Mary Nichols - Regency High Society Vol 5 - The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue

And perhaps, one day, Hal might even return the love that burned so brightly and hopelessly through her veins.

The tears that she had battled against claimed victory at last. She removed her dress with fingers suddenly numb, her shoes, to stand in the centre of the room, in her chemise, hands by her sides, and weep helplessly, heartbrokenly for all that was lost.

Because she truly did not know what to do and Hal had offered her her dreams, to hold in the palms of her hand. And by the manner of her refusal, she had alienated him irrevocably. She knew that he did not want her, so she had refused his offer. Of course she had, as any woman of integrity must—but her pride was obliterated by bitter tears.

In the parlour, Henry rescued the sapphires and diamonds in their golden setting from the table. He held the family jewel in his hand as if it might give an answer to his problems, and then, with a shake of his head, slipped it into his pocket, to return it to her on a less emotional occasion. A thought struck him, chilling him to the marrow in his bones. He had offered Eleanor marriage carelessly and without consideration, acting without any thought other than his own desires, other than the simple expediency of rescuing her from her worst fears.

But it could not be.

The law recognised Eleanor’s affinity to him only as his brother’s wife and so in its wisdom frowned on any closer association between them. Certainly not marriage.

Eleanor had not realised it. Nor had he in the heat of the moment.

Marriage, with the possibility of further scandal attached to Eleanor’s name, was no answer at all. The realisation stuck him with the force of cold steel.

The minutes ticked past in the Red Lion in the village of Whitchurch. Henry continued to sit by the fire, booted feet propped on an iron fire-dog, contemplating an uncomfortable and sleepless night, probably on the oak settle, when a faint sound from beyond the door to the bedroom brought him out of a morass of far from pleasant thoughts.

He sat up. And knew without any doubt.

Oh God, no! He rubbed his hands over his face, dragged his fingers through his hair and pushed himself to his feet.

The coward in him told him to ignore it. Eleanor would soon be exhausted and would fall asleep without any intervention from him. Any attempt to comfort her would solve nothing for either of them and might make the situation even worse with impossible legal complications that he did not feel up to explaining to her just at that moment. He bared his teeth in a grimace at the prospect of holding her in his arms and remaining unmoved by her softness and her beauty. No! Don’t even think about it!

But he could not ignore it, of course he could not. Especially when he had in some sense been the cause of her emotional state of mind. His mouth curled sardonically. He had not expected that an offer of marriage would reduce any woman to a fit of hysterics! Rosalind, he thought, would leap at the chance.

With a sigh he walked to the door where he hesitated, listened, head bent. And then, without knocking, before he could change his mind, opened the door and went in.

She stood on the rag rug in the centre of the floor in her chemise, her feet bare. She was shivering with emotion and cold, but had been unable to make the decision to get into bed. And she wept, sobs that shook her whole body, tears streaming down her face. She made no effort to hide them or her tear-ravaged face from him, even if she were aware of his presence. He was not certain. She was beyond awareness, lost in a wilderness of insecurity and grief.

‘Nell.’ He felt his heart turn over in compassion, touched beyond measure by her wretchedness against which she had no defence. Courage she might have, but not the will to fight this deluge of pain. ‘This is no good.’ He stepped quietly to her. ‘You will make yourself ill if you weep in this way.’

‘Go away!’ She choked out the words and now covered her face with her hands. ‘I don’t want you!’

‘I will not.’

Without hesitation, he folded his arms around her, as any man must, and pulled her close, using one hand to press her head to his shoulder. She resisted, as he knew she would, standing rigidly against him, refusing to accept his comfort. But he persisted, until suddenly on a sob she melted and clung to him, turning her face against the base of his throat. Too sad to be embarrassed or to refuse the warmth offered by the one man who had possession of her heart and whose offer she had discarded with wounding and unforgivable words.

Henry stroked her hair, removing the pins that secured her curls as he did so, allowing it to tumble over his hands in a heavy fall of silk. He murmured and crooned, foolish words that promised the impossible, the unattainable, and yet soothed by their mere sound. He kissed her temples, the lightest of kisses, and let her cry, his cheek resting against her hair. She would have fallen at his feet if he had not held her.

‘My love. My dear love. I will not leave you. I could not leave you to grieve alone. I will love and care for you, whatever the future brings.’

Momentarily horrified at hearing himself speak such sentiments aloud, he could not regret it, but fervently hoped that she would not remember when she awoke.

Gradually her breathing quietened, so that he was able to stoop and lift her high against his heart, carrying her to the bed where he placed her, sitting beside her to rock her in his arms until utter exhaustion claimed her and her lashes closed on her tear-stained cheeks. Only then did he turn back the covers, place her against the bank of pillows and tuck her in. He would not look at her. His instinct told him to leave, to go whilst he could still resist the lure of her fragile femininity and her need for comfort. But she held on to his hand, even in sleep, and it would be cruelty indeed to reject her now.

So be it.

He eased into a chair by the bed and let her be comforted by his presence, watching her now-sleeping face. Even when her fingers finally relaxed he still remained, unwilling to leave her for fear that she would wake alone in the dark and be unable to deal with the torment in her mind.

Eleanor.

Images flooded back into his mind from that night two years ago, that night that had haunted him every hour of every day since, no matter how hard he had tried to banish the painful and yet glorious memory. Images that swamped him with their clarity and intensity. He would like nothing better than to strip away the fine linen and lace chemise, to feast his eyes on the creamy white perfection of her exposed body. As he had in the summer house beneath the rose pergola, in the garden of Faringdon House. Escaping her chaperon, they had been intoxicated by the sense of freedom as he had pushed her gently back on the cushions. He had seduced her with tales of America and their new life there together. And with his kisses, the touch of his hands that awakened her innocent emotions, setting her blood on fire. She was virgin, of course, but as caught up in the silver enchantment of the moonlight, as he had been. He should have known better than to take advantage of her, he now admitted in that shadowy room in Whitchurch, but that night he had given in to youth and impulse and an overriding need to bury himself within her soft and tantalising heat. The scent of honeysuckle and jasmine invading the senses, robbing him of all integrity and responsibility towards her. And yet she had willingly given him the greatest gift she could, clinging to him as he took her with less than subtle skill. He smiled bitterly. He knew more about women now. He might not be much older in years, but was vastly more experienced in the arts of seduction. Now he knew how to awaken passion, how to pleasure and delight. He must have hurt her in that moon-kissed garden, but she had wrapped her arms around him, vowing her everlasting love.