Candice Hern (16 page)

Why, oh why did Simon have to be so damned admirable? Why couldn’t he have turned out to be the fatuous fool she had expected him to be? Despite all her best intentions, she was already halfway smitten with him. His twinkling blue eyes, his infectious grin, his dimples, his lean muscular frame, his strong arms, his sense of honor and integrity, his kindness, even his wretched idealism all worked to break down her defenses. The fact that he was so clearly interested in her made it even more tempting to give in.

But Eleanor knew too well the dangers of such folly. She had once trusted a man and it had ruined her life. She could not allow it to happen again.

A bit of argument always helped to keep her
wits about her. She was determined to pursue a debate whether she agreed with Simon or not. It was safer. Or was it? He had said he preferred a woman who argued. Heavens, what was she to do?

“Are you certain the
Museum
is as nefarious as that?” she asked, unable in the end to resist an argument. “Perhaps they are simply trying to protect women from making reckless decisions.”

“They are trying to protect women against the influence of new ideas that might interfere with the established order. I cannot tell you how much I deplore their consistent attitude of female weakness in need of protection, their moronic position on female education which blatantly admits to women’s inferior minds. You are a strong woman with a mind of your own, Eleanor. Do you not feel your intellect the equal of most men?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Then do you not object to a wholesale assumption of feminine weakness?”

“My dear sir, there is hardly a woman alive who has not used that assumption to her advantage. Believe me, it requires a great deal of cunning intellect to ensure that we receive the most protection and security for the least effort.”

“Then like the
Museum
, you value fortune and security above love?”

“Absolutely.”

His brows knit together in a perplexed frown. “How sad it is to hear you say that, my dear. Love is the great equalizer, and the most important thing
in all the world. In my opinion, marriageable young girls should be taught the value of love over rank and fortune.”

“Spoken just like a man who has never wanted for anything in his life. A man who can never imagine the tenuous situation of women—all women at all levels of society—who must rely on men for every aspect of their existence.”

“Then you agree with the
Museum
’s position on settling for contentment with one’s lot, on the importance of convenience over love, of security over affection? You agree with how they actively discourage reaching higher, going after one’s true desires?”

“I only suggest that such a philosophy is more realistic and is potentially less hurtful to impressionable young minds. Fewer hearts would be broken if girls were not convinced by publications such as yours that true love and eternal bliss actually exist.”

He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, “Who broke your heart, Eleanor?”

He had watched her closely during their conversation, initially to reaffirm his decision to trust her, which he did, but then simply to gauge her reaction. She had a very expressive face, due in great part to the way she used her mouth—her lips puckered and pursed and pouted and twisted and thinned and smiled; she pushed the delicious upper lip out; she caught the lower lip between her
teeth; her tongue darted out to lick her lips. It was a dizzying display, but also revealed every emotion. A great number of them had played across her face: surprise, disbelief, admiration, pleasure, confusion, apprehension.

But all that had been wiped away with a single question. She had closed up once again. What the devil had possessed him? The truth was, the words had spilled out before he knew what he was doing.

She did not respond.

“I’m sorry, Eleanor. I should not have—”

“No, you should not have.” She would not look at him. “My private life is none of your business and I resent your arrogant insinuations.”

“You are quite right. It is none of my business. I am dreadfully sorry.”

She turned away from him, not just her head but her entire body, so that she almost had her back to him. She had cut him off completely, and his heart sank. Dammit all, why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? Any further words from him would simply make matters worse. It was probably best to keep his tongue between his teeth and leave her to her thoughts for a while.

And so Simon set his own muddled brain to untangling all that had been said and done. He reviewed her reactions to his explanation about the magazine and was satisfied that she understood the need for continued secrecy. He could trust her. She had not laughed or called him a fool. Despite her usual challenges, he thought she had been im
pressed with the work of the
Cabinet
. Once again, he had sensed that tiny spark of admiration that caused his heart to swell up in his throat with pride. Dammit, if only she weren’t afraid of that spark, afraid to let herself feel something for him. Assuming she was inclined to do so, and he liked to think she was. There had been that kiss, after all.

But he kept coming back to that unfortunate question. Who had broken her heart?

Clearly, someone had. She would not have closed up like a fist otherwise. He guessed it had not been the late Mr. Tennant. Eleanor said theirs had not been a love match. Was it a youthful attachment before her marriage? A love affair during her marriage?

It was no use guessing, for unless she told him he would never know the truth. And she was right, it was none of his business. He did not really need to know the particulars. It was enough to know it had happened, and had hurt her deeply. It certainly added a level of difficulty to his goal of winning her trust, and perhaps even her affection. He was determined to achieve that goal, however, despite this damnable setback.

Simon kept his own counsel as they followed the messages of the Runners into Lancashire. The hilly countryside meant a sometimes rough ride, and they were continually jostled about inside the carriage, but Eleanor curled up against the window and clung tightly to the strap so there was almost no physical contact between them. Simon did not
break the strained silence as they traversed the bleak moorland surrounding Bolton and the picturesque ravines beyond; nor as they crossed stone bridges over busy canals; nor as they drove past wild and windswept hillsides and wide open valleys; nor as they drove through Heaton, Horwich, and Chorley, skirting the fringes of the West Pennine Moors on the road to Preston.

Twilight had set in, dark clouds hung upon the hills, and a soft rain had begun to fall. The wind had kicked up, and the air was heavy with the threat of a storm. Simon was just about to suggest they stop in Preston for the night when Eleanor quite startled him by breaking her long silence.

“Why must you assume that everyone thinks and believes and acts as you do?” She seemed to be continuing their earlier conversation, as though several silent hours had not passed. “Just because I happen to have a more practical approach to life does not mean I am unhappy or have suffered a broken heart. It simply makes me a realist. Not a cynic, as you always claim. A realist.”

He smiled to let her know how pleased he was to have her back, even in a peevish mood. He opened his mouth to agree with her, for the sake of establishing some sort of peace between them, but stopped short. Would she believe him if he agreed with her? Or would she think him merely patronizing? He was inclined to believe she would think less of him if he tried to placate her with disingenuous platitudes.

Eleanor was a woman who enjoyed a good argument. Perhaps that was what she needed just now. He would give her one, then. He would
not
, however, bring up the subject of her broken heart.

“There is a fine line between a realist and a pessimist, my dear.”

“Oh, so now I am a pessimist? Just because I don’t think it such a bad thing for a woman to seek security for her future?”

Simon grinned. “That, and other things.”

She met his gaze squarely, but did not smile. “No, I won’t accept that label. I still say I am a realist. Where the Romantic sees endless years of connubial bliss for two star-crossed lovers, the realist sees a short time of passion dwindling into years of disappointment and contempt when there is no money and the trials of daily life sap all the bliss from the marriage. Where the Romantic drives through the countryside bemoaning the number trees lost to the axe, the realist sees the practical use made of the timber.”

“I prefer my hopeful Romanticism, if you please. Where the Romantic sees a runaway couple and believes a Scottish marriage is in store, the pessimist sees only dishonorable motives and ruin. You see, Eleanor, I will always hope for the best for Belinda.”

“But you are wrong.”

“It is simply my starry-eyed opinion, my dear. I will hang on to that hope until we find them.”

“But you are wrong.”

“You will pardon me for believing otherwise.”

“But you are wrong.”

“Your argument has become decidedly repetitive.” He offered a smile, but got none in return. “Allow me respectfully to disagree with you. They are still heading north, straight toward Gretna. They may already be married.”

“No. Barkwith will never marry her. He will seduce her and make her love him and use her and toss her out when he is through.” She had curled up within herself, her shoulders hunched inward, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“How can you be so sure?” he asked.

She hesitated a long moment, and he thought she was not going to answer, that she would retreat back into silence. But then, in a small voice, she said, “Because I know.”

“How do you know?”

She did not respond, and with sudden blinding clarity, Simon knew the answer. A cold, sickening sensation gripped his insides. “Eleanor? How do you know?”

“Because it happened to me.”

D
ear God, what had she done?

“Eleanor. I am so sorry.”

She could not look at Simon, could not bear to see in his eyes the distress and sorrow she heard in his voice. She kept her gaze out the window instead, where the approach to Preston was obscured by heavy rain, a pelting, pitiless downpour that echoed the storm of emotion in her breast.

She had not meant to tell him. It was humiliating and painful and private. She did not want him to know. She did not want anyone to know. Only a very few knew the whole sordid tale, and now this sweet man, this guileless Romantic who was practically a stranger, would hear it all.

She had put all memory of that horrible time behind her. Years ago, she had very consciously consigned the episode to some dark oubliette in her
mind and thrown the bolt. It was not until Belinda had become infatuated with Barkwith that the memories had been unlocked and thrown into the open again. And because they were fresh in her mind, she had been careless enough to blurt out the truth to Simon.

“Eleanor.”

She felt him take her hand, and though she was too mortified to relish his reassurance, she was also too tired to fight. She let him hold it. He covered it with his other hand and kept it gently captive, like a wounded bird. Somehow it made her want to cry.

“I am sorry I harassed you into that confession,” he said. “It was unspeakably intrusive, and I regret it with all my heart.” His voice was soft and velvety and wrapped itself around her, tender and soothing, like his hands around hers. It made her want to turn around, curl up against him, and let him hold her. It would be so easy.

She wanted to say something, to tell him it was not his fault, but she did not believe she could control her voice and so merely nodded.

“We will not speak of it again,” he said. “It will be as if you never told me.”

“No.” The word burst from her lips, thin and small. Still, she could not look at him. He did not speak, only continued to softly caress her hand. “No, it cannot be as if I never told you.” Her voice shook a little, and she made an effort to control it. “Now you know the truth. Now you know why I have been so anxious for Belinda.”

“Yes. I understand now.”

“I do not want Belinda to suffer as I did.”

“Of course not. Lord, how wretched this must be for you, to watch your own history repeated with your niece. But perhaps knowing what happened to you, Belinda will ensure a better outcome for herself.”

“She does not know what happened to me.”

“Oh.”

“And neither do you.” Eleanor turned to face him at last, and immediately wished she had not. She had no defense against that benevolent blue gaze, and if he had pulled her into his arms then and there, she would have gone willingly. But he made no such move. Instead, he removed one of his hands from hers but kept hold with the other, entwining their fingers and giving a little squeeze. It was a gesture of support, of comfort, of kindness with no hint of the sensuality that had been so powerful at other times between them. After such a confession from her, he would be careful not to offer anything more than friendship. Bless the man for his good sense, for she had very little at the moment.

“I suppose I should tell you the whole story,” she said. “Then you will understand why I feel the way I do, why I am such a cynic about so many things.”

“That is not necessary, Eleanor. It is a private matter and you have no need to explain it to me.”

“But I think I would like to.” It was true. Though
she could not have explained why, she wanted Simon to know all of it. He had trusted her with his secrets. Now she wanted to share hers with him.

“I do not know what makes me worthy of your confidence, my dear, but if you wish to tell me, I promise to honor that confidence.”

A flash of lightning was followed by a tremendous crack of thunder, rattling the windows of the carriage.

“I believe your tale will have to wait,” Simon said. He gave her hand one more squeeze, then released it. “We are going to have to stop or the poor postboys will be swept away.”

They had crossed a broad stone bridge over the Ribble into Preston. The drenched postillions hurried them to the center of town where they found the Rose and Crown, the coaching inn where the Runners had told them to await their next report. They would get no farther tonight in such weather, so Eleanor was glad to see it was a large, modern three-storied brick building with elegant sash-windowed shop fronts on either side of the coach entrance.

Simon bustled them into the main entry and, with his usual efficiency, arranged all that was needed for the evening and for their departure in the morning.

Eleanor made her way upstairs to her bedchamber. Still a bit rattled, she was glad to be alone for a while, and dismissed the efficient chambermaid who had brought lavender-scented soap and hot
water and had offered to help her undress. The room was well furnished and had even been supplied with wax candles, a true luxury at a coaching inn.

Eleanor experienced another pang of guilt over what all this was costing Simon. At first, she had been so angry over the Busybody that she had been happy to let him fund the journey. But she realized now—had done for some time, in fact—that the Busybody had been no more than a convenient scapegoat. Belinda was as incorrigible as Eleanor had been at her age. She would have fled with Barkwith in the end regardless of what the Busybody had advised.

And so Eleanor had selfishly used poor Simon, had manipulated his kindhearted nature as artfully as Barkwith had Belinda. It pained her to consider how much he had spent so far. This inn, especially, must be dreadfully expensive.

A coal fire had been laid in a small grate. Sweet-smelling dried herbs had been scattered in the corners of the drawers and placed in bowls on the windowsill. The curtained bed looked clean and comfortable, and for once Eleanor did not entirely regret leaving her own sheets at home. She hoped Belinda had enough sense to insist on fresh, dry sheets, wherever she was. Or would she be so lost to passion she failed to notice damp, spotty bed linen?

In Belinda’s place, Eleanor had not paid much attention to such details. It had been almost a
dozen years, but she could still remember it as though it were yesterday. And she was about to dredge up those memories and serve them on a platter to Simon.

Was she making a huge mistake? Was it enough that he knew
something
had happened without laying bare all the tawdry details?

No, she was determined to tell him all. She wanted to tell him. It seemed somehow important that he know everything. Was she simply curious to see if he would still be interested in her if he knew her tainted history? Or in the deepest, most private corner of her heart, did she perhaps secretly hope there might be a chance for something between them, after this ramshackle business with Belinda was settled?

She could not bring herself to admit to that possibility. She had no right even to consider it. It was true that she had been fighting her attraction to Simon for most of their brief acquaintance. Wouldn’t Constance laugh to know that Eleanor had decided he was indeed quite adorable, reddish hair and all. At least she was finally honest enough to admit it to herself. Besides being dangerously attracted to him—the touch of his hand could throw her heart into a wild disorder—she found him to be so thoroughly sweet. Even discounting his Romantic tendencies, so contrary to her own nature, she liked him. Simon was a good man. A kind, honorable, gentle man, and she had grown inordinately fond of him.

But he was still a man, and fundamentally no
different from the rest. Eleanor had been exposed from an early age to the often treacherous and insidious nature of men. She had been cruelly deceived once. She had no desire to suffer such heartache again.

She shook out her pelisse and draped it over a chair before the fire. She had worn it on each day of this journey, and it showed in the deep creases and dark, mud-colored blotches at the hem. The smell of ale from the brawl at Buxton was only barely noticeable. She retrieved the second of her two carriage dresses from the portmanteau, shook it out, and spread it over the top of a small chest of drawers in readiness for tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Another day on the road. Would they find Belinda at last? It would be five days she had been with Geoffrey Barkwith. Had he tired of her yet?

Eleanor steeled herself for the discussion she would have with Simon over dinner. It was a difficult and shameful story for her to tell, but he would surely understand her fears for Belinda once he’d heard it.

As she shook out and brushed off the dress she would wear for dinner, she hoped her story would be so engrossing that Simon would not notice he’d already seen the dress twice before. Men hardly ever noticed such things, though, thank heaven.

The meal might be a strained one, Simon thought as he waited for Eleanor to join him, but at
least the surroundings were pleasant. He paced back and forth before the hearth in the small but nicely appointed parlor he’d hired for their supper. He supposed he had the prosperity of Preston’s industry to thank for this excellent inn. If only the factories and housing for the workers were built with such care, perhaps he would not be so scornful of growth.

He was not looking forward to the conversation ahead. He had a rough idea of what had happened and had no burning desire to hear the details. But it pleased him enormously that she wanted to tell him. It was a small victory in his campaign to win her trust. And if she trusted him enough to share a painful secret, then how hard could it be to convince her to open herself to his…what? His admiration? His affection? His love?

Did he love her?

He was certainly a little bit
in
love with her—a common enough thing for him, as Malcolm had been so damned quick to point out. He couldn’t help it. Beautiful women, especially beautiful intelligent women, affected him that way. And he’d certainly been smitten with Eleanor almost since their first meeting, when she’d slapped him hard across the face. But did he love her?

Though he’d been
in
love countless times—all right, it wasn’t countless, it was seventeen times; he had notebooks of poetry to prove it—he’d never really loved. Truly loved. As he had told Eleanor, he was still searching for his heart’s desire. He’d
been infatuated and moonstruck and in serious lust, but he’d never felt the sort of bone-deep caring, the blending of souls, the all-consuming need he had always defined as love. He had come close once, but that was a long time ago.

In the short time he’d known Eleanor—could it really be only days?—he had come closer than ever before to those feelings he defined as love. He felt as though he were on a precipice, uncertain whether to jump. The merest sign from her that she would welcome or even, God help him, return his regard, and he would surely fall over the edge.

He sighed with a sudden rush of intense longing when the door opened and Eleanor entered, followed closely by three waiters with trays of food.

“I’m sorry, Simon. I have kept you waiting.”

She had misinterpreted his sigh, and he thanked heaven for it. Even so, he felt his blasted face flush like a fever, just as though she knew what he’d been thinking before she walked in. He wondered if he would still be blushing when he was seventy. It was dashed embarrassing.

“Not at all,” he said, willing the blush to fade. “As you see, our supper has only just arrived.”

“Poor Simon. I’m sure you are starving, after only that insignificant meal in Manchester this afternoon.”

Ha! She thought he was blushing over his eating habits. But why on earth should that embarrass him? He supposed anyone who ate like such a bird would naturally think his appetite excessive. Could
he help it if he was always hungry? His mother had often remarked that her two sons had hollow legs, for she could not imagine where else they put all that food. And now that he thought about it, he was feeling a bit peckish.

Simon pulled out the chair for Eleanor, and basked in the view of her bare back and all its attendant glories: the long curve of neck, the delicate nape where a few wisps of coffee-dark hair refused to be pinned, the fine white skin unmarred by so much as a freckle and smelling sweetly of lavender. The low-backed Indian muslin gown again. Thank God her travel wardrobe was limited. This particular gown, though sadly out of date, was a delight. If he had the dressing of her, he would always put her in garments that revealed her soft, white, perfect back. Of course, if he had the dressing of her, he would likely keep her undressed.

When she was seated he tore his eyes away and took the chair opposite. One of the waiters ladled out bowls of mock turtle soup, which he placed before them. The others laid out a sideboard with poached sole, veal pie, sirloin of beef, Yorkshire puddings, stuffed moor hens, artichokes, stewed onions, French beans, and spring peas. There were also custards, fruit tarts, and cheeses. Simon eyed the spread hungrily and saw that Eleanor was trying not to smile.

He sent the waiters away, assuring them they would wait upon themselves, and gave his full attention to the soup. The mock turtle was a favorite,
and this one was especially good. He looked up to find those splendid green eyes smiling at him over the rim of a wineglass.

“Please do not mention wolves, parsons, tapeworms, or wooden legs,” he said. “I’ve heard them all, I assure you, mostly from my own mother.”

“It must have cost a quarter’s allowance and a kitchen staff of twenty to feed you two for a week,” she said.

“We three. Malcolm and I inherited our healthy appetites from my father.”

“Your cook must have been worked to death in such a household.”

“She doted on us boys, I assure you. She felt appreciated. Your puny little appetite, my dear, would have put Cook into the sulks for a week.”

She smiled, mostly with her eyes, and Simon thought she’d never looked more lovely. A pang of pure desire coiled low in his belly. Lord, but he was smitten.

“My brother Benjamin is the great eater in my family,” she said. “But then he has been a sailor most of his life, and I think they do not often get good food at sea.”