Eleanor sighed. "Papa, you do not know all the details."
"I know he bedded Lydia."
Heat rushed to Eleanor's face. Well then, perhaps he did know the details. How
did
he know? Had Lydia told him? Brahm? "I am fine as long as I do not think of them together, but when I do…"
His big fingers squeezed hers. "It hurts; it makes you angry."
She nodded. Even now, even when she knew Brahm had been in the clutches of a disease when it happened, the memory of them together was very painful.
"It will ease with time," he told her. "When you realize how much he cares for you, when you realize how much you care for him, the two of you will be able to conquer this. All you need to do is believe and trust— in yourselves as well as in each other."
Such sage advice, and from such an unlikely source. "I do care for Brahm," she confessed. "I do not believe I ever stopped. Perhaps that is why his betrayal hurt so much."
"But?" her father prodded.
Eleanor smiled ruefully. "But I am afraid to trust him. I am afraid that it is all a lie, even though I want to believe it is true. He has given me no reason to doubt his sincerity. I want to believe he cares for me, but it is so difficult."
"Why?"
Tears burned the backs of her eyes. "Because I am a bitter, remote old maid, and if I wasn't enough for him years ago, why would I be enough now?"
There, she had confessed the fear that she had confessed to no one else. She could scarcely confess it to herself.
Her father held his arms out to her, and she practically dived into his embrace. How long since she had felt his arms around her this way? His strength flowed into her, a balm against any and all injury.
"Oh my dear girl." He kissed the top of her head and stroked her back as if she were but a child. "Can you not see?"
She shook her head, her face buried in his shoulder. See what?
He pushed her up, so that she was forced to look at him rather than hide her face. "You have always been enough for that boy. You are what brought him to this party, even though he knew you would not want to see him at first. You are the reason he stays even though the temptation to drink dogs him at every moment. You are why he pushes himself to do things that make his leg ache so badly he has to retire early."
She was? And why was the fool risking injury to himself just to keep up with the rest of the guests? She didn't care if he could do all those things. Obviously he did, though.
"He did not come here simply for your forgiveness, Eleanor." Her father's gaze was kind, not the least bit patronizing. "He came here for
you
."
Straightening, Eleanor glanced away. For her. Her heart recognized it as truth even though her head insisted it couldn't be. Brahm's attraction to her now was not a new emotion, or one stemming from their previous attachment. He had never stopped wanting her. Surely that was more than just desire.
Surely that was more than what he had experienced with Lydia— or with Fanny Carson.
"I am no longer that girl," she whispered, voicing the new fear that pierced her heart. "What if he does not want the woman I am now?"
"Now you are being foolish." Her father scowled. "You think he would have stayed this long if he did not like who you are? Brahm Ryland is not some upstart digging for a rich wife. He is a man who has lost everything, who has pulled himself back from social ruin, and he has decided that you are his match. By God, girl, does that not tell you what he thinks of you— what you should think of yourself?"
Stunned, Eleanor could only stare at her father. He was right. It was so difficult for her to accept that a man so handsome, so strong and determined, and so sensuous could want her. It was far easier to believe that it had been her fault he went to Lydia, because then she didn't have to be so angry at the disease that made him stupid enough to believe Lydia was she. Lydia, the baby sister she had always adored, who must have seen her previous interest in Brahm, and who went after him anyway. It was easier to believe that Brahm preferred Lydia than entertain the idea that Lydia had taken advantage of Brahm's drunken state.
It was easier to think that Brahm wanted Lydia than to admit to herself that she had been afraid to marry him back then, that his drinking had frightened her, that his effect on her frightened her. When she had broken their engagement it had been almost a relief, because then she didn't have to face the fact that she believed she would be overpowered by Brahm.
And perhaps the girl she had been would have been overpowered by him. Perhaps his sickness would have come between them. But she was no longer that girl, and he had overcome his illness. The situation was different. They were different.
"Thank you, Papa," she said, rising to her feet. "You have given me much to think about."
Her father arched an interested brow as he lay back against his pillows. "And are you going off to think about all these things now?"
Eleanor nodded. "I believe so. You will excuse me?"
He chuckled. "Of course. I excused you a quarter hour ago, remember?"
Eleanor smiled and bent down to kiss her father's cheek before leaving his room.
As she stepped out into the corridor, a flash of something caught her eye, and she looked up. A woman was walking down the corridor, her back to Eleanor. She wasn't that far away, but far enough that the muted lighting from the wall sconces made it difficult to ascertain her features.
There was enough light to clearly see her gown, however. The color, the cut, everything was discernible. It was Lydia.
What had her sister been doing up here? Her bedchamber was at the other end of the corridor, and Lydia had obviously come from this direction. The staircase was in the middle— there was no need for Lydia to have come this way.
Unless she had been listening outside their father's door.
Eleanor's blood turned to ice at the thought. It was so uncharitable, yet she could not escape the suspicion. If Lydia had been listening, how much had she heard?
And more importantly, what did she plan to do with the information?
Chapter 9
T
onight was the night Brahm planned to make his intentions toward Eleanor clear.
A fortnight had passed since his arrival at Burrough's estate, and this ball was to mark the beginning of the last half of the house party.
Two weeks, that was the amount of time he had spent with Eleanor. In that short amount of time he had convinced her to give him a chance, and in her usual way, she had given that effort her full attention. She knew he was not the man he once was, and she liked the man he had become. He never would have thought he could win her over at all, let alone so quickly. It was a prime example of her all too forgiving and understanding nature— not that he would want her any other way.
And he wanted her any way he could have her. The episode in the orangery had only made his longing for her worse. He thought about her body against his all the time. He fantasized about her breasts— and the rest of her naked before him. He could imagine touching her and how she would react to those touches, and it made him hard as a rock.
It was amusing and welcome, his attraction to her. For the longest time he worried that his excessive drinking had permanently destroyed his ability to lust for a woman. He and Cassie had had a physical relationship, of course, but he hadn't craved a woman the way he craved Eleanor in years. In the bath earlier the thought of her had given him such a raging erection that he would have gladly traded his entire estate for Eleanor's splayed thighs and the lushness between.
But no such offer was made, and so he ended up taking matters in hand— so to speak. When was the last time he had done
that
? He couldn't remember. That was what she reduced him to. Like a green boy, untutored and uncontrolled, he'd alleviated his arousal in an efficient yet unsatisfactory manner that only made him want Eleanor all the more.
So enough with the waiting. He was going to strike while everything appeared to be in his favor.
Charles had dressed him to perfection. Not a hair was out of place. Yes, it was a little long, but he preferred it to the fussy hairstyles many men wore as of late. He had even polished his cane so the rich, dark wood and the gold top gleamed. His snow white cravat was tied in the style referred to as l'Orientale— a simple yet elegant knot. His jacket and trousers were impeccable. It wasn't that he favored trousers over breeches, but rather that his injured leg didn't lend itself to stockings and whatnot. The leg was scarred and hadn't healed perfectly straight, and while it didn't bother him, others might find the sight vaguely disturbing. Would Eleanor? Probably not. She would probably fuss over him and blame herself for not being able to fix it.
He smiled at the thought of her. She was such a caregiver. She clucked over her father and her sisters, even the servants. All she wanted was to ensure everyone's comfort, but she rarely thought of her own. That was what his job would be. If Eleanor would have him, he'd spend the rest of his days tending to her comfort, her needs. It was nothing more than a pleasant boon that by doing so, he would be tending to his own comfort and needs at the same time.
He went downstairs at precisely ten o'clock, the announced time for the festivities to begin. Luck was with him, and his leg hardly hurt at all. He hoped Eleanor wouldn't mind that all he could manage was a slower version of the waltz. Anything else was asking for trouble, especially since some dances went on forever.
The ball was primarily for the house guests, but other families in the area had been invited to join the festivities. There was so little entertainment during this time of year that everyone invited came. Hence there were more than enough partners to go around, and hence Brahm was announced as he entered the ballroom.
Inclining his head in greeting to those who met his gaze as he walked in, Brahm was intent on finding Eleanor. Was she there yet? A blond in a green gown caught his eye. No, it was Arabella. He moved toward the other Durbane sister anyway. Chances were that Eleanor would find her sister as well.
Arabella welcomed him with a hesitant but kindly smile, which Brahm returned with a genuine one of his own. He liked Arabella. Of all Eleanor's sisters, she seemed the happiest, the most like Eleanor in her kindness and understanding. She was also the nicest and treated him with more courtesy than the other three.
Phoebe and Muriel were with the group as well, wearing gowns of apricot and pale blue, respectively. They did not smile as Arabella had, but they curtsied and bid him good evening in sincere tones. Why the effort to be nice to him? Had Eleanor said something to her siblings?
He would have asked, had he been able to find his voice, but it was at that exact moment that Eleanor was announced. He turned to look at her, and his ability to reason, speak, and move disappeared.
Eleanor wore a gown of raspberry satin beaded with tiny crystals that caught the light and glittered as she moved. She wore no jewelry save for a pair of diamond earrings that sparkled even more than her dress. Her rich blond hair was swept up on top of her head and pinned in a riot of curls that must have taken her maid hours to create. In short, she was devastatingly beautiful.
She smiled at everyone, dazzling the room with her brilliance as she glided across the floor like some kind of otherworldly creature. Brahm was not the only man caught in her spell. Locke and Birch stared at her with mouths agape as well. The other bachelors— Taylor, Faulkner, and one other whose name Brahm could not recall— were similarly affected. Damnation, he was really going to have competition now.
Eleanor nodded at her would-be suitors. She even graced them with a kind smile, but it was Brahm who received the sweetest gift. She joined her sisters, but her gaze remained fixed on him. Her smile wasn't hesitant, but it was…hopeful, as though she was uncertain of his reaction to her.
"Lady Eleanor." He bowed over her offered hand. "You are a vision of loveliness this evening." It wasn't quite what he wanted to tell her, but it would do for this audience. Later he would tell her just how beautiful she was.
Eleanor blushed prettily, despite his lukewarm compliment. "Thank you, Lord Creed."
Locke came up beside them, destroying what precious little intimacy had blossomed between them. "Lady Eleanor, might I claim the first dance?"
Eleanor's gaze flittered to Brahm, as if gauging his reaction. He made certain to give none, even though he would have dearly loved to stuff his cane down Locke's throat. Eleanor didn't look very pleased by his intrusion either.
Then again, she didn't look impressed with him either, but he was not going to tell her how to act. "I would be honored, Lord Locke. Thank you."
"And the second dance for me, Lady Eleanor?" It was Birch who asked.
Eleanor smiled kindly. "Certainly, Lord Birch."
For God's sake, was he going to have to stand in line to spend time with her? Inwardly he sighed. This was not the way he wanted to ask, barking for her attention like a rambunctious puppy. "Perhaps now would be a good time, then, for me to request the first waltz?"
