Why? Why did she stay? Did she blame herself for the state he had gotten himself into? Probably. Eleanor was a wonderful, nurturing person, but she was also a first-class martyr when she wanted to be. Was it that ridiculous promise to nurse him? She should know he wouldn't hold her to that.
She had taken all his liquor. He knew because in a moment of weakness two days ago he'd had a footman look for some, as he was still too shaky to get out of bed, even with his cane. Not only had she found the obvious stock, but the secret stashes as well, which meant she'd had help from his brothers. Damn Wynthrope and North. They'd been around often the last four days as well. They never lectured or talked down, but he could see how disappointed they were with him. Thank God he didn't have to deal with Devlin as well. He was in the country with Blythe and their son. He was in no mood to suffer all three of his brothers.
He should be thankful that she had done away with all temptation, but he wasn't. A sip of something a couple of days ago would have eased the shaking. And at least if he was drunk he wouldn't have to suffer through her presence. Did she not realize that she was more tempting than any bottle of whiskey or brandy? Eleanor, with her golden hair and spring-scented skin. Every time he saw her he wanted her, craved her. Not just her touch, but her laughter, her smiles, and her companionship.
Guilt had to be what kept her there because she certainly wasn't acting as though it was anything else. North claimed she had been beside herself with worry for him when the brain fever started, but he wouldn't know it from the cool way she treated him. Perhaps she'd simply been concerned that people might think she had killed him.
'Course, if she was that concerned what people thought, she wouldn't be there at all. It was highly improper for her, an unmarried woman, to be in the house of an unmarried man. They had no chaperone, save for her maid, and for all her effectiveness, the girl might as well not even be there.
She had to realize she was ruining herself by staying with him. Perhaps she hoped he would propose to her again. She could keep on hoping. The thought brought a sharp ache to his chest. It didn't matter that he still wanted her. It didn't matter that he wanted nothing more than to get down on his knees and beg her to have him. He would be damned— heartily so— before he made himself so vulnerable to her again. Twice she had broken his heart and made a fool of him. She would not do so again.
No, he would not propose, not unless he heard from her lips that she wanted to be his wife. And if he knew Eleanor, it would snow in Hades before she swallowed enough of her pride to do that. It would be taking too great a risk for her. If there was one thing he had learned about her, it was that Eleanor did not take risks unless she was almost positive of the outcome.
He watched her, his brow knitted. Why did she have to be so frigging lovely? That flawless skin, those bright eyes. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and a pallor to her complexion that he had never seen before, and yet he still thought her the most beautiful woman alive. The circles and the pallor were because of him. Too bad he could not bring himself to feel any guilt for them. No one forced her to stay. She chose to witness the full horror of his compulsion. What she had seen surely must have repulsed her, and yet here she was, still trying to "fix" him.
"Would you like me to help you eat?" she asked serenely.
Brahm scowled at her. What did she think he was, an invalid? Granted he was still weak from his ordeal, but he would recover. He would much rather be drunk than faced with her and her damn good intentions. "I want you out."
"Fine." She started for the door. "I will check in on you later."
Damn her to hell for being so bloody obstinate. She knew full well what he meant, but she was going to make him say it. "I do not mean simply out of my room, I want you out of my house."
She stopped, turning to face him with her arms folded beneath her lovely breasts. He remembered the weight of them in his hands, the taste on his tongue…"No."
Heat suffused his cheeks, part desire, part anger. This was
his
house. She had forsaken the right to act as mistress there. "I will have Jeffers toss you out."
"Jeffers would never do that," she replied saucily. "And neither would you."
That was true. She knew him too well. "What kind of perverse punishment is this that you stay here?"
Her eyes widened. "You think I am punishing you?"
What a beautiful idiot. She looked so hurt, so
wronged
. What did she expect from him? What did she want? "You are punishing yourself. You cannot possibly ruin my reputation any more than I have already done myself. But you were above reproach before this. Why risk your future?"
She looked at him as though there were so many reasons. "Because I owe it to you. I am trying to make amends, surely you of all people must understand that."
Ah, so she was being a martyr. Wench. "You could have sent me a note."
She tried again. "Because I promised I would nurse you should you suffer a relapse."
So it
was
that damn promise. "That was simple flirtation." Surely she knew the difference. And damn her for bringing it up and reminding him of how sweet things had been with them for that brief time. When he had asked her for that promise, he'd had no intention of ever drinking again.
No. He had to be honest, at least with himself. He had gone to the club that day looking to get foxed. He had wanted to numb himself to the pain her rejection caused. His pride had needed the numbness.
She shrugged, the gesture causing the arms beneath her breasts to rise, lifting the soft, firm flesh against the demure dip of her neckline. "It was a promise."
"So was agreeing to be my wife. Why keep one and not the other?"
She flushed, humiliation filled her eyes, and Brahm was instantly contrite, but he would not say it. He would not apologize. He wanted to hear her answer. She owed him that at the very least.
She said nothing, just stared at him as though he had shoved a shard of glass into her heart.
"Do not look at me like that," he commanded. "Do not act as though you are the wounded party. I do not care how much you martyr yourself, you were the one who rejected me."
"I know." She looked bloody awful about it too.
"Then
why
"— his teeth ground together— "are you here?"
"Because I want to be."
"Surely you do not regret your decision not to marry me?" He said it with so much mockery, she would be a fool to admit otherwise, and he knew it. He didn't want her to admit anything. Regardless of what she said, it was going to hurt.
She said nothing.
If she was going to be silent, then he would go on. Anger, hurt, and humiliation spurred him onward. "You were right about me, Eleanor. I cannot be trusted. The minute things did not go my way, I ran to the nearest bottle. How could you ever be certain I would not do it again?"
The color slowly seeped from her cheeks.
"God only knows what else I did before you arrived." He sneered in self-loathing, but it was true. He had but vague memories of the days between taking that first drink and waking up with her hovering over him. "Perhaps you will be able to read about it in some other courtesan's book in the near future."
That was a cheap shot and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He wanted to hurt her. The wound in his heart was too raw and fresh. Being near her and knowing she was not his— that she didn't want to be his— was more than he could stand.
"I just want to help you, Brahm," she whispered.
His laughter was harsh. "Having you here is not helping me, Eleanor. Knowing that you are here because you feel you owe me something is not helpful. Seeing you and not being able to touch you is not helpful. In fact, the only thing your being here is good for is showing me just how stupid I was to think I could change."
"You did change." She held out both hands, as though holding within them all the proof of her words. "You are nothing like the man you once were. You showed that to me."
Why? Because he hadn't pissed in a punch bowl at her party? Because he hadn't bedded her sister again, despite the availability of Lydia's bed? Or because this time he had been stupid enough to truly give her his heart?
"Do not humor me." The fact that he was lying in this bed, recovering from his debauchery, was proof enough how wrong she was. "We both know you do not believe that, any more than I do. When it comes to you, I do not think I will ever change, and I can never make you the kind of promises you need me to make in order for me to have you, because I cannot even make those promises to myself. And I cannot make those promises to myself because I do not know if I have the strength to never drink again. Obviously, I do not."
"Brahm…" Her expression was so plaintive, begging him to let her say or do whatever it was she needed to assuage her own guilt. He didn't want her guilt. He wanted things she wasn't prepared to give him, and anything else was an insult, no matter how good her motives. She was not there because she loved him. She was there because she felt beholden to him, and no man with any pride would allow that.
"Please, just go. If you want to help me so much, then give me some peace and go."
The hurt expression on her face filled him with self-disgust, but even that was far preferable to the pain of having her just a few feet away physically, but miles away emotionally. Did she not realize that having her in his house was doing him more harm than good?
Her arms fell limply to her sides as she straightened her spine. He was in for a battle with her, he knew that. "I will be downstairs in the green parlor if you need me."
"I won't."
He watched her leave. Long after she was gone, her face haunted him. He shoved his untouched breakfast aside and slumped back against the pillows. God help him, he was such a rotten liar.
Would she come if he called for her? Because he needed her. He needed her so very, very badly.
Chapter 17
"P
ardon me, Lady Eleanor, but there is a Mrs. Carson awaiting you in the great hall."
Sitting at the little writing desk in the green parlor, Eleanor raised her head from the letter she was composing to Arabella to gaze at Jeffers in surprise. Would that be Mrs.
Fanny
Carson by any chance?
"Are you certain she is here to see me?" It would make more sense if the woman was there to call on Brahm. It would also give Eleanor good reason to rip Mrs. Carson's hair out by the roots.
The butler nodded. "She asked for you specifically."
This was an interesting turn of events. Stacking her papers into a neat pile and satisfied that the ink was set, Eleanor brushed the sand from her hands and placed the shaker back in the drawer. "Then you had better show her in."
Jeffers looked positively mortified. "No disrespect meant, my lady, but Mrs. Carson is a woman of ill repute."
Eleanor wiped her quill on a stained piece of cloth and place it back in its holder. "So I am aware, which makes me all the more curious as to why she would come to call on me." Yes, her reputation was bound to suffer greatly for her staying in Brahm's house without the proper chaperone, but Eleanor didn't think she had sunk quite so low yet that women such as Fanny Carson might consider her their equal. She didn't care how uncharitable a thought that was. Fanny Carson had tried to blackmail men for her own gain— that was what made her low, not the fact that she'd had many lovers.
"As you wish, my lady." But it was apparent that Jeffers didn't approve at all. It seemed both he and Mrs. Stubbins the housekeeper had warmed to her— so much so that they had adopted an almost protective stance where she was concerned. She appreciated their sudden loyalty, but it was not necessary.
While she waited, Eleanor stood and smoothed any wrinkles from her gown. It was suddenly very imperative that she look her best when Fanny Carson saw her. It was impossible to look good given the past few days, however, so she would simply have to do what best she could. She chewed her lips and pinched her cheeks for color, and positioned herself in front of a window so the light behind would halo her and, she hoped, conceal the smudges beneath her eyes. It wasn't that she wanted to impress Fanny Carson, but she didn't want the woman to find her lacking all the same.
The woman who entered the parlor and made Eleanor's heart leap with ridiculous anxiety was not what Eleanor had expected. A woman like Fanny Carson should be beautiful, worldly, and sophisticated.
Perhaps this wasn't
the
Mrs. Carson after all.
The woman standing in the doorway was tall— amazingly so— and of a generous figure. Her face, while in no way ugly, was not classically beautiful, but unforgettable all the same. Her hair was an impossible shade of red, yet Eleanor did not doubt it was natural, given the woman's coloring. There was nothing remarkable about her dress. Her olive velvet spencer would have looked drab on any other woman. The gown beneath was a plain cream-colored muslin, hardly the height of fashion, but stylish all the same. This woman would look foolish in anything too busy.
