To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (17 page)

"Simply because she is of your blood? That fact, and
that fact alone, commands your love?"

Eleanor nodded. "Indeed"

"Hmph," Frederick grunted. "I find you are much
more charitable than I am"

"Though not so forgiving. There are some injuries
that I can neither forgive nor forget, no matter how unchristian that makes me." The cruel ways Mama had
treated Henry. "There, now you know my greatest flaw."

Frederick threw his head back and laughed. "My
dear, if that is your worst flaw then you are a veritable
saint."

"A saint, sitting in a tree?" Eleanor could not help the
smile that spread across her face as she swung her feet
beneath her, the wind whipping at her skirts. "Surely
not" Her eyes scanned the sea before her, looking for
the enormous ship, but it had disappeared from sight.
"You were correct, you know. The view up here is far
more spectacular than down below."

Frederick poked at her skirts with the twig he held,
a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I'm surprised your
Mister Whitby did not suggest it himself"

Eleanor arched a brow. "Do you suppose Mister
Whitby climbs trees? I rather find it hard to imagine."

"I do not pretend to understand the sporting type," he
answered with a shrug. He turned, looking off beyond
Eleanor's left shoulder. "Look," he said, pointing to a line
of silver-barked trees. "Just over that rise. Do you see that
sandy trail, just beyond those trees?"

Eleanor followed the direction of his arm, narrowing her eyes. "Beside the silver ashes?"

"Indeed. This morning I followed that trail, perhaps
two hundred yards on foot. The brush is far too dense
for a horse. Anyway, you would not believe what I
found, perched there on the side of the cliff."

"A great bird's nest?" she offered.

"No, nothing like that. Something far more intriguing."

"Well then, tell me. What did you find?"

"I found a wonderful little cottage, nearly hidden
from view. Well-kept, though it did not appear inhab ited. It's within the grounds of Whitby Hall, though I
could not discern its purpose. Inside there's naught but
an elaborately draped bed and a chaise longue before
the hearth. There were fine linens on the bed and ashes
in the hearth, but no other signs of habitation save several candles scattered about. No table, no cooking utensils. Odd, don't you think?"

Eleanor's brow creased with a frown. "You went
inside?"

Frederick only shrugged. "A key hung behind the
shutter. Not very clever."

"I cannot believe you would be so bold as to trespass on Mister Whitby's property."

"Do not be such a prig, Eleanor. It isn't the least bit
becoming. Anyway, one can only suppose that it's some
sort of love nest, wouldn't you say?"

Heat flooded Eleanor's cheeks. "How dare you attempt to cast aspersion on Mister Whitby's character in
such a fashion!"

"Oh, do not get yourself into a pique. I did not say I
believed it to be your precious Whitby's love nest now,
did I?"

"You insinuated that it was"

"Well, it is on the man's property, after all," he muttered. "Who else's love nest do you suppose it could be?"

"I'm sure there is a satisfactory explanation. For you
to jump to such a conclusion is ... is .. "Eleanor sputtered, entirely flummoxed by the turn the conversation
had taken. "It is coarse and crude for you to even suggest it"

"What? That perhaps the man has a lover?"

Was Frederick jealous? Had he noticed how ardently
Mister Whitby had begun to court her, and now wished
to paint the man in the most unpleasant light possible?
"You impugn his honor, sir, and I cannot abide it"

"Impugn his honor? Why, I meant it as a compliment.
Perhaps the man isn't quite the eunuch I believed him
to be"

"And that is where we differ, Mister Stoneham. To
suggest something so impure about a gentleman is not
considered a compliment in polite society."

Frederick grasped the branch beneath himself and
swung down easily to the ground. His feet planted wide
and his arms folded across his chest, he regarded her
with a steady gaze. "Need I remind you that the gentleman in question is nearly thirty years of age?" he asked.
"Surely you do not believe him to be a virgin?"

Eleanor rolled her eyes heavenward. "I cannot believe you would say such a thing as that. Must you
always go and ruin everything? Here, help me down."

"Why, so you can flounce back to the house in a
temper?"

"I'll have you know I do not flounce," she shot back.
"And I am not in a temper. Will you at least attempt to
act like a gentleman and take my hand? It's far easier
to jump than to climb back down."

He moved closer, reaching a hand up to her outstretched one. "Here, your other hand. Don't fret, love.
I'll catch you"

"Or let me fall on my face for your own amusement,"
she said with a huff, warily taking his hands in hers.

"I'm far too selfish for that. I'd prefer your pretty face
to remain intact. Very well, I've got you. Now jump."

Eleanor did as he requested. Frederick caught her in
his arms, her body pressed against his. Slowly, seductively, he lowered her, inch by inch toward the ground.
Her body slid against the hard, muscular planes of his,
raising gooseflesh on her skin. At last her toes touched
the ground; still, he did not release her. Her pulse leapt,
her heart accelerating at an alarming rate. She could feel his heart, pounding just as wildly, as erratically, as her
own. His warm brown gaze held hers, his eyes near to
smoldering.

"Put me down," she said meekly, not really wishing
him to.

"The cottage," he said, his voice a growl.

"What of it?"

"Meet me there tonight."

She shook her head wildly. "No, I cannot"

"You can," he shot back. "You want to, don't you?"

"You are mistaken, Frederick. I have no desire to do
something so improper, so foolhardy as that"

"Oh, but you do desire it. I can feel it, in every fiber
of your being. I can see it, there in your eyes. They are
the color of indigo ink, you know," he said, tracing her
lower lip with his thumb. "So very lovely."

Eleanor lowered her gaze, shielding her eyes from his
view. She said nothing in reply, fearing her voice would
betray her just as surely as her eyes had done.

He reached for her chin and tipped it up, forcing her
gaze back up to his. "Meet me there, at the cottage," he
pressed, sounding far more Irish than before. "After
Whitby and the Henleys have retired. Say you will."

There was no denying that she wanted todesperately. It was foolish of her, reckless, irresponsible. And yet she wished to, more than anything.

"You must dine with us tonight, and join us afterward
in the drawing room. Only then will I agree."

"Very well, love," he said with a bow. "If that's the price
I must pay, then so be it. I will dine with you, and I will
make merry in the drawing room. Any other demands?"

Silently, she shook her head. Why is she making such
nonsensical demands? she wondered. So that he could
watch Mister Whitby court her? So that he would know
another man found her desirable?

"No? Hmmm, what an intriguing bargain, then. I can
hardly wait."

"Just go," she said, cocking her head toward the
house.

"Oh, no. I shall escort you back, like a proper gentleman." He hastily retrieved her cloak and book from the
grass, handing her the volume of poetry. In several long
strides, he crossed the bluff, toward the edge where he
shook out the cloak, the heavy folds snapping in the
wind.

Eleanor could not help but admire his form as he
stood there perched on the edge of cliff, the muscles in
his arms rippling with the effort as he sent blades of
grass and particles of sand flying out toward the sea. He
appeared in harmony with the wild, rugged landscapenot in contrast to it as so many elegant young gentleman
would. Closing her eyes, she pictured him galloping
across the bluff on an enormous black horse, wielding
a sword like the knights of yore, perhaps even rescuing
a fair maiden in distress at the risk of his own life. Yes,
her fertile imagination could easily conjure images of
Frederick Stoneham engaged in such activities. But
dancing the quadrille in an assembly room? Driving a
jaunty curricle through Mayfair? She opened her eyes
again, watching as he gave the cloak one final shake,
then laid it across one arm as he gazed out at the frothy
waves, a smile tipping the corners of his full lips.

No, she could hardly imagine him engaged in such
pedestrian things as that. And this, she realized, was
where the danger lay. Since the day he had first kissed
her, her childish infatuation had allowed her to cast him
as the romantic hero of every poem, every romantic
epic she'd read. He was the brave knight in Le Morte
d'Arthur. The masked man in Cecilia. The romantic
soldier in Romance of the Forest. For all these years, Frederick had not been a flesh-and-blood man in her
mind, but a romantic notion. The dark, dangerous
knight who would sweep her off her feet and love her
like no mere mortal man would.

She'd known it was nothing more than idle fantasy.
She remembered the cruel words she'd overheard that
fateful day. She knew full well that his kiss was nothing
more than a means to win a wager. Oh, how she knew.

Still, she dreamt of him, allowing herself to fantasize
about a romantic love that would never be a part of her
life, of her marriage. Just the fanciful longings of a silly
girl, barely out of the nursery.

Yet now the romantic notion stood before her-a real
man, not a fantasy. He was no longer an enigma; she
knew things about him that gave him dimensions she'd
never before fathomed. He dearly loved his sisters, particularly the wronged Maria. He spoke Gaelic, enjoyed
the Irish poets. He was not afraid to climb a tree if he
desired to do so, if it meant a better view of the sea, of the
surrounding countryside. She sensed a surprising gentleness, a vulnerability, beneath the rakish veneer he wore
so well, the ne'er-do-well facade he presented to the
world.

More frightening than anything was the knowledge
that, now that she'd gotten to know the real man, he'd
only become more intriguing, not less so. Instead of the
idol crumbling to clay as they were wont to do on closer
inspection, he'd only become more dazzling, far more
appealing than before.

Oh, if only Henry were here. She did not dare talk to
Selina about Frederick, for she could bare her soul to no
one save her brother. She silently cursed Oxford for
taking her brother away just when she needed him most.
She would write to him, as she meant to do yesterday.
Perhaps the act of putting her words to paper would better help her understand her conflicted emotions.
With a nod to herself, she resolved to do so at once, immediately upon her return to the house.

"Here, love." Frederick draped her cloak across her
shoulders, startling her with his closeness. He moved
closer still, reaching around to fasten it at her throat, his
silky hair brushing her cheek as he did so.

A shiver worked its way up her spine. Clutching her
book tightly to her breasts, she inhaled his powerfully
masculine scent. Soap, grass, sunshine. He smelled of
the outdoors, clean and woodsy. Unpretentious. Manly.

She would meet him at the cottage tonight, of that she
was certain. For how could she resist a fantasy that had
become such a tempting reality?

"So, Mister Stoneham," Mister Whitby said, laying
down his fork. "Henley tells me you've made great
progress toward locating your brother-in-law."

Frederick leaned back in his seat, surveying his
fellow diners as they all watched him expectantly.
Whitby sat at the head of the table, his posture almost
unnaturally erect and formal. To his right sat Eleanor in
a pale blue silk gown, simply cut yet fetching, the color
making her eyes appear a darker, deeper shade of blue.

Though she was smiling, he detected a hint of unease
in her demeanor, a tightly wound tension that seemed
ever-present in her countenance. His gaze flitted briefly
over the fair Lady Henley, seated to his left, before continuing on to Henley himself who hovered protectively
near his wife's elbow. A hush descended upon the assembled party, as if they waited for Frederick to do or
say something outrageous.

"Aye," he answered at last, sure he was disappointing
them. "I'm confident we'll have Eckford in no time."
He picked up his wine glass and swirled the scarletcolored liquid in slow circles, his gaze trained on the
drink. He would say no more. Just thinking of Eckford made the blood pound in his temples, but he would not
give in to his rage simply to amuse them. Not tonight.

"Good, very good" Whitby nodded enthusiastically.
"I only hope the matter can be resolved without too
much bloodshed."

The man was certainly trying his best to get a rise
from him. No matter. Frederick had other things on his
mind. Eleanor, and the cottage. Would she come? Only
time would tell. In the meantime, it was all he could do
to keep himself from mentally undressing her every
time he chanced a glance in her direction. Which he did
now, eliciting a stirring in his trousers as their eyes met
briefly before she looked away, her cheeks pinkening
deliciously. Blast it if his cock didn't harden in hopeful
anticipation.

Apparently done baiting him, Whitby turned his attention to Eleanor, smiling broadly as he reached for his
glass of wine. "I must say, despite the unfortunate circumstances that have brought you all here to Whitby
Hall, I'm finding myself enjoying the company more
every day. Perhaps I do allow myself to rusticate a bit
too much. Henley, I thank you for bringing your lovely
wife here, along with the equally lovely Lady Eleanor."

"My pleasure, Georgie old boy," Henley said with a
wink. "You simply must get out more, you know."