Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (2 page)

“Than to marry a lying womanizer? No, thank you, Aunt.” It still hurt so very desperately. While he’d taken her to his bed and professed his love for her, he’d continued bedding his paramour.

He’d even had the audacity to purchase a house for the woman in Chelsea, only two days before their wedding.

Eleanor had had no reason to doubt Lord Weatherby’s word on it, but he’d had proof, besides. With her own eyes, she’d seen the purchasing papers with Beckworth’s seal on them. He’d actually believed he could keep his mistress in a house close enough to Mayfair that he could visit her any time he pleased. As though his wife would not notice. Or care.

The Earl of Weatherby was a Berkshire neighbor, having a country house only a few miles from Primrose Manor. Eleanor had known him and his countess for years, though he was a prig of a fellow, and not particularly friendly. Yet the man had done his Christian duty and taken her aside to tell her about Beckworth’s duplici—

“But, Eleanor, I believe m-most men have a need to, er . . .” Minerva stammered and blushed, hesitant to finish her thought aloud. She managed to press on. “Well, I understand that 'tis not unusual for a man . . . to, uh . . .”

“Which is why I will never wed. I have no intention of tying myself to some . . . stud who wants a wife merely for the purpose of breeding.”

“Eleanor!”

“’Tis naught but the truth, Aunt Minerva.”

And when Eleanor had learned of the lightskirt who was a regular fixture in Beckworth’s bed, she knew she could not bear knowing that his affections lay elsewhere. Knowing that she would not be the woman who owned his heart. Her very own mother had lived through the pain of that kind of betrayal, and it had caused her demise at far too young an age. Eleanor was not about to suffer the same fate.

She would write to Beckworth and request her funds, but there was no reason to have any closer contact than that.

Andrew Howard, Duke of Beckworth, knew there was going to be hell to pay.

And he relished the thought of it.

He rubbed his hands together like an old miser, although he was anything but miserly. And he was certainly not old. He was only thirty-one, and while he might be as wealthy as Midas, he’d made a point to be the opposite of his stingy sire, and use his vast wealth in a number of charitable ways. However, he was not so inclined to be charitable where Eleanor Easton was concerned. He intended to make her beg. For her money, of course.

The thought of the lovely Miss Easton begging for his attentions had not abated since the day of their aborted wedding. He’d been incensed at first, at the very idea of Lord Derington’s daughter jilting him.

He’d learned about Lord Weatherby’s lie far too late to rectify the situation, and he hadn’t been able to find Eleanor, either, though he’d searched in earnest. Her father, the hapless viscount, had professed to have no idea where she might be, so Andrew had hired men to fan out all over London to explore all possibilities. They’d gone to the homes of all her friends and acquaintances, and even come here to Berkshire to see if she had fled to Primrose Manor.

Later, Andrew discovered that she’d run away to Italy on the very day they were supposed to have wed.

And still he loved her.

Simply put, she was gorgeous, and any man in his right mind would want her. But it was her fine spirit and sharp mind that had attracted him to begin with. She read books and political tracts that would have sent her father into apoplexy if he’d known about it. Andrew had found her more than capable of discussing important affairs of the day. Eleanor was no missish flower who swooned – or worse, wept – at the slightest hint of social irregularity. She had gumption. She had fire.

She had opinions, by God.

Which made her exactly the kind of wife Andrew wanted. Though her abrupt departure on the eve of their wedding day caused him no scarcity of chagrin and embarrassment, eventually he’d admired her courage and determination.

Andrew had yet to see how determined she would prove to be against the seduction he had started planning the moment he learned that she’d begun packing for her move to Berkshire. With Viscount Derington dead, Eleanor had no income. The viscount had no son and no nephews to inherit, so his title and estate had passed to a distant cousin. There was nothing for Eleanor but Primrose Manor, bequeathed to her through her maternal line, but she was going to need funds in order to maintain it. She could not live there without the annuity that had been entrusted to him.

Andrew expected her to arrive at any moment. He’d had news that her father’s heir had taken possession of the house in Town, as well as the estate in Shropshire – as decrepit as it was. Eleanor could not run to Italy again, not this time. Andrew knew she had very little funds of her own. She had no choice but to come to her grandmother’s house in the country.

And deal with him.

Perhaps she would believe in him this time. Trust him. Understand that he was not like so many of his peers. He would never have asked her to become his wife if he’d intended to keep a mistress, for that is what he’d discovered had sent her packing.

Andrew had lost interest in his mistress weeks before meeting Eleanor. He had parted ways with the woman the day after meeting Eleanor, and had arranged to buy her the house she occupied in Chelsea. The deal had been signed and sealed only a few days before the wedding was to have taken place. And yet, somehow, the Earl of Weatherby had convinced Eleanor that Andrew was not only unworthy, but that she should to flee the country to get away from him.

Her lack of trust had wounded him deeply. Had she truly believed the connection between them had meant naught to him? Did she not understand that he was unlike her father, unlike many of his married peers who kept their mistresses?

Andrew looked around at the fine appointments in the drawing room. Primrose Manor was to have been Eleanor’s bridal settlement upon their marriage, along with the annuity to support it, and to make the repairs mentioned to him by Thornberry, the butler.

Upstairs were six bedchambers with several small sitting rooms interspersed. Andrew awaited Eleanor in the drawing room on the main floor, where there were also two parlors and a small library. The kitchen was large, and though it was slightly outdated, it was perfectly adequate. Best of all was a small conservatory with floor to ceiling windows that opened to the back garden and a rustic wooded area beyond. In the conservatory itself were plants and a few potted trees, and a large sofa that would be the perfect place to commence his seduction.

Andrew heard the squeaks and clatter of a carriage approaching and waited for it to alight in front of the house. Soon, there were voices and carriage doors slamming. The angel who had haunted his dreams for fifteen interminable months was finally here.

“Thank heavens there is a meal already prepared,” Eleanor said as she entered the foyer. The delicious aroma of fresh bread and roasting meat was in the air and it made her stomach growl. “I am famished.”

The carriage driver and William, the young stable groom, began to unload the luggage. Minerva and Eleanor went inside and gave directions where to take the bags and trunks. With all the commotion, Eleanor hardly took note of her butler’s urgent manner when he spoke to her. “Miss—”

“We’ll take supper in the breakfast room, Thornberry. I do not wish to put you and Mrs. Thornberry to any additional trouble. 'Tis bad enough that we arrived on such short notice.” She removed her gloves while heading toward the small dining chamber with her aunt right behind her, but stopped suddenly when the last man she wanted to see stepped into her path. Minerva bumped into her, pushing Eleanor into his chest.

“Beckworth,” she whispered as he caught her elbows. She could not have been more shocked. She was not yet ready to face him.

“At your service, Miss Easton.”

Eleanor tried to step back and compose herself, but failed miserably. Not only was Minerva right on her heels, the duke’s presence at Primrose Manor stopped her in her tracks.

She did not know she would react to him in exactly the same manner as she’d done when they’d met and courted, over a year ago. A powerful frisson of awareness raced up her skin. Oh, how she’d once loved being held in his arms. Once relished the sight of his strong jaw and the touch of those warm lips upon hers. Feelings she’d once thought destroyed by his perfidy came back in force and threatened to choke her.

It was far too easy to imagine herself tangled up with him in that sumptuous bed on his yacht. Or stealing kisses and intimate caresses during their fleeting moments alone.

“I took the liberty of visiting your quaint country house to assess your financial needs personally.”

Eleanor could not find her tongue to make any sort of retort, preferably a sharp one. Her brain simply went blank.

“I’ll just leave you two to, uh . . .” Minerva bustled away toward the breakfast room, leaving Eleanor to face Beckworth alone. She withdrew her arms from his grasp and dropped one of her gloves. They both bent to retrieve it and inadvertently bumped heads.

One of his big hands darted out to take hold of her once again, catching her to help her keep her balance. This time, he did not release her when she stood and started to move away. He pulled her close and bent his head, his lips barely an inch away from hers. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”

Eleanor clenched her teeth, wishing his voice might have at least lost its power to turn her knees to pudding. He smelled like shaving soap and leather, and his dark green eyes were undeniably striking. Her breasts touched his chest, causing her breath to catch in her throat, even though they were both fully clothed. What a husband he would have made—

If he hadn’t been keeping a lover while professing his love for her.

This time, Eleanor did pull away. She held her gloves tightly in her hand to keep from wringing them together. “I sent you a letter requesting quarterly funds, Duke. There was no need for you to travel so far on my behalf.”

“Ah, but there was great need.”

“I do not see why. You are not my guardian.”

“But I would make a very poor trustee indeed if I did not come and evaluate the condition of Primrose Manor in person.”

“As I said, it was not necessary. I did send you a letter that – very accurately – spelled out my needs.”

If she could have taken back her last two words, she would have. For Beckworth – from the way his gaze focused upon her mouth – was quite obviously reading more into them than she’d intended. He swallowed heavily, drawing attention to his masculine throat and the chiseled line of his jaw. It was entirely unfair of him to possess such a manly chin with a hint of a cleft.

Eleanor dearly wished she could erase her memories of their passion, forget about those two occasions when they’d slipped away alone and melded their bodies into one. She’d had no idea how exquisite the pleasures of lovemaking would be, and she suspected Beckworth was the only man who could make her feel so very cherished.

And yet it had all been an utter lie. She’d thanked God repeatedly that she’d not found herself with child after crying off, for what a disaster that would have been. She’d have found herself in exactly the position her mother had been in – slowly dying of a broken heart.