Anne O'Brien - The Disgraced Marchioness

‘I must thank you for your compliance, my lord. Now. If you will excuse us. We are intending to stay the night at the Crown in Tenbury Wells. I am sure that we will be in communication again very soon to straighten out this unfortunate matter.’

‘We shall.’ Lord Henry’s face was grim, every muscle in his body under powerful restraint. ‘We too shall be in London before the end of the week.’

Eleanor sank down onto the nearest chair as the visitors, accompanied by Nicholas and a furious Mrs Stamford, left the withdrawing-room to continue their journey. She was alone with Lord Henry but seemed oblivious to this. Her eyes were fixed on the window where afternoon sun cast patterns on the carpet and gilded the edge of the shutters. But she saw none of it.

‘Eleanor …’

She turned her head. Slowly, as if it took all her effort of will to force her body to obey, to focus on the man who stood before her. She studied his face with an intensity as if what she found there was of the utmost importance to her. But apparently she could read nothing to give her hope.

‘Eleanor. I presume that you had no suspicion of this terrible débâcle. Not the slightest hint that Thomas might have a liaison elsewhere.’ Henry’s voice held a harsh edge, almost as if, she thought, perhaps he considered that she herself was to some extent to blame.

‘No. How should I? I cannot believe it …’

‘Nor I. It does not sound like Thomas.’ He watched her carefully, aware of the white shade around her mouth as she skimmed the brink of control. Every instinct urged him to take her in his arms and let her cry out her frozen misery against his chest. To carry her off from this place so that she would never again have to face anything as shattering as the revelations of the past hour. But he could not, dare not, too unsure of her reactions to him if he made any intimate gesture. Too unsure of his feelings towards her. There was no place for pity here. And yet the bitter anger at her cold-hearted betrayal of his own love for her no longer seemed to weigh in the balance. A very masculine urge to protect took precedence.

‘That he should already have had a wife and child when he … when he …’ Eleanor swallowed hard and pressed a hand to her lips to stop the words. Then, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘You do not have to do anything.’ Henry attempted to reassure her. ‘Now is not the time for hasty action. We need to speak with Hoskins before we accept the statements of Sir Edward Baxendale or the weight of his documents. We know nothing of him. We knew everything about Thomas.’ I pray that we did, for your sake!

She hardly listened, took in none of his soft words.

‘How can I do nothing! I have no right to the name I bear. I clearly have no right to live here or in any of the Faringdon properties, if what Miss Baxendale claims is true. And there is no evidence to suggest that it is false. Indeed, the proof for the marriage would appear to be unquestionable.’

She rose to her feet as if she would flee the room.

‘I will do all I can to help you.’ Henry moved to stand in her path. ‘You have only to ask.’

She really looked at him now. Contempt was clearly visible, swirled with the total despair in her eyes, their usual bright amethyst now as dark as bluebells in shaded woods.

‘Will you? Will you indeed, Hal?’

‘Of course. Nell …’ He stretched out his hand as if to touch her arm in compassion, moved by her dignity in spite of her grief.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed the words, taking him—and herself—by surprise at the sudden vehemence. ‘I do not want your pity!’

‘Nell, I understand that you—’

‘No, you don’t. You talked of humiliation when you believed that I had rejected you. You did not know the half of it. If Miss Baxendale’s marriage is indeed legal, imagine what a feast the gossip-mongers will have over that. I shall never be able to hold my head up in society again. And as for my son … I care not for myself. But what can you possibly do to save my child—an innocent victim—from the condemnation of a critical and judgmental society?’

‘You must not allow yourself to contemplate such a possibility. It may yet all come to nothing.’ What other could he say? He fought against self-disgust as he heard his own empty words in the face of her impossible position.

‘No? But if it does stand the test of law, Miss Baxendale’s document will proclaim me a whore and my son a bastard. And you tell me not to worry? You must be thanking God, Hal, for his divine retribution!’ She gave a little crow of hysterical laughter. ‘If I did indeed reject you in order to manipulate Thomas into marriage, as you so clearly suspect, then I have been punished for my sins beyond all belief.’ The laughter shattered and she covered her face with her hands to catch the tears that began to flow.

Ignoring her bitter accusation, answering his own need, he stepped forward, intending to take her in his arms. ‘Never that! Let me help you, Nell.’

‘Go away!’

Logic told him that he should do as she asked, should simply walk away. To hold her would be too dangerous, reawakening the feelings towards her that he did not want to experience ever again. But conscience, instinct perhaps—and something in the depth of his soul that he refused to acknowledge—insisted that he stay and comfort. Henry went with instinct and enclosed her in his arms.

Eleanor was immediately conscious of the warmth and power of his body, enfolding her, holding her against his strength. How strong he was. How easy it would be to simply rest her head on his shoulder and allow him to lift the burden from her, to solve the whole monstrous problem for her. How tempting to curl her fingers around his broad shoulders and simply hold on, until the nightmare dissipated as disturbing dreams must with the coming of daylight. And how foolish it would be to allow herself that luxury! What a terrible mistake to allow him to come too close, to know the thoughts and feelings that assailed her heart and mind, refusing to let her be.

She froze in his embrace as if she could not bear his touch, and almost immediately fought to be free, pushing with frantic hands against his chest, lifting her head proudly, defiantly, regardless of her tear-stained cheeks.

‘No. I do not think I will accept your help, my lord. I need nothing from you.’ Her voice was suddenly cold, derisive even. Although it hurt him immeasurably, he had never admired her courage as much as he did at that moment, but her words struck with deliberate venom, stinging him with their power to wound. ‘Go back to America, Hal. You are well out of it!’

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