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

Although she would have preferred to take herself to the opposite ends of the house, even the attics, Eleanor found need to run Henry to ground in the small morning room which he had taken over as office, in lieu of a library in their rented home, and a masculine haven to escape the women of the household.

‘I need to know about staff, my lord. Do we hire more footmen? Do I leave it to Marcle to decide what is necessary?’ She kept her distance, remaining with her back against the closed door. She looked anywhere but at his face.

‘Yes. You need not concern yourself. I have already spoken to him and, unless your mama decides to serve a seven-course banquet, God help us, we should cope more than adequately.’

‘Very well.’ She was well aware that Henry had hardly looked up from the table at which he was sitting. Which was perfectly acceptable as far as she was concerned! She would have left with a swirl of muslin skirts, but noticed a pile of letters spread before him, some distinctly travel-worn, through which he was steadily wading. They clearly took all his attention. It pricked her conscience and it enticed her to stay, to approach.

‘Mr Bridges?’ she enquired, remembering his enthusiasm when discussing his new partner and their fledgling company.

‘Yes.’ He smiled and answered abstractedly. ‘I seem to have received a lot of correspondence, all in one batch. The post is still haphazard.’ He discarded the top sheet and went on to break the seals on the next. ‘A matter of new investments that we hope to take up. Nat has a mind to put some money into a new textile town in Massachusetts. He sees it becoming a second Manchester. And he could just be right. Power looms will make all the difference and there is plenty of water to drive them…’ He gave his attention back to the letter under his hand.

She looked at his bent head. Tried not to think of the smooth texture as she had curled her fingers into his hair. Or allowed her lips to trace those elegant cheekbones. And she could not possibly look at his hands without reliving their demanding caresses on her own body. A little shiver feathered across her skin and she silently damned him for reawakening such heady desires.

And then she looked once more at the piles of correspondence, noting Henry’s preoccupation with the advice of the absent Mr Bridges. It was all the proof she needed, as if she needed further confirmation, that he would go as soon as he could. The reinforcement of the knowledge destroyed all her remembered pleasure and her present composure in one fatal blow. Her heart ached in anticipation of the loss.

‘I think you should return to New York,’ she found herself saying brusquely, even though her soul shrieked its denial.

Henry now looked up, attention definitely captured by the harsh edge rarely heard in Eleanor’s voice.

‘Your business cannot wait for ever. Mr Bridges must feel the need of your presence.’

‘Perhaps.’ He had not expected this from her. The strain was showing this morning in her colourless skin and the shadows beneath her lids. Even her eyes had lost their sparkle. He realised that she was near breaking point and felt helpless to do anything constructive to alleviate it. Thus his answer was carefully worded. ‘But Nat is quite capable of holding the fort for a little while longer. This is merely informing me of decisions he has made in my absence—and I would have done no different. My business is in good hands.’

‘What use is there for you to remain here?’ She was cold, so cold. ‘There is no guarantee that our little event on Saturday night will produce anything of value. You cannot alter the demands of the law if Sir Edward’s claims are genuine.’

‘No.’ Henry now rose to his feet, sensing her distress, intent on taking her hands to offer comfort. ‘I trust the Baxendales have replied that they will honour us with their presence on Saturday?’

‘Oh, yes. I doubt they could resist being introduced to the family, as you planned. But what will Aunt Beatrice remember? Perhaps nothing. It is a wild goose chase.’ Eleanor took a step back.

He shrugged, allowing her to retreat against his better judgement, unwilling to damage the brittle shell which was holding her together. All she said was perfectly true.

‘Go back, Hal.’ Eleanor turned away and walked to the door.

‘Nell.’ His voice stopped her. ‘I cannot go back. Not yet.’

She stood silently. He had heard the desolation in her voice—she had not been able to prevent it.

‘Do you really wish me to do so?’ he asked gently.

Now there was an impossible question. ‘Yes. I think you should go.’ How cold her voice sounded in her own ears. What would he think of her now?

‘Nell …’

‘No, of course I do not wish you to go! You must know that. But it might be better if you did.’ The words, the stark truth, were wrung from her.

‘Better for whom, Nell?’

But she closed the door behind her without reply.

Hal was left, hearing the echo of the sharp click as the barrier closed between them. The need to give comfort to her was so great it frightened him, as did the yawning abyss between them. Although he had to accept, with more than a little disgust, that comfort had not been uppermost in his mind when he had all but dragged her to his room. Possession. Need. The control that he had spent years in perfecting had snapped in that one moment when she had raised her eyes to his, had begged him to stay, begged him both with and without words, but none the less with transparent longing. And she had allowed herself to be drawn along, as a leaf in a whirlwind, answering his every demand.

His mind once more stumbled over the fact that he had not told her that he loved her. And perhaps it had been deliberate. And certainly sensible—probably the only commendable part of his behaviour towards her that night. To burden her with his love, against her wishes, would be cruel and insensitive. He hoped, in the inner recesses of his mind, that she would know that she held his heart in her keeping. Remembering her final words, he doubted it, and perhaps it was for the best. He would do all in his power to rescue her from the scandal created by Sir Edward Baxendale and then would indeed return to America for good.

By nine o’clock on Saturday evening, the rooms in Park Lane, perfectly arranged to Mrs Stamford’s exacting standards, were soon flatteringly full. Not as elegant as Lady Sefton’s soirée, of course. No music had been provided. No poet—thank God! But conversation, cards for those who wished it and an extensive supper, all hosted by Lord Henry at his most urbane and the Marchioness of Burford in softest dove grey, but without the Faringdon diamonds.

Sir Edward and Miss Octavia Baxendale had duly arrived, two of the earlier guests. Octavia was swathed from high neck to ankle in black, as severe and unflattering as ever to her slight figure and pale colouring, and seemingly reluctant to attend any social occasion, but she had smiled prettily and thanked Eleanor for the considerate invitation. She hoped that attention would not be drawn to them. They were simply friends of the family. Eleanor smiled reassuringly, but sardonically. Had Octavia given no thought as to why they should be putting up at Faringdon House when the Marchioness and the rest of the close family were living in Park Lane? Surely she could not be so naïve as to think that there would be no speculation or innuendo? Heaven only knew what people made of it! But Octavia appeared oblivious to the speculation and interested glances.

What did she and Octavia find to talk about as she led the lady to a seat and found some refreshment for her? Afterward Eleanor could not remember. Octavia was decidedly dull, with no opinion of interest to offer on even the most frivolous of topics, once the condition of her rose garden and neglected flower borders had been thoroughly discussed.