To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (11 page)

She said nothing, but he saw her ball her hands into
fists by her sides. Silently, he moved behind her, so
close that his chest pressed against her back. When she
did not protest, he gently laid the coat across her shoulders, and then stepped away from her before it was too
late-before he did something he shouldn't, like gather
her soft body in his arms and kiss her senseless. His
breath coming ragged now with the effort of restraint,
he watched as she pushed her arms through the sleeves
without making a sound.

Eleanor inhaled the masculine scent of him, lingering in the folds of the coat, and her heart accelerated
alarmingly. This was precisely why she had refused itthis, and the fact that he now stood beside her, his wild,
dark hair blowing softly in the breeze, in nothing save
his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Looking dangerous-far
too dangerous-with the hint of a beard darkening his
chin and angular jaw. Why had Mister Whitby refused
her and pawned her off on Frederick? Whitby's attentions had seemed so enthusiastic, so authentic, if only
slightly detached. She had enjoyed his company well
enough, and felt sure he had enjoyed hers equally so.

Yet, now Frederick stood here in the moonlight beside
her, precisely the man she'd sought to avoid. Worse still,
something about the way he was looking at her frightened
her. No one had ever looked at her like Frederick was,
and she didn't know what to make of it.

"For the record, Eleanor, I could refuse you nothing
in that frock. If you asked me to jump off a cliff, I would
do so, and willingly."

"I'm not certain if I should be flattered or offended
by those sentiments," she said, endeavoring to slow her
breathing.

"Flattered, no doubt. You see, you've found my weakness. Wear that gown, and you have me at your mercy.
Your slave, so to speak."

"Interesting," she murmured, wanting to believe the
veracity of his words but knowing she could not. "As
always, Frederick, such pretty words. Tell me, do you
ever encounter resistance? Any at all? Or do they all just
simply fall at your feet?"

He threw back his head and laughed.

"What's so funny?" she asked, feeling foolish.

"You. Doubting my words. Haven't you noticed that
I've barely been able to pry my eyes off you all evening?"

Of course she had noticed, and it had made her pulse
leap and her palms dampen every time she had caught
him looking her way. Was it truly desire she saw there,
burning in the dark depths of his eyes? Or only wishful
thinking on her part?

"Tell me about Ireland," she said, wishing to change
the subject. "About your family's estate in Connemara"

For several seconds, he said nothing. When he finally
spoke, his voice was soft, near reverent. "The Abbey is
perhaps the most beautiful place on earth. It is nestled
between a lake and a mountainside, terraced in old oakwoods and more often than not shrouded in mists. The
house is slate-gray stone, rectangular and rambling,
with exposed beam throughout. Behind it lies a walled
garden, one side a flower garden and the other a kitchen
garden. I spent many hours playing there as a boythere, and rowing on the lake. My grandparents lived
nearby, in a pink-washed house traced with vines, overlooking the grounds of the Abbey."

"It sounds lovely. Do you travel there often?"

"Not often enough, I'm afraid. It's isolated, and not
an easy journey. I was sent there as a punishment, you
know. As a boy."

"It doesn't sound such a punishment."

He shrugged. "I missed my sisters terribly. Maria, especially, and Katherine, the eldest. She was like a
mother to me. But no, it wasn't such a punishment as
my father thought it to be"

"You'd a brother, too, hadn't you? An older brother?"

"Indeed. Charles was my father's heir, his pride and
joy. Killed quite tragically before I reached the age of
ten. Is there anything else you wish to know?" he asked,
his voice tight.

Eleanor shrugged, unable to meet his probing stare.
"I only meant to be conversational."

He reached for her chin and tipped it up, forcing her
gaze to meet his. For a moment she was spellbound,
unable to think of anything save the sight of the moon,
reflected in his eyes.

"Don't cast me as the tortured hero, Eleanor," he said
at last, breaking the spell. "I'm nothing as romantic as
that"

She turned her head, prying her chin from his grasp.
"I've no idea what you mean"

"I'm glad to hear it." He eyed her sharply, his gaze
traveling the length of her and back up again. He took a
step in her direction, and she took an equal step away.
"Are you always so anxious, so tightly strung as this?"
he asked, noting her stiff posture.

"Is that how I seem to you?" she asked, wondering
if she was really as transparent as that. "Anxious?"

"Indeed. It's like the air around you is charged with
nervous energy. Even when we were younger, I felt it"

Eleanor swallowed, carefully measuring her words before replying. "I suppose I am a bit anxious at times.
I'm a ... a worrier at heart"

"A worrier?"

"Well, just as you said that your sister Katherine was
like a mother to you, I mothered my own brother in
much the same way"

"Why? Your own mother is alive and well."

"Indeed, but my brother, well ..." She trailed off,
wondering briefly if she was revealing too much. Likely
so. Still, she felt compelled to continue. "My brother
suffered a weakness in the chest as a boy. He was much
smaller and weaker than I was" How to phrase this delicately? "My mother, she was impatient with him, often
unkind," she said, amazed that she was actually speaking these words aloud-words she often had a hard time
admitting even to herself "I do not blame her, of course.
She was busy with her own interests, you see-"

"Yes, I've heard tales of Lady Mandeville's ... er,
interests ""

Eleanor's cheeks burned with mortification. Was it
really such common knowledge? Much as she tried to
deny the ugly truth, she knew that her mother took
many lovers-very young lovers-and did little to hide
her conquests. Did everyone in all of Essex know about
it, laugh about it, behind her back? Anger welled in her
breast.

"My mother is not what one would call an affectionate woman," she said bitterly, "but she particularly withheld her attentions from Henry. I worried over him
every single day; I still do, if truth be told. His health
has been much improved since he went off to school,
but I cannot help but worry." A painful lump formed in
her throat. "I know that must sound silly, as he's a grown
man now, off living his own life."

He reached for her hand, and Eleanor allowed him to clasp it tightly within his warm one. "Not in the least. It
only sounds as if you are a loving, devoted sister. He's
lucky to have you"

"Thank you," Eleanor murmured, her voice thick
with emotion. Why did his approval mean so much?

"Now let's get you back inside," he said softly, wrapping one arm about her shoulders and pulling her close.
"It's late, and you're cold."

Eleanor nodded, allowing him to lead her back toward
the garden. "I am cold, thanks to this ridiculous gown.
I've no idea how I let Mama convince me to buy it."

"I've no idea, either, but I shall have to kiss Lady
Mandeville in thanks next time I see her."

"Is it really as shocking as that?" Eleanor asked with
an easy laugh, clutching his coat more tightly about her
shoulders.

"Suffice it to say I shan't soon forget it. I'll no doubt
ride off to Plymouth tomorrow, entirely weak with exhaustion for lying awake all night wondering just what
you're wearing beneath it."

"I've almost a mind to tell you, it's so absurd" Her
mouth curved into a smile as his gaze snapped up to
meet hers questioningly. "But I won't," she added. "I'll
let you suffer instead."

"Cruel woman."

"Nothing more than you deserve," she answered, realizing with a start that something had shifted in their relationship, something small but important nonetheless.
The banter, the teasing ... something about it reminded
her of Henry, of the comfortable, easy relationship she
shared with her twin. And if she were thinking of Frederick in brotherly terms, that could only mean one
thing-that she was free at last from the infatuation that
had held her heart prisoner for four long years.

"Will you promise to behave yourself, when I leave you here tomorrow in the care of the honorable Mister
Whitby? Honestly, you shouldn't rush the man's affections. No doubt he'll succumb to your charms in the
end."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. Only a fool would not"

"Well, there's hope, then. I suppose I shall have no
choice but to behave. But only if you'll promise me
you'll be careful, once you find him. Eckford, I mean.
There must be another way, besides a duel."

"Will you shed a tear for me if I'm killed?" he asked,
capturing her wrist and bringing her palm to his lips.

Despite his mocking tone, Eleanor felt her throat constrict uncomfortably. "Don't jest about something so serious, Frederick. It isn't at all funny"

"No? I apologize, then. I'm an excellent marksman,
Eleanor. Have faith in that"

She pulled her hand from his grasp and swallowed
hard, her gaze trained on her slippers. "I don't like it one
bit, despite the horrible things that Mister Eckford has
done"

"No, I don't suppose you would. Well, the least you
can do is send me off with a kiss"

Eleanor inhaled sharply. "You cannot be serious"

"Aye, I'm entirely serious. Just a small kiss?"

Her heart began to pound-her theory was being
tested. If her infatuation had died a quiet death, then
what harm could come from a chaste, sisterly kiss?

"Like sending a lover off to war," he pressed, leaning
in toward her, his breath warm on her neck.

"You're not going to war, and I'm not your lover," she
countered, knowing full well that she would kiss him in
the end. A test, she told herself Nothing more.

"Ali, but my current inamorata is in London at present," he said, his hands encircling her waist, drawing her closer still. "And I'm here in Devonshire. What's a man
to do?"

"Oh, very well." Taking a deep, fortifying breath,
Eleanor raised herself on tiptoe and cautiously pressed
her lips against his. She gasped when she heard his
sharp intake of breath, just before he crushed her to
him.

She knew precisely then-the moment his lips parted
hers-that she'd failed the test. God help her, but she'd
failed.

Damnation, where had she learned to kiss like this?
Frederick's mind reeled as he deepened the kiss, exploring Eleanor's soft, yielding mouth with his tongue. Her
own tongue boldly met his, eager and inviting as she
tangled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.
His breathing now ragged, he traced her bottom lip with
his tongue, all but intoxicated by the feel of her in his
arms, her breasts pressed against his chest, her heart
pounding furiously in rhythm to his own.

He should have known she would be as tempting as
Eve, once he broke through that tightly guarded restraint of hers. His lips trailed down her throat, lingering on the spot where her pulse thrummed against her
skin. She tipped her head back, a soft moan escaping
her lips. His mouth moved lower still, across her collarbone, to the base of her throat, and back up again to
her trembling lips.

Taking her with him, he stumbled back a few paces
and pressed her back against the solid trunk of an oak,
his own feet planted wide. She did not resist as he
parted her lips once more, his hips pressed against her
belly, his erection throbbing against her.

Allowing his hands to freely roam her body, he
brushed his palms across her breasts, nearly exposed
now in her bodice's opening. Unable to resist, he slid
one hand inside, across her smooth, silky skin to her
hardened nipples. One flick of his fingers made the sensitive skin pebble tightly, and he felt a shudder run
through her body.

Bloody hell, but he wanted her. Hard and fast, against
the tree. He couldn't, of course. But damn, how he
wanted to.

He had to stop this-now. Now, his mind screamed,
his entire body afire as she squirmed against him, pressing urgently against his erection and driving him mad,
even through the layers of fabric that separated them.

Groaning fiercely with the effort, he tore his mouth
from hers. "Dear God, Eleanor," he said, his voice laced
with unquenched desire. "Are you trying to kill me
yourself?"

For a moment she said nothing, leaning against the
tree for support, her legs visibly shaking. She looked
dazed, slightly disoriented as she tugged the bodice of
her gown back to its rightful place.

An innocent-he'd finally sunk so low that he'd trifled with an innocent. It took him a moment to find his
voice.

"I apologize, Eleanor. It's that damned frock of
yours."

Still she said nothing.

"Will you say something, love?" he prodded, reaching for her trembling hands. "Did I hurt you?"

"N ... no," she stuttered, her eyes finally appearing
to focus. "I'm not hurt. I'm only ... Dear Lord, what
did we just do?"

"We stopped; that's what matters. I did not compromise you. And even if I had, we're still betrothed, technically
speaking, are we not?"

"No. No," she repeated, her voice rising. "I hope to
marry Mister Whitby."

"You barely know the man," Frederick countered.

"I know him well enough to know he would not do ...
what we just did_. . -. this."

She was probably right; the man seemed to be a
bloody eunuch. "No, likely not," he conceded. "And that
is what you want in a husband?"

She nodded. "Precisely so"

A burning anger rose in his breast, though he could
not credit it. "Then that's what you'll have," he said
curtly. "If you'll excuse me" He bowed sharply, dismissing her. Reaching up to straighten his cravat, he
turned and strode toward the house without so much as
a glance back in her direction.