Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (4 page)

She shuddered, and he deepened their kiss.

She let go a small cry of need when he drew her close, changing the angle of his head for deeper penetration. His tongue touched hers, and Eleanor’s knees went weak, though she felt protected by the hard strength of his body and his powerful embrace. His arousal was thick and heavy against her pelvis, and when he moved, a sensation of pure, exquisite pleasure skittered up her spine.

Her wrapper slid off her shoulders, and Eleanor yearned for more. No,
less
. Much less clothing between them. She wanted to feel Beck’s bare skin against hers, their legs twining together. She’d dreamed of it often enough.

He lowered one strap of her chemise, and Eleanor burned with pleasure when he cupped her bare breast.

“Aye, 'tis glorious, just as I remembered it. You are so perfect, my sweet.”

Eleanor let out a low sigh when he bent down and touched the swollen peak with his tongue. He held her securely, but she felt as though she was floating in a sea of sensation, an ocean of need. She wanted it all - it seemed as though she’d always wanted to lie with him, wanted to share her physical passions with the man she loved.

“Weatherby lied, Angel,” he whispered, his voice a rasp against her skin. He feathered kisses up to her neck. “He’s a scoundrel who doesn’t deserve half the credence you’ve given him.”

Eleanor pulled away suddenly, feeling as though someone had dumped a bucket of frigid sea water upon her head. What was she doing? Allowing her heart to be broken yet again? By the same man who’d nearly destroyed her a year ago?

How had reason abandoned her so completely?

Disgusted by the whimper she heard coming from her own throat, she covered her breast with her chemise and whirled away, then made haste to the staircase. It took only seconds to scamper upstairs, where she quickly entered her bedchamber and closed the door tightly behind her. If she’d had a key, she would have locked it.

Whether it was to prevent Beckworth from entering or to keep herself from making the same foolish mistakes with him again, she was not sure.

Eleanor considered Beck’s words, but could not think of any reason for Lord Weatherby to lie to her. Their two families had known each other since before Eleanor’s birth, and his wife had very graciously visited Eleanor’s mother regularly, bringing her news of the district and reading to her. The two had gotten on famously.

It made no sense for Lady Weatherby’s husband to have lied about Beckworth.

Andrew arose early, but he didn’t enter the breakfast room until Eleanor and her aunt had come in and begun their meal. He wanted to make sure Eleanor could not escape his company too easily.

He needed to win her back, and in short order. The political situation in London would not wait forever, and if his bill to limit the working hours of children in the mills was to prevail, he had to return to Town soon. He needed to strategize with Sir Robert Peel on the best way to deflect the influence of a few greedy mill owners.

He went out and walked the perimeter of the manor house, taking note of its condition. As it was, Eleanor had only a few servants in her employ, but Primrose Manor needed more. The gardens were overgrown, the stable and barn needed work, and the house was too large for the Thornberrys to manage with only one maid to help with the housekeeping.

All in all, the place was sound, and Andrew could easily imagine spending the winter months here after he and Eleanor were married. The setting was far more intimate than Beckworth Park, and though he cared deeply for his siblings, it would not be amiss to spend time away from them.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said after he went inside and entered the morning room. He drank in the sight of his lady love, who wore deep black, of course, which only served to accentuate her fair coloring. Her blond hair fairly shone in the morning light, and her cheeks took on the blush of a ripe peach when he came into the room.

“Your Grace,” said the elder Miss Easton, “I had no idea you were still here. Why, I—”

“The Reading Stakes take place Friday. Which means, of course, there are no rooms to be had within twenty miles.” He took a seat across from Eleanor, who would not look at him. Still, he took satisfaction in that charming blush on her cheeks, hoping she recalled the intensely sensuous interlude they’d shared the night before. Perhaps she was thinking of their stolen, unforgettable moments all those months ago.

Andrew certainly did. For the past year, every evening when he retired and had a few free moments to reflect, the taste and textures of Eleanor’s passionate embraces followed him into sleep. He could think of little else now as she stirred milk into her tea, her hands so delicate, so feminine that every turn of her wrist reminded him how very much he’d enjoyed the intimate explorations of those hands.

“It has been so long since I’ve been to Berkshire that I had forgotten about the race,” said Minerva. She turned to Eleanor. “Did you remember it?”

“No, Aunt.”

“Well, it has naught to do with us,” the older woman remarked.

The butler came into the room. “Will you require your carriage, Your Grace, or will you ride into Reading this afternoon?”

“I’ll ride, Thornberry. Thank you.”

Eleanor cast a questioning gaze in his direction, then quickly lowered her eyes. But Andrew did not look away. He half-listened to Aunt Minerva discoursing on the subject of escaping to the country only to find the crowds of the London set encroaching on their little corner of Berkshire.

He’d never spent a morning with Eleanor before, their courtship nearly always taking the conventional course with afternoon rides in the park, balls, and soirees in the evenings, and one very memorable house party.

During the weeks before their aborted wedding day, Andrew had imagined vividly the mornings they would soon spend together in bed – making love after the servants brought their breakfast, feeding each other tender morsels between heated kisses, then making love again before they arose to face the day.

She still wanted him. Andrew had no doubt whatsoever of that. Eleanor had been far more than merely an agreeable partner during their courtship. She was the most passionate, sensual woman he’d ever bedded.

Andrew suppressed a sigh of frustration. If only he’d kept his silence on the subject of Weatherby last night, she wouldn’t have recalled the reason for her precipitous abandonment of their nuptials. He’d have driven her as mad with desire as she made him, and they might well have finished the night together in his bed. He could have convinced her to make use of the special license he’d had the foresight to procure before coming to Berkshire.

But dash it, he wanted Eleanor to trust him. It had been far too easy for Weatherby to convince her of an alleged misdeed. Of course Andrew had not kept a mistress – not after he’d met Eleanor and decided to make her his wife. He did not understand how she had so easily believed Weatherby’s lies rather than his honest declaration of love.

For he did love her, wholly and desperately. He’d buried himself in his work – and his grief – and tried to forget her after his mother’s death, but it had been impossible. He was determined not to err this time. For he knew how much he had to lose.

Eleanor was never happier to have an interruption than when her neighbor, Baron John Stillwater, arrived. She had slept badly the night before and felt exhausted – from the funeral, then the travel, not to mention her late night encounter with Beckworth in the conservatory, when she nearly succumbed to his seductions.

If only desire were enough.

She rose quickly from her seat when Thornberry came in to announce the baron, intending to go into the drawing room to receive their old family friend. Lady Stillwater had always been more than kind to Eleanor, especially after her mother had died. And of course there were her daughters, especially Lucy and Caroline, who’d been Eleanor’s closest friends and provided the companionship and comfort she’d so desperately needed.

But then her father had all but closed up Primrose Manor to save funds – for gambling, no doubt – and required that Eleanor live with him in the London townhouse. She’d had no choice but to live with the parent who had become hardly more than a stranger to her.

“Bring him in, Thornberry,” said Beckworth, stopping Eleanor in her tracks. “Set another place and let him join us here.”

She sat back down, scowling at Beckworth, looking squarely at him for the first time since he’d entered the breakfast room. She had not trusted herself to do so before.

And with good reason. He was outfitted as any gentleman might be, in a green waistcoat that perfectly matched his eyes, a black cutaway frock coat, and dun-colored trews. And yet he filled them out as no other gentleman could do. His raw masculinity was beyond tempting, but Eleanor wanted nothing to do with a man who could lie so convincingly to her.

Her father had made a far too frequent practice of it with her mother. Women, drink, horses, and cards . . . Viscount Derington had done it all and lied to Martine through his teeth about his women and his gaming losses. His loose behavior and the pain it had caused her mother had taught Eleanor well. She had no intention of losing her heart to a scoundrel who was anything like her sire.

“Good morning, good morning!” said a cheerful Lord Stillwater as he entered the breakfast room, stopping suddenly when he saw the duke.

“Ah . . . Your Grace, I did not realize you—”

“Be at ease, Stillwater,” Beckworth said in a welcoming tone as he and Stillwater shook hands.

The baron was barely as tall as Eleanor, with the ruddiest complexion and brightest smile of anyone she’d ever known. The sight of him there in Primrose Manor brought back memories of earlier days, and Eleanor felt a deep twinge of grief for the loss of her father. She knew it was irrational. Her feelings for her sire had died years ago, yet now she found herself on the verge of tears.

She took a sip of tea to clear the sudden burning in her throat.

“Oh dear,” said Lord Stillwater. “I fear we have interrupted your breakfast.”

“Not at all,” said Beckworth, as though he owned Primrose Manor. “Please join us.”

“Ah, thank you, but . . . Ah, here she is,” the baron said, turning back to extend his hand toward his daughter, Lucy, who came into the room a moment after him.

“Lucy!” Eleanor cried, rising once again, this time to embrace her friend. “Oh, how long it has been!”

Eleanor hugged Lucy close.

“About a year and three months, I should think,” Lucy said quietly for Eleanor’s ears only.

True enough. Eleanor and Beckworth had attended a rather eventful country house party a few weeks before the wedding was to have taken place, and she’d seen Lucy then. After the fiasco of her aborted wedding, they’d exchanged letters, but Lucy had always refrained from asking anything about the incident or Eleanor’s reasons for leaving Beckworth.

Eleanor stepped back and made a stiff introduction of Lucy to the duke, who had stood upon Lucy’s arrival.

“You will stay awhile?” Eleanor asked her friend.

“Alas, but no,” Lord Stillwater replied. “We cannot. We had word of your arrival, and Lady Stillwater bade me to ride over first thing . . . well, nearly first thing,” he chuckled in the jovial manner Eleanor recalled so well, “to invite you to picnic with us this afternoon. We had no idea Your Grace was here as well. You’ve come down for the races?”