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

‘And the child?’

‘That’s easy.’ Nick smiled, a little sadly, as the memories crowded in, of happier times before his brother’s death. ‘Thomas doted on him. Very proud. As he should be. He was already planning when to teach him to ride and to shoot duck on the lake at Burford Levels, even though he was barely a year old. I never thought of Thomas in a paternal role, but it suited him. Why?’

‘Nothing. I simply wanted to know.’ Henry decide there was nothing more that he could ask.

‘Problems?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Good.’ On a decision, Nicholas stalked across the hall and took his brother by the arm. ‘Come to the stables. Leave your letters for the afternoon—they will still be there tonight! Time you had some light relief.’

‘Very well.’ Henry smiled a little wearily, gave in and allowed himself to be led, grateful to have his mind taken from the suspicions that beset him. Perhaps Nicholas’s remedy would push everything back into perspective for him and then he could be at ease again. At ease with Eleanor. ‘Forgive me, Nick. I seem to have got into the habit of questioning everybody and everything—looking for shadows when they do not exist.’

‘And very uncomfortable for us all it is, too. You need a drink and some convivial company.’

‘True.’

‘Easily done. Come with me.’

So much for business. Henry shut the door on the morning room and the affairs of Faringdon and Bridges and accompanied his brother to the door, more than a little reassured by what could only be described as a most inconclusive conversation.

Eleanor spent another sleepless night, thoughts in turmoil. Would she ever sleep well again? she wondered as she pushed her fingers through her hair, tangling the already disordered curls. Within a week Hal could have packed his belongings, terminated the rent on the London house and taken the mail coach to Liverpool. It was very possible that she would never see him again. Never hear his voice or feel the touch of his hands, in simple care or in passion. She stiffened her muscles to hold off the desperate sense of loss that swamped her mind and her heart and once again threatened to drown her in a deluge of helpless tears. She must not think of that. She breathed deeply and fought against the fear that stalked her through the dark hours. She must not allow it to colour her judgement. Her own loss was not the issue here.

For a little time she sat in her bed against the soft pillows with a book open on her lap, but to no avail. She could not read. The words on the page meant nothing to her when all she could see was Hal’s stormy eyes, the groove between his brows when he was caught up in some matter, the utmost tenderness in his smile when he had kissed and held her against him, inflaming the needs in her body to match his own. Or the possessive fire when he had turned the key to imprison them together in his bedchamber. So she cast the book aside to pace her own room. Taking out Thomas’s letter from her dressing-table drawer, she turned it over and over in nervous fingers—and then replaced it beneath the cases of jewellery. That, she decided, was not the way forward. He would either believe her on her own merits or he would not. It was a risk she would have to face. With that thought in her mind, she took herself to her son’s room, to stand by the crib, silently watching him as he slept, fine lashes casting shadows onto his cheeks. How beautiful he was, what a splendid child she had been given. What a fine young man he would grow up to be.

The thought did not make her mind any easier. She had kept her secret for two long years, explaining it would be no easy matter.

By dawn, she had made her decision, for better or worse. Really, it was very simple. She did not know why it had caused her so much heartache, but her toilette took considerable time as she dressed with care, determined that she would look her best if she was to be on trial for her past sins. The exquisite silver-grey-and-cream-striped gown, demure and understated in its colouring, gave exactly the impression of sophistication and sobriety that she needed, the delicate ruffles at hem and neckline flattering but restrained. Her hair, charmingly arranged in ringlets, fell from a high knot to brush her white shoulders. She knew that she looked well enough, although nothing, other than the use of cosmetics that she determined to eschew on this occasion, could put colour into her cheeks or disguise the evidence of her sleepless night. No matter. It was important that she appear composed and assured, that her courage should not desert her in the face of Hal’s amazed disbelief. Or his total rejection.

In spite of her clear intentions and her determination to be courageous at all costs, Eleanor could not face breakfast. She waited in her room until it was late enough in the morning for Henry to be engaged in business in the morning room.

Then she descended the stairs at last, breathing shallow, palms damp with latent panic. It was a dangerous game she was playing. She could win the glittering prize. Hold the moon and stars in her hands. Or her hopes and dreams could disintegrate, her heart broken. But she must do it. It was only right. Henry must not be allowed to leave England without the knowledge, without the opportunity to make a choice that could change the direction of his whole life. If she kept silent, the guilt would be too heavy and would hound her to the day of her death. She owed him the truth, even if he damned her for it and left her to face the future alone.

Henry ignored the timid knock on the door of the morning room. It would not be one of the family—they would not knock, so probably one of the servants who would go away if he made no response. He did not need an interruption. Marcle could find Nicholas if there was some urgent matter to be dealt with. The neglected business of Faringdon and Bridges still lay before him as he had left it on the previous afternoon. He must complete it. There was a sailing next week from Liverpool that he would take. With luck and a fair wind the letters could leave tomorrow and would make land before he did, informing Nat of his imminent arrival and the decisions he had made. Caught up in the planning, he did not notice when the door opened quietly and Eleanor entered.

She closed it silently and remained by the door, watching him for a little while as he sat, head bent, reading rapidly, before making a reply with firm characters on the page. There was a line between his brow as he concentrated, just as she had imagined in her thoughts the previous night. The bright sunshine kissed his raven-black hair so that it shone blue-black, but it was too dense to take any gilding. She knew its weight and its texture, its softness against her skin that made her shiver with remembered passion, and her fingers yearned to touch it again. Her mouth was dry, her pulse hectic.

‘Hal.’

He looked up and immediately smiled. How could he not? How beautiful she was with the clear morning light teasing her hair with hints of gold and auburn, and bringing a jewel-like glow to her extraordinary violet eyes. He held out his hand to encourage her closer, his doubts assuaged by her presence and the fact that she had sought him out. He expected to see contentment in her face, an ease previously absent.

His gaze locked on hers. ‘What is this?’ He pushed back the chair and rose to his feet, approaching to take her hands in his, raising them to his lips, searching her face with instant concern. ‘The Baxendale issue need no longer worry you. You must sleep and eat and regain your peace of mind. Nothing can harm you now.’ He bent his head to press his lips to her forehead in a blessing, infinitely tender. ‘You need not be unhappy Nell.’

Carefully, she disengaged her hands, which caused him to frown, and took a step in retreat. ‘There is something I must tell you…’