Forbidden Lord (26 page)

He drifted back into sleep, thinking of Eleanor and how she must be suffering. His own heart had always been moved by suffering and he longed for the time when he could go to her
and comfort her. He realised now how much he loved her, that he had loved Eleanor Collingwood almost from the first moment he saw her. His heart and every loving instinct told him he should rise up from his bed and go to her and help her through her anguish, to hold her in his arms and shield her from the pain and sadness, but his common sense told him Godfrey was right and he must wait until he was completely free of the fever.

 

In a heavy black satin gown Lady Matilda Sandford stood before the window in the solar on the first floor of Cantly Manor. It was a bright afternoon in July and she was watching her niece's luggage being unloaded from Lord Taverner's carriage in the courtyard below. Turning, she looked at the aforesaid girl, feeling a resentment twisting and turning inside her. Resentment against Eleanor who, after all she had done for her, had thrown gratitude back in her face, and resentment against the girl who had so embarrassingly prevailed upon her generosity and her kindness.

The girl Lady Sandford had arranged to wed one of the most eligible young men at the Court of Queen Elizabeth had brought this hideous shame in the shape of a bastard child back to her house—and worse, she had caused enmity between herself and Lord Taverner. She could hardly bring herself to speak lest she spewed forth a torrent of bile.

‘I have no doubt you feel yourself ill used, Eleanor, but you could not be more wrong. Your immoral conduct has been inexcusable and you have brought disgrace on Lord Taverner's good name and my own. You have shamed me and your dead husband with your adulterous indiscretion and your uncontrollable desires for another man.'

Eleanor listened to the blistering tirade as her aunt went on to list others she had shamed, adding to her lingering guilt, dwelling on what she had let another man do to her and blaming her for obliging, and that whoever he was he had not wanted
her, only her body, otherwise he would have married her. Eleanor realised she might be right, for not once had William told her he loved her, and nor had he enquired after her.

‘Go straight to your room and do not come out until I give you permission. I don't want to see your face again today.'

Leaving the solar, Eleanor felt a sharp stab of pain around her heart. She hadn't expected support from her aunt, whose whole life revolved around pleasing Lord Taverner, but she might at least have shown some compassion. Filled with misery, she went swiftly to her bedchamber. Once inside, she hurled herself full length across the bed and burst into tears, feeling ashamed and at fault—and almost beyond salvation.

 

Eleanor often wondered how she got through the following days leading into weeks, for her emotions were in turmoil and her spirit low. Aunt Matilda rarely spoke to her, and when she did Eleanor had come to expect only stinging taunts and contemptuous looks and wished she would leave her alone altogether.

The warm and sunny weather agreed with her and she made the effort to walk in the garden at Cantly Manor every day. She wandered along the paths, through flower-filled enclosures, where birds warbled merrily and bees and butterflies flitted from one glorious bloom to another, and in a cloud of white, gold and red and black, settling and drowsily moving in the fragile warmth, but she saw none of it.

There was no word from William. Why did he not come? she asked herself in anguish. She told herself there must be some good reason, but what reason could a man have that would keep him from the woman he must have some kind of feelings for and his unborn child, when she needed him so?

Was he ill? Perhaps he was injured. Eleanor could feel a tide of suffering rise in her in despairing pain, which she did her best to subdue, for it was too unbearable to dwell upon. She would have gone to him but she was in mourning and it
wouldn't be proper—not that she cared about proprieties when William might be ill. But if he were, she clung to the conviction that Godfrey would have come to tell her.

Martin's death still continued to haunt her, and as far as she was aware his murderer had not been caught.

 

One afternoon she was summoned to her aunt's presence. Visitors had arrived and had requested to see her. Eleanor made her way to the solar, reluctant to face anyone at present. Until now she had remained virtually secluded within Cantly Manor, hating the hostility lodged within its walls, yet needing its security and privacy more so now it was no longer possible to conceal her pregnancy.

Her aunt was standing in the centre of the room with the visitors, a man and a woman.

‘You wish to see me, Aunt?'

The man and the woman turned together, and when Eleanor saw it was William and Catherine her knees almost buckled beneath her. Her heart gave a leap and missed a beat, then began to thump madly as her eyes became locked on William's, and they looked at one another as though their minds were linked by some invisible thread. It was his face, the face she knew by heart. It was the same, but now there were a few shallow lines around his eyes and mouth, and his cheekbones were sharper beneath the skin.

Her heart had been filled with angry recriminations and rancour, for she had not understood why he had not come to see her, or even been aware of what had kept him away. But her flesh had not stopped wanting him, needing him, loving him. Dragging air into her constricted lungs, she stared blindly. He was here now, so he must care for her after all.

He had been standing with his back partially to her when she entered, impatiently slapping his thigh with his leather gloves while he gazed out of the window to the courtyard below. Attired entirely in dark green, the only relief a small
white collar, his broad shoulders were squared, his jaw set, and even in this pensive pose he seemed to emanate the restrained power and unyielding authority she associated with him.

William's gaze became riveted on Eleanor the instant she stepped into the room and the sight of her had the devastating impact of a punch in the chest. This woman who was dressed in sombre black was Eleanor, his love, the woman who had so recently become a wife and was now a widow. The child was showing and never had she looked so radiantly beautiful or so serene, but there was a raw desolation in her lovely eyes. The light that had been put there by their loving and what was between them was gone completely.

Unperturbed by the disapproving look Lady Sandford gave him, he went directly to Eleanor and took her hands, his gaze searching her face. The ecstasy he had experienced on the day he had last seen her was still a marvel to him, for he had thought he knew all there was to know about passion, but he had not, not until Eleanor. Now he wanted nothing more than to drag her into his arms and hold her close, but with Lady Sandford's hawk eyes fixed on him he was forced to control every muscle in his body, tightening, straining to endure the torture of Eleanor's nearness.

‘I hope you did not think I was avoiding you,' he said softly. ‘I called at Lord Taverner's house in Westminster to see you as soon as I heard about what had happened to your husband, but I was told you were not receiving visitors.'

‘No—I—my father-in-law thought I was not up to it.' William was looking at her intently and his magnetic eyes stirred her painfully.

‘I can understand that. I trust you are suffering no ill effects from the tragedy?'

‘No—although I cannot deny that Martin's death came as a dreadful blow,' she answered, trying to ignore the warmth tingling up her arms as he kept hold of her hands a moment longer before releasing them.

‘You've had a great shock, but you are in good health and strong. All will be well, you'll see.'

Eleanor almost melted beneath the aching gentleness in his compelling eyes. ‘Do—do you know who killed Martin? Have you heard?' she asked on an eager, hopeful note.

‘No, although speculation is rife. It's a true mystery and people revel in mysteries. When they cannot find solutions they fabricate them, and there are all kinds of stories being bandied about. But come, Eleanor, it's not good for you or the baby to dwell on such dark thoughts. Your mind should be on such matters as layettes and cradles and that kind of thing.'

Eleanor smiled up at him. William's arrival was like a glimmer of light in a dark world. ‘I know, but when I think of the manner of Martin's death, it's no easy matter. I—I see you have met my aunt, Lady Sandford.'

‘Indeed. Thank you for receiving us, Lady Sandford,' he said with a slight inclination of his head. ‘It was extraordinarily gracious of you.'

Lady Sandford stepped forward. ‘You are very welcome.' She turned away, signalling to a servant to bring refreshments. ‘I have told Lord Marston what a pleasure it is to meet him at last and thanked him for taking such good care of you when you were in Yorkshire.' Her eyes held Eleanor's. Lord Marston's unhidden interest in her niece positively invited questions, and the idea had already formed in her mind that this illustrious lord might well be the father of Eleanor's child, but good manners forbade her to voice the question outright.

‘I am also pleased to meet your stepsister at last,' she said, turning to the young woman who accompanied Lord Marston. ‘It would appear she is quite concerned about you, Eleanor.'

Eleanor was moved when Catherine came and took her hand and kissed her on the cheek with what seemed like affection.

‘I am here to offer my condolences, Eleanor—rather belated, I know, but I have only recently become aware of your loss.'

‘It was good of you to come, Catherine,' Eleanor remarked,
instantly establishing a familiarity that had not existed between them for a long time, not even at her wedding to Martin, when Catherine's attitude had been remote and cool.

‘Sometimes it takes a tragedy such as this to make one realise what is happening. It's a dreadful business. How are you feeling?' Catherine enquired, a smile on her carmine-painted lips, her gaze raking Eleanor's figure from her gauze cap to the hem of her blue taffeta gown. ‘In full bloom, I see.'

Eleanor stared at her in amazement. Perhaps it was because she was so used to Catherine's peevishness in the past that her sudden affability was unexpected enough to pierce her abstraction. It was the first time her stepsister had spoken kindly to her in a long time and she was pleasantly warmed by the friendliness of her greeting, but she remained wary. It was over two months since she had seen Catherine and she still hadn't forgiven her for working her mischief, for implying that she and William were together. Martin might still be alive if Catherine had been honest with her. She wondered if she and Godfrey were still lovers—if so, could this be the reason for this change in her?

‘I—I am as well as I can be, Catherine. I thank you for asking,' she replied, trying not to look at the tall, perfectly built man who stood watching her with expressionless, glittering eyes.

‘As soon as I heard, I was concerned about you—we both were,' Catherine said, turning briefly to include William in her statement. ‘Having lost my own dear Henry after such a short time of marriage, I know exactly how devastated you must be feeling, which is why I would like you to come and stay with me in Chelsea. I have suggested it to Lady Sandford and she is willing to agree—if it's what you want, naturally. You must be taken care of.'

‘I hope you are not implying that I am incapable of taking care of my niece, Lady Wheeler,' Lady Sandford remarked stiffly, looking extremely disgruntled that her efforts to look after Eleanor might be criticised. ‘Since her mother's—my
own dear sister's—demise, I have done my best to do what she would have done for Eleanor.'

Catherine started at the sound of the imperious voice. ‘Why, no, I was implying no such thing,' she said, quick to cover up any offence she might have given and tactfully going on to say, ‘but I thought, being so recently widowed myself, you understand, that we could be of help and comfort to each other.'

Meeting her aunt's cold eyes, Eleanor was as aware as she was that their relationship was anything but close. ‘Aunt Matilda could not have done more for me,' she murmured, hearing the irony of her words.

‘And now it's my turn. Please say you will come, Eleanor.'

‘Catherine—forgive me—but I am bewildered. Since when did you care about how I was feeling?'

‘I am trying very hard to do the right thing.' Drawing Eleanor aside, on a softer note that only Eleanor could hear, she said, ‘William wants you to come to Chelsea. You must come, Eleanor, you have to.'

Eleanor looked at her aunt. ‘Are you in agreement, Aunt Matilda?'

Lady Sandford's eyes grew piercing. ‘The choice is yours, Eleanor. When you married Martin Taverner I recognised then that I no longer had any authority over you. Now you are a widow, you may do exactly as you please. However,' she said, speaking to Catherine, ‘I trust you will take care of her. With a child on the way—and Lord Taverner having announced to the world that his son had no part in its conception—there will be one almighty scandal when it is born.'

‘Then we will shoulder the scandal together and live it down,' William uttered firmly, shrugging indifferently as he took a stand beside Eleanor. ‘Gossip doesn't matter to me, and since it does to you, Lady Sandford, I would advise you to accept it. You see, the child Eleanor is to bear is mine and I intend to marry her as soon as it can be arranged. Naturally it will be a quiet affair, attended by just close family and friends.'

Turning from the shocked expression on Aunt Matilda's face and the all-knowing look on Catherine's, Eleanor stared at him. His firm conviction that she would marry him, that she had no choice except to marry him, was more than she could bear just then.

‘You must let me choose, William, let me decide.' Her voice held no intonation. Total control was all she could bear. To allow any emotion through would break the dam of her tears. Dignity was a kind of refuge.