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Then a soft voice reached him, crooning a lullaby. A low voice, sweet and tender. He was immediately drawn to it and came to stand silently in the half-open doorway.
The child must have been restless. Rather than summon the nursemaid, Eleanor had come herself to comfort him. Of course she would, he acknowledged. The child was her only connection with Thomas, even more of an anchor in these stormy waters.
She sat in a low chair, a single candle on the little table casting its light from behind to rim her figure in gold. Apparently the infant now slept. Eleanor’s song had become a gentle humming, her hand on the edge of the crib, rocking gently, her eyes fixed on the sleeping face.
Henry could not take his eyes from her, his thoughts and feelings suspended in that one moment. She had risen from her bed, her hair unpinned from its fashionable style but yet unbraided so that it fell in a glory of waves over her breast. A peignoir lay in soft overlapping layers of cream silk and lace from a high neck to cover her feet. Her face was calm. Her eyes hooded. Her lips curved in a tender smile. A Madonna, indeed.
His heart thudded against his ribs as the scene imprinted itself on his mind. She was so beautiful. And he had lost her to his brother. For the first time in his life Henry cursed the dead Thomas, even knowing that the blame could not in any way be heaped at his brother’s feet. He had lost her. And yet for the past two years he had tried to persuade himself that his love for her was dead, destroyed when she had broken her promise to him. Wrong! Totally and utterly wrong! The voice in his mind and his heart would no longer allow him to pretend. His love for Eleanor was as strong as ever. And just as doomed. He must not allow it to be a burden on her—and so must bear it on his own shoulders, his emotions hidden.
A tingle of awareness touched Eleanor’s spine and she knew that he was there.
She could pretend that she did not know, of course, conscious of a ripple of embarrassment to be discovered like this. If she kept her face turned towards the crib, he might walk away as silently as he had come. But she felt the compulsion of his eyes, felt her pulse pick up its beat in response. What did it matter that he saw her watching over her child in the dark of the night? After all, there was no one else to care.
She looked up, a slight turn of her head.
Her eyes, deeply violet-blue with love and compassion for her son, looked on his and could not look away, caught in his gaze.
Henry was drawn to her as a moth drawn to its ultimate destruction in the vibrant glow of a candle flame, against all his instincts to keep his distance from this lovely girl—woman, now—who had stolen his heart, and still held it in chains. Walking softly forward, so as not to disturb the child, his eyes never left hers. What compulsion drove him he did not know—and she made no move to stop him, equally trapped in the moment, to bring him to his senses. Placing a hand on the back of the low chair, he bent to allow his fingers to lift to her throat, to caress the graceful curve of her nape beneath her hair. She neither flinched nor resisted. If she had, he promised himself he would leave her. But she remained motionless, perhaps even leaned into his touch when he allowed his palm to brush and then cup her cheek, in the lightest of restraints. So he bent his head, slowly, deliberately, to take her lips with his. Whisper soft, mouth on mouth, encouraged by the small sound of pleasure in her throat. He savoured the sweetness of her breath, her mouth, her surrender to him.
It was a moment of impossible tenderness, recognised by them both, as the babe slept on by their side. Eleanor raised her hand to close her fingers round his wrist, a warm bracelet that held him, gentle yet burning him with its heat. Her breath caught as he deliberately allowed his tongue to trace the outline of her lips. She sighed against his mouth.
‘Hal.’
Her perfume, the fine texture of hair and skin, her softness entrapped him, caught in that heart-stopping moment.
Then he eased back to look down into the beautiful face, a depth of emotion in his eyes. He could not have expressed his desires aloud for the world. But he captured her other hand from the side of the crib and lifted it to press his lips to the centre of her palm, marvelling at the softness of it.
‘Nell…’
He murmured her name, the only word he had spoken since he had come into the room. A whisper of passion restrained. He ached with hard arousal, desire for her, a powerful need to touch and be touched, pulsing through every cell in his body.
When tears sparkled on her lashes he reached, without thought, to remove them with his lips.
Then he drew back and pushed himself to his full height. What could he say? It was a moment beyond words. So much promise, so much pain between them. So many broken dreams. He gave a little bow, strangely formal. Then turned and left the room as silently as he had come.
Henry’s actions—and Eleanor’s response—left emotions in turmoil. For both of them.
Chapter Five
On the following morning Lord Henry found himself alone in the sunny breakfast parlour. It was as he expected—and planned; it was still very early, but he intended to be under way to the village of Whitchurch before the rest of the household had risen. With good fortune he would return within the day. It crossed his mind with some force, and had done so more than once during a restless night of knife-edged introspection, that it might be to his advantage if he did not have to make conversation with Eleanor that day. What had driven him to such an unwise gesture towards her? He cursed himself once again for his blind stupidity. Within a few weeks this whole fiasco would be settled one way or another, and he would leave England. He would be out of her life for good—and he would be free to forget her and return to the attractions of Rosalind. But even though he swore at his uncontrolled actions, castigated himself for not keeping his distance, he was being driven to admit that he was not unmoved by Eleanor’s plight. Unmoved? He swore again, brows drawn into a black bar. A magnificent understatement! He had loved her once and was bitterly aware that, however inappropriate and insupportable it might be, given their past history, he loved her still. Wanting nothing more than to take her to his bed, to undress her, to touch, to taste and to savour her for the rest of his life. To feel her stretch against him, beneath him, and hear his name on her lips when he roused her beyond thought and beyond sense. It would have taken a man of callous indifference not to respond to her plight of the previous night without tenderness and compassion. And where Eleanor was concerned, Henry was not that man.
So it would be better for everyone if he did not have to exchange polite conversation with her that morning! And doubtless Eleanor too would welcome his absence.
The door opened and there she stood.
They both became very still, Lord Henry with a teacup raised to his lips, Eleanor braced in the doorway. The previous night loomed between them, tension stark.
‘Good morning, my lady. I trust you slept well.’ Henry rose superbly to the occasion with the first bland comment that came to mind, wincing inwardly at his lack of polish. Then the emotional memories of the previous night were effectively wiped from his mind. With eyes narrowed he surveyed the lady from her head to her feet, momentarily taken aback.
She had taken his advice! And with stunning effect. He had not really expected it, but she had cast off her deep mourning and her black ribbons. The result took his breath, silenced any comment he might have been about to make. His memories of her had been as a débutante, certainly beautiful, but still ingenuously naïve in simple pastel muslins. And then in mourning, the stark black of her high-necked gowns highlighting her glorious hair and porcelain skin, grief adding a fine-drawn maturity to her face. But now he was struck anew by her beauty. Two years had added sophistication, elegance, confidence. An unfathomable grace. He had not realised the true worth of the woman he had lost that night when he had sailed without her. But he realised it now, with a blow to his gut, over the breakfast table with the sunshine pouring through the windows.
She had abandoned her black silk for a walking dress in dove grey spotted muslin, banded with a delicate interweaving of purple and amethyst flowers, the whole completed with a frilled hem. Its sleeves were long and tight with short puffed oversleeves, the neckline high and pleated into a little frilled ruff. It fit to perfection, emphasising her slender figure, the embroidered decoration bringing out the intense colour of her eyes. She glowed in the morning sun, the fragile tints shimmering round her. It might still be mourning, demure and understated, but it complimented her colouring beautifully, her hair falling rich and burnished in a profusion of artless curls from a high knot to her shoulders.
His eyes came slowly back from their appreciation of her transformation, his mouth dry, words beyond him, to study her face. She did not look rested. Her pale skin still lacked colour, her eyes were strained and the shadows still left their delicate imprint. But she looked determined, a challenge in every line of her firm shoulders and the proud carriage of her head. She also looked apprehensive.
How fortunate, she realised, that he could not read her thought as she stood under his unnerving gaze. She had dreaded this meeting, needing all her pride and composure. But she had dressed for impact and raised her chin against any disapproval she might read in his face. She should never have allowed him to touch her. But she had, and had melted beneath the unmistakable tenderness of his touch. A mistake! Which she would not repeat, she promised herself—however great the temptation to do so. She would hide her trepidation behind a mask of fashionable unconcern. Yet she still found it well nigh impossible to lift her eyes to his or accept his critical survey with any degree of ease.
‘My lady!’ Henry rose to his feet at last, and bowed his head in acknowledgement of her gesture. But he did not approach her. Did not dare if he wished to mask the leap of heat in his blood as he studied her. He cursed again as the fire built and stirred in his loins. ‘Allow me to say that you look lovely. And allow me to admit that I did not think that you would do it. What does your mother say?’ His eyes narrowed again at the prospect of biting words from that quarter.
‘Thank you, my lord. She does not know.’ Eleanor still could not meet his eyes, unsure of what she would see in his face. If it was contempt or condemnation for her lack of respect for his brother, she could not bear it. Not after the unbelievable and exquisite cherishing of the previous night. ‘I need to ask. I understand the reason for your advice, but I would not wish to show insufficient respect for Thomas. It is hardly more than four months. Do you perhaps consider it improper?’ Now she lifted her troubled eyes to his. ‘I hope that you would be honest with me. Indeed, I know that you will.’
Henry chose his words carefully to allay her anxieties. He could not take her in his arms as his heart might dictate, so he would use his mind to enfold her with comforting words, to soothe and calm. His face was stern, his voice firm with conviction, willing her to accept and believe. ‘Your respect for Thomas can be questioned by no one, Eleanor. Your friends must know your qualities as wife and mother. As for your clothing, it is becoming and befits the situation. All you need is the confidence to carry it off. Yes, people will talk. Of course they will! Let them, until the next scandal raises its head to replace the sordid details of our family difficulties on their lips. We have nothing to hide and we will not allow society to dictate the behaviour of the Faringdons.’
‘Even if I am not a Faringdon? It is a matter of some dispute, after all.’
There. She had said it aloud and waited, eyes closed, for his reply.
‘There is no doubt in my mind, Eleanor. No matter the weight of evidence, I cannot accept that my brother would make such a terrible mistake with such painful and disastrous consequences for all concerned.’
She sighed and opened her eyes, blinking against the unexpected threat of tears at his firm declaration. ‘That is what I needed to hear. I am in your debt, Hal.’
‘No. You are not. You are in no one’s debt! And besides, the dress is very becoming. You are a beautiful woman, Eleanor. Lift up your head and smile.’
She did just that. The smile might waver a little, but she would hold her own, of that he was certain.
Satisfied with his reply, Eleanor took a seat opposite to his place at the breakfast table and Henry resumed his seat. ‘I hoped that I would find you here. I wished to know—what is your next strategy?’
He breathed out slowly. Now they were on even ground again, without the threat of uncomfortable emotions to stalk and trap them. He could cloak his feelings in practicalities. ‘It is my intention to go down to Whitchurch to speak with the Reverend Broughton. I know that Hoskins will be efficient in his investigation, but I would wish to see the village for myself, perhaps speak to some who know the family.’ He frowned down at the scattering of crumbs on his empty plate. ‘What I will discover I know not. Merely some knowledge of the Baxendale family, I suppose.’
Eleanor leaned forward, fingers linked on the table. ‘Would you agree to wait until tomorrow and allow me to accompany you?’
‘No.’ His reply was unequivocal.
Eleanor was taken aback. ‘Then I must go on my own.’
‘To Whitchurch? Why should you? It is not a good idea.’
‘If you will not drive me, then I will simply hire a carriage and go myself.’
Henry knew when he was being driven into a corner. She was quite capable of doing just that. Her lips were firm, her eyes ablaze with the certainty of her actions and there would be no gainsaying her. Lord Henry’s mouth set with displeasure. He retreated but with little grace; the last thing he wanted was to spend the better part of a day in Eleanor’s company.
‘Very well, if that is what you wish. But, I warn you, I intend to take the curricle and travel fast. I would return within the day. And I will not tolerate your mother with us, so do not even suggest it!’
‘You will not have to. There is insufficient room for her in a curricle!’ Eleanor was maddeningly matter of fact in dealing with his objection and he suspected a spark of triumph in her eyes before she veiled them. ‘Tomorrow it is.’
‘Why not today?’ he enquired brusquely.
Eleanor rose to pour herself a cup of tea, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘This afternoon I intend to pay a visit on Miss Baxendale. I hope to take Judith with me for moral support. She may be able to discuss matters of which I know nothing. Perhaps Octavia will speak more openly if her brother is not present and I would know more of her supposed marriage.’ She returned to her seat, her face pensive. ‘The most difficult thing for me will be to face the servants at Faringdon House…but I must do it.’
Any ill feelings that Lord Henry might have been harbouring over his change of plan were instantly dispelled by the stark courage of Eleanor’s proposed scheme.
‘You have all my admiration, Nell.’
‘Don’t be kind to me or, even worse, show me pity, or I shall surely weep,’ she snapped immediately. ‘I cannot afford to be downtrodden over this. Even though there seems to be so little hope.’ Her face was closed, shuttered against his careful scrutiny. She sipped her tea, holding her cup with hands which were not quite steady.
‘I would ask a favour from you, Hal.’
Now she looked at him.
‘Anything in my power.’ He found himself stretching out his hand to her across the table, the lightest of touches on her fingers, a symbol of unity with her. Her reply astounded him, showing the lengths to which she was prepared to go to fight for her good name.
‘Will you drive me around Hyde Park this morning? At a time when most of our acquaintance will be there? You said that we should be seen, and I wish to do so. The scandal has to break some time and I believe it will be soon rather than late.’ She took a breath. ‘I do not know how bad it will be, but I fear it. I cannot allow that fear to dominate my whole life. Will you drive me?’ Her eyes pleaded with him, holding his until he would give her an answer. He could not but respond to such anguish, but she misread the brilliant glitter, the firming of the lines around his mouth as he was driven to acknowledge once again his love for her. She drew back a little and looked away. ‘If you do not wish to, of course, Nicholas might.’
‘You mistake me, my lady.’ He kept his voice low. ‘I am always at your service.’ It was as much as he could say. Then a smile lightened his expression as he saw the possibilities of her plan. ‘I will drive you round Hyde Park with great pleasure. And I think that we should go out of our way to make an impression. I will take Thomas’s high-perch phaeton, which is sure to draw all eyes. Fine feathers indeed! It is in the stables at Faringdon House with some suitable bloodstock. Will that suit your intention?’
Eleanor shuddered, bringing the equipage to mind. ‘If I must. An impression indeed! I…I will not let you or your family down, whatever the reception from the haut ton.’
‘No matter. I will support you, Nell, whatever the outcome. You should know that.’ Standing, he walked round the table, took her hand to urge her to her feet. ‘You are not alone in this battle, you know.’ He kissed her fingers with grave respect, holding her fingers still within his warm clasp.
‘Of course.’ Her words might be politely non-committal, but she returned the pressure of his hand, compelled by the instant warmth in the region of her heart.
Henry felt it and was satisfied. ‘If you have the courage to visit Octavia, then I suppose that tonight I must join Nick in the gaming hells of Pall Mall!’
Two hours later, Eleanor presented herself promptly on the front doorstep of their house in Park Lane as Lord Henry manoeuvred the high-perch phaeton to a halt at the curb before her. Eleanor eyed it askance, but was forced to admit the excellence of Henry’s scheme. In this carriage they would without doubt draw attention to themselves, as Henry had predicted. The woodwork gleamed glossily. As did the well-groomed coats of the pair of bays with their glittering harness. They pawed the ground with restive impatience, eager to be off. The huge hind wheels and the seat that overhung the front axle had been picked out with elegant simplicity in dark blue. Eleanor chose not to contemplate its height from the ground.
But it would suit their purpose. They wished to be seen and noticed. They could hardly help it.
And Henry himself had risen to the occasion, she was quick to appreciate, in the height of fashion with more care than was his wont. He was now sporting the palest of biscuit pantaloons, highly polished boots, a coat of dark blue superfine, which fit to perfection, and a discreetly striped waistcoat. His neckcloth might not be as extreme as some, but the folds were precise, tied by the hand of a master and secured by a sapphire pin. The whole ensemble was covered by a caped greatcoat, which hung negligently open with casual grace.
Eleanor found herself staring. With his striking good looks, he would draw any woman’s eye. What hope was there for her poor heart when faced with his dark splendour? What chance to persuade herself that she did not care and that her heart did not beat faster merely at the sight of his dark hair and arresting features? She would have as much success in persuading herself not to breathe! And it was made even more impossible by knowing that his sometimes hard exterior hid a depth of kindness and understanding. Not to forget the burning kiss to remind her of what they might have meant to each other. She flushed and bit her lip as he reined in and leapt to the ground with fluid agility.
He looked her over critically.
‘Excellent! A smile would help.’
And she did. It might be a trifle brittle, it might not quite reach her eyes, but it illuminated her face and would fool those who did not know her or did not choose to look closely enough.
Henry did both and felt his heart stir with compassion and longing.
She had completed her outfit with a close-fitting, highwaisted spencer in black silk. It added the perfect touch of sobriety to the silver grey of her gown. Her grey silk-covered bonnet tied beneath her chin with long ribbons, its brim framing her lovely face, the silk flowers in shades of violet and amethyst, detracting from the severity of the whole. A pair of flat slippers, grey kid gloves, a neat reticule and a silver grey parasol—and she was ready for the ordeal. She had exquisite taste, he acknowledged. Elegance and sobriety, layered in perfect harmony, not full mourning, but quiet and respectful. He could not fault her. And he was struck anew by her beauty as she turned her head to look at him.
He handed Eleanor up into the high carriage, mounted himself and waited as she arranged her skirts and unfurled her parasol.
‘Ready?’ He closed his hand momentarily over hers, knowing exactly what was going through her head, the pain of the anxieties that gripped her with fierce claws. ‘Do we not look splendid?’ His smile was wry. ‘And highly respectable, of course! Not a whisper of scandal between us!’ The groom swung up behind them as Henry took up the reins and the longhandled whip.
Before they could pull away, Nick appeared from the front door to stand beside them on the pavement, dressed to take a turn in Bond Street or stroll through Piccadilly, a quizzical expression on his face as he surveyed his brother.
‘I am impressed, Hal.’
‘So you should be. I hope the Polite World in Hyde Park will say the same.’
‘Can you manage those bays? They can be lively. Perhaps I should offer to drive Eleanor round the park, for her own safety. You must be out of practice. Or do they have such sophistication in the colonies these days?’ His lips curled in gentle mockery, hoping to drive away the strained shadows in Eleanor’s face.
‘I can manage. If you remember, I taught you to drive—to my cost! For your sins, you could find yourself a mount and come and ride with us.’
Henry’s expression held a silent message. A show of force in the face of the gossips would not come amiss. Eleanor would welcome it.
‘Very well. I will join you in the park—so don’t crash the carriage before I arrive!’
A superior smile from Henry was the only answer.
‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ Eleanor’s soft murmur told him that she was perfectly aware of his intent. He smiled reassuringly at her, before turning his attention to his horses.
In spite of Nicholas’s barbed comments on his brother’s expertise, Eleanor found herself in no danger at Henry’s hands. He drove carefully through the crowded streets, skilfully avoiding a multitude of carriages and heavy wagons that thronged the centre of the city. He had the horses well in hand. She was left with the freedom to watch and admire his skill, the clever strength of his hands, with their broad palms and long fingers. They looped and wielded the reins and whip with casual and confident ease. She knew the gentleness of their touch for herself. And their power. She turned her face away in dismay.
Meanwhile, as Nicholas made his way to the stables at Faringdon House to acquire a suitable hack, his thoughts were taken up, not with the complications and, probably, repercussions of the Baxendale claim, but with the teasing matter of Eleanor and his brother. There was some past history here. The more he watched them together, the more he was certain of it. And it had left a bitter residue. He tightened his lips as he remembered their first meeting in the withdrawing-room at Burford Hall. The tension in the atmosphere. The crackle of shock, of controlled hostility, particularly from his brother. Nicholas had decided, although he did not understand it, that it was simply a case of instant dislike, but now he was not so sure. Hal was so caring of Eleanor. So concerned. He had altered all his plans, transported them all to London and was intent on waging an all-out battle campaign. Yes, to protect the family name and Thomas’s integrity, of course. Hal could be expected to do just that. But there was a far more personal involvement here. Nicholas saddled up his hack, deciding that he would be prepared to wager five hundred guineas that Hal’s feelings for Eleanor were not those of a brother towards a sister. As for Eleanor, it was difficult to tell. Who could ever read a woman’s mind with any degree of accuracy! With a shrug, he pulled on his gloves, looped his grey’s reins and set himself to join the fray in Hyde Park.
Some ten minutes later Lord Henry Faringdon and the Marchioness of Burford turned into the formal gates of Hyde Park near Apsley House, to be immediately swallowed up by a constant promenade of those of the fashionable world who wished to see and be seen. Carriages, riders, saunterers, turned out in the height of fashion, ready to hail acquaintances, issue and accept invitations, chatter and gossip. Eleanor squared her shoulders and set to face the unknown beast in its den. Her smile was securely pinned in place, her parasol positioned to a nicety as she looked around her with commendable interest and confidence, not afraid to meet anyone’s eye or raise her hand in greeting.
It did not take long.
Veiled looks. Whispered comments behind gloved hands or hidden by the little feather muffs that had become so fashionable. Quick speculative glances from bright eyes.
‘They know!’
‘Yes. It had to happen.’ Henry, too, was aware. ‘But we are not concerned with trivial and empty gossip. We know the truth. You are the Marchioness of Burford.’ He smiled at an acquaintance and nodded his head as he looped the reins to pass a curricle. ‘Your son is the Marquis of Burford. Don’t forget it.’ He inclined his head with superbly arrogant condescension toward an elderly Dowager who raised her lorgnette in their direction.
The Marchioness promptly followed suit. She took a deep breath and set herself to follow instruction as Nick joined them on a lively grey hack.
‘I see they’re tattling.’
Which brutal words, Eleanor decided later, summed up the experience of the next hour.
It proved to be an education. Few people were secure enough in their knowledge to risk an outright snub to the well-born Faringdon brothers and their fair companion, no matter their doubts over the lady’s present position.
The Princess Lieven, handsome wife of the Russian ambassador, did, of course. As her barouche drove past, she stared straight ahead, eyes cold, mouth unmoving, the epitome of cold disapproval of the English in general and the Faringdons in particular. The Faringdon phaeton might as well have been invisible. There was no recognition of a lady with whom the Princess had taken tea or exchanged cool pleasantries at Almack’s. What would you expect from the most feared patroness of Almack’s, so fixated with what was seemly and proper and good ton, Eleanor thought, her heart sinking.
‘A disagreeable woman with an acid tongue!’ Henry broke into her thoughts with a more forthright observation and lifted her spirits. ‘All self-consequence and pride with nothing but contempt for those around her.’
‘No more vouchers from Almack’s from that quarter!’ Nick, riding beside them, smiled wryly at the calculated snub.
‘Thank God! A blessing in disguise!’
Eleanor laughed at Henry’s irreverence and had to admit the truth of it. But it hurt.
Mostly the pleasure-seekers in Hyde Park were unsure. They were quite prepared to smile, wave or stop for a brief exchange of words. But eyes were uneasy. Glances interested, assessing the weight of evidence—or lack of it—that might suggest that the Marchioness of Burford was an impostor. And her infant son. Well! Knowing eyes slid away from too close a contact. Yet the Faringdons still received an invitation to a quiet evening party, from no less a personage than the Countess of Sefton. Just a small gathering. Perfectly proper for their present situation, with the loss of dear Thomas. Isabella Sefton’s eyes were full of sympathy, her soft tones saying what her words could not. But the fact that she had gone to the lengths to instruct her coachman to rein in so that she could speak to them was balm to Eleanor’s soul. Such kindness from one of the patronesses of Almack’s threatened her composure.
They met Cousin Judith being escorted by the Earl of Painscastle in a smart barouche. The couple made a point of stopping to engage in animated conversation. Eleanor intercepted an eloquent glance between Henry and the lady, immediately alerting her suspicions. Henry had arranged the very public assignation, intent on leaving nothing to chance. A show of family unity and support could do nothing but good.
