To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (12 page)

Only when he stepped into his guest chamber and
closed the door behind him did he realize that he'd forgotten his coat, no doubt still draped across Eleanor's
shoulders. Bloody hell, but he was losing his mind.

Cinching the belt on her dressing gown, Eleanor sleepily padded across the room, drawn to the window as if
spellbound. She pulled back the drapes and peered out
the glass as the first light of dawn penetrated the murky
shadows below. Lord Henley stood in the drive, holding
the reins of a dappled gray horse. Beside him, a groom
stood with an enormous bay. Eleanor held her breath as
Frederick appeared, striding across the drive with his
greatcoat billowing out behind him. The brim of his hat
shielded his eyes from her view, but she could picture
them, a warm chocolate brown and sparkling wickedly,
in her mind's eye.

She pressed one palm against the glass, cool and
smooth beneath her skin, as she watched him swing up
onto the horse's back and take up the reins. For several
minutes the two men appeared to converse atop their
mounts. Finally, Frederick nodded, wheeling his horse's
head toward the road. A shudder ran up her spine as he
dug his heels into the animal's flanks and rode off in a
cloud of dust.

Only when his form was reduced to a barely discernible speck in the distance did she allow her gaze to
drop, her chin dipping down toward her breastbone as
she let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been
holding.

It was good that he was leaving, she reminded herself. Definitely for the best. Now she could become
better acquainted with Mister Whitby without the distraction Frederick created just with his presence alone.
Turning from the window, she swiped the back of one
hand across her forehead, allowing her gaze to travel
across the room. She'd tossed and turned all night long,
entirely unable to sleep, and now the bedcovers were a
tangled jumble upon the bed.

She hurried over to the carved maple bed, thinking to
straighten the linens a bit before Solange awakened and
came in to ready her for the morning meal. With a tug,
she pulled the bedcovers up, frowning at the lump that
remained at the foot of the bed. What on earth? She
flipped up the edge of the delicately embroidered counterpane and peered beneath it.

Frederick's coat! Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling the gasp that escaped her lips. She'd entirely forgotten she'd been wearing it until she'd entered her
bedchamber last night and saw her disheveled reflection
in the looking glass. Hearing Solange's footsteps approaching in the hallway, she'd hastily shrugged out of it and stuffed it beneath the bedclothes only seconds
before the maid had entered to help her undress.

Warily, she dragged the coat out from under the counterpane, involuntarily bringing it up to her nose and inhaling the scent of him that lingered still in the soft
folds of fabric. Memories of his kiss came flooding
back, and she sank to the edge of bed with a groan of
frustration. What a fool she'd been, thinking she could
resist his kiss, that her girlish infatuation had been replaced by a more sisterly affection.

What a silly, stupid thing she had done, kissing him.
If anything, it had only proven that her infatuation had
grown stronger, more potent-more dangerous. Because now it was more than simply a senseless appeal,
a mere physical attraction. Despite Frederick's rakish
ways, she was beginning to actually like him. She could
not fathom why-perhaps it was simply that he spoke
so lovingly and protectively of his sisters.

Whatever the reason, she now found Frederick far
more amiable than before. She'd best not confess as
much to Selina, or her friend would surely insist she
have her head examined. And perhaps she should. What
sort of woman had she become, kissing one man while
hoping to ensnare the affections of another? How could
she so easily dismiss Frederick after allowing him such
liberties?

On the other hand, Frederick surely had no qualms
about sharing a passionate embrace with one woman,
then moving on to another. In fact, he'd made a habit of
precisely that. She'd only suffered a moment of weakness, nothing more, and it would never happen again.
Never. A wave of remorse washed over her. Mister
Whitby deserved better.

But what to do with Frederick's coat? How could she
possibly explain its appearance in her bedchamber? Even if Solange didn't discover it, a chambermaid
surely would. Her mind cast about frantically for a solution, but none came immediately to mind. Oh, fustian.
What was she to do? She brought it to her nose once
more, inhaling deeply. For a moment she thought to put
her arms through the sleeves, to wrap herself up in it
and slip back into the soft, warm bed.

Reaching a hand to her mouth, she stifled a yawn.
Perhaps she would lie back down for a spell. The sun
had only just arisen, after all. She scooted back toward
the headboard, still clutching Frederick's coat to her
breast. Sliding her legs beneath the bedclothes, she
reached around to plump the feather pillow behind her.

Crash! Eleanor started in surprise, staring down at
the ceramic pitcher she'd inadvertently knocked from
the bedside table. It had broken cleanly, cleaved into two
brightly pattered pieces that lay there on the polished
floorboards below. Her heart began to thump against her
breastbone as she held her breath. Had anyone heard?
She found her answer in the sound of footfalls, gaining
in volume. Oh no, not Solange, not so early as this!

Looking about frantically, she leapt from the bed,
clutching the coat in trembling hands as she sought a
suitable hiding place.

The window. Was there any other way? She could
think of none, and surely Solange would appear at the
door in seconds. She hurried to the window, threw open
the sashes, and tossed the coat as far as she could. How
successful she was, she had no idea, for as soon as she
closed the sashes, a knock sounded on the door and
Solange entered without awaiting her response.

"I heard a noise," Solange said, her brow creased
with concern. "Are you up so early, my lady?"

Eleanor nodded. "I could not sleep. And loop'-she gestured toward the broken pitcher-"I'm so terribly clumsy."

"Don't fret, mum. It isn't such a fine piece as all that.
Look how cleanly it broke" Solange bent and retrieved
the two halves from the floor, setting them inside her
apron. "Shall I light the fire for you?"

"That would be lovely," Eleanor answered. "Though
I thought I might lie back down. Will you wake me in
an hour?"

"Of course" Solange folded the corners of her apron
around the broken ceramic and placed it on the dresser
before seeing to the fire. Once the fire crackled in the
hearth, she retrieved the apron and headed toward the
door. "Now get some rest, mum. You sorely look as if
you need it."

Did she? Eleanor frowned, reminding herself that she
must look her best today. As her maid departed, Eleanor
hurried to the looking glass and peered at her own reflection, brows drawn with worry. Indeed, she looked wan,
her eyes shadowed. However would she manage to capture Mister Whitby's fancy looking like this?

Casting one last guilty glance at the window, she removed her dressing gown and hurried back to the warm,
inviting bed. As she slipped back between the linens,
she couldn't help but silently curse Frederick Stoneham
for creating such havoc in her life.

Eleanor stepped out onto the stone terrace with a
smile, feeling refreshed yet famished. The scent of eggs
and sausages drifted past her on the breeze, and her
stomach grumbled in anticipation.

"There she is, awake at last," Selina called out in
greeting, waving to her from a round wrought-iron table
laid in crisp white linen. Straw baskets and tiered trays
filled with savory treats were spread about the table invitingly, and Eleanor hurried to take a seat beside her
friend, directly across from George Whitby.

"Coffee, mum?" a serving maid asked, and Eleanor
nodded as she peeled off her gloves and placed them in
her lap with her napkin.

"What a lovely morning," she murmured. It was truethe sky was gloriously clear, a brilliant shade of azure
without a cloud in sight. Terns circled lazily overhead,
and the crashing of the sea could be heard over their calls.
How she longed to take a walk to the seashore! Perhaps
later, she thought, turning her attention to Mister Whitby.

"I hope you slept well, Lady Eleanor," he said, reaching for a slice of toast.

"Indeed I did, Mister Whitby. The sound of the sea is
so very soothing. Your home is wonderfully situated"

"I wholeheartedly agree" He paused to slather his
toast with butter. "There's wonderful fishing and hunting in the woods nearby, and the proximity to Plymouth
is excellent."

Selina set down her cup and smiled sweetly. "If only
you'd accept my offer to help with the decor, George.
You cannot deny that your home lacks a woman's
touch."

Eleanor's eyes widened. How very bold of Selina.
Would Mister Whitby take the bait?

He paused only to chew a bite of toast before replying. "True, true indeed. Without a mistress, my home
does lack the polish that a woman's touch would afford.
Still, I hope you find it comfortable."

"I do, indeed," Eleanor interjected brightly. "Thank
you," she added, as a manservant presented her a plate
generously laden with eggs and sausage. "So, Mister
Whitby, tell me more about your pursuits here in the
country. How is the society in Devonshire?"

"Very amiable indeed, Lady Eleanor. The Duke of Dandridge has an estate nearby, and the Duchess is a
fine hostess, quite charming. I dine with them often."

"How lovely that must be," Eleanor said, spearing a
sausage with her fork. "I have not made her acquaintance, but the Duchess of Dandridge is known far and
wide as a first-rate hostess, and her invitations are eagerly sought. You must be quite in her favor, then."

"I suppose so, as the duke and I often hunt together.
His holdings are vast, the game plentiful and his lakes
well-stocked."

Eleanor's attention began to wane as Whitby spoke at
length about hunting and fishing on the duke's lands,
apparently his two favorite occupations if his enthusiasm was any indication. She allowed her mind to
wander as she ate her breakfast in silence, marveling at
the beauty of the park beyond the terrace. She really
was looking forward to exploring the grounds on foot.

"Lady Eleanor is very fond of the sea," Selina said,
laying a hand on her wrist and drawing her attention
back to her fellow diners. "Are you not?"

"Very much so," she murmured, marveling at Selina's uncanny ability to read her thoughts.

"You must show her the view from the cliffs, George.
I declare, Eleanor, it is positively breathtaking"

"Of course," Whitby agreed with a nod. "Perhaps
after breakfast you'd both be inclined to join me on a
walk about the grounds?"

"I'm afraid I cannot," Selina demurred, shaking her
head. "My neck is still tender from our carriage accident.
But Eleanor can accompany you, and I'll use the time to
catch up on my correspondence" A ruse, Eleanor realized. Just last night Selina had declared that she felt fully
recovered.

"Say you will, Lady Eleanor," Whitby pressed, offering her a wide smile. "It would please me greatly"

"Of course" Eleanor took a sip of coffee, examining
the man over the rim of her cup. He really was quite
handsome in a simple, robust way. His face was pleasing,
with soft, hazel eyes and full lips, and his form bespoke
health and vigor. His air was jovial and solicitous, and his
behavior entirely gentlemanly. Though he was not titled,
his future seemed secure, his home grand though not ostentatious, and his connections spoke well of his character. Being asked to dine frequently with the Duke and
Duchess of Dandridge was no small matter, and Eleanor
was duly impressed. Yes, Mister George Whitby was
everything a gently bred lady could want in a husband,
and she'd be a fool to lose the opportunity at hand.

"I say, the strangest thing happened this morning,"
Mister Whitby said, drawing Eleanor from her ruminations. "An intrigue of sorts. A coat was found in the
bushes in front of the house, along the drive. A gentleman's coat"

Eleanor sputtered, nearly choking on her coffee.

He shrugged. "We've no idea where it came from,
or how it came to be in the bushes"

"How very odd," Selina said, casting a curious glance
in Eleanor's direction. "You don't suppose an interloper
was sneaking about outside, do you?"

"I doubt it, or my hounds would have alerted me.
They're quite sensitive to intruders" He reached down
to pat the head of the hound who rested at his feet.

"Perhaps it belongs to a servant," Eleanor offered,
perhaps too brightly. Her heart was pounding furiously
in her breast, and it was all she could do to remain in her
seat. Let my secret remain safe, she silently prayed,
twisting the napkin in her lap.

Mister Whitby shook his head, his lips pursed thoughtfully. "No, it could not possibly belong to a servant. It
was a gentleman's coat of superfine, and well-cut at that. I'll have to ask Henley and Mister Stoneham about
it upon their return. I suppose it could belong to one of
them, though I've no idea how it found its way to the
bushes"

Eleanor cleared her throat uncomfortably, entirely
certain that her guilt was evident in her countenance.
"I'm sure there must be a reasonable explanation"

"An explanation, perhaps, but I'm not so sure it will
be reasonable. Anyway," he said, pushing away his plate
and rising. "If you ladies will excuse me, I have some
matters to attend to, and then I shall take Lady Eleanor
on that walk I promised. Shall we meet up here in an
hour?"

"Indeed, Mister Whitby. That sounds lovely." More
than anything, she was relieved that the topic of the coat
was abandoned. She only hoped it would be forgotten
by the time Henley and Frederick returned, otherwise
her guilt would surely betray her.