Nicola Cornick - The Notorious Marriage

‘If I could help you—’

‘Eleanor!’ Lord Kemble’s unctuous voice cut across his words. ‘I believe that this next is my waltz.’

He bowed to Kit, his hooded gaze watchful. ‘Your servant, Mostyn. Ain’t you going to congratulate me? This little honey-pot is all mine!’

Kit’s own bow was so slight as to be barely there. ‘I pray that you will not take your good fortune for granted, Kemble. Miss Trevithick…’ He smiled at Eleanor. ‘I must bid you good night.’

He watched as Kemble took Eleanor away. The man oozed a self-satisfied lasciviousness that was deeply offensive. The thought of Eleanor’s slight figure crushed beneath him, subject to his lusts, was almost too much for Kit to stand. He wanted to call the man out and put a bullet through him. In fact he was not sure if he would bother with the formality of calling him out, just shoot him where he stood. Or he could take Kemble’s neck-cloth and use it to strangle him…

He saw Eleanor smile stiffly at her betrothed as Kemble took her in his arms for the waltz. Kit turned away and threaded his way to the door, trying to keep his expression impassive as he passed through the knots of chattering débutantes. The cold night air helped to clear his anger a little. He had to think, had to decide what to do. If only it were not so damnably complicated…By the time he had reached the house in Upper Grosvenor Street his anger had once again been subdued to cool reason but he was no clearer on his course of action. All he knew was that Eleanor Trevithick was his and as such could never be permitted to marry Lord Kemble.

It was later—much later—when the butler came to him to tell him that there was a young lady on the doorstep who was begging to speak with him. By that time Kit had consumed half a bottle of brandy and he simply laughed.

‘I don’t think that would be a particularly good idea, would it, Carrick?’ He murmured. ‘In the first instance I am three parts cut and in the second, young ladies…’ he stressed the words ‘…are presumably tucked up in bed…alone…at this time of night, not walking the streets of London!’

Carrick, who was enough of a butler of the world to know that this was true, nevertheless stood his ground.

‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but this is very definitely a lady. A young lady, my lord, and in considerable distress…’

Kit sighed with irritation. His first thought—that Eleanor Trevithick had come to seek him out—had been quickly dismissed as wishful thinking. Eleanor was so very proper, so entirely well brought up, that she never put a foot wrong. Certainly she would not even think of entering a gentleman’s house alone, especially not in the middle of the night. Respectable young ladies simply did not behave in such a way.

Therefore it must be another sort of lady. An enterprising Cyprian, perhaps, or even a débutante with fewer scruples than Eleanor, intent on catching him. Kit had learned to be cynical. Several young ladies had twisted their ankles outside the house in Upper Grosvenor Street in the last week or two. He had even found a girl in the drawing-room one evening and she had sworn that she had simply mistaken the house for that of a friend. When Kit’s housekeeper had ushered her off the premises she had been distinctly annoyed.

Kit’s gaze swept around the firelit study, taking in the tumbled pile of papers on the desk, the empty bottle of brandy and the glass of the same amber liquid that stood by his armchair. To entertain a lady here would be the greatest folly. Besides, he had other preoccupations that night, plans that needed serious consideration. Plans that had suffered because of his preoccupation with Eleanor. He shook his head.

‘I am sorry, Carrick, but you must turn this so-called young lady away. I am certain that it can only be a trap and I am scarce going to walk straight into it…’

The words had barely left his lips when he heard the sound of running feet on the hall tiles and the scandalised voice of one of the footmen:

‘Pardon, madam, but you cannot go in there…’

Both Kit and the butler swung round towards the doorway.

‘Kit!’

Kit smothered a curse. He turned to the butler. ‘Very well, Carrick, you may leave us.’

Carrick inclined his head. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said expressionlessly. He went out and closed the door, softly but firmly, behind him.

‘I know I shouldn’t be here!’ Eleanor said defiantly, immediately the door had closed and they were alone. She was wearing a black velvet cloak over the same dress of pale white gold she had worn earlier in the evening. It was the demure, expensive raiment of the débutante. Her dark brown eyes, huge in her elfin face, were fixed on him. Her hair had come out of it’s chignon and rich, chestnut brown curls tumbled about her shoulders, spilling over the cloak and down her back. She looked delectable—and terrified. Kit saw her lock her fingers together tightly to still their trembling. He deliberately looked away from her.

‘You are correct. You should not be here. It is madness.’ Kit spoke curtly to mask a variety of emotions. He came towards her, keeping his hands very firmly in his pockets. ‘Miss Trevithick, I suggest that for the sake of your reputation you should turn around and go directly home—’

Eleanor shook her head.

‘Kit, I cannot! You must help me! I cannot bear to be married off to Kemble! That disgusting old man—why, he speaks of nothing but his horses and his gaming, and wheezes and snores his way through every play and concert we have ever attended! And then he paws at me in the most revolting manner imaginable!’

Kit took a deep breath, maintaining a scrupulous distance away from her. Miss Eleanor Trevithick, temptation personified. His mind was telling him to show her the door and his body was telling him to take her in his arms.

‘The correct thing to do in this situation is to apply to your brother,’ he heard himself say sternly. ‘He is the head of the family and could easily prevent such a match…’

‘You know that Marcus is away in Devon, and Justin too!’ Kit saw tears squeeze from the corner of Eleanor’s eyes and she rubbed them impatiently away with her fingers. ‘Mama means to marry me off before they return—she is hot for the match! And I have no one to apply to for help! Please, Kit—’ she broke off. ‘I thought when we spoke earlier that you might save me…’ Her gaze touched his face and moved away at what it saw there. ‘Perhaps I was wrong…’

‘You were.’ Again, Kit ruthlessly repressed the urge to take her in his arms. He took a sharp turn away from her and moved over to the fireplace, leaning against the marble chimney-breast. ‘Your mama cannot force the match, Eleanor, and certainly not before Trevithick returns—’

‘Kemble has a special licence!’ Eleanor burst out. ‘Oh Kit…’ she spread her hands in a pleading gesture and Kit felt himself flinch inside ‘…you do not understand! I was so sure that you would help me…’

Kit took a deep breath. Every instinct that he possessed was urging him to crush her to him, promise her that he would look after her, swear that all would be well. Yet in the morning she might well regret the whole escapade. In the cold light of day she might realise that she had ruined herself—and the only way to save her from that was to make her turn round now and go home, before anyone was the wiser. Besides, even had there not been such a violent feud between their families, Kit knew he was in no position to marry. He had other commitments, matters that might take him away at any moment. He was not free…

‘There is no need for such drama,’ Kit said, powerless to prevent the harsh tone of his voice, cursing himself that he could not help her. ‘In the morning everything will seem better and you will realise that the situation is far from desperate…’