The Second Seduction of a Lady (7 page)

She waved aside the question, as though it was an irrelevance. “I’m not sure I wish to be married.”

“What?” Max was outraged. “You just kissed me as no lady should kiss a man who is not her betrothed or, preferably, her husband.”

“Don’t be prissy, Max. We’ve done nothing that makes it essential we wed.”

“I thought you’d forgiven me.”

“I have.”

“Five years ago, you were ready to marry me, until Ashdown interfered. Why not now?”

“Actually,” she said, “I wasn’t intending to wed you then, either.”

“What?”

“Hush! Do you want to summon a crowd?”

With some difficulty, Max moderated his tone. “Do you mean to say you lay with me, you surrendered your virtue, with no intention of marrying me?”

“I’ll admit I wasn’t thinking very clearly that night. I was a little carried away. After it happened”—she smiled at the reminiscence in a way he could only characterize as lascivious—“I might have considered wedding you. Sir George Ashdown quickly squashed that idea.”

Max felt the ground slipping out from under his feet. “Do you love me, Eleanor?” he asked, trying to bring the discussion back under control. “I loved you then and I love you now. You are the only woman I have ever loved, the only one I wish to marry and live with for the rest of my life.” An astonishing and hurtful idea occurred to him. “Did you love me? Or was I merely a week’s flirtation to be used and set aside?”

She took his hands in each of hers and looked up at him, her head tilted to one side. “I think I did love you, Max. Maybe I still do. More than any other man I’ve ever met. Will you give me time to think about it?”

“How much time? Five minutes, ten?”

“A little more than that.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss the tip of his nose. “At least a few days.”

He didn’t want to wait a few days. Desire and low cunning overcame his scruples and all his resolutions to exercise restraint. Deciding to use every weapon at his disposal he gathered her into his arms again and took a long, delicious kiss that left them both shaky and breathless.

“Give me your answer tomorrow,” he said with a gasp.

“No, but I’ll take another kiss.”

“Come to my bedchamber and I’ll do even better.”

She was considering it, he could tell. His groin ached at the thought of Eleanor naked between linen sheets, of taking her now, and not letting her go until she was thoroughly pleasured, totally compromised, and possibly pregnant to boot.

With regret and a measure of relief he watched her slowly shake her head. “It’s just as well,” he said. “I want you to come to me freely, without a shadow of doubt or coercion. You are worth waiting for.”

A dazzling smile was his reward. “Thank you, Max. I’m tempted by your offer, but I don’t want to risk getting with child. I only returned your letters when I knew I had not conceived. It would have been dreadful to be forced to wed you for such a reason. I suppose we’d better return before we create a scandal.”

He wasn’t ready to let her go. “I’d like to show you something. Beyond that topiary there’s a border planted with all white flowers. They look their best by moonlight.”

“How charming. I’d like to see that.”

“There’s a little summerhouse from which one can sit and view it. It has a very comfortable bench.”

In all her sensible days, Eleanor had never received such a romantic offer as a comfortable bench away from prying eyes and the scent of summer flowers in the night. Turning down Max’s suggestion of a bed had taken all her willpower. A wellspring of joy in her breast made her want to say yes to all and anything Max proposed, including a hasty marriage. But a lifetime’s habit of caution told her to wait. A decision to abandon her devoutly held beliefs must be made in the cold light of day.

There was no reason she couldn’t indulge herself a little more. She could enjoy a goodnight kiss. “Lead on,” she said. “I expect you to tell me the names of all the flowers.”

He snatched a quick taste of her lips and hurried her, their fingers enlaced, into the forest of carved box topiary figures. For a minute or two, she was blind, aware only of Max’s large, rough hand guiding her, inspiring her trust. So dark was the walk, that emerging into the open dazed her for a moment. The scent of roses assaulted her nostrils and she looked about her to get her bearings. In the moonlight, she took in the promised summerhouse, a pretty faux-rustic structure of moss-covered stone.

From Max’s muttered oath she knew he saw him at the same time as she did, a man, leaving the little building, looking about him carefully. They melted back into the shadows until Robert Townsend had taken the direct route toward the house.

“What’s the boy up to…”

His sentence was left unfinished at the emergence of another figure, wearing a familiar white gown. Eleanor’s instinct was to race forward and confront Caro, but Max’s arm restrained her and a minute’s reflection convinced her that discretion was the better course.

“Oh dear,” was all she could think of to say once the girl had left.

“I’m sorry,” Max said.

“It’s not your fault. Let’s hope things haven’t gone too far.”

“If they have, I shall make sure Robert marries her. I won’t allow Miss Brotherton to be ruined.”

“What kind of solution would that be?” Eleanor demanded. “Married at the age of seventeen, to a wild youth of dubious character? What chance of happiness would she have?”

T
hat Eleanor slept at all that night was a miracle. Lying awake for what felt like hours, unable to find a comfortable spot in her bed, she relived the evening. Max’s revelation of Sir George Ashdown’s role in the fiasco had extinguished the last vestige of anger over the bet. But now she had to face a far more frightening decision. Drowning in the memory of his kisses, the answer seemed obvious. Why not seize a lifetime of such delights? Yet as Eleanor rolled her neck on a pillow that had become lumpy since last night, her stomach lurched with raw fear. Awaking, thirsty and unrefreshed, she prayed Max wouldn’t call today. She needed far more time before relinquishing the principles of a lifetime.

It was later than her usual hour of rising, but still early for the morning after a ball. She’d wager Caro wouldn’t be up for hours. She rang for her maid, took a greedy drink, and washed in cold water. By the time she had dressed she felt as restless as ever. The day seemed unbearably hot.

Flinging up the sash window that overlooked the front of the house, she saw a horseman ride up. No one had a better seat than Max. Her heart skipped ten beats and her mouth became dry again. As he dismounted and handed the reins to a servant, he looked over the façade of the house, as though searching for something. For her. Even from two floors up she could see his kind, rugged face, imagine the twinkle in his eyes. Damn him! Why couldn’t he have waited another day, or three. She might very well tear downstairs and cast herself into his arms. She stumbled back from the window and collapsed into a chair, twisting her hands together.

Five minutes later a servant knocked. “There’s a gentleman to see you, Miss Hardwick.”

“Tell him I’m still in bed. I won’t be receiving callers today.”

When the door handle rattled again she panicked. “No,” she called. “I’m not dressed.”

“Yes you are!” Caro said as she came in, still in her nightgown. “Why did you say you weren’t? Oh never mind. Wasn’t that the most wonderful evening?”

Eleanor grasped at the distraction. Scolding Caro for last night’s behavior gave her a practical task.

“What can you have been thinking of?” she demanded. “Going alone to the summerhouse with Robert Townsend was a terrible indiscretion.”

“Don’t be a stuffy old thing, Eleanor,” Caro said with a pout. “I want to talk about the ball. Wasn’t it wonderful?” She clambered up onto the bed and bounced on her knees in an ecstasy of delight. Just the reaction a young girl should have after her first ball. She looked innocent and fragile and Eleanor’s heart swelled with a fierce protective love.

“If your mother finds out, she’ll never let you visit me. In fact, she’ll very likely refuse to take you to London next spring.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want a London season with Mama. Robert says
ton
events are dreadfully dull. He and his friends never go to them. They know much better ways to amuse themselves.”

“That may be true, but your only choices are
ton
parties in London, or staying home in Somerset. Which of those two is more
dreadfully dull?”
Eleanor leaned over and took the girl’s hand. “Caro, my sweet, I’m glad you’ve had the chance to meet some young men this summer, and get out of the house. In my opinion your mother is much too particular, but she’s not entirely wrong. Virtue is not enough. You must be careful not to let people believe you unchaste. Disappearing at a ball with a young man is just the kind of thing that gives a young girl a bad reputation. If that happens you will never have the chance to wed, whether you wish to or not.”

“Of course I will.” Caro spoke with utter conviction. “I’m going to marry Robert.”

“Has he offered for you?”

“Not yet. But he will. He loves me.”

Eleanor sighed. At a naïve seventeen, Caro trod a rocky path. Then she remembered. Townsend was leaving the county immediately. Instead of arguing the girl out of marriage, Eleanor should prepare her for heartbreak. It was all for the best, but she didn’t relish the task. She had no stomach for difficult encounters today.

Caro, who was giddy but not stupid, interrupted her dithering thoughts. “How did you know we were in the summerhouse? We were careful not to be seen.” The question struck Eleanor silent, but Caro had her own answer. “I suppose you were walking in the garden with Mr. Quinton.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because he fancies you. I think you may fancy him, too. But I
know
he wants you. And Robert has been helping him.”

“What?”

“How do you think he always knows where you’ll be, and when? Because I tell Robert and Robert tells him.”

“But—” Eleanor’s mind reeled. She’d suspected, of course, and Max had virtually confirmed that he made a point of tracing her movements. But that Robert and
Caro
were in the conspiracy. “How did this come about? Does Mr. Quinton know Robert gets the intelligence from you?”

“I should think he must, since he told Robert to do it. Robert liked me when he first saw me. When we fell into the river. But he didn’t think much of it until Max—Mr. Quinton—suggested he get to know me better since I seemed a pretty girl. But Robert knew straightaway that it was you Mr. Quinton was interested in. We’ve had great fun, sending messages back and forth and making plans for you and Mr. Quinton to meet.”

Eleanor felt dizzy as she watched Caro, so blithe and happy and completely unaware of the effect of her words which seemed to come from a great distance. “I’m so glad it happened, because otherwise Robert wouldn’t have fallen in love with me.”

How could he be so callous? Caro was going to be miserable and it was all Max’s fault.

Lancashire

“O
h! You’re here, my dear. When did you arrive?”

Eleanor dropped a kiss on her father’s gray head. “Last night, Papa.” There was no point in reminding Mr. Hardwick that he’d greeted her when she arrived late last evening, finding him deep in a book.

The same book, a hefty leather-bound tome, had been brought to the breakfast room. The Reverend Thomas Hardwick didn’t let the mundane requirements of the body keep him from his studies.

Or conversation.

As he consulted the index and flipped to the desired page, Eleanor helped herself to bread and butter and poured herself a cup of tea.

“Pass the marmalade, please Papa.”

Blinking like an owl, Mr. Hardwick looked around the table in vain.

“At your elbow. Careful you don’t get it on the pages.”

Finding and passing the dish of preserves seemed to awake him from his scholarly haze. “Did you have a good journey from Derbyshire?” he asked. “How was Cuthbert?”

“Cousin Cuthbert lives in Kent,” she replied calmly. “I was in Somerset with the Brothertons. Mama’s cousin Elizabeth, and Caro.”

“Ah yes. The little girl. She must be nine or ten by now.” Caro had, miraculously, managed to make an impression on Mr. Hardwick, who rarely remembered anyone who wasn’t interested in the natural history of the Bible. During a brief visit years earlier, she had attempted to lift a rare edition of Culpepper’s Herbal and dropped it on her five-year-old toes. Luckily the book had sustained no more permanent damage than did the child.

“I hope her foot recovered.”

“She is seventeen and walks without a discernible limp.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Did you enjoy your visit? Not too hot in the West Country?”

Eleanor didn’t want to talk about it. Neither did her father. “Is that Stackhouse’s
History of the Bible
?” she asked. “I should think you know it by heart.”

“I’ve been comparing what he has to say with Pilkington’s essay on the Mount of Olives and a new explanation came to me last night. I must write to Dr. Farrell at Cambridge. He will be most interested.”

Listening to her father ramble on about his obsession was balm to Eleanor’s soul after the storm of the past weeks. Buffeted by the uncertain yearnings of her heart and the undeniable rage of physical desire, she found rest in her father’s almost indifferent affection. He loved her, of course, but he didn’t need her. He made no demands beyond a sympathetic ear. Life could return to normal, to the enjoyment of cool reason, free from the upheavals that Max Quinton had twice wrought on her unwilling emotions. In the dining room of her lifelong home, with the cold mist of a Lancashire summer polishing the varied greens of the shrubbery near the open window, she felt at peace.

During the long journey home she had raged at Max’s manipulative deception. That he would jeopardize the happiness of an innocent girl to get close to her again demonstrated the same careless indifference with which he’d entered a contest to crack the guarded heart of a spinster, and then robbed the pitiful old maid of her virtue.