long moments, they remained still, as their breathing returned to normal and their hearts slowed. Then Andrew raised himself up on his arms and hovered over her.

Eleanor’s heart ached with confusion. Her physical joining with Andrew could not have touched her more deeply. And yet those damnable documents hung over her as real and as heartbreaking as ever.

She touched his face with her fingers, tentatively drawing a line from his cheek to his mouth, and gave a last shudder of pleasure as he withdrew from her and lay by her side, pulling her with him.

Eleanor could do naught but savor the moment in silence. She tucked her head under his chin and slid her foot along his leg. His body jerked with the stimulation, and he drew her closer, kissing the top of her head with such tenderness, Eleanor felt her heart clench in her breast.

If only she could believe him.

Andrew awoke well before dawn. To his great satisfaction, Eleanor had slept spooned against him all night. He had finally made progress, and he doubted she would look twice at Parris – or any other man – again.

She remained sound asleep when he eased away from her and left the bed.

He pulled on his trousers and gathered up his other discarded clothes, then pressed a kiss against her temple before returning to his own room so that when her maid came to help her dress, she would not find him there.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, feeling replete. Eleanor was exactly as he remembered her – sensual, responsive, amazing. There had been few words between them during their lovemaking, but it was clearer than ever that Andrew would never care for another as he cared for Eleanor.

He took to his own bed and slept awhile longer, and within minutes after he awoke, Grayson appeared with all that Andrew needed to prepare for the day.

“You are as cheerful as the larks this morning, if I may say so, Your Grace.”

“How did Carrick fare through the night?” Andrew asked, diverting the conversation away from himself.

“He had a fitful night,” Grayson replied. “We gave him another dose of laudanum halfway through.”

A quiet knock at the door interrupted them. It was Thornberry, and he handed a note to Grayson. “A message for His Grace from Lord Stillwater.”

Grayson handed it to Andrew, who read it quickly.

Damn all, his time with Eleanor was already limited. He was reasonably sure he’d won her once again, but he was reluctant to leave her and take care of this business with Carrick. The feelings of peace and contentment that had made him “cheerful as the larks” slid away. He had no choice in this. If Weatherby were ultimately to blame for the attempt on Carrick’s life, Stillwater would never be able to bring charges against him, even though he was magistrate here. The Earl of Weatherby would be too powerful in his own district.

Only a duke could bring him down.

“Send Harry out to get our horses saddled, his and mine,” he said to Thornberry. “We’re going to Reading.”

Perhaps this would not take long. According to the note, Stillwater had at least one of Carrick’s assailants in custody, and with questioning, he might well divulge Weatherby’s part in the plot.

Andrew and Harry rode to Reading, and soon arrived at the hospitium where Andrew was to meet Stillwater. He left his horse with the footman and went inside where he was greeted by a constable. They walked together to the back of the building, and Andrew saw Baron Stillwater coming toward him from the far end of the corridor. “Your Grace . . .”

“I hope you have not had to wait long, Stillwater. You have the men here?”

“Only one, I’m afraid. He says he acted alone.”

“But there are witnesses to the contrary.”

“Aye,” Stillwater replied with some disgust.

“Who is this man?”

“His name is Clyde Tatum, and he is here in town with a troupe of traveling performers.”

“I’d like to speak to him.”

“Of course.” Stillwater led him into a room where a burly constable stood guard. Tatum sat in a straight-back chair at a table, scowling as he stared downward. He was no larger than average, but in his shirtsleeves, Andrew could see that his arms and shoulders were well developed. He guessed the man was one of the gymnasts performing in town and was no doubt much stronger than Jasper Carrick.

“Get to your feet, man,” Stillwater said. His harsh tone was one Andrew had not heard him use before.

Tatum stood quickly, looking up. He swallowed heavily, his eyes shifting away from Andrew before he spoke. “’Twas his fault, I swear. I never would ha’ touched him if he hadn’t come after me first.”

Of course it was a lie. Carrick was not a physical man. He never would have attempted a brute confrontation, especially with a ruffian such as Tatum, and certainly not a group of men. “Where exactly did he come after you?”

“Out on the bridge when I was walkin’ back to my company.” He looked down at the table as he spoke. “He was a mean cull. Took hold o’ me jacket and started to lay—”

“Look at me, Tatum,” Andrew said. “You are saying that my bookish secretary attacked you? The man with the soft, ink-stained fingers, the man wearing thick spectacles, which are now at the bottom of the river?”

The man turned his gaze upon Andrew, then glanced away. “He . . . uh . . .”

“He did not attack you at all, did he?”

“Aye, he—”

“You and your friends were the aggressors, Tatum, admit it.”

The man wiped a hand across his face, glancing nervously about. “I-I . . .”

“What did Lord Weatherby’s man say to you?”

“He said—” Tatum stopped speaking abruptly. His jaw worked nervously. “Who?”

“You know exactly who I mean, Tatum. The nobleman whose orders you received in the public house last night, just before you attacked Mr. Carrick.”

“I didn’t attack him!” He lunged at Andrew. “I swear, he was—”

The constable restrained Tatum, who did not put up a fight.

“Where are your cohorts?”

“My what?”

“The other men who attacked my footman and secretary, and helped you toss Carrick over the bridge.”

“We didn’t toss nobody,” Tatum growled. Then he corrected himself. “And there wasn’t nobody wi’ me, neither.”

Andrew continued to question the man, but he made little progress. Tatum became defiant and, though he finally named one accomplice, he would not implicate Weatherby. Even after the second man was brought in, the two remained inflexible, insisting Carrick had attacked them.

Andrew walked out of the hospitium beside Stillwater. “Where does Weatherby live?” he asked. “It’s time I spoke to him directly.”

Eleanor heard a light tap at her door and cracked her eyelids open. She could not believe she’d slept so soundly, or so long, judging by the light coming through her curtains.

She sat up suddenly and pulled back the blankets, relieved to find herself alone in bed. She lay back down. “Yes, come in, Lizzie.”

The maid entered the room with a ewer of hot water and a smile. “You’ve slept quite late again, Miss. The country air must agree with you.” She put the ewer next to the basin and went to the window to open the curtains.

Eleanor saw her chemise lying on the floor beside the bed and felt her face heat as she quickly reached down and pulled it into the bed with her. “Yes, I . . . I’m afraid I overslept.”

“Not to worry. Your aunt is content, drinking her tea in the garden.”

“And Beckworth?”

“Oh, he’s gone. He left some time ago. Quite early, actually.”

Eleanor suddenly felt paralyzed in place. He’d gone? After all this time, after all her demands that he leave, he’d only seen fit to go after he’d thoroughly seduced her? The man was impossible.

She lay still, fully covered by her blanket. She could not let Lizzie see that she was completely naked, or the maid would surely suspect the truth.

Eleanor could hardly believe it, herself. She’d spent most of the previous evening making sure he understood she did not want him there, only to have him kiss her senseless in the pantry, and then allow him to seduce her until she became boneless in his arms.

“H-have you heard how Mr. Carrick fares?” she asked as Beckworth’s departure sank in. Oh, how she hated this feeling of desolation, knowing that he had finally gone.

“He survived the night, but Mrs. Thornberry said he is feverish. The duke checked on him before he left.”

“So . . . Beckworth is really, g-gone?” she asked, somehow managing to keep her voice from quivering. “He packed up and . . . ?”

Lizzie chuckled. “No, Miss, much as you would like him to go. He went to meet Lord Stillwater in Reading.”

Eleanor stilled the trembling in her hands and slowed her rapid breathing. She should not feel any sort of relief whatsoever. She was a fool to allow such intimacies with Beckworth before determining the veracity of Weatherby’s allegations. “I believe I’ll have a bath this morning, Lizzie.”

“Of course, Miss,” Lizzie said, with surprise evident in her voice. “Sally and I will have it ready in no time at all. Shall we put it in the blue room?”

Her mother’s room. “Yes, thank you.”

As soon as Lizzie went downstairs, Eleanor quickly pulled on her chemise and tied the straps. Returning to her bed, she drew her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, trying to steady her emotions.

She could hardly credit that what had happened last night was real. How could she have let go of her good senses so easily? All Beck had had to do was touch her, and kiss her, and she had forgotten why he was so unacceptable.

But it had felt so very right, touching him, loving him. Was he truly the cad Weatherby painted him?

Oh, why was everything so complicated?

Lizzie returned after a short while. “The bath is ready, Miss.”

Eleanor pulled on a banyan and went to her mother’s bedchamber. While she soaked in the heated water, her emotions warred with her good sense, and her eyes filled with tears.

Eleanor pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Did she dare trust in Beckworth? Could she risk her heart again?

Not until she knew who had lied to her: Weatherby or the duke.