Forbidden Lord (21 page)

‘Come, Eleanor, a token is all I ask. Won't you give a poor knight your favour?'

In confusion, Eleanor turned beseechingly to the lady who had befriended her, seeking her advice.

Lady Durban smiled, her gaze openly sweeping the handsome knight with appreciation, her eyes twinkling with merriment and something akin to lust. ‘Do as he asks, Lady Taverner—unless a knight wears your colours already.'

‘No—but…'

‘Then I would think that lovely scarf around your neck will do nicely,' she suggested.

Entering into the spirit of things, Eleanor, her heart beating fast with excitement, stood up. Placing her scarf on William's proffered lance, she watched it slide slowly down the pole. Taking it and placing it to his nose, he smelled her familiar scent, and then with a smile and a knowing wink and a twinkle in his eye he attached it to his breastplate. Placing his helmet on his head and lowering his visor, he spurred his horse and cantered away.

The Queen herself had watched the touching by-play between the handsome knight of the merry eyes and charming smile and Lady Taverner with amused interest—and so had Eleanor's husband, but there was no amusement in his expression.

While Eleanor saw nothing wrong with making William Marston her knight in earnest, believing there was nothing improper in this public display of attention to a married woman, that it was all part of the game and not to be taken seriously, Martin, however, was of a different opinion and he did take it seriously.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at the gold streamer that fluttered from Lord Marston's breastplate and then slid to his wife, whose expression was rapt. Lord Marston's opponent was Robert Dudley, which made the joust doubly interesting to the crowd of spectators. The Queen's favourite was tall, but Lord Marston was taller.

Eleanor watched as the opponents lowered their heads and charged at each other. Lances clashed and then there was wood on metal. Both contenders remained in the saddle. They ran the course twice more, fast and furious. Robert Dudley's
lance splintered and his squire handed him another. They were both masters of the game but William was the victor.

Amid thundering applause Robert Dudley, his dignity lost, lay sprawled on the ground. On his prancing horse, William Marston removed his helmet to reveal his laughing face.

‘That was bad luck for Dudley,' Lady Durban remarked to Eleanor. ‘First time I've seen him bested—in front of the Queen too. Your Lord Marston is a champion indeed.'

‘He is not my Lord Marston—merely an acquaintance.'

The look Lady Durban gave her told Eleanor she did not believe her for one minute.

William rode towards her, holding her gold scarf. Eleanor rose, reaching out her hand to take it back.

‘It brought me luck,' he said. ‘May I keep it?'

Eleanor was about to tell him he could when the shadow of her husband appeared behind her.

‘I would be obliged if you would return it to my w-wife, sir.'

Eleanor turned to her husband with irritation. Having lost his passiveness Martin set his mouth in a sullen, angry line. ‘I don't want it back, Martin,' she told him sharply. ‘Lord Marston can keep it.' Turning from her husband's thunderous face, she smiled at William. ‘Congratulations, Lord Marston. You did well.'

Behind her Martin paled before he turned his back on her and walked away.

‘Oh, dear! Pity your husband isn't jousting, Lady Taverner,' Lady Durban laughed amusedly, ‘then they could settle the matter in combat. What an interesting spectacle that would be.'

Eleanor looked at her companion and gave her a conspiratorial smile. ‘My husband would be no match for Lord Marston. I doubt he would be brave enough to mount his horse, let alone wield a lance.'

 

‘I said you must be discreet, Eleanor,' Martin said crossly when they were in the carriage taking them home. ‘I did not
th-think you would flaunt yourself so openly before the entire Court.'

Eleanor could feel her self-control slipping. ‘Flaunt? You should know all about that, Martin. It's what you do all the time.'

‘You are my w-wife and there is going to be no scandal,' he flared, choosing to ignore her taunt. ‘Do you understand that, Eleanor? No scandal. And that means no d-divorce. My father would not allow it. It's going to be a civilised arrangement—whereby you will go to Devon and live as my w-wife should. There's nothing unusual in this,' he said when she shot him a dark look. ‘Many gentlemen l-live at Court while their wives live in the country taking care of household m-matters.'

‘And children,' Eleanor bit back coldly. ‘They take care of children too, Martin. But children are to be denied me—are they not?'

Martin shifted uncomfortably, as he always did when she referred to his preference for the same sex. ‘I am w-what I am—I can't help it. But now you are my wife you will do everything p-possible to preserve our—arrangement, and outwardly be a devoted wife to me.'

Having little stomach for argument, Eleanor looked out of the window, unable to see a way out of Martin's ‘arrangement' that stretched ahead of her without end.

 

Frederick Atwood could not still the ache in his head. The pain came and went before it became a pounding agony. Since the blow had been struck by Eleanor before she'd run off to Yorkshire, the headaches were a part of him now and he had grown to accept them—just as he had grown to accept his mistake in making Richard his heir. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

Frederick thought he could ride with the best of them, but his nephew surprised him—greedy parasite that he was, who thought he had a right to take that which would belong to him before his time.

Frederick had come to Chelsea to visit Catherine. He was seated on the terrace with his head leaning against the wooden trellising behind his chair a servant had brought outside for him, when suddenly a shadow appeared between him and the sun. His mind still heavy with sleep—he slept a lot these days—he raised his lids. It took a few seconds for his eyes to focus properly, and when he recognised the man looking down at him his blood turned to iced water.

‘Marston!'

‘Indeed, Atwood. I thought it high time you and I talked. It wasn't difficult tracking you down.'

Frederick looked round wildly and the empty terrace did nothing to reassure him. He stared at Lord Marston for a moment then, his face pale, his jowls quivering in agitation. With difficulty he rose from his chair.

William watched him struggle to his feet, seeing a man who in the last four months had shrivelled to a man whose strength had been eaten away by bitterness and ill health.

‘What do you want, Marston?'

‘Do I have to spell it out? I want the name of your conspirator. When you consigned me to hell, you didn't do it alone.'

Anger rose like a hot tide and Frederick asserted himself to support it. ‘You're right. Had it been up to me, you would be dead.'

‘But it wasn't, was it? And I am the sort that clings to life.' William took a step closer, his eyes cold and unrelenting. ‘When I began visiting Catherine at Fryston Hall, it didn't take long for me to see what kind of ruthless swine you were in your dealings with others.'

‘Aye, most of them out to cheat me. They deserved everything they got,' Frederick rasped as he made an intense effort to control himself, even to keep his voice from shaking. He chafed beneath Lord Marston's relentless gaze, whose sureness and composure were disquieting.

‘And your bullying didn't stop outside your house, that I
know. Not content with abusing your wife, you turned your attention to her daughter when she died. You're a lecherous, conniving beast, Atwood.' Here his voice fell a shade quieter, but not so quiet that the quivering wreck of a man in front of him didn't hear the accusations thrown at him.

‘I've my own ideas as to why Eleanor ran away from Fryston Hall. She was a frightened young woman and I know what terrified her so much that she was driven out of your house—where, in her desperation following the execution of her husband, her mother had brought her, believing she would be under your protection. Dear God, it was like throwing her to the wolves.'

A sneer twisted Frederick's lips. ‘She was a disobedient girl, too stubborn for her own good.'

‘Who stood up to you, Atwood, and you didn't like that, did you? When you found her ready to flee, you forcibly tried to prevent her—until your nephew rendered you senseless.'

Frederick stared at William in disbelief, trying to keep his brain clear and cold enough to think. Unfortunately he'd been unable to unravel just what had happened when he'd tried to prevent Eleanor fleeing. He'd been heavily under the influence of liquor, which he'd downed the night before. Even for him the indulgence had been excessive and he had truly believed Eleanor had struck the blow that had knocked him senseless.

‘Richard? It was Richard who did that?'

‘I think you've been living under a misconception that it was Eleanor—and for his own perverse reason it is to your nephew's advantage that you believe that, but it's time you looked closer to home for the culprit.'

Frederick was shocked by the revelation. He felt sick. A wave of nausea washed over him. ‘He wouldn't.'

‘Take it from me that is what happened. Like me, Eleanor knows you for the bastard you are. It didn't take me long to know how your mind worked. And so I became a threat—in
particular in your dealings with Edgar Collingwood, who was a close friend of mine—as was his wife, Marian, a lady you had coveted for years. In order to get what you wanted, you conjured up a clever plan to get rid of both Edgar and me for good—but when it comes to killing you are a coward, Atwood, so you got some other villain to do the deed. For Edgar it was the Queen's executioner, for me you had other methods.'

Frederick's face flushed and fury blazed from his eyes. ‘If it's vengeance you are seeking—to make me suffer—then do your worst, Marston.'

William looked with scorn at the devil who had so very nearly destroyed his life. ‘Suffer? You don't have any real conception of what suffering is, Atwood. Besides, look at you. You're pathetic!' His eyes became piercing, pricking his adversary like barbs. ‘I want the name of the man who had me beaten to within an inch of my life and hauled me aboard what could only be described as a death ship. He knew what he was condemning me to and gained pleasure from it. Who was it, Atwood? Your nephew?'

Frederick shook his head and gripped the arm of the chair he had vacated for support. Beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead. ‘No—no, it wasn't him. Now go to hell, Marston,' he hissed, looking away, but not before William had seen something akin to fear shadow his eyes.

William didn't believe him, but it was clear that the fear and agitation inside Atwood was so great that there was no way he would dare betray Sir Richard Grey.

‘I think you're afraid to speak out about what you think of your nephew, Atwood, such is the hold he has over you.' A faint, sneering smile twisted his lips. ‘It's remarkable how the conscience can be silenced when one is afraid. But worry not. I have other means of finding out, and when I do, the man who hauled me aboard that ship will rue the day he did not kill me instead. As for you—you will go to hell, Atwood. The devil will get his due.'

 

Eleanor had been married to Martin for one month when she knew she was pregnant. She realised that ever since she had missed her monthly flow that she had put her predicament aside, refusing to believe her suspicions, to allow herself to dwell on it or face up to it, until she was able to cope with it.

It was as if she were trapped in some kind of dilemma and her stunned senses chose to put to the back of her mind the fact that she was carrying William Marston's child and that she had married someone else. And so, in this daze of wretchedness and uncertainty she had blundered into, it was quite devastating—a shocking outcome to one night of indescribably wonderful love.

Thankfully, as yet, she suffered none of the discomforts she had heard about in early pregnancy, apart from enlarged and sore breasts, as if she were being pricked with pins, and already she was having to slacken the laces in her stiff bodice. If she carried on putting on weight at the rate she was doing, she would be as fat as a toad before she gave birth.

What was she to do? What would Martin say? He would say that she was a wanton, a strumpet, carrying the child of one man while married to another, and she could not pretend the child was her husband's since he had never shared her bed.

 

It wasn't as difficult telling Martin as she had thought. At first shock registered in his face as he tried to take in what she was saying.

‘A child? Why did you not tell me b-before?'

‘I married you under false pretences, Martin. I was carrying another man's child—though I did not know it at the time.'

Martin looked at her, alarmed, and sat down. ‘You are with child! Then you've l-landed us in one hell of an ugly m-mess.'

‘No more of an ugly mess than the one you presented to me on our wedding night,' she reminded him sharply.

Martin fell silent, staring at the carpet for several moments, deep in thought. His silence bit keenly into her nerves.

‘I have been honest with you, Martin. You are the only person who knows what I have said. It is now your decision what happens to us entirely.'

‘It's a c-catastrophe, I admit,' he said at length, ‘b-but it need not be a d-disaster.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘That it could work out to our advantage.'

Suddenly, looking at his animated features, Eleanor felt hope dawn and her despair recede.

Martin smiled delightedly. ‘W-we agreed to play a charade so that this marriage would remain untarnished before the w-world. The charade will continue. Y-you say no one else knows so your ch-child will become our child and no one will be any the wiser. My f-father will be well satisfied and cease p-pestering me for an heir. In fact, he will be quite overjoyed.'