Autumn Rain (31 page)

CHAPTER 30

She rode every day that it did not rain, meeting Longford at different prearranged places. But there was something less than satisfying, something degrading, about the furtiveness, the lies, the constant fear of discovery and disgrace. But she could not stop, and she knew it was because she loved him passionately, hopelessly, completely. It was as though for the first time in her life, she had a reason to live.

And it was more than the intensity of the physical relationship between them. There was a growing closeness beyond that. On the days when she had her courses shortly after they began seeing each other, he'd been content to hold her, to talk of nearly everything, to tell her some of the life he'd led. If she asked, he would tell her nearly everything, except when she'd wondered about Mad Jack. There was such a wellspring of bitterness there that it was like a boil, still too tender to touch despite the years that had passed.

She learned the real horror of the war, that which the papers did not tell, the stories of great heroism tempered by the ever-present terror of facing guns whose shells could cut a man in half, tales of those who had screamed until they died, and her heart went out to him as he relived the awful memories.

And they talked of Charles, of the hopes and promise of a boy who never got to be a man, of his idealism, of his very real love for her. That still haunted her—the notion that somehow she'd failed him. But it was not she, Longford reassured her, for she'd given Charley more than she knew—she'd allowed him to have his fantasies of her, she'd let him dream, and that alone had been worth everything to the boy. No, if there ought to be any recrimination, he told her, it was for his own sense of failure, that he could not save the boy from his youthful dreams of glory. And the irony of it all was that while Charley had died, he himself had come home a hero, that now there were those willing to receive him, not because he was any worthier, but because he'd taken two balls, both of which had nearly killed him. It made survival seem somehow more honorable than dying.

The more they talked, the more she knew of him, she finally dared to broach his nightmares to him, the tortured, fevered meanderings he'd shared when he was too sick to know. What
had
happened to his mother? He'd been silent then, until she thought he did not mean to answer, but in the end, he'd told her that he believed his mother had taken her own life, that she could no longer stand loving a man utterly, totally unworthy of her. And he remembered the awful anger he'd felt then, the anger of a boy left behind. There had been a time, he told her, when he'd hated his mother almost as much as he hated Mad Jack. Only now had he begun to pity her for the emptiness of her life. And Elinor forbore telling him that she thought there must have been madness on both sides, for what sort of woman would abandon a small boy to a husband she despised?

A fortnight after their own madness, their own illicit passion had begun, she rode to meet him, only to be taken to a small rock cottage overgrown with vines, a secluded place within the Park itself. To her surprise, he'd had it furnished, making it into a snug retreat where neither of them had to face the world, a place where they could play at being as any other man and woman besotted of each other, where they did not risk discovery. And she dubbed it "Haven," saying it provided her with a sense of home that Stoneleigh could not.

It had been a tenant's place, but the tenant had left to try something else, and it had apparently stood empty since before Lucien had bought Langston Park. But now it had a bed, a washstand, a newly installed stove, a settee, two chairs and a rug in front of the hearth—and a fresh coat of whitewash on the wall. The earl had told the curious that he was thinking of getting another tenant, and failing that, it could be used as a hunting box. Aside from a bit of local muttering about the wastefulness of the Quality, not much more had been thought about it.

She had loved it on sight. There she was no longer Baroness Kingsley, but rather just plain Nell, she'd told him happily, to which he had replied that she could not be just plain anything. And he was not the Earl of Longford, nor Lucien de Clare either, but instead answered only to Luce. He teased her that it was like Marie Antoinette playing the milkmaid at Petit Trianon, but that he hoped for better results.

That was the one area neither dared discuss. It was as though there was no past and no future, nothing beyond the present. Because he'd never said it to her, she could not bring herself to tell him she loved him. What she did not know and could not understand was that for whatever happiness she gave him now, he did not believe himself capable of loving or being really loved by anyone. When it ended, it would end, he told himself, trying to prepare for what he hoped never came. It was enough that she lay in his arms, that she laughed, that she teased, that she drove the devils within him away. There would come a time, he supposed, when she would leave him, but for now, he'd not think of that.

September faded into October and November and despite the mildness of the climate, the leaves turned, falling to the ground, adding an autumn mustiness to the smoke from Langston Park's many chimneys. And still the passion was as new as when it had begun.

Swathed in a blanket from the bed, she sat before the cottage fire, watching the flames dance, contented to be there with him. He carried a steaming cup of tea to her, then dropped to sit on the floor beside her, leaning his head against her knee. She could stay there forever. She sipped, wondering for a moment if she ought to tell him, afraid somehow that it would change things between them. It would be difficult enough telling Arthur. Later, she decided—later when it could not be hidden. Besides, it was early days yet, and she could be mistaken.

"You are rather quiet today," he chided her.

"Am I? I suppose I must be thinking."

"Blue-deviled?"

Her hand crept to his head, savoring the feel of the thick, nearly blue-black hair beneath her fingers. "No. I was wishing that I could spend the night. Just once I should like to be held then."

He shook his head. "We risk enough as it is."

"I know, but sometimes I do not care."

"You would. You cannot know what it is to have people pass you, to speak to those around you as though you are not there. Believe me, I know, Nell—I know."

She wondered what he would say if he knew her secret, if he'd offer to take her away, but she did not dare to put it to the touch, for what if he decided he did not want to acknowledge it, what if he did as Bell had apparently done to Diana? And that did not bear thinking.

Outside, the wind was coming up. He rose to look out the window, then turned back to her. "You'd better go before it storms."

"Not yet." She stood, letting the blanket fall, and watched the desire kindle in his eyes. "Not yet," she said softly.

As many times as he'd seen her, he thought he knew every inch, and yet there was that about her that never failed to draw him. "Nell, there's not time." Yet even as he said it, he moved toward her. "God, but you are beautiful," he breathed, reaching for her again.

It was already raining when she reached Stoneleigh, and she was soaked. Her teeth chattered as Ned took Mignon. In the foyer, she shook the water from her cloak and removed her hat. Her hair straggled wetly against her neck, dripping onto the jacket of her riding habit.

Peake favored her with a look of disapproval, then told her, "His lordship would have a word with you before you go up."

"Tell him I would change first."

But Arthur was already standing in his bookroom door. "Now," he said. "I have had a hot punch prepared. It will chase the chill from your bones, my dear."

She could scarce stand the sight of him anymore, but still she did not defy him openly. Reluctantly, she followed him inside and moved to warm herself at the fire.

"You are rather late," he murmured, carrying a cup to her.

"I got lost. It was the rain," she lied.

"Sit down."

"I'm wet."

"In more ways than one, no doubt."

She took the chair he indicated, wondering what he wanted. For a time, he merely watched her, saying nothing, and she felt exceedingly uncomfortable. She tried to concentrate on the punch. It was hot, fruity, and laced with spices and something she could not identify, perhaps rum. She waited, hearing the crackling of the fire, and still he was silent. Unable to stand it, she drained her glass and held it out for a refill.

"It's good," she said.

He ladled more into the cup and handed it back. The air was heavy, almost pregnant, and she felt a sudden dread. "You wished to talk with me," she prompted finally.

He leaned back, his fingertips together, considering her. For two months he'd waited and watched benignly, pretending to believe her lies, letting her think she had misled him. But there was no mistaking that which he'd not counted on. He'd expected the affair to be brief, intense, and over by now, with Longford moving on as Mad Jack had so often done. Instead, he had witnessed his wife falling madly, passionately in love with the other man, and he was ready to put an end to it.

"It's not all that far from Langston Park, my dear," he said finally.

She knew she ought to deny it, but she was sick of compounding one lie with another. For a brief moment, her world seemed to stand quite still, as though even her heart stopped, then she managed to ask, "How long have you known?"

"From the beginning—and even before."

She almost felt relieved. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps she could leave him, perhaps she could go to Longford. But if she did, she'd brand her babe a bastard.

He nodded. "Just so." He reached into his coat and drew out the leather folder. Opening it, he retrieved the bank draft and handed it to her. She looked down, reading "Pay to the order of Lucien, Earl of Longford." It was for ten thousand pounds.

"My heir comes dear, don't you think? The stud fee was steep."

The room seemed to spin around her. "Your heir?" she said hollowly.

"You did not think I made my money for naught, did you?" he countered mildly. "And Longford was happy enough to oblige,"

Her chest tightened until she could scarce breathe. "I don't believe you—I don't believe you!" She started to rise, but the dizziness overwhelmed her. "He is not that sort of man!"

"I'm afraid men view this sort of thing rather differently, Elinor. I offered, and he took." He smiled faintly, then leaned forward. "And Agnes tells me you have not needed any rags," he added meaningfully.

"I don't believe you!" she cried. "He loves me!" But even as she said it, she knew Lucien had never used the words.

"Love!" Arthur snorted. "Ah, my dear, but what an innocent you are. Longford does not care about anything beyond his own pleasure."

And it was as though she could hear Sally Jersey's warning, that Longford was a dangerous man for he could not be brought to care. But she could not give up easily. "I'd see him—I'd hear it—" she said, her voice desperate.

"I don't think that would be wise, my dear. There is enough talk already." Again he favored her with a thin smile. "No, we are for Ireland—I own property there, you know."

"Ireland!" Her voice rose almost hysterically. "Arthur, you cannot! I must see—I must hear—"

"There is no time. Mary has already packed what you will need, and I expect to depart in the morning."

"I won't go! I won't!" The room was spinning even faster now, until she could scarce think. Her eyes moved wildly about the room as though somehow she could still escape. "I hate you, Arthur—I hate you! I despise what you are!"

"You are overset merely."

"Overset! Overset?" She tried again to rise, and this time she stumbled, nearly falling. "Arthur, you have drugged me!" She collapsed then in a heap at his feet, her head against the leg of his chair, and she wept uncontrollably.

"I think I shall name the child after myself," he decided, "It will cause less comment. Arthur Charles Philip Kingsley—actually, I rather like the sound of it."

"I should rather die."

His hand smoothed her hair. "It's to be hoped he favors you rather than Longford."

Her world was spinning out of control, like a child's top on the brink of an abyss. She clung to the chair leg, trying to keep from descending into the blackness, but she could not.

He waited until she was unconscious, then he reached for the bellpull. "Peake, Lady Kingsley has fainted, I'm afraid, and must be helped to bed."

The drug had not set well on her stomach, and she had awakened vomiting violently in the night. And Mary had held her, listening to her weeping, her tortured confession, soothing her as best she could. Come morning, the maid had reported to Lord Kingsley that "her ladyship is beyond going anywheres t'day." And when he'd refused to listen, she'd clinched the matter by declaring, "Well, I'd not want ter ride in a closed carriage with her a-casting up her accounts, ye know." In the end, the departure had been postponed until the morrow.

As Elinor lay abed with Mary pressing cold compresses on her swollen eyes, she asked dully, "What time is it?"

"Nigh ter two."

Two o'clock. Longford would be waiting for her. And then she remembered and began weeping all over again. If Arthur could be believed, she was the greatest fool on earth.
If Arthur could be believed.
As miserable as she was, as sick as she felt, she had to
know,
she had to hear it from Lucien himself.

"I think I might be able to take some digestive biscuits," she managed.

"I'll get ye some," the maid promised. "Aye, and a bit of tea ter ease ye."

As soon as Mary was gone, Elinor rose, throwing her cloak over her nightgown, and slipped down the stairs. And when Ned protested, "Here now, yer ladyship, ye cannot be out, fer it's rainin,' " she ordered him to saddle Mignon anyway, threatening him with dismissal if he did not.

She rode recklessly, crossing the fields rather than following the roads, lest Arthur should send someone after her. It was not until she was nearly there that it occurred to her that Lucien might not be there, that because of the rain he would think she did not come. But a curl of smoke swirled valiantly into the heavy sky.