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

‘An important business deal has come to fruition—a lucrative contract that we wish to take up to ship raw cotton to the mills here in Lancashire and then return the finished textiles.’ Hal made an obvious excuse. ‘It is best if I am there. Besides, there is nothing to hold me here in London.’ He bared his teeth in something that was not a smile and took a swallow of the port. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean that as it sounded.’

‘So I should hope.’ Nicholas punched his shoulder in mock disgust, thinking that Hal looked as if he had spent a night of torment. No doubt the result of his conversation with Eleanor on the previous morning, the content of which still remained a mystery to him. Both parties had been at dinner, but so scrupulously polite to each other that it had been painfully unnerving to watch and listen. Like the silent shattering of fragile glass. The atmosphere had then glittered with shards of that broken glass, lurking to slice at the unwary—he had been more than glad to escape and join a party of friends at the theatre. What Henry had done he did not know and dare not ask. Eleanor had stalked from the room as soon as the meal had ended, leaving Mrs Stamford to stare with puzzlement from one to the other.

‘So you are leaving me to manage the estate in your absence?’

‘Yes. You will have to work for a living, for the first time in your life.’ Henry put down his glass and took the seat behind his desk. ‘Seriously, Nick. Would you dislike it too much? If so, it is unfair of me to leave you with it.’

‘No. You know me better than that, Hal. There is nothing that I would like more. I have plans. When Tom inherits the estate in the fullness of time it will be a wonder to behold with sound investment. When he is older, I will see that he is up to scratch. He will not live off the estate, giving nothing back, if I have anything to say in the matter.’

Hal’s answering smile was bleak. ‘I know that he is in good hands.’ My son. My son.

‘And I know that you would not want to take it on. For you to have been born the eldest son would have been the worst possible destiny for you.’ Nick grinned in some sympathy. ‘Whereas I enjoy the life as a country squire. I shall not be sorry to leave town.’

Henry’s smile vanished, leaving his face harsh and strained. ‘Hoskins can be relied upon,’ was all he said. He frowned unseeingly out of the window, arms folded before him on the desk. That was the key, of course, to his disastrous confrontation with Eleanor. Nick’s comment that he would not ever want the title, the social hierarchy, the acceptance that the manner in which the world saw him should rest purely on an accident of birth. The idea that all men should have the same opportunities open to them, to construct a future for themselves dependent on their own efforts, suited him far better. And it was that which had pushed him over the edge. The title was legally his after the death of his brother, tying him into a social and class system that he was more than ready to escape. That, coupled with Edward Baxendale’s vicious accusation and Mrs Stamford’s determined and unseemly pleasure at the outcome, had driven him to heap the blame on

Eleanor. As if she were responsible for chaining him to a life that he detested as much as Nick enjoyed.

Not true. Of course it wasn’t true. He knew it in every sinew of his body, heard it in every beat of his heart. And what had he done? He had made her cry! Humiliated her. Questioned her morality and her veracity. He deserved to be flogged. To be damned to the fires of hell.

It had not helped him when last night he had taken himself on an impulse to the baby’s room. An astonished nursemaid had looked up from her seat beside the fireplace where she was sewing some small item of clothing. She leapt to her feet as if to leave the room.

‘Don’t go. I just need a moment.’ A lifetime.

He looked down into the crib.

Hair, brows, nose—exact replicas of those that he saw every morning in his mirror. A sturdy frame that would become lithe and athletic. He would ride a horse with elegant grace. He would shoot with skill and accuracy. He would have dogs and horses as he grew from babyhood. He would look to Nicholas for his initiation into the rites and responsibilities of adolescence and adulthood. He would grow up not knowing his father.

The baby opened his eyes. Deep amethyst, fringed with dark lashes.

Henry held out his hand, drawn impossibly against his will to touch, to savour. The baby chuckled and clutched, delighted with the company, making contact in his small fist, drawing the offered fingers to his mouth to gnaw on them with half-formed teeth.

Henry’s chest tightened, he found it difficult to swallow. His son. And Eleanor’s. Whom he had rejected.

Oh, God!

What could he possibly say to Eleanor? She had borne this beautiful child alone, without him. He mentally thanked Thomas from the bottom of his heart for coming to her salvation. Knowing his brother as he did, he understood exactly what Thomas had done and why he had done it. Married Eleanor to give her the shelter of his name and consequence, so that no one need know that she had borne a child without the protection of marriage vows, and his brother’s child would have all the benefits of being brought up as the Faringdon heir. Henry breathed hard against the flood of emotion that threatened to unman him, longing for that one impossible opportunity to tell Thomas of his gratitude.

And he had accused Eleanor of treachery and betrayal, of luring Thomas into a marriage to satisfy her greed and ambition. Nothing could be further from the truth.

But why had she not come to meet him, to join him on the voyage? If she had, their marriage would have legitimised the child and all the following complications would never have arisen. He would probably never know.

He stroked his hand gently over his son’s hair, cupping his cheek, caressing the perfect fingers, the shell-like nails. Then turned and left the room, as quietly as he had come, with nothing resolved

‘Does Eleanor know?’ Nick broke into his uncomfortable musings, concerned for the stark misery in his brother’s eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Nothing of importance.’ Henry shrugged and switched his focus back to Nick, replacing the inscrutable mask. ‘Why?

Well! Nicholas hesitated, remembering. That was one statement palpably untrue if Hal’s face, bleak with shock as he had exited the morning room after his conversation with Eleanor, was anything to go by. But should he interfere further? ‘Nothing. Just that I had thought that you were not…not indifferent to each other.’ Nicholas made his decision, for better or worse, and came to sit opposite the desk, to fix Hal with a stern expression. ‘To put it bluntly, I had thought that you were more than half in love with her. That is, until whatever passed between the two of you yesterday afternoon in the morning room.’ He waited the space of a heartbeat, seeing the shutters come down on any emotion in his brother’s face. ‘You are free to deny any or all of it if you wish, of course.’

‘Ha! I wish I were free.’ The words were wrung from Henry.

‘What should I understand by that?’

‘Nothing! Nothing at all!.’ Hal sighed and drove his fingers through his hair. ‘Yes, I love her. Of course I do. How can I deny it? I love her and I always will, even though I have hurt her beyond belief.’

‘So why are you leaving her? Have you told her that you love her?’

‘No.’

‘I also thought Nell loved you. Is it because she is Thomas’s widow that you have not spoken? I don’t see that it has any bearing on your feelings for her or hers for you.’ He frowned as he remembered their previous conversation. ‘Is that why you asked me if theirs had been a love match?’