To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (10 page)

The man appeared broad of shoulder but not terribly tall, with a trim waist and muscular legs. He wore no
hat, and wavy hair the color of cinnamon shone in the
waning sun, reaching just below his ears and complementing his neatly trimmed, wide whiskers. While his
fawn breeches and bottle-green coat were not the height
of fashion, they were well-cut and finely made, and he
wore them with ease. Two hounds sat at his feet, one a
mottled gray and the other solid black, both so large that
their muzzles reached their master's waist, even while
sitting.

"My dear Mister Whitby," Selina called out, joining
Eleanor on the drive, and the man sprang to life at once,
hurrying down to greet them with a broad smile.

"Ali, Lady Henley!" he said, reaching for Selina's
hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles. "How
very grand to see you. I say, marriage suits you well.
You look positively radiant"

"Enough flirting with my wife, Georgie," Henley said
with a scowl. "Haven't you a word of greeting for your
own brother?"

"Always a pleasure, Henley," Whitby said, and the
two men embraced warmly.

"Indeed," Henley replied, smiling fondly at his
brother. "And now you must meet my guests. May I
present my wife's dearest friend, Lady Eleanor Ashton.
Lady Eleanor, my brother, Mister George Whitby"

Eleanor executed a small curtsey, then allowed Mister
Whitby to take her hand.

"Enchanted," Mister Whitby murmured, raising her
hand to his lips. "It is a pleasure to welcome you to
Whitby Hall."

Beside her, Frederick cleared his throat impatiently.

"And may I also present Mister Frederick Stoneham,"
Henley added, an amused note in his voice.

Mister Whitby released Eleanor's hand and reached for Frederick's. "Any friend of Henley's is a friend of
mine. Welcome, Mister Stoneham"

Frederick only grunted in reply as the man pumped
his hand.

"Shall we?" Mister Whitby asked, moving aside and
motioning toward the stairs. "Your servants arrived yesterday with your trunks, so your things are unpacked
and awaiting you in your rooms. Come, meet my staff,
and then you ladies can get settled in before dinner."

Minutes later, Eleanor was shown to her room, where
her lady's maid had already laid out a fresh gown for
dinner. It was an attractive room, the furnishings wellmade if not a bit rusticated. It only lacked a woman's
touch, she told herself. As the maid arranged for a bath
to be drawn, Eleanor sat on the plump feather bed and
exhaled slowly, suddenly wishing she could lie down
and rest, if only for a moment.

Her eyelids felt heavy, and she allowed them to close,
leaning back against the bed's fluffy pillows. At least
her neck no longer felt sore. The physian summoned to
the scene of the carriage accident had assured them that
neither she nor Selina had suffered anything more serious than a mild strain. It would seem the man had been
correct, as they'd both felt remarkably improved the following day, despite the discomfort of the jouncing
coach and inferior accommodations. She hadn't slept
well on the lumpy beds offered by the coaching inns
they'd patronized along their route, and she was near
enough exhausted.

Still, she was glad she had come. On first inspection,
Mister Whitby seemed everything Selina had promised-handsome, well-mannered, charming. She
couldn't for the life of her imagine why Henley thought
him a bore, as he seemed quite lively. Perhaps he would
prove to be the answer to her troubles, after all.

As Solange bustled back in, Eleanor sat up and
rubbed her eyes, glancing over at the dress that the servant had laid across the chaise in the room's far corner.
The gown's fabric was a flattering purple-puce gauze,
but the cut was the prim, full-bodiced cut she generally
preferred. She knew instantly that it wouldn't do, not if
she hoped to capture Mister Whitby's attention in so
short a time. She must showcase her assets, as her
mama would say.

Rising from the bed, she strode across the room to
the wardrobe, flinging open the doors and fingering the
gowns that Solange had hung neatly inside. No, not this
one, nor this one, either She shook her head as she regarded several almost-identically cut gowns.

And then her gaze fell upon the peacock-colored
sarcenet and velvet evening gown that her mother had
insisted upon last month in Town. Eleanor had refused
to wear it thus far, embarrassed by the shocking amount
of decolletage it exposed-so much so that she had to
have specially cut-down stays to wear beneath it.

Still, it was her best choice if she wanted to capture
Mister Whitby's attention straightaway. Indeed, her
mother would no doubt applaud the choice, which immediately made the rational side of her wary. Yet if she
did not have a reasonable alternative to marrying Frederick before she returned to Essex-

"Solange, I think I'll wear this gown instead," she
called out before she had time to change her mind. She
held the brightly colored gown out to her maid, who
plucked it from her fingers with a delighted smile.

"Indeed, mum, it'll look lovely on you. With the
matching velvet band in your hair, perhaps, and York tan
gloves?"

"Very well," Eleanor answered with a nod. "Haven't
I some matching velvet slippers?"

Solange produced them from her trunks with a triumphant gleam in her eye. No doubt Selina's eyes
would pop from her head when she saw her in this uncharacteristically revealing gown. Well, no matter,
Eleanor thought dismissively. It only mattered what
Mister Whitby thought.

And as to Frederick Stoneham ... Blast it. It shouldn't
matter one bit what he thought. But of course it did-oh,
how it did.

I must fight this, she thought, her pulse quickening
despite her resolve. I must, and I will. Her foolish heart
depended upon it.

Frederick stood on Whitby's terrace, a snifter of
brandy clutched in one hand as he watched Eleanor
throw back her head and laugh, the moonlight illuminating the hollow at the base of her long, slender neck.
The soft notes of her laughter floated on the sea-scented
breeze, intoxicating him. Everything about the woman
intoxicated him, if truth be told.

What particularly stymied him was the fact that she
did not seem to have the same effect on George Whitby.
Oh, the man seemed attentive enough on the surface; he
said the right things, laughed at her witticisms, attempted to indulge her every whim. She'd had him in
the palm of her hand throughout dinner, Whitby hanging onto her every utterance like a lapdog.

Yet, strangely enough, what Frederick did not sense
was the man's lust-and what man in his right mind
could help but lust over her in that blasted gown? Good
God, outside the circles of the demimonde, he'd never
seen a woman so blatantly and overtly sexually inviting as she was in that damnably indecent frock.

He'd nearly had to run back upstairs and relieve his own needs the moment he'd seen her standing there at
the top of the stairs, her dark hair piled high on her head
and encircled in a band of velvet the same exotic bluegreen shade as her gown. With her hair swept up, there
was nothing to distract the eye from the astounding display of creamy, rounded breasts that peeked out from the
oval-shaped cut-out that decorated her gown's bodice.
How her undergarments didn't show was beyond him,
and for a moment he wondered if perhaps she wasn't
wearing any.

But intimate knowledge of the woman's form told
him that such lush, full breasts could not possibly sit so
high, so rounded, without support. It was a mystery, one
that would distract him throughout the entire evening
meal. Thankfully, his urgent erection had remained
hidden beneath his napkin, and only intense mental concentration had forced it to subside before he'd been
compelled to rise and join his companions there on the
terrace for an after-dinner drink.

Even now, all he could think of as he watched her was
removing that gown and discovering just what lay beneath. And while it certainly appeared that Whitby was
enjoying Eleanor's company, his gaze never once lingered on her decolletage or traveled longingly up the
column of her neck. No, the man appeared completely
unaware of the fact that she was doing her damnedest to
seduce him.

The realization that Eleanor was, indeed, attempting
to seduce Whitby crashed down upon his consciousness. Of course. That was why she had come. He remembered Lady Henley going on about how handsome
and amiable her brother-in-law was just before Eleanor
had agreed to accompany them.

Frederick took a long draught of brandy, allowing the
smoky liquid to slide slowly down his throat as he con sidered the situation. He studied her more closely, sitting upon a wide stone bench and gazing up at Whitby
with approval, even as the man droned on about a fox
hunt. Henley and Selina sat beside her, the party forming an image of genteel respectability.

And he was an outsider, an interloper. They'd all but
forgotten his presence there, in the terrace's far corner,
cloaked in shadows beneath the drooping branches of
a willow. It was better this way. He could watch her
from a safe distance, gauge Whitby's reaction to her
practiced charm.

Suddenly Lady Henley rose, reaching for her husband's hand. "You must excuse me," she said, stifling a
yawn with one gloved hand, "but I believe I shall retire
now. I'm positively exhausted from our travels."

"Of course, my dear," Henley said, rising and tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. "The day has
been long, indeed"

Eleanor and Whitby followed suit, rising to stand
before the French doors that led back inside.

"Shall I show you upstairs, as well, Lady Eleanor?"
Whitby asked.

Eleanor shook her head. "No, I ... I think I shall
remain outside a bit longer, if you don't mind. I thought
I might take a brief turn in the park before retiring." She
looked up at Whitby hopefully, her cheeks flushed a delightful pink.

"What a fine idea," Whitby answered enthusiastically. "Unfortunately, I've some business to attend to
with my steward, but perhaps Mister Stoneham would
be so kind as to accompany you?"

Frederick raised a brow in surprise. Devil take it,
what was wrong with the man? Was he blind? Or simply
a fool?

Eleanor whirled around to face him, looking startled to see him standing there. "I ... well, perhaps I should
retire after all," she floundered, watching the Henleys'
retreating forms with a .panicked look about her.

Before he could think the better of it, Frederick
strode across the terrace and offered his arm. "Nonsense, Lady Eleanor," he heard himself say. "It's a lovely
night, and you shall have your turn in the park. I don't
bite," he added when she hesitated.

"I'm not so certain," she muttered under her breath,
even as she took his arm. "Very well, then. Thank you,
Mister Stoneham," she added, no doubt for Whitby's
sake. "And good night, Mister Whitby. Thank you for a
most pleasant evening"

"The pleasure was entirely mine," Whitby said with
a bow.

There was nothing left to do but escort Eleanor down
the wide, stone steps and through the fragrant garden
below.

For several minutes they walked in silence, nothing
but the distant crash of waves interfering with the hush
that surrounded them. The full moon lit their path, illuminating the silvery lawn beneath their feet and casting
an ethereal glow upon Eleanor's skin.

Frederick chanced a glance down at her, his gaze involuntarily drawn to the rise and fall of her breasts. If
the fabric of her bodice were to move just an inch in
either direction, the cut-out would expose a nipple, and
he couldn't help but wonder if that nipple would be rosy,
or dusky pink instead. Bloody hell, but he wanted to
know.

He expelled his breath, forcing away the lustful
thoughts as best he could. Molly ... Think of Molly instead, his mind pressed. Her long, blond hair fanned out
upon her shoulders, her eager mouth willing to please.
Damnation, but it was no use.

A salty breeze rippled the branches above them as
they passed through a grove of short, dense, fruit-laden
crabapple trees, and Frederick felt Eleanor shiver beside
him. He paused, turning to face her. "Are you cold?"

She nodded in reply. "A bit. I should have brought
something warmer than my shawl," she said, releasing
his arm and tucking the fringed shawl more tightly
about her shoulders.

"Here," he said, unbuttoning his coat and shrugging
out of it. "Take this"

"No, I cannot. Put it back on, someone might see-"

"Who? George Whitby?"

"Well, perhaps," she said, glancing back over one
shoulder toward the house.

"And what if he did? Do you suppose he would prefer
I let you catch a chill?"

"Perhaps not. Still-"

"Do you care so very much what the man thinks of
you, Eleanor?"

"It's none of your concern," she said, then strode off
toward the line of chestnut trees in the distance.

He caught up with her easily, falling into step beside
her, his coat tossed over one shoulder. "It would seem
that you care very much what he thinks of you, if that
dress of yours is any indication"

"And just what does that mean?" she asked, hurrying
her step.

"You know exactly what I mean. And you'd best slow
down. If you exert yourself any further, your breasts are
surely going to spill right out of that gown. And if they
do, you cannot possibly hold me responsible for what I
might do with them."

She turned on him then, her eyes flashing. "How dare
you say such coarse, vulgar things to me!" The breeze
stirred, and she shivered again, violently this time.

Again, he held out his coat to her. "Put the coat on,
Eleanor. You're cold."

"No, thank you," she said, turning away from him.

He could see the gooseflesh on her arms, stubborn
woman. "Damn it, Eleanor. Put the coat on"