Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (5 page)

"And my trip to France?" she asked.

He waved that off. "Everyone in the world is going to Paris these days, Miss Chivenham. The situation in your brother's house became impossible," he declared, "and you, in effect, eloped."

"Eloped?" protested Eleanor in outrage. Then she realized that she was no longer in a position to care about such niceties. Coming back to earth with a thump, she accepted that a clandestine marriage was probably the best she could now hope for.

A clandestine marriage to a drunken, debauched black sheep.

She knew she was in danger of losing control. Her dignity seemed to be all she had left in the world, and consequently it was precious to her. Desperately she rose. "I am sorry, my lord. My head is spinning and I cannot think straight. Please could I become your 'widow' and get some rest? Can we talk of all this later?"

"Of course," he said with his sweet smile. "You must trust me. It will all work out perfectly. You will see."

Wealth and privilege.

In no time at all, it seemed, she was installed in a pleasant room in the quiet Hotel Marchmont, which was patronized mostly by clerical men and their families. An agency maid took charge of the basic items that some, presumably trustworthy, person had purchased for her. The woman behaved as if the situation was perfectly normal, and perhaps it was.

The aspect of the situation that bothered Eleanor most was the wedding ring the earl had provided, and which she felt obliged to wear. It seemed almost sacrilegious.

As he left, Lord Stainbridge slipped a purse into her hands with enough money for her to buy what she needed and pay vails. Eleanor could have wept at such thoughtfulness; not being penniless was a tremendous relief. She lay down on her bed to relax for the first time that day. She even drifted into a light sleep, but was awakened before she was fully rested by a scarcely remembered and yet horrible nightmare.

Sitting bolt upright in the bed, hands over her mouth, she swallowed against nausea and told herself she was safe. Even if her brother was to find her here, he could not harm her. She was under the protection of a powerful earl...

It was no good. She needed to escape the room. She had sense enough not to run into the unknown, but she hurriedly called for her maid and went out into the bustling street.

There were shops nearby, and as she calmed she began to take pleasure in looking at the wares displayed. It was not an area patronized by the ton, of course, but to Eleanor the goods were entrancing. When she recalled that she now had money to spend, her spirits began to lift.

One of her first purchases was an ugly but concealing coal-scuttle bonnet is place of her more revealing one. Safe within it, she was sure she could walk undetected past her brother on the street. To make certain, she replaced her threadbare brown pelisse with one of a warm rust-brown. It was described as a Russian mantle by virtue of the narrow fur trimmings around the cuffs. Eleanor knew it was only a cheap version of fashionable attire, and yet it delighted her. It was so long since she had possessed any clothes not made by herself—most of them made-over, in fact.

She also bought four voluminous flannelette nightgowns, an item her provider had apparently forgotten and that, in some uninvestigated corner of her mind, she saw as a kind of armor. A pair of sturdy half boots completed her immediate needs, and she returned to the hotel in an optimistic frame of mind, horror buried and decision postponed.

After an early meal she fell into bed physically and emotionally exhausted but with the surprising notion that her life was better than it had been twenty-four hours before. Whatever had become of the "wages of sin"?

Perhaps they were to be found in disturbed sleep. Twice in the night she awoke to the belief that she was not alone, once with the half-remembered feel of a body pressing down on her and a scream on her lips. Both times she fought back the cry for help and disciplined her imagination and her body until sleep could return. The alternative, surely, was madness.

As a consequence of all this, however, by the time her maid brought her breakfast Eleanor felt drained and weary and unable to fight back the cold, dark fingers of despair. The river began to have some appeal again, and Lord Stainbridge's plan seemed madness and only slightly more attractive.

But in time the weather came to her rescue.

The sun moved round and its bright, warm glow flooded her room. Even the dancing dust motes caught in its beams seemed to express the joy of living. She could hear birds singing outside her window, and cheerful chatter and song rose from the people in the street, people whose lot in life was in all likelihood harsher than her own.

She rose from her bed resolved to face her future with spirit. She found to her surprise that she was no longer sore, and her body did not feel any different at all. But, she reminded herself, it was possible, no matter how incredible, that at this moment a child was forming within her.

She tried to weigh her options calmly and logically.

To live quietly in the country as a widow, perhaps with a child, seemed the safe option, but a bleak one, even if Lord Stainbridge gave her a pension. The days at Burton Magna had been pleasant, but she had never intended to spend her life thus. This would be a lifetime sentence unless some man wished to marry her.

She considered the matter of marriage in the abstract, keeping it quite separate from her recent experience. Yes. A gentle, loving man. Calm. Reliable. A person with whom to share life's burdens. She did not want to be alone anymore.

How could such a marriage be, however? Would the earl provide her with a dowry? Would, she have to reveal the truth of her situation to a suitor? She could hardly believe an upright man would marry her when he learned of her shame and the subsequent deception. She would find it impossible to enter a marriage without honesty...

With a sigh, she considered her other option—marriage to Nicholas Delaney. There, at least, all parties would be fully aware of the truth. This choice, however, could not be kept separate from her nightmarish experience, and she shrank from it.

The thought came to her that her decision would have been easier if Lord Stainbridge had offered to marry her himself. That offer she would have accepted with alacrity. Then she laughed at her foolishness. Why would an earl offer for his brother's leavings, and Lionel Chivenham's sister, besides? No, it's the disreputable younger brother for you, my girl.

A younger brother, however, who travels. Once the ceremony was over she would be able to live with the earl in elegant comfort. She would have loving male support and companionship... without any unpleasant duties.

She was going to do it. It really was her only choice, and with Lord Stainbridge's protection she would not need to fear his brother. Firmly, deliberately, she reviewed the advantages.

It would be pleasant to be honestly married, the facts of the situation, however distasteful, acknowledged by them both.

There was the attraction of a position in society and a comfortable life, especially when she would be unencumbered by her traveling husband.

If there was a child, it would have its rights.

A major disadvantage did occur to her. She supposed her husband might want his rights, too, on the rare occasions when he was present.

Eleanor had come too far in her mind to balk at that. She liked children, and even if she was already with child she supposed she could allow him, occasionally, and so provide for more offspring in the future. It was an unpleasant business, but she could endure it now and then as women must.

She searched her mind for any information about Nicholas Delaney from her country life, when the local aristocracy, especially the Delaneys of Grattingley, had been a chief source of gossip. There were only scraps.

She thought she might have visited Grattingley with her parents once as a child but had little recollection other than of magnificent fountains. She remembered hearing of old Lord Stainbridge's death and snippets about the two sons. The new earl was well-liked but...

She struggled to pin down errant memories. There had been a different tone when people spoke of the younger brother.

Suddenly, clearly, she could hear Mrs. Baxter, the doctor's wife saying, "What a rascal!" But it was the tone. Admiring, perhaps. And Mrs. Baxter was a worthy woman. Perhaps she had been speaking of someone else after all.

Ah, well. Eleanor would learn about him in time. She assured herself he could not be worse than her brother or Lord Deveril, so the change was bound to be for the better, especially as she now had the powerful earl to protect her.

When Lord Stainbridge visited that afternoon he seemed slightly revolted to find his "damsel in distress" licking the cream from a cake off her lips and in excellent spirits.

"I assume you are no longer contemplating a watery grave, Miss Chivenham."

"Well, life is sweet, my lord," she replied, determined to face her trials with good humor.

He stared at her. "Of course, of course... And I am delighted you are recovered." He did not look it. "Shall we discuss your future now?"

"I am happy to do so," Eleanor said and disposed herself comfortably in a chair. She didn't understand the earl at all. She would have thought her composure a great relief to him.

He paced the room fretfully. "Have you considered my offer, Miss Chivenham?"

"I have, my lord. If you still think it can be managed, I will marry your brother."

He stopped, surprised but relieved. His manner immediately became easier. "It will be for the best," he assured her. "You will see. As I said, Nicholas has been willing to marry for some time for the sake of the succession. He didn't want to get into the marriage mart, however, or shackle himself to a woman who would want him to be forever at home. As I said, he likes to wander. This arrangement will suit him admirably. You will make no demands on him for excessive devotion."

"Certainly not," Eleanor said sharply, unreasonably piqued by this pragmatic approach to matrimony.

"Excellent." He actually rubbed his hands together. "I will send a message to Nicholas instructing him to arrive in Newhaven in eighteen days' time, weather permitting. We will meet him and you can marry there by special license. But, as I said, we will give it out that you are already married in Paris."

Eleanor realized she was not going to brush through this affair in total honesty, but she agreed to the plan, only voicing one concern. "None of this will hold water, my lord, if it is queried."

"Why should it be queried?" he asked, with aristocratic arrogance. "If you are thinking of your brother, once you are a member of my family he will think better of interfering, I assure you. As for society at large, Nicky is known for his unpredictability. No one will be surprised at another of his mad starts."

Eleanor was taken aback. Was the younger Delaney
unbalanced
? Perhaps even at this stage she should change her mind. She had always been taken to task for her rashness. Was she again going to plunge into trouble because of it?

Lord Stainbridge, however, was smiling his satisfaction and did not seem to notice her doubts. He took her hand in both of his. "Now," he said with great geniality, "may I be permitted to call you Eleanor, as we are to be related?"

Eleanor agreed to this and allowed a wave of his polite social conversation to wash over her as she thought. Then she tried for some reassurance about her husband-to-be.

"Mr. Delaney must be very like you, my lord, as you are identical twins."

"It is not quite so," he said. "We change as we grow, Eleanor. Sometimes I think Nicholas and I were made as two sides of a coin. He is active, I am artistic. He is outgoing, I prefer a quiet life. I seek order, he seeks adventure. He lives for excitement and can be a careless of whom he hurts—"

He broke off. Eleanor recognized the hurt in him but was more concerned with the implications for herself. A black sheep, she confirmed with dismay. A rake. Not the comfortable helpmeet she longed for. But at least he would be only an occasional presence in her life.

Lord Stainbridge collected himself and noticed her doubts. He hastened to reassure her. "Nicholas is at heart very kind, my dear. He is gifted and charming and," he added a little awkwardly, "experienced in the ways of women."

Eleanor remembered the gasping monster who seemed less and less real as time went by and wondered. The man had, however, been drunk. Men were not themselves when in their cups.

She remembered a tenant farmer who always seemed a kindly man until he drank, and then he took a strap to his wife. That was a husband's right and not a reassuring thought. Her nerve almost failed her, but she braced herself. When her husband was at home she would just have to watch the brandy bottle and trust Lord Stainbridge to be her protector.

* * *

When his brother's message reached Nicholas Delaney in Paris he might well have been living up to Eleanor's fears. He was the worse for a number of bottles of wine and dicing with a similarly affected motley crowd at the Mouton Gris. His sun-bleached hair was ruffled, and his once-elegant cravat had been loosened in the warmth of the crowded room.

When his brother's groom found him, however, he looked up with a smile on his handsome face, and there was hardly a trace of slur in his voice as he spoke. "Hodges! What brings you here?" It was perhaps the drink that delayed concern until the end of the question.