Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (9 page)

He paused for a moment and glanced at her, but Eleanor had no intention of speaking.

"Secondly," he said, "you may already be carrying a child. If this is so, I will accept it and try to be as good a father as circumstances allow. But I must admit my attitude to it might be different if I could believe it to be my own."

Eleanor felt shock like a blow. "
What?"

He looked at her, alerted by the outrage in her voice. "If we confuse the paternity at this point," he explained, speaking more quickly, "then I will be free to delude myself if I wish. If you have reason to believe there will not be a child."

"I don't believe this!" she gasped. "Of course it is your child, you wretched man. What kind of a woman do you think I am?"

He focused completely on her. "
My
child?"

When she would have spoken he held up a hand and took a deep breath. Even through his tan she could see he had paled. "Oh, my God."

He sank his head wearily on his knees. There was such devastation in him that Eleanor wanted to go to him, to hold him and soothe him.

It was as well she did not try, for he surged to his feet so violently she would have been sent flying. He strode to the dark window. She turned slowly to follow him with her eyes, wondering. Some coals settled, crackling and spitting, and there was a sudden flare of light.

At last he turned, his face altered by a strain she did not understand. "Eleanor," he said, "I have not been in England for over six months. Three weeks ago I was in Paris."

She studied him in confusion. It was impossible to doubt words spoken with such certainty. "Then what? Who?"

"Your ravisher was my brother."

Eleanor struggled to make sense of it. Was this further manipulation? If so, it was skillful beyond her powers of detection. She could swear he had paled to sallow.

She believed he had not been in England. But her attacker had looked like him... or Lord Stainbridge.

She swallowed hard. "You haven't by any chance a mysterious brother other than the earl, have you?" she asked faintly.

He shook his head.

Eleanor tussled with this switch in reality while her husband stood silent, wrapped in his own thoughts yet watching her with concern. It took time, but she came to recognize the feel of truth in this new scenario. Lionel had said her attacker was Lord Stainbridge and Lionel did not make mistakes of that kind. Lord Stainbridge, not Nicholas, was the one her brother could have manipulated into such a predicament.

But she liked him. She had trusted him.

"Do you know why he did it?" she asked, her voice a little thinner than she wished.

His lids shielded his eyes. "Not exactly, but it was out of character, I assure you." When she saw them again, his eyes were as cold as winter earth. "I am quite anxious to meet your brother, Eleanor."

His anger raised prickles along her nerves even as she recognized that none of it was directed at her. Eleanor began to savor the fact that Lionel might finally have tangled with more than he could handle.

Then she asked, "But why have you married me?"

He smiled as he looked away into the dancing flames. All the warmth seemed to return to his expression. "Because," he said, looking back at her, "he asked me to."

Eleanor felt a weight lodge inside her chest. She was no more than a sloughed-off burden. "I see," she said, desperately swallowing tears. "Of course he couldn't have—"

Nicholas came over to her quickly and took her hand. "It's not that. He admires you greatly, Eleanor, but he couldn't marry you. He never recovered from the death of his wife. Juliette was the wrong woman for Kit. He should have married a sturdy young woman with common sense, but instead he chose a hothouse beauty too frail for child-bearing."

Eleanor looked down at his hand. It was fine-boned but strong, browned by the sun and marked by the scars and calluses of physical labor. A hand to depend on, she thought with surprise.

He raised her paler hand to his lips then spoke again. "Tonight is obviously a night for sleeping, my dear. We can continue our discussion some other time."

He would have gone, but she caught his hand. She looked up into his surprised brown eyes, wondering if she was mad.

"No, you were right," Eleanor said, dry-mouthed. "We should..." She could not meet his eyes and looked away. "I am afraid."

Her hand trembled against his firm, warm flesh. Why was she pursuing what he had been willing to drop?

Because a terror faced is preferable to one that must be feared day after day. It had always been her way.

She glanced up at him, half hoping he would argue against it. His eyes searched hers. "Can you trust me, Eleanor?"

Unable to speak, she nodded.

He kissed her hand again. "Then go to bed. I will join you shortly."

Chapter 4

Eleanor lay rigid in the bed, afraid of pain, afraid of embarrassment, afraid above all of what this business was going to do to him. She had already developed respect for Nicholas Delaney. She did not want to see him transformed into the gasping monster that haunted her nightmares, the monster who had apparently been that urbane and sensitive man, Lord Stainbridge.

She wished she had her impulsive decision to make again. She wondered whether he had manipulated her after all. Fine words and firelight were all very well, but...

He came back into her room. He was dressed in something very like a monk's robe of woven cloth, striped brown and cream and green. It looked like the clothing of some strange African people and, she thought, it probably was.

She watched, wide-eyed, as he moved around the room extinguishing the candles and tending the fire. Soon only its red glow illuminated the bedchamber. Eleanor studied the purple shadows on the ceiling as he came toward the bed. She felt it move as he slipped in beside her, felt the faint heat of his body merge with hers.

She could count her heartbeats. She wondered if he could hear them.

She sensed him roll on his side to face her. She did not, could not, turn her head to be sure. Silently, she begged him to be quick about it.

A hand settled softly on her ribs near her heart. She caught her breath and tensed. It slid away to her hand, where it rested, warm and firm.

"Relax, my dear." His voice was as soft as velvet in the red dark. "Remember, I promised not to force you. It will not be as bad as you fear." His thumb made gentle circles on the pulse of her wrist. "Think, Eleanor. What is this business between men and women? There have been women who have risked a great deal, even life itself, for it. Love alone is not the explanation. Are they mad? Or is there pleasure there?"

Eleanor felt the movement of his thumb and his soft voice working on her like a soothing syrup. Almost unwillingly she relaxed and began to feel quite unlike herself.

"I suppose," she said, her voice coming out huskily, "women must differ in this as in anything else. There are women with a passion for gambling, after all."

"And for drink and for violence. You, of course, want nothing to do with any of those vices. As your husband, I approve most heartily." There was nothing except lazy amusement to be heard in his voice. When, she wondered, did the transformation to monster begin?

He raised her hand to his warm mouth and kissed it. That was no different than the two previous times. Then he took her index finger into the moist warmth of his mouth and nibbled gently at it, his tongue playing over the tip. It was a most extraordinary sensation...

With a shudder, Eleanor pulled her hand away. He made no objection.

"Tell me, Eleanor. When was the last time anyone held you in their arms? When was the last time you hugged anyone with joy or grief?"

She wished desperately he would stop this and just do it. The silence, however, demanded an answer.

"Long ago," she said, searching her memory. "My nanny. I had a puppy once. What does it matter?"

"Oh, it matters. It is one of the greatest joys. Come into my arms and hold me, Eleanor."

That frightened her more than an attack. "I can't," she whispered.

Gently he persuaded her, coaxed her. If she did not exactly move of her own volition still she found herself gathered up and enveloped in tender warmth.

Her hand touched smooth flesh.

He was naked!

Automatically she pulled back.

"Terrible lack of foresight, I know," he said soothingly, keeping firm arms around her. "I haven't possessed a nightshirt for years. I venture to suggest, however, that your nightgown could do service for the two of us."

It was true. The bunched folds prevented contact except beneath her clenched hand. All she felt of his body was soft firmness and warmth. His hands worked subtle magic on her back, and his voice gentled her mind.

Eleanor relaxed.

Of its own accord, it seemed, her hand eased open and curved around his ribs. Her head found a natural place in the hollow of his shoulder, and the rest of her body seemed to settle comfortably to the contours of his. Very faintly she could sense his heart, slow and steady beneath her ear.

It was the most wonderful sensation she could ever remember.

Then she started to cry. Because she tried to prevent them, the tears were harsh and painful. Embarrassed, she tried to move away from him, but his arms stayed gently firm.

"No Eleanor, cry. Cry, my dear, if you want to." His hand moved up to rub at the back of her neck and she gave in and let the tears stream out.

After a while, drained, she found herself choking out details of her life. She told him of the rejection by her parents, of her anger, her rebellion, and her war with her brother. An ecstasy of painful release was followed by acute embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. What am I doing? You must—"

He silenced her with a light kiss. "You can put all these things behind you now," he said. "They are over. But if you wish to speak of them again you may always talk to me. That's what husbands are for. And for holding onto for comfort. And to make sure that life will be better. That is my wedding vow to you, Eleanor. Things will be better. Do you believe me?"

With a sniff, Eleanor nodded. She detached herself, and this time he made no effort to stop her. She sat up and fumbled on the bedside table for her handkerchief and blew her nose. Then she turned to look at him.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dim firelight and she could see him a little. Still no monster. Just a very kind man who had even, she noticed, rearranged the bedding to cover most of his body. He smiled a simple smile of friendship and a tentative bud began to unfurl within her.

It was hope.

She slid down shyly to seek again the comfort of his arms. Her emotions were in turmoil, but she recognized what he had said. Now she had someone, someone of her own.

"I cannot promise you total happiness, Eleanor," he said, and there was a note of seriousness in his voice. It was a warning, and she heeded it. But she had never expected total happiness. She had not expected even a fragment of joy from this marriage and would be grateful for anything good that came of it.

"I will take care of you, though," he added. "Trust me."

Feeling safer than she had since she was a baby, she nodded.

"Then let us seal the pact in the usual manner." His hand felt down her body to the hem of her nightgown. "No, relax, my dear. Relax. Don't fight me."

Despite all he had done Eleanor almost struggled, but at that moment his face was illumined by a sudden flare from a breaking coal. It was not a monster's face. It was normal and alight with amusement. "This unbecoming garment I will allow you to retain, but not this pigtail."

Eleanor had merely tied her long hair back for the night. Now he tugged off the ribbon and ran his fingers through her hair. He raised it high and let it drift down over both of them. Bewildered, and with hair in her mouth, Eleanor let him do as he wished. She wondered if loose hair was an essential part of the marriage act. It was an inconvenient one. Last time it had taken an age to work out the knots.

Last time...

Panic choked her. She pushed against him.