Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (25 page)

Eleanor was betrayed into bitter speech. "He wouldn't care, I dare say, if I were to throw myself into another man's arms."

Surprisingly, Lord Middlethorpe laughed. "You obviously don't know Nicholas, even yet." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Jealousy is a not very attractive reflection of possessiveness, I always think, but would it make you happy if he were jealous?"

Eleanor wished she had never spoken. "Francis, this is most improper and very silly. I can't..." Under his gently insistent look she said, "Yes. Yes, it would."

"Come then," he said and held out his arm.

When she looked a question at him, he explained. "Show me some particular book in the library. If nothing else, it will give you a moment's peace from worrying about arrangements."

Eleanor looked over at her oblivious husband then put her hand on Lord Middlethorpe's arm and allowed him to lead her from the room.

"You expect him to come after us?" she said as they crossed the hall. "I doubt he will even notice I have left the room, never mind who with."

"I, however, know I am taking my life in my hands," he said, and smiled.

His sensitive eyes reflected all his genuine concern for her and she felt her heart tug. Why was she surrounded by care from everyone except the one...

He broke into her thoughts. "Cheer up, or you'll have me thinking I am very poor company."

As they entered the darkened study Eleanor said warmly, "Indeed you are not. I don't know what I would do without your friendship, Francis."

He lit the candles with a taper from the low fire and looked around. "This is a very fine room, I always think. Which book are you so anxious to share with me?"

Eleanor shrugged and took up the folder of Chinese prints. "Have you seen these? They are exquisite."

He turned the sheets carefully. "Very fine. I have some similar, but none as delicate as these."

His manner was simply kind, and Eleanor relaxed as usual into the pleasure of his company. They were studying the prints, Eleanor seated and Francis leaning over her shoulder, when the door opened and Nicholas entered. He closed the door quietly behind him.

Eleanor blushed and Francis smiled.

Nicholas could not be said to be angry, or even concerned, and yet there had been a flash in his eyes when he first entered. Eleanor had to force herself not to leap to her feet and stammer out excuses.

Nicholas strolled over to the table. "You are admiring these? I think we should have some of them mounted."

"Yes," Francis replied in an equally light tone. "It is a shame to hide them, but be careful the light doesn't spoil them. Treasures need to be cherished." He glanced down at Eleanor's head, where she seemed engrossed in the prints, and then quietly left the room.

At the click of the door Eleanor looked up in alarm. She had been abandoned. Nicholas was studying her with careful attention.

"Has something in particular upset you?" he asked. They both knew he was not referring to the general state of their marriage.

"No, nothing at all," she said hurriedly. "We must go back. It does not do for us both to be neglecting our guests."

"I think everyone is quite content for the moment."

He perched on the corner of the table beside the chair on which she sat. It was a more intimate situation than any they had been in for weeks. Idly, he twirled one of her curls around his finger.

She found she could not look at him.

His voice came softly in the quiet room. "You are being very brave and very careful, Eleanor. You cannot know how grateful I am to you."

There was a magic in the moment, and Eleanor tried to hold onto it, but it evaporated as she remembered what he was doing with the time she was so generously allowing him. She did not want his gratitude for her complaisance. She was trying, head still lowered, to decide on her response when he spoke again.

"Would it help you to know, I wonder, that I am finding this time as difficult as you? And, I suspect, for many of the same reasons."

Surprised, she responded honestly with a slight nod, the anger melting into swallowed tears. They were, she thought, equal parts grief and happiness. She did not understand what he was saying, but his tone of deep concern was balm for her pride. At least he felt something for her.

But then he stood up abruptly, breaking the mood. When she looked up in surprise he was facing away from her.

His voice was rough as he said, "I cannot explain things, Eleanor, and believe me, it wouldn't help if I could. Come, we must go back."

She looked at him in total confusion.

When he turned to offer her his arm she rose obediently, knowing no way to make any sense of him. His movement was arrested, and then changed.

He raised his hands to cradle her face and she knew the hint of tears must be there, no matter how gallantly she smiled.

"Oh, Eleanor," he sighed softly. "I cannot even ask forgiveness, my dear."

He leaned forward until his lips caressed hers gently. It was a kiss that spoke more strongly of caring than of need, but she was grateful for anything he could give her. There was a sweetness to be so close, to be wrapped in his concern, if not in his arms...

"Oh, God." He wrenched back. She saw the bewildering need in his tortured eyes before he turned and left the room.

Bemused, Eleanor occupied herself in carefully putting away the prints. She understood nothing. Nothing at all. But he was not disgusted by her, and he was not indifferent. Irrepressibly, through tears, she smiled.

When she reentered the music room she saw, without surprise, that Nicholas was in complete control of himself. He was charming the impossibly shy Miss Harby into a semblance of normality. Eleanor accepted an invitation to dance from Miles Cavanagh.

"Do you know, Eleanor, you are blooming tonight. In fact, you've the look of a woman who's just been kissed."

Eleanor could not prevent a blush and a betraying glance at her husband, which made the Irishman laugh. She was spared the need to reply by the movement of the dance, and no further comment caused her embarrassment that evening. With her new assurance about her place in her husband's incomprehensible life she felt happier than she had in weeks. As they went up to their beds later, she and Amy were able to congratulate each other on a well-handled evening.

Eleanor was ready for bed when she realized that, as usual, Nicholas was not going to come to her and that she was disappointed. Even that, however, could not wipe out her lighter spirits. She remembered the way he had kissed her earlier, remembered the need in him. Had she somehow misled him during that one blissful session of love? Had she given him the impression that she was reluctant?

For this and other less-analyzed reasons she left her hair loose and broke the unwritten law by scratching on the door of his room.

She heard him dismiss Clintock and then the door opened. He was dressed only in his breeches and an open-necked shirt. Her mind went back to that first night at Newhaven. If she had behaved differently then would things have gone better since?

"Is something the matter, Eleanor?" he asked very formally.

"N... no," she stammered. She had not expected such a complete return to his previous impersonal manner. All her courage seeped away. "I didn't... It doesn't matter."

She would have gone, but he smiled and caught her hand to kiss it. "I'm sorry. Did I bark at you? Don't ever be afraid of me, I beg you. You must be tired, though. The evening went very well. I congratulate you."

He did it well, but she could sense the effort he was making. What had happened to the master of dissimulation?

"Thanks are deserved chiefly by the staff and Amy, I think," said Eleanor, studying him. "I am a novice."

"Nonsense. The mistress sets the tone for the house." It was an honest compliment, but his tone wasn't quite right. Perhaps it was the word mistress.

Eleanor for once felt more in control than he. "I wanted to speak to you, Nicholas," she said levelly, "because I thought this as good a time as any to tell you I am sure there will be a child."

He smiled. It seemed a genuine expression of delight. "That is good news. At least, I think it is. You may feel differently."

"Oh, no," she protested. "I will like to have a child very much. I thought, though, that you might have preferred that it be... be born later."

"That I should know it to be mine?" he said frankly. "No, it doesn't bother me. Of course, if the other putative father were someone other than my brother, it might be different, but in this case... no, I don't mind."

He looked her over and laughed. "Do you know, Eleanor, pregnancy is one thing I have no experience with, even second hand. I don't know whether you should be an invalid or a picture of health."

"Then we're a fine pair. I don't know either. But I seem well. I haven't even been nauseated, which is generally the case, though I can no longer face Mrs. Cooke's more spicy dishes."

"Poor Eleanor," he said with a laugh, and gathered her into his arms. "No more mulligatawny soup."

He gently brushed her hair back from her face. "You must look after yourself, my dear. For the child's sake and your own. And mine. Have you chosen an accoucheur?"

Eleanor knew his concern was honest and felt as close to bliss as she could imagine just standing there wrapped in his arms and his care. "I would rather use a midwife, I think," she replied, "if I can find a good one. There was an excellent one in Burton who never lost a mother."

"Perhaps we should hire her," he said, holding her away from him to look at her. "It is a dangerous time for a woman. You must do everything possible to assure your safety. Promise me."

Eleanor looked up into warm brown eyes. It was so dangerous to allow herself this, for she knew their problems had not disappeared. She would pay in pain for these moments, and yet it was so wonderful.

"Certainly I will," she assured him. "That's an easy promise to make."

"Good."

He frowned slightly, as if searching for words, and then said softly, a little desperately, "And things will get better."

With that he swung her up into his arms and carried her over to her bed. He laid her there gently and drew up the covers. He placed a soft kiss on her brow, extinguished her candles, and was gone.

His leaving did not dilute her happiness. She missed his kindness more than his passion, and that at least had returned to her. She sank into contented sleep.

And things did get better. He still spent little time in Lauriston Street, but, perhaps because of the presence of Amy, when he was at home he would seek their company and relax. The gay, teasing tone was produced for both of them, and sometimes for Eleanor it approached the best times there had ever been.

With tact Amy would occasionally excuse herself to give them time alone. Even then he did not cool and would even sometimes hold her in a tender way and kiss her gently. There was never anything of passion in it, and she was careful never to try to take these moments further than he wished. Life was not perfect, but it was so very sweet that she would not risk destroying it.

It was destroyed, however, one day in late June.

Chapter 9

It was time for Amy to leave to join her mother and her sisters in Weymouth, all danger of infection now being over. Fresh sea air had been prescribed for the convalescent. Nicholas and Lord Middlethorpe were both there to see her off, and Lord Stainbridge happened to be in the house at the same time.

Nicholas gave Amy a light kiss. "We will miss you, Amy. We will be dull here now, two old married people."

"That makes you sound like elderly, indigent relatives."

"You make me feel like an elderly indigent," he replied.

"Eleanor is not so old yet," Amy replied as she gave Eleanor a warm hug. "I will write often." She chuckled as she looked down at Eleanor's slightly-rounded abdomen. "I suppose you will soon have to give up going into Society. Will you go into the country?"

"Will I have to go into purdah, then?" said Eleanor. "I think I shall continue to go about 'big-bellied like the wanton wind.' Will that shock people? It has certainly shocked Kit." She gave him a satirical glance. If Lord Stainbridge chose to invade her home she felt entitled to prick at him.