Forbidden Lord (16 page)

So it was hardly surprising that he was attracted by Eleanor. They were both handsome and free, and despite Eleanor being who she was, none of what had happened had been her fault. Lady Alice had grown fond of the girl and would be as sorry to see her leave as Jane and Anne would be.

‘Eleanor—about you and William…'

Eleanor glanced at her sharply, her heart sinking. ‘Yes?'

‘Forgive me, but I am not blind—or as unsympathetic as you probably think I am. My giddy daughters may walk around with their heads in the air and their eyes blinkered, but it wasn't difficult for me to see that a—a fondness has grown between you and my son.'

Eleanor felt her pointed stare and lowered her eyes as a blush deepened the hue on her cheeks. The fact that Lady Alice was aware of the intimacy between herself and William made it difficult to meet the older woman's gaze and pretend innocence.

‘It was no more than a foolish infatuation between two people brought together by circumstance—no more than that.'

Lady Alice nodded, saying no more. So clever were her eyes they could read Eleanor's face, but if she scented an untruth in what Eleanor had said she held her tongue. Eleanor was grateful for her discretion.

‘You do realise that William will expect to find you here when he returns.'

‘I—I am sure you will explain everything, why I had to leave.'

Lady Alice's lips twisted wryly. ‘I'm not at all sure why you are leaving, Eleanor.'

‘You will. When William returns to Staxton Hall, everything will be revealed to you.' How would she react when she discovered her beloved son had gone to London to be reconciled with Catherine? Anger stirred inside her. Could he not have spared her, Eleanor, this indignity, and why had her life been transformed into this irretrievable disaster?

Unbeknown to Eleanor, LadyAlice was as informed as she was about the letter the messenger had brought. She knew how things had once stood between William and Catherine Atwood, and that he'd had strong feelings for her. But so much time had elapsed and so many things had happened, which included Catherine's marriage to someone else, she thought it was ended. But when William had told her Catherine's husband had died in a tragic accident and he had left for London immediately, like Eleanor she, too, thought his feelings for Catherine
might not be dead after all. Perhaps he had told Eleanor and this was her reason for leaving Staxton Hall.

 

The hour was late when Eleanor and the men Aunt Matilda had sent to Staxton Hall to escort her eventually reached Cantly Manor. The manor was a veritable honeycomb of a house, with tall chimneys and the walls a mellow, golden stone. It was a big, cold, gloomy house, devoid of life. Both Eleanor and her mother had hated it when they had stayed here before, but then, with Hollymead taken from them, they'd had nowhere else to go.

Confronted by her aunt and feeling weariness spreading throughout her body like a sodden blanket, Eleanor felt her confidence threatening to slip away like grains of sand in an hourglass.

Matilda Sandford was a small, thin woman, heavily gowned in black satin with a rope of pearls around her thin neck. She had never been as beautiful as her sister Marian, but there was an imperious strength in her pale, lined face that Marian had lacked—perhaps if she had possessed some of Matilda's traits, she would never have married Frederick Atwood.

As Eleanor rose from her curtsy and faced her aunt, the older woman seemed to grow taller, haughtier, while Eleanor felt a thrust of baleful envy for Jane and Anne cocooned in warmth and comfort at Staxton Hall.

Sipping warm spiced wine seated in front of a meagre fire, her aunt sat across from her, watching her closely, her body as straight and rigid as a stone statue. Eleanor knew no appeal could reach her. Marriage to her passive, submissive husband had robbed her of compassion, although perhaps she had always been that way, for Eleanor couldn't remember a time when she had been any different.

‘Your stepfather should never have allowed you to go all that way to Yorkshire. Hollymead was not your home, Eleanor. Oh, it was a terrible thing that happened—the house
burning down like that and resulting in the death of Sir John Collingwood—but it belongs to Sir Walter now.'

‘I know, Aunt Matilda. That is why I am here. I could not stay with LadyAlice any longer—although she was very kind and extremely generous.'

‘Well, I'm glad you saw sense and realised where your loyalties lie—and you will do well to remember it. Of course, when your mother died I wrote to your stepfather asking him to send you here, but he wrote and told me you were settled at Fryston Hall and that you were a companion for Catherine. I assumed you were happy there.'

Eleanor stared at her. ‘You wrote to him?'

‘Of course I did. Marian was my dear sister and when she died you should have come to me.'

With hindsight Eleanor wished she had, for then she would not have had to suffer all the indignities her stepfather had heaped on her—and she would never have met William and be suffering this heartache now.

‘And Martin?' Aunt Matilda asked. ‘You have given marriage to him some thought?'

‘I will consent to become his wife,' Eleanor said, swallowing down her reluctance. It seemed the only thing to do. Whether it was the right thing to do was another matter entirely. She was tired by all the struggle and self-examination concerning it.

Immediately a change came over her aunt and a thin smile stretched her lips. ‘Eleanor, this is wonderful.' She had expected a long drawn-out battle. By giving in, Eleanor had given her an unexpected gift. ‘I am well pleased, as I know Lord Taverner will be.'

Relieved, you mean, Eleanor thought. Relieved that you will not have the disgrace of an unmarried niece living with you and relieved that you will be closely connected to the Taverner family at last. And of course Lord Taverner would be both relieved and delighted.

‘I'm happy that you've put aside your whims and fancies and see that marriage to Martin is an excellent match.' Her smile reminded Eleanor of a hoar frost. Privately Matilda had been disconcerted by Eleanor's defiance in the past and was relieved that she had agreed to comply to her wishes, although she was curious as to what had brought about this change of heart in her high-spirited, strong-willed niece.

‘I realise my situation is dire, Aunt Matilda, with nothing of my own. I—I will do as you wish and marry Martin—if he still wants me, that is. Whether we will be happy is another matter entirely,' she remarked drily.

‘Marriage was never intended to be happy. Fruitful, yes, and we will have to pray that you will succeed in that.'

Eleanor winced at her aunt's plain speaking, but said nothing.

 

Later, when she was in bed, she felt tears fill her eyes and slant from the corners to her temple and into her hair. For the first time since entering Cantly Manor she allowed herself to think of William.

Had Catherine been ready to receive him with open, possessive arms? Lovely Catherine, elegant and graceful—marriageable and highly suitable for a man like William. Was he with her? Was he kissing Catherine like he had kissed her? The memory only served to remind her of the bleakness of the future that filled her world. William had stolen her heart, but his own had not been his to give. Catherine still had claim on that.

Eleanor forced herself to go over every detail of that one night of blissful passion they had shared. It was like a self-scourging, a deliberate act on her part to try and purge herself of the feelings she had for William. If she was able to make herself accept it, to believe it, to be unconcerned that he had returned to Catherine, she had to wallow in the pain of it—like salt in an open wound that was agonizing, but healing—and then she must learn to suffocate all her feelings for him, not think of him. She must force herself to believe that their embraces had
never happened, that everything was the same as before, and she must never compare Martin Taverner with him.

But she knew that the despairing pain she felt would always be there. It might dull with the years, but it would never leave her and she grieved for his loss as though he were dead.

 

Lord Taverner and his son were expected at any time. Aunt Matilda was excited by the visit. Eleanor noted her high colour and the way she fidgeted nervously with her handkerchief. Why, she thought, her aunt was like a young girl awaiting her first swain, whereas Eleanor was seated in the window bay shivering convulsively, partly from dread at the expected visitors and mainly because it was bitterly cold in the big gloomy room with its tapestried walls and carved gilded ceiling. She drew her wrap closer about her as the icy chill seemed to penetrate her very bones, and her aunt's presence did not serve to distract her thoughts from her misery.

And suddenly they had arrived. Eleanor rose to meet the guests, forgetful now of the cold and having made up her mind to be calm and reasonable. Lord Taverner preceded his son. He was a man whom Eleanor had no particular liking for. She had seen him bully Martin in the past, and that had not created a favourable opinion of him. He was of medium height and thickset with a balding pate, his face showing all the signs of good living.

Two paces behind his father, Martin was staring at Eleanor owl-eyed, obviously pleased to see her again and enchanted with his bride-to-be.

Lord Taverner beamed at her. He knew Eleanor Collingwood to be a high-spirited girl and that she had a temper—better if she had been more docile, but beggars can't be choosers, he thought. She was not possessed of a particularly submissive nature, a fact of which her aunt was painfully aware, having disobeyed her stepfather's stricture by running away.

‘We are delighted you have agreed to Martin's marriage
proposal at last, Eleanor. I am looking forward to welcoming you into the Taverner family.'

‘I aim to please.'

Lord Taverner laughed loud. ‘Not only have you a pretty face, my dear, but a pretty tongue, too. As for pleasing me, you will find it an easy task when you and Martin are wed.'

‘As long as her desire to please you is not greater than her desire to please your son,' Matilda ventured, bestowing on her guest one of her rare smiles.

Martin moved to stand in front of Eleanor. His smile was warm. ‘I-I am w-well pleased, Eleanor. It's been so l-long since I saw you—at Catherine's wedding, in fact. I never thought y-you'd accept.'

She made to curtsy but Martin caught her hand tightly in his. ‘Nay, Eleanor, y-you must not kneel to me. You are t-taller than I remember.'

Seeing his shy smile and hearing his stammer—not quite so pronounced as it had been when she had first known him—she relaxed and returned his smile. His remarkably attractive face, his skin as soft as a girl's, was marred only by the hint of sulkiness about his soft, bow-shaped mouth. ‘I have not grown all that much since our last meeting, Martin. You are not tall, but none the less taller than I remember.'

‘You are k-kind, Eleanor. Please believe me,' he said earnestly, ‘that I have no wish to rush you into anything you w-will regret, but if you will allow me, I—I would like for us to be married very s-soon.'

His father's eye fell on him like a black cloud. Martin's stammer was a curse and just one of the numerous grievances he held against his son, and watching the boy survey his own fingernails in a lazy fashion and buff them against his doublet only added to his anger. He had known for years that Martin was soft and weak and not like other men, and he doubted he would ever take a woman. People would always take advantage of him.

Lord Taverner would rather pass the estate to John, his other son, who was five years Martin's junior. He had been hankering after a betrothal between Eleanor and Martin for a long time, and although he doubted the marriage would prove fruitful, he would live in hope that his effeminate son would surprise him and prove him wrong. If not, when John eventually wed he would pass the estate to him and his heirs.

When his father fell into conversation with Lady Sandford, Martin drew Eleanor aside. ‘I was so happy when I knew you'd come to live at Cantly Manor, Eleanor, and th-that you'd agreed to marry me. We will be happy, I know we will, and you m-must come to Court. It's so exciting—one can't f-fail to be impressed.'

‘Aunt Matilda tells me your position at Court has to do with organising entertainments for the Queen.'

Martin grinned, puffing his chest out like a cock pheasant, pleased with himself. ‘I assist Lord Robert Dudley—who as you will know is Master of Horse and Ceremonies, which m-means he is asked to organise all manner of entertainments for which the Queen has an insatiable appetite—masques, banquets, jousts, tennis matches, horse races and masquerades, to name but a few. A most delightful programme of entertainments has been planned for the Court season.'

Eleanor noted how eager he had become and an animated gleam glittered in his eyes. He also had a tendency to babble when he became excited, overcoming his stammer. ‘You obviously enjoy your work, Martin.'

He smiled affably enough, yet Eleanor found herself mistrusting it—it was a smile that hid something, and that something she felt instinctively would not be to her liking or advantage.

‘I'm h-hardly a member of the inner circle, but I d-do like being at Court—as you will, when we are w-wed.'

‘And are you still writing your verse, Martin?'

‘P-plays, satires, lampoons. They are all the fashion at Court.'

As Eleanor listened to Aunt Matilda and Lord Taverner
making plans for her marriage to Martin, in her breast was a leaden weight and yet at the same time she felt a great emptiness, hollow and dragging her down. She was glad of her own detachment, her sense of disorientation, as if she were watching another woman's agony.

There was a foolish refusal to believe what was happening because it was too dreadful to contemplate—too dreadful to consider a life without William in it—that she would never see him again. And so she tried to blank out of her mind that which was unbearable, but must be borne.