To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (19 page)

"Of course, Mister Stoneham. You'll find everything
you need here in the escritoire. Shall I have it sent to
your room? Perhaps our merriment here will distract
you."

"Not in the least," he said, moving from behind the
sofa to stand directly in front of her. "I'm feeling inclined
to remain in such pleasant company tonight," he added.

Eleanor took a deep breath, forcing her gaze to
remain upon the tips of his scuffed boots. Wishing to
effect a mask of ennui, she reached for her needle,
pricking her finger in the process. Stifling a gasp, she
pressed her wounded finger to her handkerchief beneath
her hoop, hoping no one had witnessed her careless
blunder.

"Unless, of course, my presence here distracts you,"
Frederick added, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Her cheeks flooded with warmth. Still, she did not
raise her gaze.

"Don't be a fool, Stoneham," Henley said, clapping
Frederick on the back. "Go. Sit, and write your deuced
letter whilst we play a hand or two. You shan't distract
us in the least, old boy"

"Perhaps it is a love letter you're so keen on writing?"
Selina asked. There was a hard edge to her voice, one
which Eleanor had rarely heard her friend use.

"Perhaps it is," Frederick drawled in reply, his boots
moving yet another step in Eleanor's direction.

"Do tell," Selina pressed.

"A gentleman never tells," he answered. "Or so the
story goes. Pray tell, have I the right of it, Lady Eleanor?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't know," she answered, meeting
his gaze at last. In the short time since she'd left him
there in the dining room, he'd loosened his cravat and
mussed his dark hair. Why, oh, why did his slightly disheveled appearance set her pulse leaping? Her heart
beating wildly? Whatever was the matter with her?

"I'll leave you to your cards, then," he said, an easy
smile parting his lips and setting his eyes aglow with
mischief

He was toying with her, as always. Fully aware that
he discomposed her. Maddeningly arrogant and brash,
the beast.

Without sparing him another glance, Eleanor took
her seat at the card table opposite Mister Whitby. For
perhaps a half hour she tried her best to concentrate on
the game at hand, though every fiber of her being was
painfully aware of Frederick's presence there behind her
at the escritoire, his pen scratching against the paper.

Time and again she fought the urge to glance over
her shoulder, wondering just what correspondence
had so captured his enthusiasm. He had admitted to
one kept mistress in Town-perhaps it was to her that
he wrote. Does a man write to his mistress? Eleanor
wasn't certain.

"Come now, Lady Eleanor. The suit is hearts, not diamonds," Mister Whitby scolded, snapping her attention back to the cards in her damp hands.

"Forgive me," Eleanor murmured, retrieving the card
she had just laid on the table's baize top.

Selina tossed her cards to the table with a shake of
her head. "Don't fret, Eleanor. I fear I am not inclined
to play tonight. I simply cannot concentrate."

Henley sighed heavily, tipping back his chair precariously on two legs. "Very well. What shall we do instead?"

"Shall I ring for some port?" Mister Whitby offered,
pushing back from the table and rising to his feet.

"That would be lovely." Selina's eyes scanned the
room, settling at last on Frederick where he sat slumped
in the chair before the writing desk. A lock of hair had
fallen across one angular cheek, shielding his eyes from
view and mingling with the dark whiskers that shadowed his jaw as he continued to write, his pen moving
in graceful arcs across the paper.

Glancing quickly back at Eleanor, Selina cleared her throat loudly before calling out, "Mister Stoneham, this
must be a very important correspondence of yours to
gain such attention as this. You must relieve my curiosity at once and tell me to whom you write so earnestly."

"Selina!" Eleanor warned under her breath, casting a
scathing glare at her friend for such impertinence.
Whatever had come over her?

Frederick laid down his pen and turned to face them,
tossing back the errant lock of hair as a hint of a wry
smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "If you must
know, Lady Henley, I am writing to my grandmother. In
Ireland."

"Your grandmother?" Selina delicately arched a brow
in disbelief. Clearly this was not the answer she expected. "I confess, sir, I am astonished," she said.

Frederick laughed aloud. "What surprises you, Lady
Henley? That I have a grandmother, or that I correspond
with her?"

"Why, that you would correspond with her, I suppose"

Frederick waved a hand over the page in front of him,
drying the ink. "Do you not correspond with your own
grandmother?"

Selina squirmed in her seat. "Well, yes. Of course I
do. But ... but I am ... and you are .. " She trailed off
uncomfortably.

"Yes?" Frederick prodded. "Go on"

Selina turned toward her husband. "Henley, dear, you
do not correspond with your grandmother, do you? Or
any relation, for that matter."

Henley shrugged in reply. "The old bird hasn't much
to say. Do you write to her, George?"

"Of course not," Whitby answered, reaching for the
bellpull beside the fireplace. "Whatever would I have to
write to her?"

Selina nodded her agreement. "And yet you've written how many pages there, Mister Stoneham?"

"Three pages," he answered, completely unembarrassed. "And I'm not yet done."

"It just seems ... odd, is all," Selina said.

Eleanor shook her head in censure. What a silly thing
to criticize a man for! Why, Henry had corresponded
regularly with Grandmama, right up until the day she
had died.

"Is it odd?" Frederick asked, tapping his fingers
against the blotter. "Well, then, perhaps you would be
better pleased if I did write a love letter, after all? Tell
me, to whom shall I address it?"

The uncomfortable silence that followed was broken
only by the return of the parlormaid carrying a silver
tray laden with a decanter of port and several small cutglass goblets.

As Mister Whitby began to pour and pass around the
glasses, Henley and Selina gathered about him, chattering happily about nonesuch as if naught was amiss.

Fiddling with the fastenings on her spencer, Eleanor
turned to look at Frederick, still sitting at the writing
desk watching her, looking every bit the dark and dangerous rogue. Their eyes met, the invitation in his gaze
so apparent that it momentarily stole away her breath.
Would she meet him at the cottage tonight?

With a nod, she turned back toward her host and accepted the glass of port he offered, sipping it with a smile.

"And now perhaps Lady Eleanor will play for us,"
Mister Whitby said, raising his glass in her direction.
"In fact, I insist"

"Very well," she said reluctantly, eyeing the dull rosewood pianoforte in the room's corner. Somewhat in
need of a tuning, the instrument was a fine one nonethe less, and Eleanor enjoyed playing. If only Frederick's
presence didn't unnerve her so.

"What shall I play?" she asked, setting down her
goblet and striding toward the long wooden bench while
the Henleys and Mister Whitby settled themselves back
in their seats.

"Something cheerful, perhaps?" Whitby called out.

Yes, he would no doubt prefer something light, a
piece without depth. Something old-fashioned. A lively
piece of Mozart, perhaps. Running her fingers lightly
over the keys, she glanced up at Frederick, his back to
her and his attention returned to his letter.

What type of piece would Frederick prefer? Something rich, somber, full of emotion, her mind supplied.
Of course. Something beautiful yet turbulent.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, laying her fingers on the cool keys. As she exhaled, she opened her
eyes and began to play. Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.
14 in C-sharp minor, perhaps the loveliest piece of
music she'd ever heard. The fingers of her left hand
moved continuously while those on her right slowly
picked out the dark and whisper-like melody, full of
passion. It was a love ballad, dedicated to the Countess
Giulietta Guicciardi. Quasi una fantasia. Almost a fantasy. How fitting, indeed.

Perhaps a full minute into the first movement, she noticed that Frederick had risen from his seat at the escritoire and moved to stand at the far end of the
pianoforte. Without missing a beat, her eyes met his,
holding his gaze for several seconds. He watched her intently, a heat emanating from his person, warming her
skin as she played on.

No longer aware of the Henleys and Mister Whitby's
presence in the room, she played for him-only for him,
knowing somehow that he appreciated the beloved piece as she did. Fiercely. In an instant, she realized that this
was a man who would love exactly that way-fiercely,
intensely. But steadfastly?

Of that she was not sure, and therein lay the danger.
To love Frederick Stoneham would be a risky endeavor
indeed. She pushed the thought away, humiliated by the
scalding tears that had suddenly and inexplicably filled
her eyes, blurring her vision.

Overcome with emotion, Eleanor closed her eyes
once more and allowed her fingers to blindly pick out
the movement's final haunting notes. When the last note
faded into nothingness, she opened her eyes and found
Frederick there at her side, a mere foot away.

The room erupted into applause.

"Brava," Mister Whitby called out, rising from his
seat.

"Lovely, wasn't it?" Selina asked.

"Beautifully played," Henley answered with a nod.

"Even if a bit morose," Mister Whitby added thoughtlessly.

Eleanor bit her lip, stifling a reply as Mister Whitby
returned his attention to refilling the Henleys' goblets.
Remembering Frederick's presence there beside her, she
turned to him. "And what of you, Mister Stoneham? Did
you find Beethoven's sonata to be morose?"

His gaze swept across her face before he replied.
"Quite the contrary, madam. That was .. " He trailed
off with a shake of his head, swallowing hard before
continuing, "... without a doubt, the most enchanting
thing I've ever heard"

"Thank you," she said quietly, lowering her gaze to
her own hands, clasped in front of her.

"If you will excuse me, I believe I shall now retire,"
he announced, bowing toward the assembled party.
Before she realized what was happening, he reached for her hand and pressed a folded piece of paper into it.
"Perhaps it was a love letter all along," he whispered in
her ear as he brushed past her toward the door, his
breath warm against her neck.

Her legs suddenly weak, she sank back to the pianoforte's bench. She chanced a glance at the folded
square of paper in her hand, "My Dearest Eleanor"
written in bold, black script. Hastily, she tucked the missive into her spencer's pocket.

"Shall I play the second movement?" she asked, forcing a measure of cheer into her voice. "It's much more
bright, I assure you" Without awaiting a reply, she
began to play, her fingers visibly trembling.

One more movement, no more. And then she would
excuse herself. Her heart began to pound in anticipation, beating furiously in rhythm to the scherzo she
played.

Eleanor wrapped her cloak tightly about herself and
set off across the field, her heart thumping so vigorously
in her breast that she feared it might burst. Perhaps one
hundred yards from the house she paused, leaning
against the wide, swirling trunk of a sweet chestnut tree.
This was madness, utter and complete madness. She
should turn back immediately, before it was too late.
Before she did something entirely foolish.

But, blast it, she wanted to go. Doing so was imprudent, terribly so. Selina would be scandalized were she
to find out. She could never tell her. Never She glanced
up at the moon and sighed, her breath making a puff of
steam in the cool night air. For perhaps the sixth time in
the past hour, she pulled out the folded square of paper
from her cloak pocket and unfolded the page, now
slightly worn and ragged along the edges.

The bright light of a full, harvest moon illuminated
the words on the page, though she had memorized them
by now-each and every word burned into her mind for
eternity.

Her first love letter.

My Dearest Eleanor;

If only I were a poet, I would put lovely words to
the page, words that would adequately describe your
grace, your charm, your flawless beauty. But alas, I
am no poet. I am but a man filled with longing, with
desire that knows no bounds. I beg of you, meet me
at the cottage tonight at midnight-the witching
hour For you must be a witch to have ensnared me
as you have, my thoughts filled with naught else but
memories of your face, your smile, your voice.
Indeed, my lovely Eleanor you have bewitched me. I
must know ifI am to suffer alone, or ifyou are similarly afflicted by feelings which I dare not name. I
will wait for you till the first light of dawn.

Until then,
Frederick

Was this some sort of cruel game he played, toying
with her in this way? Or did he mean these words that
quickened her pulse, that made her knees go weak with
anticipation? She would have no peace till she found
out. She must go; she hadn't a choice.

Hastily, she refolded the page and slipped it back into
her cloak, glancing up at the moon just as a wispy cloud
moved across the lower half of the silvery orb, casting
shadows upon the lawn. Looking around to make sure
no one was about, she pulled the hood of her cloak over
her head and hurried on toward the bluff where she
would follow the path to the cottage. It should take her
a quarter hour to reach her destination, no more. Midnight. The witching hour.

For the third time in the past half hour, Frederick
strode to the window and pulled back the drapes, peering out at the sandy path that lay before the cottage where
tiny grains of mica twinkled under the light of the moon
and stars. He had come to the cottage immediately upon
excusing himself for the night.