To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (14 page)

Her brow creased with a frown. Mister Whitby was perfectly attractive; there was nothing at all repulsive about
his looks. Still, the idea of sharing a bed with the man ...
She let the thought trail off, her stomach pitching uncomfortably. She slammed her brush to the top of the vanity,
wincing at the sharp crack of heavy silver against marble.
Her gaze was drawn to the dancing light of the candle, reflected in the brush's polished handle, and she simply
stared at it until her vision began to blur.

Stop this; stop this now, she silently chastised herself
Marriage was not about physical desire, it was about
companionship. About comfort and security. Without a
husband, a woman had none of those things. Sharing a
husband's bed was considered a wife's duty, and English
women far and wide did exactly that their duty. Why
should Eleanor be any different? She had just as much
chance at happiness with Mister Whitby as she did with
any other gentleman her father might choose.

While Mister Whitby's enthusiasm for the sporting
life seemed somewhat irritating at present, it would
mean that he would remain occupied with his own interests, leaving her free to do what she pleased. She
would likely be able to go to Town or visit Selina or
Henry whenever she took a notion to do so. Truly, what
more could she ask for? He would not mistreat her, of that she was sure. He was boring, yes, but gentle and
kind. Only a selfish woman would wish for more.

Feeling restless, she rose and strode to the window,
pulling back the drapes and peering out at the drive
below. How strange. She had retired early, just after
dinner, and yet it was already eerily dark-the inky sky
cast an odd shade of green. Squinting against the night,
she noticed a line of trees along the drive, their leaves
whipping violently in the wind. She blinked rapidly, her
pulse accelerating in alarm. Almost at once, the glass
began to rattle, the trees beyond bent nearly in half. A
shudder snaked up Eleanor's spine, and she took a step
back from the glass.

Lud, a storm. A violent one, too, from the look of it.
In an instant, her palms dampened, and she wiped them
on her dressing gown as she continued her retreat away
from the window, toward the bed. When the backs of
her shaky legs bumped the mattress, she sat, her gaze
never leaving the now-shuddering glass as the wind
grew to a howl.

The hair on the nape of her neck lifted just as the
room lit with a brilliant burst of light. The crash that followed sent Eleanor back to her feet, scurrying to the
door. Her heart beating wildly, she pressed her back
against the heavy oak panel, fighting back the hysteria
that rose in her breast.

The wind began to lash at the window, the shutters
creaking under the onslaught. Another flash of blinding
light. The crack of thunder followed only seconds later,
and Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, pressing herself
more tightly against the door. The storm was moving
closer, near enough on top of them now.

Opening her eyes, she looked to the bed, considering
climbing beneath it till the storm subsided. Just then the candle, still sitting in its scrolled iron holder on the
dressing table, flickered briefly, then extinguished itself.

Her panic rose a pitch, her breath coming faster. It
was dark now, entirely dark until another flash of lightning lit the room, followed not a second later by the accompanying clap of thunder. As a girl, she would have
run to Henry's bed in their shared nursery and cowered
beneath the covers with him beside her. But she was no
longer a girl, and Henry was not there. The sound of
blood rushing through her veins roared in her temples,
and for a moment Eleanor feared she was going mad.

The next crash of thunder was so terrifying, so horribly ear-splitting, that she reached for the doorknob and
began frantically twisting it, her damp palm slipping
and sliding against the cut glass. At last it gave and she
rammed the door with her shoulder, scurrying into the
hall with one hand covering her mouth. With a strangled
cry, she pressed herself against the far wall, her eyes
squeezed tightly shut as she sought to regulate her
breathing.

"Good God, Eleanor," a male voice called out, startling her so badly that her heart skipped a beat. "Whatever is wrong?"

Frederick stepped back in surprise, the heel of his
boot thumping against the molded baseboard. Eleanor
stared at him mutely, looking like a frightened child as
she pressed herself against the wall. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders in glossy waves, spilling across
breasts that rose and fell with rapid breaths.

As a flash of lighting briefly illuminated the corridor,
Frederick allowed his hungry gaze to travel down her
form, to her bare feet and back up again. The scent of
her, clean soap and lemon verbena, filled the air, warming Frederick's flesh. What the devil was she doing,
standing out in the hall in her nightclothes?

A crash of thunder shook the house, and he heard
Eleanor's sharp gasp, watched as she squeezed her eyes
shut and bit her lower lip. The storm. She was frightened of the storm? A woman like Eleanor Ashton, so
terrified that she would venture out into the hall wearing naught but a dressing gown? It seemed unlikely at
best, but what other explanation was there?

He took a step toward her, brushing a lock of hair
from her shoulder as he reached for her. She was trem bling. "Eleanor," he said softly, reaching for her hand,
"are you unwell? Shall I send for a physician?"

She opened her eyes and raised her chin, her wildeyed gaze meeting his, and his pulse leapt in alarm.
"Fred ... Frederick?" she stuttered, as if just realizing
his presence there beside her. A faint flash of lightning
skittered across the wall, weaker now. The storm was
moving away. The thunder that followed was nothing
but a low rumble in the distance, barely discernible over
the steady staccato of rain against the roof.

Still clasping her hand in his own, he rubbed her
palm with his thumb, as if trying to awaken her. "That's
it, love. The storm has passed"

Her free hand moved to the neckline of her wrapper,
her trembling fingers tracing the lace that trimmed it.
"I ... I don't know what .. " She cleared her throat. "I
did not realize you had returned"

"Aye, Henley and I returned not an hour ago, just
before the storm. Are you certain you're well? You're
shaking"

She pulled her hand free from his grasp, and he heard
her swallow before replying. "Yes, I'm well enough.
The lightning ... it seemed so very close that I grew
concerned, and ... and-"

"Don't worry yourself, Eleanor. Your secret is safe
with me"

She shook her head, her unbound hair floating about
her shoulders. "Secret? I don't know what you mean. I
was just ... that is . . " She turned away from him, her
hands balled into fists by her sides.

Frederick couldn't help the low chuckle that rumbled
up from his chest. It was true, then-the stoic and sensible Eleanor, her composure felled by a storm.

"Please don't laugh at me, Frederick," she said, her
voice such a gentle plea that he felt immediately contrite for having done so. "I'm humiliated enough as it is," she
added softly.

He reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips.
"Please forgive me, Eleanor. I should not have laughed.
You've no cause for humiliation."

"Don't I?" she asked, her voice sharp now. "A grown
woman, trembling like a child because of a storm"

He grasped her chin and forced her eyes to meet his,
her lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. "A violent one,
Eleanor. It passed directly over Whitby Hall and moved
away as fast as it came. I've no doubt that Whitby's gardeners will be busy tomorrow removing tree limbs and
branches that did not hold up under the onslaught."

She nodded, sending a lock of hair across her flushed
cheek. He took it between his fingers, surprised at how
soft and silky it felt, then tucked it behind her ear.

"But the storm has passed and you, my sweet, are
safe," he added, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Thank you, Frederick," she said, her voice a husky
whisper. "I ... I feel much recovered already."

"You've stopped trembling." He raised her hand, still
clasped tightly in his. How often did he get to hold a
lady's hand without the barrier of a glove between them?
The forbidden nature of the touch, innocent though it
was, made it somehow erotic, stirring his desire.

Eleanor must have sensed it, because she began to
look about furtively. "What if Selina or Lord Henley
were to see us here? This is most improper. I suppose I
should ask you to unhand me"

"Have no fear, Eleanor. I can assure you that Henley
and his wife are well occupied at the moment. The man
was chomping at the bit, desperate to get back to her side.
You can rest easy that they will not discover us here"

A faint smile curved Eleanor's mouth, the color in her
cheeks deepening. "But what of Mister Whitby?"

"Yes, what of Mister Whitby? What do you suppose
he would say were he to find us here like this?"

Eleanor arched a brow in reply. "I'm certain he would
somehow liken the situation to a hunt of some sort; a
fox hut, perhaps. And then he'd prattle on endlessly
about it."

Ali, so she wasn't so smitten with Mister Whitby,
after all. How very interesting. Whitby must be a bigger
fool than he'd supposed.

Eleanor's brow suddenly creased with a frown. "If
you've returned, does that mean you've found Mister
Eckford?"

"We found a man who recognized him, a barkeep at
an inn just north of Plymouth. He claims that the man
he believes to be Eckford patronizes his establishment
the fourth Tuesday of every month and isn't due back
for a fortnight. Still, Henley and I will return there early
next week, to be certain"

"I'm surprised you found such a promising lead so
easily."

"As am I. It troubles me that it was perhaps far too
easy. Which is why I plan to continue my inquiries in
the meantime."

"I've ... I've been so worried these past few days. I
only hope you'll be careful."

-I'll do what needs to be done," he answered, far too
sharply. Instantly, he regretted it. She had worriedover him?

The words barely registered in his mind before
Eleanor tugged her hand from his. "I should go"

"I suppose you should, as much as it pains me to say
so. Shall I help you to bed? Perhaps I could come tuck
you in?" he offered with a grin.

"I believe I can manage, sir." She bit her lip and he
imagined her trying to suppress a smile.

"Sir? Now you fall back on propriety? After standing
about in your dressing gown, conversing with me for
nearly a quarter hour?"

Eleanor shrugged, then tightened the belt on her
wrapper. "You make me forget myself, that's all."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, rubbing his stubbly cheek
with his palm. "I must live up to my reputation, you
know."

He could have sworn he saw Eleanor roll her eyes
heavenward before she reached for the doorknob and
opened the door to her bedchamber.

"Good night, Mister Stoneham," she said, looking
back over her shoulder at him, her dark hair framing her
face in tumbling waves.

He wanted to remember that image of her-to burn
it into his memory so that he could recall it later while
lying alone in bed.

He shook his head in frustration. Damn, but he
needed to get back to London, to Molly-and soon.
"Good night, Lady Eleanor," he said, sighing in relief
as she hurried through the door and closed it softly
behind herself. Frederick let out his breath in a rush,
reaching up to loosen his cravat. A click broke the silence as Eleanor turned the key in the lock.

What the bloody hell does she think, that I'm going to
force my way in and have my way with her ifshe doesn't
lock me out? He almost laughed aloud at the thought.
Perhaps she knew him better than he thought.

Unbuttoning his coat, he continued on toward his own
guest chamber. In minutes he stood in nothing save his
breeches and boots, one polished Hessian propped on the
low stool before the window as he gazed out on the night.
Heavy, gray sheets of rain continued to pelt the window, a
steady drum that he found soothing. Unlike Eleanor, he enjoyed a good storm. The power of the winds, the ferocity of lightning-they awed him, impressed him, made him
feel powerful yet insignificant, all at once.

He raked one hand through his hair, exhaling slowly
as he did so. Devil take it, but he needed to get away
from Eleanor Ashton, and fast. He should never have
agreed to Henley's help in the first place, and then he
would not have found himself in this predicament-and
it certainly was a predicament.

How had he managed to underestimate Eleanor so
entirely? Why had he remembered her as a biddable
type of woman? The type that would inspire lust in no
one, that he could shuffle off to rusticate whilst he continued to live his life the way he was accustomed to
living it recklessly, dangerously.

He had no use for proper ladies. The innocent misses of
the ton had never held an appeal for him, with their submissive, compliant natures, their useless talents. Whores
and courtesans were far more interesting, unencumbered
as they were in their efforts to live their lives in a way
which pleased them rather than blindly following the dictates of society, of their families, their husbands.

But Eleanor ... Eleanor was different. Nothing like the
debutantes of his acquaintance who giggled behind fans,
pretty smiles painted on their lips as they simpered and
flirted in hopes of snaring a man with a title or fortune.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not possibly
imagine Eleanor behaving in such a fashion. She was
likely too tall, her features too bold to be considered a
great beauty amongst the ton, and yet she took his
breath away. How had he not anticipated that it would
be so? After all, he'd kissed her all those years ago. Had
he been so full of youthful swagger, so full of himself
and his ability to win a wager, that he had failed to
notice the diamond in the rough that Eleanor must have
been at six and ten?