Anne O'Brien – Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue (страница 16)

It was a moment of impossible tenderness, recognised by them both, as the babe slept on by their side. Eleanor raised her hand to close her fingers round his wrist, a warm bracelet that held him, gentle yet burning him with its heat. Her breath caught as he deliberately allowed his tongue to trace the outline of her lips. She sighed against his mouth.

‘Hal.’

Her perfume, the fine texture of hair and skin, her softness entrapped him, caught in that heart-stopping moment.

Then he eased back to look down into the beautiful face, a depth of emotion in his eyes. He could not have expressed his desires aloud for the world. But he captured her other hand from the side of the crib and lifted it to press his lips to the centre of her palm, marvelling at the softness of it.

‘Nell…’

He murmured her name, the only word he had spoken since he had come into the room. A whisper of passion restrained. He ached with hard arousal, desire for her, a powerful need to touch and be touched, pulsing through every cell in his body.

When tears sparkled on her lashes he reached, without thought, to remove them with his lips.

Then he drew back and pushed himself to his full height. What could he say? It was a moment beyond words. So much promise, so much pain between them. So many broken dreams. He gave a little bow, strangely formal. Then turned and left the room as silently as he had come.

Henry’s actions—and Eleanor’s response—left emotions in turmoil. For both of them.

Chapter Five

On the following morning Lord Henry found himself alone in the sunny breakfast parlour. It was as he expected—and planned; it was still very early, but he intended to be under way to the village of Whitchurch before the rest of the household had risen. With good fortune he would return within the day. It crossed his mind with some force, and had done so more than once during a restless night of knife-edged introspection, that it might be to his advantage if he did not have to make conversation with Eleanor that day. What had driven him to such an unwise gesture towards her? He cursed himself once again for his blind stupidity. Within a few weeks this whole fiasco would be settled one way or another, and he would leave England. He would be out of her life for good—and he would be free to forget her and return to the attractions of Rosalind. But even though he swore at his uncontrolled actions, castigated himself for not keeping his distance, he was being driven to admit that he was not unmoved by Eleanor’s plight. Unmoved? He swore again, brows drawn into a black bar. A magnificent understatement! He had loved her once and was bitterly aware that, however inappropriate and insupportable it might be, given their past history, he loved her still. Wanting nothing more than to take her to his bed, to undress her, to touch, to taste and to savour her for the rest of his life. To feel her stretch against him, beneath him, and hear his name on her lips when he roused her beyond thought and beyond sense. It would have taken a man of callous indifference not to respond to her plight of the previous night without tenderness and compassion. And where Eleanor was concerned, Henry was not that man.

So it would be better for everyone if he did not have to exchange polite conversation with her that morning! And doubtless Eleanor too would welcome his absence.

The door opened and there she stood.

They both became very still, Lord Henry with a teacup raised to his lips, Eleanor braced in the doorway. The previous night loomed between them, tension stark.

‘Good morning, my lady. I trust you slept well.’ Henry rose superbly to the occasion with the first bland comment that came to mind, wincing inwardly at his lack of polish. Then the emotional memories of the previous night were effectively wiped from his mind. With eyes narrowed he surveyed the lady from her head to her feet, momentarily taken aback.

She had taken his advice! And with stunning effect. He had not really expected it, but she had cast off her deep mourning and her black ribbons. The result took his breath, silenced any comment he might have been about to make. His memories of her had been as a débutante, certainly beautiful, but still ingenuously naïve in simple pastel muslins. And then in mourning, the stark black of her high-necked gowns highlighting her glorious hair and porcelain skin, grief adding a fine-drawn maturity to her face. But now he was struck anew by her beauty. Two years had added sophistication, elegance, confidence. An unfathomable grace. He had not realised the true worth of the woman he had lost that night when he had sailed without her. But he realised it now, with a blow to his gut, over the breakfast table with the sunshine pouring through the windows.

She had abandoned her black silk for a walking dress in dove grey spotted muslin, banded with a delicate interweaving of purple and amethyst flowers, the whole completed with a frilled hem. Its sleeves were long and tight with short puffed oversleeves, the neckline high and pleated into a little frilled ruff. It fit to perfection, emphasising her slender figure, the embroidered decoration bringing out the intense colour of her eyes. She glowed in the morning sun, the fragile tints shimmering round her. It might still be mourning, demure and understated, but it complimented her colouring beautifully, her hair falling rich and burnished in a profusion of artless curls from a high knot to her shoulders.

His eyes came slowly back from their appreciation of her transformation, his mouth dry, words beyond him, to study her face. She did not look rested. Her pale skin still lacked colour, her eyes were strained and the shadows still left their delicate imprint. But she looked determined, a challenge in every line of her firm shoulders and the proud carriage of her head. She also looked apprehensive.

How fortunate, she realised, that he could not read her thought as she stood under his unnerving gaze. She had dreaded this meeting, needing all her pride and composure. But she had dressed for impact and raised her chin against any disapproval she might read in his face. She should never have allowed him to touch her. But she had, and had melted beneath the unmistakable tenderness of his touch. A mistake! Which she would not repeat, she promised herself—however great the temptation to do so. She would hide her trepidation behind a mask of fashionable unconcern. Yet she still found it well nigh impossible to lift her eyes to his or accept his critical survey with any degree of ease.

‘My lady!’ Henry rose to his feet at last, and bowed his head in acknowledgement of her gesture. But he did not approach her. Did not dare if he wished to mask the leap of heat in his blood as he studied her. He cursed again as the fire built and stirred in his loins. ‘Allow me to say that you look lovely. And allow me to admit that I did not think that you would do it. What does your mother say?’ His eyes narrowed again at the prospect of biting words from that quarter.

‘Thank you, my lord. She does not know.’ Eleanor still could not meet his eyes, unsure of what she would see in his face. If it was contempt or condemnation for her lack of respect for his brother, she could not bear it. Not after the unbelievable and exquisite cherishing of the previous night. ‘I need to ask. I understand the reason for your advice, but I would not wish to show insufficient respect for Thomas. It is hardly more than four months. Do you perhaps consider it improper?’ Now she lifted her troubled eyes to his. ‘I hope that you would be honest with me. Indeed, I know that you will.’

Henry chose his words carefully to allay her anxieties. He could not take her in his arms as his heart might dictate, so he would use his mind to enfold her with comforting words, to soothe and calm. His face was stern, his voice firm with conviction, willing her to accept and believe. ‘Your respect for Thomas can be questioned by no one, Eleanor. Your friends must know your qualities as wife and mother. As for your clothing, it is becoming and befits the situation. All you need is the confidence to carry it off. Yes, people will talk. Of course they will! Let them, until the next scandal raises its head to replace the sordid details of our family difficulties on their lips. We have nothing to hide and we will not allow society to dictate the behaviour of the Faringdons.’

‘Even if I am not a Faringdon? It is a matter of some dispute, after all.’

There. She had said it aloud and waited, eyes closed, for his reply.

‘There is no doubt in my mind, Eleanor. No matter the weight of evidence, I cannot accept that my brother would make such a terrible mistake with such painful and disastrous consequences for all concerned.’

She sighed and opened her eyes, blinking against the unexpected threat of tears at his firm declaration. ‘That is what I needed to hear. I am in your debt, Hal.’

‘No. You are not. You are in no one’s debt! And besides, the dress is very becoming. You are a beautiful woman, Eleanor. Lift up your head and smile.’