Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (11 page)

“They have a house south of the Bath road, just west of Reading,” the earl said. “Very easy to find.”

Andrew gave a nod. “Perhaps I’ll see you there.”

“Of course you will,” Lady Woodingham said with a delighted smile.

Andrew could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, for this sort of thing had happened to him numerous times before. She was thinking of all the unmarried young women who would be present at Claymere’s party, and which ones she could tempt him with.

He did not bother to tell her it was futile. Eleanor Easton was the woman he would marry. He would like nothing better than to arrive at Claymere’s party with Eleanor on his arm, but there were two problems with that. One was that she was in mourning, and it would not be right for her to attend any sort of soiree unless it was small and intimate, like their earlier picnic.

And secondly – she would not have him. Yet.

The letters must be intensely personal. How would her father feel if he knew his daughter was privy to his private words to his wife? Words Martine had not even read?

But if Eleanor read one or two of them, it might be possible to gain some understanding of what had happened to her family . . . perhaps an explanation of why her father had left them.

She was done with equivocations and misconceptions. Bracing herself to discover some truths, she broke the seal of the letter on top – the first one – and began reading her father’s writing.

“My dearest Martine,

I implore you to reconsider your decision.

Little Arthur meant as much to me as to you,

and yet you cast me out as though I do not

grieve for my son as deeply as you.

Other families have suffered such a loss.

Our grief is something we share and can

bring us closer as man and wife. I beg you, my

darling wife, to allow us to return to normalcy.

One short note from you, and I will return to

your side . . .”

Eleanor sat back in shock, feeling numb, her mind clutching futilely at the reality she’d known all her life.

Little Arthur? His son?

She tore her gaze away from the pleading letter and stared out at the growing darkness beyond the window.

Was her entire life a lie? Why had she never known about Arthur? How could she have lived through the past fourteen years without knowledge of a brother who had died?

She opened the next letter and saw that it was much like the first. In the third, Eleanor learned more about Arthur, her infant brother who had been born weak and had died within days of his birth. From what she could glean from her father’s letters, Martine intended never to subject herself to such a loss again, even though it meant keeping her husband from her bed.

Eleanor’s heart burned in her chest as she thought through the meaning of these letters. All these years, her father had abided by his wife’s wishes. And he’d never let on that Martine had forced him away. He’d allowed the world to believe he was responsible for her early death.

She rubbed her arms with her hands to take away the growing chill she felt all the way to her soul.

There was little, if any, point in reading any more. She knew now what had happened and wondered if Minerva had known as well. Certainly the neighbors must have been aware of Arthur’s birth and death, and yet no one had seen fit to tell her, even after she’d grown old enough to understand.

She placed the letters back inside the drawer and closed it, feeling more than slightly adrift. All these years, she’d thought her father had abandoned her and Martine. But he’d written imploringly. And her mother had ignored the letters.

Eleanor rose from the desk and walked to the bed where her mother had spent so many hours lying in despair. Lying. Lying to the world. To her daughter.

She lay down on the coverlet, folded her hands beneath her cheek, and gazed out the window at the rising moon. She didn’t really see it, didn’t see its brightness in the darkening sky. Because everything seemed dark now. Darker than ever before.

Andrew and his two men had an uneventful ride back to Primrose Manor, during which time Andrew anticipated his next encounter with Eleanor. Though he’d thought seduction would be the best method for winning her back, there was the distinct possibility that she would not be receptive.

Oh, she had responded to him in the conservatory, there was no doubt about that.

But she still did not trust him.

“Lord Weatherby did not see you, Your Grace?” Carrick asked.

“No.”

“That’s good, then. He won’t expect you to be here, so we can plan around that.”

“Perhaps.” Coming to Berkshire had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. No one had been told of it until Grayson had started packing. But the game worked both ways. Andrew had no illusions about Weatherby’s vengeful streak, and knew he would use his time in Berkshire to do whatever he could to thwart passage of the labor bill.

The earl was an underhanded fox, and it was crucial that Andrew keep him from influencing any more lords to vote against the labor measure.

“’Tis likely Weatherby will attend Claymere’s party tomorrow,” Andrew said. “He’ll know I’m here then.”

“Aye.”

“We cannot afford another defector from our cause,” Andrew said. “Some of the guests could be vulnerable to Weatherby’s overtures.”

“You mean bribes.”

“Exactly,” Andrew answered. “A good number of peers intended to come up for the race. Perhaps we can figure out who is likely to be tempted by the promise of Weatherby’s blunt.”

Carrick frowned. “Do you think he will resort to blatant bribery, Your Grace?”

“I am certain of it,” Andrew replied.

Politics were politics, but outright bribery was not to be tolerated.

“If you could give some consideration to the rumors you’ve heard of late . . .”

“Rumors, Your Grace?” Carrick asked.

“Yes. Which peers are in financial straits . . .”

“And susceptible to Lord Weatherby’s overtures?” Carrick nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. I can think of two or three offhand – Otley and Stanton, for certain. I believe Lord Maryfield is already committed to Weatherby’s side.”

Andrew thought about what Weatherby had said to Eleanor to make her cry off. Surely she had not just taken his word. There had to be more to it.

He could not fathom why she’d gone so far as to leave the country. She ought to have given him the benefit of the doubt, at least. Or talked to him. Not every man was as low as Viscount Derington.

Gesu, but he wanted her, wanted her with a passion he could barely control. And yet he needed her to realize that he was not the kind of man who would speak to her of his love and then lie with another woman.

He had to turn his thoughts in another direction, else he would never find any peace tonight.

He considered Lady Claymere’s garden party and knew there was a good chance Lords Otley and Stanton would be there. Both of them were counting on Otley’s tariff bill to pass in order to protect some of their investments. Failure to pass could ruin both of them.

Would Weatherby attempt to bribe them outright for their votes? Or would Squeers – and perhaps other mill owners – give them shares in their companies? Andrew could not be sure of anything at this point, only that Peel’s labor law could not afford to lose any more votes.

It was fully dark when they arrived back at Primrose Manor. One meager lamp remained lit in the front entry, and no light visible in any other window. Andrew felt a sharp pang of disappointment and chagrin. He’d stayed overlong in Reading, and had not spent enough time here, with Eleanor.

“They retire early in the country,” Carrick remarked.

“Earlier than in London, that is certain.”

The footman took their horses to the stable, and Andrew went into the house with Carrick. All was quiet inside. If any of the servants were still up, they were as quiet as church mice.

Andrew was nowhere near ready to sleep. He felt a nervous energy that was due, in part, to the challenge of besting Weatherby at his game.

But mostly it was the frustration of not seeing Eleanor. She had retired early – perhaps intentionally, to avoid him.

“That will be all, Carrick,” he said.

“Very good, Your Grace,” the secretary replied and took his leave.

Andrew considered his options. He could resign himself to the fact that Eleanor was out of his reach tonight, and spend a quiet hour reading before going to bed.

Or he could breach her bedchamber door and seduce her. He would push past her defenses and kiss her until she succumbed to her passions. He would meld his mouth to hers until she opened for him, allowing him to plunder her sweet essence. She would wrap her arms around him and invite him into her bed . . .

He climbed the stairs quietly and stopped at her bedchamber door. Without making a sound, he released the latch and pushed open the door.

Her bed was empty.

Certainly life was more relaxed in the country – after all, there’d been no footman or butler to open the door for him when he and Carrick returned from town – but where could she be? Where was her maid?

He closed the door and stood scratching the back of his neck. The entire house was dark and quiet, so everyone must be sleeping. Minerva’s room was at the end of the hall, and there were three other bedchambers besides his own. Andrew went to the room next to Eleanor’s and quietly opened the door.

And there she was, lying on the bed, sound asleep.

He approached her and saw that she was fully dressed, lying uncovered, facing a window. Andrew looked around and knew without a doubt this had been her mother’s room.

The room was cool now that the sun had gone down, so he picked up a light woolen blanket from the trunk at the foot of the bed and covered her with it. Then he brushed a light kiss upon her temple and quit the room.

Eleanor awoke with a start and quickly realized she was not in her bed. She’d been dreaming.

In the dream, her father had been pushing her in the swing next to the house, and she’d felt serenely happy. She’d been able to feel her mother’s presence inside the house, hear her quiet humming as she arranged flowers in a vase near the window.

“When the child is born,” her father said, “we’ll name him Arthur for my father . . .”

And then it changed to Beckworth’s voice, and he was speaking to her quietly, lovingly. She sat up quickly and looked around. She was alone, but the sunlight shining through the window signified morning.

Someone had covered her with a blanket. Most likely, Lizzie had done it after finding her asleep in Martine’s room.

Eleanor had not meant to fall asleep. Probably the shock of what she’d read in her father’s letters had sapped all her energy. She had barely been able to move after reading those missives full of her father’s pleading words.

A light tap at the door brought her out of her reverie. It was Lizzie.

“Ah, you’re up, Miss,” she said. “I wasn’t sure whether to wake you last night or—”

“Not to worry, Lizzie,” Eleanor replied as she started for the door. “I was just going through some of my mother’s things and fell asleep.”