The Rake's Arranged Marriage (3 page)

Lady Eliot.

The words sent a strange tingle through Cara, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes – her left toes anyway, since her right ones seemed to be somewhat numb. She could feel the blood rush hotly to her cheeks. And of course, Quentin Eliot noticed it, as well.

"You blush so prettily," he said. "In fact, I'd say you're quite the comeliest invalid I've ever seen."

Cara could formulate no reply.

"Come, I paid you a compliment, my ladylove," Eliot pressed after a moment of strained silence.

"Thank you," she whispered through gritted teeth.

"You're welcome," he said pleasantly. Then he stood leisurely and brushed himself off. Her eyes drifted to the form-fitting trousers of fine black velvet he was wearing. His legs were strong and shapely, and the loose white shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the collar. She could just see a spray of dark hair peeping up from the neckline. His chin and cheek were lightly-stubbled, as though he hadn't shaved for a day or two. His honey-golden hair was a mess about his head. Again, Cara felt herself blush hotly as she tore her eyes from Quentin Eliot's striking figure.

"I'll send Mrs. Cooper in with your supper shortly," Eliot said with a smile, and then he turned to go.

"Wait, please," Cara stammered. Eliot turned back into the room with an expectant look on his strikingly handsome face. "I should like to return to the Boyle Estate –
home
– as soon as possible."

"I'm afraid that's impossible. The doctor says that you're not to be moved for the next month."

Cara's jaw fell open in surprise. Eliot only chuckled again – a low and resonant sound that touched her somewhere deep and surprising.

"It does make the break sound worse than it is. The prognosis is good, Lady Boyle. The break is painful, of course, but the doctor has assured me that it's actually quite minor. You should be up and about in time for our wedding."

"Surely you don't expect me to marry you in a month's time!" she sputtered.

"Certainly I do. You set the date, remember?"

Cara's eyebrows worked up and down in an attitude of exquisite confusion. And then she did remember. She had sarcastically said it, right before fainting.

"But that was in jest!"

"I was told that a true Lady never goes back on her word," he said, his expression becoming stern. "You are a true Lady...are you not?"

Cara didn't bother to answer the ridiculous question.

"My father has agreed to it?" she pressed.

"Agreed? He practically waltzed around the room for joy with that friend of his. What's that foppish chap's name?"

"Colonel Frederick Simms," she breathed absently.

"That's right – hard to believe he ever issued a military command in his life, that one!" Eliot rambled on gaily.

But Cara barely heard him. In fact, she was feeling rather light-headed again. Of course, her father had agreed. Of course, he'd been joyous. This was exactly what he'd wanted all along. And, if it took a little breaking of his dear daughter's bones, what did that amount to in the grand scheme of things?
Not much
. She shook her head, trying to make herself believe this was all a dream. But she knew that was a lie. What was happening was very, very real.

"...does that suit you?"

Her attention suddenly snapped back to Lord Eliot, and she realized that she hadn't been listening to a word he'd said.

"Pardon?"

"Half an hour. Your supper. Mrs. Cooper."

"Oh, yes, yes," she muttered.

"Good!" he exclaimed jovially, and started toward the door. But he turned back into the room at the last moment, his expression serious. She watched him watch her. It was clear that there was something else he wanted to do or say. But for the life of her, she couldn't guess what it was. Then, without another word, he turned quickly and left.

***

Cara cried weakly on and off for the better part of the next half hour. She felt so utterly confused. And to make things worse, she was almost completely immobile. Usually when she was in turmoil, she was at least able to walk out somewhere to clear her head. But now she was completely trapped in this strange, large room. The curtains fluttered pleasantly at the windows and the fire continued to crackle along merrily, but none of these features could soothe her.

Was it really possible that she was to become Lord Quentin Eliot's wife? It seemed so. There was a part of her that had known all along it was going to happen. Her father had done his damnedest to orchestrate the whole business and despite being singularly bumbling in some aspects of life, Lord Leander Calloway was quite competent in others. And, he was exceedingly stubborn. Once his mind was fixed on a goal, it was almost impossible to dissuade him from its attainment. Yes, once Papa had landed upon the idea, it was almost a foregone conclusion.
For the good of the family name.

Having wrapped her mind around that truth, there was still the problem of Eliot himself. He had openly acknowledged her father's scheming, and yet he was going right along with it. This she could not understand. Quentin Eliot truly actually had a choice in the matter. He was a Lord, with resources and almost infinite agency. He could have said no to the whole strange business. So, why was he going along with it? It wasn't the promise of money. Lord Eliot was rolling in the stuff already. It couldn't possibly be for want of a woman's company. He was up to his ears in that, as well, if the rumors were to be believed (and Cara knew that they were). And, although both her maiden name of Calloway and her married name of Boyle carried with them much respect and honor, neither could compare with that of Eliot. It wasn't as if he would be marrying up.
So
why? Why? Why?

Cara tried to shift positions in bed. But even the smallest movement proved too painful. She was panting, clinging to her bedclothes, and soaked in sweat when a soft knock sounded on the door. A second later, Mrs. Cooper's head popped in.

"Oh, you poor dear!" clucked the plump housekeeper. She pushed into the room, and Cara saw that she was carrying a laden tray before her. She hurried to set it down on a side table and come to Cara's aid. "Here, let me help."

After some struggle, Cara was finally able to sit herself upright with the assistance of Mrs. Cooper's surprisingly strong arms. The housekeeper propped a few pillows behind her back and then sat on the edge of the bed as Cara regained control of her breath.

"Thank...you," she panted.

"My pleasure," said Mrs. Cooper pleasantly. "You and me, we'll be spending a lot of time together over the next month. So we best get comfortable with one another! In fact, I hear we'll be spending a lot more than the next month together!"

"That's what I hear, as well," Cara admitted grudgingly.

The housekeeper was fairly beaming now. She patted the Cara's hand and then stood to retrieve the tray. Cara watched her bustle about the room, her skirts swaying. "I've been with Lord Eliot's family since he was a babe in swaddling clothes!"

"Is that so?" Cara managed weakly. She had nothing against this woman. In fact, she felt oddly drawn to her. It had been so long since she'd spent any time in the company of a good-tempered female. The housekeeper at the Boyle Estate, Ms. Randall, was an austere, gaunt person of 45. She'd never married and was dreadfully bitter. Cara avoided her like the plague. Mrs. Cooper, however, appeared to be Ms. Randall's opposite.

"Oh, yes! He was a funny child. Very solemn."

"I find that surprising," Cara said truthfully. "Lord Eliot seems to be full of mirth in adulthood."

Mrs. Cooper set the tray in front of Cara. It bore several slices of thick brown bread and a steaming broth that smelled wonderful. Suddenly, her appetite flared and she picked up the spoon eagerly. She was just tucking in to her first delicious mouthful when Mrs. Cooper continued thoughtfully.

"There's more beneath Lord Eliot's mirth than you might imagine, Lady Boyle. If he didn't choose mirth with every waking breath, I suspect Lord Eliot might be a very sad, drawn man."

Cara swallowed her soup, pondering what Mrs. Cooper might possibly mean.

"How is that?"

"Well... He was dearly in love with his first wife. Perhaps you've heard stories."

Cara shrugged. She had overheard at least one version of the tale from some gossips in a store in town. But she was interested to see what yarn the devoted housekeeper might spin.

"When Sarah died, Lord Eliot ceased to speak. For a fortnight, he barricaded himself in his room, barely eating a thing and refusing all company. And then one night he stole off – took to the country, he did. We didn't see him for almost a year. We heard tales, though. He was spotted all over – living from the pack on the back of his horse, sleeping rough in the heather. When he finally showed up again on the front steps of Hedgeton, his beard and hair were so long, I practically didn't recognize him. But he embraced me and told me his mourning was over. And since then, he's been the man you see today."

The story moved Cara completely and unexpectedly. It was much different than what she'd heard from the gossip in the store downtown. That chattering lady had mainly spoken of how Lord Eliot took to drink and the constant company of various ladies after his first wife's death. This was something else – something deeper. And looking into the guileless face of the housekeeper, Cara could plainly see that she was telling the truth.

Mrs. Cooper chuckled suddenly, her hands on her hips.

"I can see why he likes you!"

"Why?" Cara asked, genuinely intrigued.

"You have a certain seriousness. A wisdom in those young eyes. Strong-willed, you are. Sarah was the same."

Cara looked down at her broth. She didn't want to speak of Eliot's first wife anymore. And, she was certainly not eager to hear comparisons. There was something sad in that. When she raised her eyes again, Mrs. Cooper was still staring at her, a wide smile on her pleasant face.

"What is Lord Eliot doing now?" Cara asked to change the subject. "I should like to know how he spends his days when he's not throwing a party."

"Well, usually he's out riding or hunting. Or reading. But at this very moment, I believe he's fast asleep."

"In the middle of the day?"

"Yes, my Lady," Mrs. Cooper said, nodding earnestly. "He's been rather deprived of sleep of late."

"Why?" Cara murmured suspiciously. "More parties?"

"Oh, no!"

"Well, what then?"

"Don't you know?" Mrs. Cooper asked incredulously. Cara shook her head. Mrs. Cooper sighed.

", my dear, he's been sitting vigil at your side for the past two days!"

Chapter Three

For the next five days, Cara languished in her room with no one for company but Mrs. Cooper. Lord Eliot made not a single appearance in all that time, and when Cara asked the housekeeper where he was spending his days, she only raised her eyebrows in an innocent expression.

"But surely, you must be able to guess where he's going, if he's going out!" she pressed.

"I haven't the foggiest, my Lady," Mrs. Cooper replied as she fluffed Cara's pillows. "All I know is that since you awoke, Lord Eliot takes his breakfast in the morning and leaves on his mare for the rest of the day. He comes home well past dinnertime, looking tired. He takes a quick brandy near the hearth in the kitchen and then he marches himself upstairs to his room
to read
, he says."

"What does he read?"

"Oh, I don't know, Lady Boyle. Thick volumes with dark bindings. Plays. Poetry. I've never looked between the covers of his books before. He treats them carefully, and I always assumed that it was his own business, and none of mine."

Cara was irked that Mrs. Cooper could not shed more light on the literary tastes of her intended. But at the same time, she was gratified to hear that the housekeeper respected the privacy of her Lord. It was a quality sorely lacking in most servants, she'd found. And as to his afternoons, it was anyone's guess.

The mystery of it kept her mind spinning and prevented the onslaught of truly unbearable tedium during her confinement. Mrs. Cooper had stocked the room with quite a few books, but Cara couldn't seem to concentrate on reading. Her mind was spinning. On the sixth day after she awoke, she was visited by the doctor. He examined her thoroughly, poking and prodding at the still-swollen flesh around her knee before proclaiming happily that it looked as though nothing was broken at all.

"Perhaps it was only a dislocation that has righted itself," he said, pushing his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose.

"Is such a thing possible?" Cara asked.

"Anything is possible when it comes to the young!" the old doctor said with a wink. "Green young bodies are capable of incredible feats of healing."

"I'm not so terribly young anymore, sir," she said, feeling frustrated at patronizing tone she detected in the doctor's voice.

"Is that so?" he asked incredulously.

Cara nodded. "I'm nineteen. And a widow."

"Well," he chuckled, "that's young in my book."

After he'd gone, Cara felt a twinge of shame at the grumpy attitude she'd had on display. The doctor had only been trying to make her feel better (especially since he'd also delivered the news that she must stay in bed for another two days at the very least). In the silence after his departure, she thought long and hard about what it was in her that could sometimes be so bitter. She supposed it was due to several key factors: her mother's death and her miserable marriage to Lord Boyle, just to name two.

Then she considered Lord Eliot. He was so merry, but he hadn't always been. He'd been through terrible times as well, the loss of his Sarah, primarily. And instead of walking the road of bitterness and frustration, he chose to be pleasant. Of course, his behavior was not one would call
proper
at all times. But still, it was generally accepted that his company was enjoyable and that he was a good and entertaining host. And despite the verbal sparring they'd engaged in out in the hedge maze, he'd remained by her bedside for two whole days – without respite.