Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (21 page)

Eleanor’s light brown eyes had been shadowed with the hazy arousal Andrew remembered well. By God, he wanted her desperately. He wanted to take her up to his bedchamber and show her – once and for all – the depth of his passion for her.

Perhaps he ought to remind her of the pleasures she’d given up when she’d abandoned him.

He heard voices coming from Carrick’s room, and continued toward them, marshaling the intense stirring in his loins.

Grayson had wrapped a bandage around the secretary’s head, and was now winding a thick cloth around Carrick’s stitched-up waist.

Andrew understood Weatherby’s message. It had been meant for him, after all, no matter whether Carrick lived or died. The secretary was merely a pawn in the earl’s vengeful game.

“Is that laudanum?” he asked when Mrs. Thornberry came into the room. Grayson tied the bandage.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied. “I was just about to give him a dose.”

“Wait a moment.” Andrew sat down next to his secretary. He had already spoken briefly to Matthew, but Carrick would have more details. “Carrick, can you tell me what you remember? What, exactly, happened?”

The secretary roused himself enough to speak. “Matthew and I split up. I found Lord Weatherby in the Three Horsemen Tavern. He was with Lords Stanton and Parmenter . . . and Mr. Squeers was there.”

“Damnation,” Andrew muttered.

“They were there more than an hour . . . I stayed out of sight, I thought.”

“Where was Matthew?”

Carrick groaned and Andrew feared he would not be able to tell him any more. But in a moment, he continued. “Outside. Definitely out of sight. After a while . . . Weatherby summoned a man to him . . . A servant. He spoke to him quietly . . .”

Andrew waited for Carrick to regain his breath.

“The servant then went to the bar . . . talked to a couple of rough-looking characters. . . Next thing, Weatherby and the other lords . . . left the tavern.”

Andrew could almost predict what had come next. “When you went out to follow, you were attacked by the men from the bar.”

“After a bit, yes . . . Matthew joined me. We did not see Weatherby, so we headed to the livery, intending to return here. The attackers followed us. Waited . . . until we were on the bridge.”

Mrs. Thornberry had the laudanum ready and Andrew nodded to her, moving back to give the woman sufficient space to administer it. Carrick swallowed the draught and closed his eyes.

“Rest now, Carrick,” Andrew said. “I’ll deal with Weatherby from here on.”

“One more . . . thing, Your Grace . . .” Carrick rasped. “I saw Weatherby . . . on the far side of the bridge . . . He told them to . . . toss us off.”

“Will Mr. Carrick recover?” Lizzie asked.

Eleanor did not know if she would recover from that kiss in the pantry. She sat down at her dressing table because her legs were just too unsteady to hold her. “I-I don’t know. His injuries are severe.”

“What happened? How was he hurt?” The maid took down Eleanor’s hair and started brushing.

“He was attacked in town.” Could Lord Weatherby actually be responsible for such a vicious deed?

“Here, Miss,” Lizzie said. “Let me get you out of your gown and stays, and you can go to bed.”

“I’m not tired.” She felt as though a thousand butterflies had been unleashed in her chest and were flapping their wings. She cringed at the possibility that she had misjudged Beckworth. If Weatherby was responsible for the attack on Mr. Carrick, then he was surely capable of fabricating the papers he’d shown her before her wedding.

But his culpability in neither case had been proven, only alleged. By Beckworth.

Eleanor had known Weatherby as a stern, upright man with no sense of humor whatsoever, but she had always taken that to mean he was morally upright, perhaps even pious. He would never fabricate a lie so vile, nor would he arrange somehow to cause harm to an innocent man. Even Minerva scoffed at the very idea.

“You will be sleepy enough as soon as you lie down,” Lizzie said. “I’m sure of it.”

Eleanor wished she shared her maid’s optimism. Her nerves were frayed and her head bursting with questions. She would be lucky if she fell asleep in under an hour.

She finished undressing and slid a fresh shift over her head. Lizzie tied the laces at the shoulders. “Thank you, Lizzie. That will be all for tonight.”

“Yes, Miss.”

The maid gathered up Eleanor’s clothes and put some of them away. The rest she took with her to be laundered.

And then Eleanor was alone. The house seemed as silent as a tomb, but she knew there still were goings-on in the servants’ quarters. Mr. Carrick needed attention, and Beckworth . . . Well, obviously, he planned to remain close by to see how his secretary fared.

But Eleanor had not gotten enough of him. Their kiss in the pantry had been too brief. She wanted to touch him. Wanted to feel the same passion they’d shared before Lord Weatherby had shown her those damnable papers, confronting her with Beckworth’s duplicity.

Her heart was at war with her head. She knew what she had seen, and yet Lucy and Beckworth both cast doubt upon Lord Weatherby’s integrity. What was she to believe? What was true, and what was false?

For most of her life, she’d believed her mother had been wronged. Yet now it seemed that was not only untrue, but the reverse was the case.

Eleanor did not know what to think. She climbed into bed and waited for the sound of Beckworth’s footsteps on the stairs, but heard nothing before drifting off to sleep far sooner than she ever anticipated.

Grayson stepped away from Carrick’s bed after checking the bandages. “If you are ready, I will go up and help you prepare for bed, Your Grace.”

“No, that’s not necessary, Grayson,” Andrew replied, his manner far calmer than he felt. He wished he could get his hands on Weatherby in some back corner of town and give him a taste of what he’d dished out to Carrick. The man was worse than a scoundrel, he was devoid of morals. It was amazing he’d been able to hide his true character from so many for so long.

“You and Harry stay close in case Carrick needs anything. And make sure Matthew gets some rest. I’ll be going into Reading early on the morrow.”

“Very good, sir,” the valet replied.

Andrew left Carrick’s room, feeling restless and angry, and fairly certain it would be a long time before he was ready to sleep.

Weatherby was not going to get away with this. Somehow, Andrew was going to expose him as the villain he was. Somebody had to have seen what happened to Carrick. Someone must have witnessed Weatherby’s connection to the assailants.

If only Andrew had been there, he would have gone after Weatherby and challenged him right away. He never would have allowed the bastard to slink away. Weatherby’s minions would be found, and Andrew would make them explain their connection with Weatherby. Once that was done, he was going to bring charges against the earl.

Weatherby was going to pay.

Andrew went back to the main rooms of the manor, and as he passed the dining room, his frustration grew. Good God, had supper only been a couple of hours ago? And where had Parris gone when Stillwater arrived with Carrick?

He didn’t think there was really anything between Eleanor and Parris. Her tactic of trying to shut him out of the conversation was merely that – a tactic designed to put him off. But it had not worked. If it had done anything, it made him want to mark her as his own.

Gesu, she was his own. Hadn’t he made that quite clear a year ago when he’d taken her to his bed and professed his love for her?

He walked through the darkened rooms and climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. He removed his cravat and coat, then his waistcoat. His shoes were next, and when his feet were bare, he stood to remove his trousers.

Then he paused, wondering if Eleanor was still awake. He’d seen her maid downstairs, so he knew she was alone.

He’d teased her unmercifully last night, and himself as well. Perhaps tonight he could regain her trust and her love.

He slipped quietly out of his room and walked down to Eleanor’s door. All was quiet within. He turned the knob and stepped in.

The room was dark but for a sliver of moonlight when Eleanor awoke to the sound of a creek in the floor. An instant later, she sensed a presence next to her. Beckworth. She knew him by the sound of his breath, and the hint of his scent.

It felt almost like a dream when he sat down on the bed beside her and caressed her cheek with one hand.

Eleanor turned her mouth to his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. She would not allow herself to think about what she was doing.

“Ah, Ellie . . .”

He leaned forward and kissed her, and the heat of his lips on hers seemed to melt her very bones. She felt awash in a river of need, and when he lay beside her in the bed and untied the straps at her shoulders, she quivered with the intensity of her desire.

She shouldn’t want this. She ought to roll out of the bed and order him out of the room.

Instead, she skimmed her hands up his chest, relishing the solid feel of him. She tangled her fingers into the hair at his nape and welcomed his kiss, pressing her body closer, increasing the contact between them.

Beckworth made a low sound and pulled her to him, running his hands down her naked back, sending shivers of pleasure through her. She realized fully how desperately she’d missed his touch, how badly she’d needed his strong presence. He kissed her lips, then the soft, sensitive spot beneath her ear, and moved his mouth down her neck, pulling her shift away from her body as he slid down.

He filled his hands with her breasts, then moved his head down to lavish attention on them with his lips, his tongue. Eleanor reveled in the scrape of his evening whiskers against her sensitive skin. She writhed against his strong, hard body, flexed with tension. A knot of savage pleasure unfurled deep within her, and she responded with all the passion and energy of her being.

He pulled away slightly and removed his trousers, and when he came back to her, she took his hard, formidable length in her hand. He groaned, meeting her, skin to skin. He touched and tasted her, heightening the maelstrom of her desire. He licked her nipples, sucking each one into his mouth in turn. His hands teased the sensitive nub at the apex of her sex, and sensations flowed through her, foreign yet familiar, satisfying but frustrating.