To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (16 page)

"That's it, love." He steadied her arm with his own.
"Now go on, squeeze the trigger."

She did, the blast causing her to stagger backward
against him as the fence rail exploded into splinters with
a loud crack. She could only stare in astonishment.

"Hmm. Well, that was close. I suppose we'll have to
tell Mister Whitby that you shot his fence. Think how
excited he'll get, imagining you firing a pistol. Next
thing you know, he'll give you a hunting rifle with your
name engraved on it."

Eleanor could not help but laugh at the image.

"Come, we should get you back to the house" He
bent down and retrieved his coat from the grass, along
with her basket. "No doubt that arm's going to hurt. I'm
afraid I hadn't considered that"

It already did, she realized with a frown, clutching at
her elbow. And her clothes smelled of gunpowder. However would she explain that?

Still, in an odd way she'd enjoyed it, firing the pistol.
It had made her feel somehow empowered. Was this
why men became so obsessed with shooting, fleeing
Town in droves come August, off to hunt grouse?

"Upon further thought, perhaps this should remain
our little secret," Frederick said, falling into step beside
her as they made their way back toward the house. "You
firing the gun, I mean. I wouldn't want to give poor
Henley an apoplexy, after all. Propriety and all that"

Eleanor only nodded, glancing back at the shattered
fence. After all, what was one more secret, where Frederick was concerned?

"Are you sure you won't join me, Mister Whitby?"
Eleanor asked, reaching for her heavy woolen cloak.
The day was mild, but it would be much cooler where
she was headed, up on the bluff.

"I wish I could, but I'm expecting my solicitor. But
thank you for your company at breakfast, Lady Eleanor.
I must confess, I'm glad that Henley and Selina did not
join us, as I enjoyed having you all to myself"

"Why, thank you, Mister Whitby," she murmured,
tucking a book of poetry beneath her arm.

"Go on, then," he said with a smile, bowing sharply.
"Enjoy your exercise"

Eleanor nodded, then hurried out, eager to feel the
warm sunshine on her face. Her feet seemed to skim
over the lawn as she hurried across the grounds, through
the copse of trees, and across a marigold-filled meadow
that led toward the sea. As she drew closer to her destination, she hurried her step in anticipation.

Almost there! With a total loss of decorum, she
dashed up the bluff, her heavy woolen cloak billowing
out behind her. What a breathtaking day! All morning
she'd been itching to escape the confines of the house, to breathe in the briny air and watch the waves crash
against the shore. She could sit there on the bluff all day,
reading poetry or simply staring at the sea. As much as
she hated to admit it, she was infinitely glad that Mister
Whitby had not joined her.

Indeed, it was a spot best enjoyed alone, she thought,
cresting the rise at last. Her gaze swept appreciatively
over the vista before her as she inhaled the salty air, a
slow smile spreading across her face. She raised one
hand to shield her eyes from the near-blinding sun
which reflected off the blue-gray water below.

This was, without a doubt, the loveliest place in all of
Devonshire. She could not help but laugh aloud in pleasure, the sound carried off on the breeze.

"Lovely, isn't it?"

Eleanor gasped, whirling toward the voice. Frederick? She looked about wildly, seeing no one. Had she
imagined it? Was the sea playing tricks on her? Her
pulse raced, her breath coming far too fast.

"Up here," came the voice again, and Eleanor raised
her gaze.

At last she found him, perched in the lowest branches
of a tree that was gnarled and bent away from the sea.
His boots dangled several feet off the ground, reflecting
the sun in their luster.

It took several seconds for her to find her voice.
"What in God's name are you doing up there?" she finally managed, near breathlessly.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he called down
as Eleanor took two cautious steps in his direction. "I'm
enjoying the view."

"From a tree?" she asked, unable to hide the disbelief
in her voice. It was ... unseemly. A grown man, sitting
in a tree? She'd never heard the likes of it.

"The view is incomparable. Would you care to join me?"

"In the tree?"

"Precisely that, yes" His laugh was a low rumble.

She could enjoy the view well enough from where she
stood, her feet planted firmly on the ground. "You've
lost your wits, Frederick Stoneham"

"I'm not certain I ever had them to begin with. What
is that you have therein your hand? A book?"

Eleanor looked at the leather-bound volume she carried. "Yes, just some poetry. I ... I came up here to
read"

"Read aloud, then"

She shook her head. "Perhaps I should go and leave
you to your solitude."

"I enjoy your company far more than my own."

For a moment, Eleanor said nothing. Shielding her
eyes from the unrelenting sun, she stared at the sea. "I
thought you were avoiding me"

"I was," he answered. "For your own good. But just
like yesterday you found me, and-"

"Are you really so conceited as that? To think I would
search you out, two days in a row? Besides, it would
seem you knew I favored this spot"

"Very well, perhaps I did" He shrugged. "So now
that we've established that I'm a selfish bastard, why
don't you stay and read to me"

Eleanor looked at her book again, Wordsworth's and
Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads. Dare she? She often read
aloud to Selina, to Henry as well. But this was altogether
different. The very idea made her feel somehow ...
exposed. "I should warn you that it is nothing so bawdy
as what you read to me the day our carriage lost a wheel.
I'm afraid you'll find these verses far less titillating than
those you favor."

"Or perhaps I'll surprise you with my excellent taste. Come now, Eleanor. Be a sport. Sit, and pretend I am
not here. I'll remain in my perch, a safe distance away."

Eleanor bit her lower lip, considering his request.
"Very well," she said at last, unfastening her cloak and
spreading it out upon the grass. Suddenly very aware of
her ungainly height, she sat on the cloak with as much
grace as she could muster, tucking her long legs beneath
herself.

Opening the book, she flipped through the gilttrimmed pages, searching for just the right verse to suit
the day. At last she found it, the very last poem in the
collection. She took a deep, steadying breath and began
to read, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of
crashing waves below them.

Five years have passed; five summers, with the
length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

She continued on, her voice growing increasingly
steady and clear as the beautiful words slipped off her
tongue. Perhaps ten minutes later she came to the final
verses, her voice thick with emotion. With enormous restraint, she held the tears in check as she read the final
words.

If I should be, where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these
gleams

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together- And that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Now wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear both for themselves, and for thy sake.

Softly, she closed the book and set it down beside her.
Such beautiful, romantic words! Eleanor never tired of
them; they never failed to bring a tear to her eye, a longing to her heart.

Summoning the courage to do so, she raised her gaze
to the tree where Frederick sat silently. For several minutes, he simply stared out at the sea with his hair blowing behind him in the breeze. In profile, he appeared
older than his twenty-three years, his noble blood more
obvious. His dark whiskers outlined his strong, angular jaw, his lips full beneath a perfectly-shaped nose, his
nostrils slightly flared. She turned away, unable to bear
the now-familiar wave of desire that crashed over her.

And then he spoke, breaking the heavy silence. "That
was exquisite, Eleanor. Perhaps the loveliest reading I've
ever heard. And so very fitting, too. Was that Wordsworth?"

Eleanor cleared her throat. "Indeed it was. Do you
enjoy his work?"

"Never before did I find it as enjoyable as that. Your
voice is beautiful, and you infused his words with such
passion. You'll make a devoted follower out of me yet "

Eleanor felt her heart swell with the compliment.
"Then I am glad I chose it. Shall I read another?"

"Indeed you shall, and I shall once more be your captive audience. However, I do believe I will join you
there on terra firma, if you don't mind."

Eleanor shook her head, watching him as he grinned
down at her. "I don't mind. Really, Frederick, have you
any idea how silly you look, perched up there like a boy?"

"Look at that ship," he called out, his attention returned to the sea. "It's enormous. Not a packet, I would
wager."

Eleanor scrambled to her feet, peering out over the
edge of the bluff toward the bluish gray waves. "Where?"

"There," he said, pointing toward the horizon.

Craning her neck, she rose on tiptoe but saw nothing
save the open sea. "I don't see anything," she said, shaking her head.

"Likely an American ship" One hand raised to shield
his eyes, he squinted against the sun, the corners of his
eyes crinkling ever so slightly with the effort. "Look at
the sails."

"What of them? I see nothing but water, as far as the
eye can see"

"Here," he said, reaching a hand down to her. "Can
you climb up here, to the lowest branch? I'll assist you"

"You want me to climb the tree?" Eleanor's voice
raised a pitch. "Are you mad?"

"You want to, don't you?" he drawled seductively.
"Come, climb up here and take a look. There's some
sort of design on the sails, something I've never before
seen. I won't tell a soul," he added with a wink.

For the briefest of moments, Eleanor thought to
refuse. Then again, it would not be the first tree she had
climbed. As children, she and Henry had whiled away
many a pleasant summer afternoon perched in the branches of a tree at Covington Hall. Eleanor had never
been afraid of scraping a knee or taking a tumble; it had
been her frail brother she had worried over, not her own
safety. She had been strong, able. And she could most
certainly climb a tree.

"Very well," she said, reaching up to take his proffered hand. The gnarled tree offered plenty of footholds
and in seconds she reached the low branches where
Frederick sat. As if settling herself into a swing, she
lowered her bottom to the thick, sturdy branch beside
him, one hand still clasped in his.

Immediately she spotted the ship off near the horizon,
its brightly patterned sails billowed out on the wind as
it sailed for Plymouth.

"There it is. You're right, it is enormous."

Frederick regarded her with one raised brow. "You
climbed up here remarkably fast"

"I did, didn't I?" Eleanor smiled, pleased with herself. "You must promise that you will not tell Selina. My
dear friend would positively die of vexation to learn just
how hoydenish I've become"

"I remembered you to be quite the hoyden, dashing
through meadows, splashing in the river's shallows. Do
you remember the time we raced across a field on
horseback, you in the saddle beside me?"

"I'd entirely forgotten about that," she said, the memories flooding back. She'd banished them, once she'd
heard him laughing about her with his friends, once
she'd realized that their friendship had been nothing but
a sham. "Anyway, that was so very long ago. I was only
a girl. I'd never dare to behave like that now."

"Are you always the proper lady, then?"

"But of course. It's what's expected of me. I am the
daughter of a marquess, in case you have forgotten"

"I have not forgotten. But you didn't used to be so . .

He trailed off, shaking his head. She was right; she'd only
been a girl then, when he'd first met her. He could not
compare it. "Never mind. Tell me about your father," he
said instead. "What is Lord Mandeville like?"

Eleanor dropped her gaze to her lap, carefully considering the question. "He is a passionate man," she said at
last. "A philosopher at heart. He cares deeply for those he
loves, and gives freely of himself. Those who know him
well would say he is kind, generous, and magnanimous."

"I've heard it said that he does not often take his seat
in Parliament, but when he does his speeches are
moving and effective"

Eleanor nodded. "There is no doubt that my father
has a way with words. I think perhaps he should have
been apoet"

Frederick snapped off a small twig, twirling it in his
fingers. "And what of Lady Mandeville?"

Eleanor's stomach lurched. "What do you wish to
know?"

"What kind of woman is she really? Rumors and
hearsay aside, since those things are often based in halftruths and lies."

If only that were the case in this instance, she thought
with annoyance. Gazing out at the sea, she sighed
deeply. "Mama is a proud woman," she murmured, feeling disloyal. "Though not always prudent. I fear that
much of what you have heard is true, though it pains me
to admit it. I do not model my own behavior on hers, of
that you can be certain. Still, she is my mother and so I
must love her."