To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (15 page)

When he remembered the careless words he'd spoken to
Molly not so very long ago, a stab of shame pierced his
gut. Clenching his fists by his sides, he turned from the
window, his gaze drawn toward the door. No doubt Eleanor
was lying in bed right now, thinking him an irredeemable
cad, an unforgivable rogue. And how right she was-how
goddamned right. His stomach began to churn uncomfortably. He'd told Molly that Eleanor had a huge portion
behind her, that he could use his wife's dowry to buy her
trinkets. What kind of man was he, to say such things? To
speak so dismissively of a woman like Eleanor, a woman
who was everything a woman should be and more?

He turned back toward the window where the patter
of rain was now more irregular, nothing but the occasional thump against the glass. He'd been a fool to agree
to the marriage contract in the first place. As soon as he
located Eckford and dealt with the bastard, he'd return
to Essex and speak to Lord Mandeville himself, tell him
exactly why he could not marry his daughter. And then
he would forget her-forget the way she looked at him
with no guile in her eyes, the way she spoke her mind,
the way she set his blood afire like no one else ever had.

Eleanor deserved better than him, after all. The insipid
George Whitby would likely make a good, solid husband.

At the very least, Whitby would not break Eleanor's
heart, would not fail to live up to her expectations, as he
surely would.

A coldness settled in the pit of his stomach. Yes, he
would tell Mandeville exactly what sort of husband he
would be-one who kept mistresses, who took his pleasure at every given opportunity, who spent as much time
away from his wife's company as possible, propriety
be damned. What kind of man would force his daughter
to marry a man who confessed to such things?

After all, it wasn't as if he were in line to inherit a duke dom. Nothing but a modest barony, profitable though it
might be, lay in Frederick's future. He was no great catch
for a marquess's daughter, even had his character been
unimpeachable-which it most certainly was not.

Frederick crossed the room in several strides, moving
to stand before the crackling fire. Reaching up, he
pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing to relieve the
dull ache in his head. While they remained there in
Devon together, he must resist the temptation to seek
Eleanor out. No use torturing himself with more images
like the one that now held his fascination-her in her
dressing gown, belted tight, the bodice hugging her
breasts. Her hair loose and unbound, longer than he'd
imagined it, framing her face in ebony waves. And even
more fascinating-more attractive than her beautywas the feeling of camaraderie he felt whenever he was
with her. Exactly when it had blossomed, he could not
say. But at some point Eleanor had gone from being a
woman he simply desired to a woman he truly liked.
Tonight she had been afraid, and he had comforted her.
She had worried about him when no one else had. Was
that not a friendship?

The log on the fire snapped and hissed, shooting up
a starburst of light. As the ash settled back to the grate,
Frederick slumped into the worn leather chair beside the
hearth with a groan. This was going to be difficult, far
more difficult than he'd imagined.

"You look exhausted, Eleanor." Selina laid down her
embroidery, her brows drawn in concern over her pale
blue eyes. "Have you not slept well?"

Eleanor set aside her own embroidery hoop with a sigh.
She would have to pull out all her clumsy stitches and redo them, anyway. She simply could not concentrate, try as she might. "I've slept well enough," she answered,
knowing it wasn't entirely true. She'd lain abed the past
two nights, wishing in vain for sleep to come easily. It
hadn't. Instead, she'd tossed and turned, her entire being
distracted by the thought that Frederick slept nearby,
naught but two doors separating them. She knew she
should not care. Truly, she shouldn't think of it at all.

But she did, weak, foolish woman that she was. Her traitorous mind imagined him lying in bed, bare-chestednot that she'd ever before seen a man bare-chested, of
course, but it did not stop her from imagining it. Her
cheeks warmed at the memory of the conjured image, his
skin a warm, honeyed brown, the muscles beneath hard
and taut, tapering down to a narrow waist before disappearing beneath the bedclothes ...

"Shall I speak with Mister Whitby?"

Eleanor realized Selina was speaking to her, and the
heat intensified in her cheeks. "You must forgive me,
Selina. I'm afraid I was woolgathering."

"Don't apologize, dearest" Selina leaned over and
patted Eleanor's hand. "I was only asking if you thought
I should send for an apothecary. Perhaps you could use
a sleeping tonic" Selina turned toward the door where
a low rumble of male voices gained on them, then faded
away as footsteps continued down the corridor. Returning her gaze to Eleanor, Selina smiled weakly. "I know
this must be a trying time for you. Though I cannot say
I'm sorry to have my Henley back with us again, I am
sorry that Mister Stoneham's presence is forced upon
you. At least you can take comfort in the fact that he has
left you in peace these past two days"

He's avoiding inc. Eleanor thought, though I cannot
say why. They'd last exchanged words the night of the
storm. Friendly words, for the most part. Since then, he
had kept a respectable distance from her. He had not dined with them, nor did he join them in the drawing
room after dinner. She had no idea how he occupied himself when he was not cloistered away in Mister Whitby's
study with Henley.

As if Frederick's dismissal were not enough, Mister
Whitby had suddenly begun to act less like an amiable
host and more like a suitor. She liked him well enoughtruly, she did. It was exactly as she'd wished for, and yet
his efforts at courtship brought her no pleasure.

"Indeed," Eleanor lied, retrieving her embroidery. "I
am quite relieved that Frederick has been so accommodating" She busied herself with imprecise stitches,
unwilling to meet Selina's knowing gaze.

"Frederick's return has not been without its benefits,
though. Why, I do believe Mister Whitby has finally
found his wits and begun to properly court you."

"Mister Whitby's attentions have become quite enthusiastic, though I cannot credit Frederick's return as the
cause. Ow!" Eleanor dropped her hoop and stared at her
fingertip where a single drop of ruby-red blood appeared.

Selina handed her a linen handkerchief "Oh, but of
course you can. He only needed some competition, is
all. Perhaps you will have his offer before we return to
Essex. Exactly as you'd hoped for, Eleanor."

She pressed the ecru handkerchief to her pricked
finger, watching as the single drop stained the fabric a
bright red. "I'm so clumsy," she said, wishing to divert
the conversation.

Selina moved to sit directly beside her. "Tell me,
Eleanor, you do still hope to gain Mister Whitby's affections, do you not? You have not allowed Frederick's
presence to distract you, have you? I know he can be
charming, but you must realize-"

"You must excuse me, Selina." Eleanor rose sharply, her stomach pitching uncomfortably. "I'm suddenly
feeling a bit dizzy."

Selina smiled up at her. "You've never been able to
endure the sight of blood, have you?"

Eleanor's first instinct was to correct her friend-to
tell her that it was not the sight of a mere drop of blood
that had her so discomposed. Let her think it so, she resolved upon further reflection. Far better than her knowing the truth, that her conflicting emotions about Mister
Whitby, about Frederick, were near enough driving her
to distraction.

"I only need a bit of air," Eleanor said, forcing a bit
of cheer into her voice.

"Are you certain? Perhaps you should lie down
instead"

Eleanor reached for her friend's hand and gave it an
affectionate squeeze. "I'm certain, dear Selina. A turn
about the garden will set me to rights in no time"

"I would join you, but I promised Henley I would
take tea with him"

"Do not trouble yourself Of course you shall stay indoors and take your tea with that charming husband of
yours. Besides, you know how briskly I take my exercise.
You can never keep up, always begging me to slow down"

Selina laughed, a bright, tinkling sound that made
Eleanor smile in appreciation. "It's true. But you must
see, I'm forced to take two steps for every one of yours"

"True, indeed. Someday I shall learn to promenade in
a more ladylike fashion-"

"-but not today," Selina finished for her.

"Precisely."

"Go, then, Eleanor. Enjoy the outdoors"

In minutes, Eleanor had changed into a sturdy walking dress and boots and set out on an unfamiliar path,
one that took her past the stables, along a low fence that bordered a grassy field. On the crook of her arm she
carried a small wicker basket containing paper and ink,
thinking she'd find a quiet spot to sit and write a long
letter to Henry.

Her step was brisk along the path where hardy, lateblooming sweet-pea and hollyhocks grew in profusion.
Now and then Eleanor stopped to pick a fragrant bloom,
laying them in her basket to bring back to Selina.

Perhaps a quarter mile down the path she paused
before a particularly lush clump of hollyhocks, their
heart-shaped petals a pleasing purplish-pink. She reached
out to snap off a bloom, but leapt back in surprise at the
sound of gunfire up ahead, so loud that a flock of birds
scattered through the treetops beside the path, squawking
loudly as their wings beat the leaves.

Whatever was that? Mister Whitby was back at
Whitby Hall, shut inside his study with his steward, not
out in his park with a gun, chasing down whatever could
be had.

Another shot fired, the smell of gunpowder carried
on the breeze. Whomever it was, they were just over the
rise ahead of her, and she hurried on, the hollyhocks
all but forgotten.

As soon as she crested the rise she saw himFrederick, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Holding a
gun, his arm outstretched, taking aim at what appeared
to be a fence in the distance. Another shot fired.

She knew she ought to turn back, but curiosity got
the best of her and she approached silently, watching as
he reloaded his weapon and took aim once more, firing
toward the fence in a puff of smoke.

Eleanor tried to stifle a cough as the gunpowder
drifted her way.

Frederick whirled toward her, his eyes narrowing
when he spied her there. "Good God, woman!" he barked. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on
someone when they're firing a pistol?"

"I did not mean to sneak up on you," she said, approaching him. "I was only out for a walk, and I heard
shots being fired."

"And you thought to come investigate?" He tucked
the pistol into the waistband of his fawn-colored
breeches. "Normally one would go in the opposite direction, you know."

"I am sorry for startling you. Whatever are you
shooting at?"

He pointed toward the fence. "Do you see the line of
crabapples, there on the railing?"

Eleanor squinted, barely able to make out the row of
tiny fruit sitting atop the fence's uppermost rail. "You're
shooting at such a small target as that?"

"With astonishing accuracy, I might add" He patted
the pistol.

"I suppose I should be impressed, then. You've been
avoiding me?" she said at last, phrasing it as a question
rather than a statement.

"I have been, yes," he answered, entirely unapologetic. "But since you found me here-"

"I did not come looking for you," she interrupted, her
cheeks flooding with heat.

"I do not doubt it." He peered over her shoulder.
"What do you have in the basket?"

"Pen and ink. Some paper. I planned to write a letter
to Henry."

?
"Henry?"

"My brother. My twin, actually."

"Oh, yes, that's right. Though I did not realize he was
your twin."

She nodded. "Eight minutes my junior, if I'm not
mistaken."

"And I suppose you think those eight minutes entitle
you to boss him around whenever you wish. Am I
correct?"

"Of course," she said with a laugh. "I suppose your
sisters bossed you around, as well?"

"Indeed they did, all five of them"

"Five? I did not realize you had quite so many"

"Katherine, Emma, Isabella, Anne, and Maria," he
ticked off. "All born after Charles but before me. And
all as bossy as fishwives, each and every one of them"

"I'm sure Henry would say the same of me" Her
gaze trailed back to the fence, to the tiny little crabapples sitting there. "I did not mean to interrupt your practice. I still cannot see how you can possibly hit such a
small target as that at such a distance"

"Shall I show you?" He removed the ivory-handled
pistol from his waistband and held it out to her. "Or perhaps you'd like to give it a .try yourself?"

She shook her head, taking a step backward. "Thank
you, but no. I've no interest in firearms."

"No? Have you ever held a pistol?"

"Why ever would I?" she asked.

He shrugged, turning over the pistol in his palm. "I
thought perhaps your brother might have taught you to
shoot "

"In case you were not made aware of it, Frederick,
ladies are not generally taught to shoot"

"A shame, really," he drawled. "Come, I'll show you"

"No, really I-"

"Here, like this." He loaded the pistol, then came to
stand behind her, reaching for her hand and placing the
cold, hard metal in her grasp. "That's it, finger on the
trigger. Take aim. No, it's not really necessary to close
one eye"

She barely heard his words, so focused was she on the fact that his entire body pressed against hers, his
masculine scent overpowering her senses and making
her pulse leap. Still, she attempted to point the pistol's
barrel at the leftmost crabapple.