Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (3 page)

“M-my requirements are not extravagant,” Eleanor said in an attempt to turn his attention – and hers – to the matter at hand. “The house is in good repair, I believe, and the upkeep requires very few servants, so my father’s annuity will suffice.”

“How could you possibly know the condition of the house? You have not been at home in England for over a year.”

Fifteen months, Eleanor thought as her face heated. She had not planned on having to confront him at any time this decade, especially not at such close quarters. And alone.

“My father wrote.” But she did not wish to think of those letters or the sharp pang of grief that had settled just below her breastbone. She was angry with her father, angry with Beckworth.

“I expect he asked you to return to London.”

“No. In fact, he did not.” She’d explained her position quite clearly, so Derington knew better. He understood that she would never wed a man who could not be faithful to her. As he was unfaithful to his own wife.

“I understand he visited you in Florence.”

“Yes. Once, several months ago.”

“But you did not reconcile.”

She was not about to dwell upon that awkward visit. Derington had been anything but a model father, and his desire that she marry into the wealthy, prestigious Howard family had been self-serving, at best.

But Eleanor wanted naught to do with a suitor who kept a mistress while he paid court to her. And the idea that he’d made love to her while carrying on with his paramour was unbearable.

Eleanor should have known it was all too good to be true. She’d watched her mother succumb to despair and desperation during the last few years of her life. Derington’s deceit and duplicity had destroyed his wife’s health as undeniably as if he’d been poisoning her.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, “it has been a long journey. I am tired and famished and would like to retire as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” He gave a slight bow and allowed her to pass.

It was clear to Andrew that Eleanor did not realize he would be spending the night under her roof. And he was glad of it. He had no intention of giving her an opportunity to toss him out – which, of course, she had every right to do. There was a guest house in the village only three or four miles from Primrose Manor. As the duke of Beckworth, he probably could have acquired a room there, in spite of the crowds that had come to Reading for the horse races at week’s end.

But leaving would defeat his purpose.

His nerves tingled with awareness of the woman who could still make him burn at the mere sight of her. Even in her unrelenting black muslin gown, she was magnificent, her doe’s eyes flashing fire at him as she spoke, her loose blond curls shimmering in the candlelight. She’d given no overt indication of losing her composure, but Andrew had noted the racing pulse in her delicate neck. He’d seen the faintest sheen of perspiration on her forehead and a slight quiver of her lips.

How he’d craved a taste of those plump lips.

He turned abruptly and went in search of his valet. The man was never far away, and Andrew quickly located him. “I’m going out for a long ride while Miss Easton and her aunt get settled in. Make yourself and the others scarce as well, Grayson. I do not want the lady to realize we’re billeted here just yet.”

It was underhanded, he knew. But so had been the reason she’d fled that fateful day in May, too. Andrew should have anticipated the unscrupulous Earl of Weatherby taking his revenge on him through Eleanor. The bastard had caused Andrew numerous minor inconveniences, but his
coup de gras
had been convincing Eleanor that her fiancé was a lying, faithless rake.

The odious earl had been on friendly terms with Eleanor’s father for years. Weatherby Hall was close to Reading, making him a neighbor to Lord Derington’s country household. Weatherby had been a guest at Primrose Cottage and the Derington home in London numerous times. He had to have known that Eleanor would be horrified by his revelations about her fiancé – fictitious as they might be – and cry off their wedding.

It had been the most humiliating day of Andrew’s life, learning at the altar, for God’s sake, that his fiancée had taken flight to parts unknown rather than stay and marry him.

There had been talk, of course, a great deal of talk among the ton. And while a number of unsavory theories had made the rounds, Andrew had not known what to make of it all. He’d been completely flummoxed. Then he’d learned of Weatherby’s lies from Ivy Barnett, one of Eleanor’s friends.

His anger had known no bounds. He’d searched for Weatherby only to discover that the blackguard had gone to ground after doing his damage.

But by God, Eleanor should have known him better. At the very least, she should have asked him about his alleged infidelity, and not just taken Weatherby’s word.

Not that Eleanor would have believed him. All of society knew what kind of man her father had been. And so did his daughter. Even so, Andrew had hoped that, when faced with Weatherby’s lie, Eleanor would have had faith in him. Trusted him.

Her doubt had cut Andrew to the core.

After his initial fury had passed, Andrew had quickly realized that Weatherby was not the priority. He learned where Eleanor had gone, and needed to go after her. He’d had no doubt he could convince her of his innocence. Convince her that he was nothing like her father.

He’d made arrangements to follow Eleanor to Italy, but on the morning he was to depart, his mother had fallen gravely ill. There’d been no question of leaving London then, and the dowager duchess had lingered near death for a month before succumbing to a series of strokes that finally caused her demise.

And even then, he had not been free to go after Eleanor. Besides his own substantial grief and the needs of his younger siblings, his mother’s estate had been a complicated affair. She’d had large dower holdings, all of which had been split among his two younger brothers and sister. As the heir and his sister’s guardian, Andrew had been responsible for seeing that all was done properly.

And of course, there was his brother, Hugo, whose own bitter loss had caused a recklessness in him that often landed him in the suds – either with Bow Street, or with some young lady’s irate papa. It was all Andrew could do to keep Hugo from being transported for his transgressions, and his behavior only became worse after their mother’s death.

Andrew had thought of sending a letter to Eleanor, making his accusations against Weatherby. But when he imagined Eleanor reading such a missive and tossing it into the fire, he’d reconsidered. He was no whining fop to make his excuses in absentia. He had no intention of making any excuses at all. He was not the guilty party.

Only a month ago, Andrew had used his influence to extricate Hugo from yet another scrape in Town. He’d managed to convince his brother to return home to Beckworth Park where he was unlikely to get very deep into the devil’s pocket, and Andrew hoped he would stay there until he sorted things out with Eleanor. Soon thereafter, he had met with Eleanor’s father, and informed the viscount of his intention to track down Eleanor and bring her home to England. And marry her.

He hadn’t anticipated that Eleanor would have to leave Italy for Derington’s funeral merely a week later.

Eleanor fell asleep within moments of going to bed. And yet an hour later she lay awake, her encounter with Beckworth plaguing her dreams. She thought about all she’d lost by running away to Italy. If Beck had not been so deceitful, Eleanor would have married him happily, for she’d desired him as no other.

And it seemed that had not changed in the least.

The fact that she could not control her attraction for the man in spite of what she’d learned about him was beyond annoying. Fortunately, he was gone now, so she would be able to put him out of her thoughts as she’d finally managed to do in Italy. Until the next time she needed money, that is. Every farthing she needed to live on would have to come from her former lover.

Judging by their earlier interchange, she would no doubt have to go through the same rubbish she’d had to endure upon her arrival, in order to get her funds.

She was twenty-four years old and, as Aunt Minerva was so fond of reminding her, well on her way to being quite solidly on the shelf. And now she was beholden to a man whose very presence made her heart quake in her chest.

It would have been so easy to lean into the comfort of his body. But Eleanor thought again of that horribly uncomfortable conversation she’d had with Lord Weatherby on the eve of her wedding to Beckworth. She was grateful that at least Weatherby had been honest with her, unlike her fiancé and her own father. Neither of them must have thought she would mind having a husband who kept a mistress in Chelsea.

Well, she did mind. She thanked God she’d learned of Beckworth’s duplicity before making her vows to him.

In need of a cup of milk to soothe her nerves, Eleanor got out of bed and slipped a light wrapper over her chemise. Her nerves might be in a tizzy, but the house was quiet, still dark, and comfortably warm. Eleanor crept down the stairs and headed in the direction of the kitchen, only to stop cold when she smelled smoke coming from the conservatory.

A fire in her home would be disastrous. Eleanor hastened toward the smell, afraid that Thornberry might have left one of his cheroots burning, though why he would be smoking in the conservatory was beyond her.

“You!” She stopped short when she saw Beckworth stretched out on one of the padded chaises.

He moved like an agile predator, coming to his feet without the slightest effort, and moving – stalking – toward her. He’d discarded his coat and neck cloth and had rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. In the pale lamplight, Eleanor could easily appreciate the dusting of dark hair on his forearms, and his powerful hands. Hands that had been so very . . .

She felt her nipples tighten and her mouth go dry with feminine awareness as he tossed away the cheroot.

Eleanor felt next to naked. Her chemise was nearly transparent, and her dressing gown hardly any better. She’d always loved his reaction to her and had even made a point of dressing specifically to entice him. As he came toward her, she felt her bare toes curl on the cool floor.

But she knew better now. She should not encourage him.

“I love how your hair curls about your face when you let it down.” He touched her shoulder, but only to pick up a lock of her hair, which he rubbed between two of his fingers.

Eleanor sucked in a breath. “I th-thought you’d left . . . gone to an inn in Reading. Or the guesthouse in the village.”

He shook his head slightly. “I’m not going to let you go so easily this time.”

Every nerve in Eleanor’s body was fully alert and clamoring for his touch. And then she remembered hearing the reason he had not come after her when she’d fled. At first, she’d believed it was an admission of his guilt. Then she’d learned there’d been more to it than that.

She swallowed her pride, but only for a moment. “I was very sorry to learn of your mother’s death, Beckworth. It couldn’t have been long after . . . after we . . . After I . . .”

“Thank you,” he said, stepping even closer. “I was in no position to come after you in Florence then. But rest assured, had circumstances been different, I would have taken the first coach to Dover and been on the very next ship.”

His eyelashes were long and black, the perfect frame for his persuasive eyes. Eleanor swallowed when he slid his hand along her jaw and cupped the side of her face. She tried to back away.

But her feet would not move. His touch felt like balm on a raw wound, far too compelling to disregard. She remembered him so well . . . He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, brushing lightly against her mouth to steal a kiss just as he’d done during the earliest days of their courtship.

Eleanor had tried to forget the teasing pleasures she’d felt in those light kisses, and the sensual delights that had come after their betrothal. Far too often since her departure from England, her dreams had reminded her of his potent seductive powers.

She wanted him now, wanted his arms around her, his brawny chest against her breasts, his loins against her own. She desperately craved the deep connection they’d shared, body to body, heart to heart.