To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (20 page)

Once there, he had laid a fire in the fireplace, lit the
large candelabra by the bed and several other small
tapers throughout the cottage's single room, and waited.
His coat and waistcoat lay discarded on the chaise, his
cravat untied and hanging still about his neck as he
gazed out the dusty window, hope beating a relentless
rhythm in his breast.

Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he released the
drapes and returned to the chaise, sprawling distractedly
as he continued to wait. Sitting up, he reached for the
bottle of red wine he'd brought with him and poured a
measure into one of the goblets sitting on the small
gilded table beside the chaise. Draining the glass in one
long draught, he set it back on the table and laid back
against the tasseled velvet cushions, his head propped
on a plump bolster, his boots crossed at the ankles. Back
to waiting. He was not a patient man, not by any measure, but he'd wait all night if he had to.

Would she come? Devil take it, but he hoped she
would. He'd sell his soul for one night with her. Closing
his eyes, he inhaled deeply, his thoughts returning once
more to the haunting sonata she'd played for him
alone. He could not say how he knew it to be true, but
he was certain nonetheless.

No one had existed in Whitby's drawing room but the
two of them as she'd played. He'd been drawn involuntarily to her side, moving toward the pianoforte before he'd
even realized what he was doing. Dangerous, perhaps.
Whitby had watched him with narrowed eyes, his features
taut. Whitby wanted her, too, though Frederick still could
not detect any sexual longing in the man's demeanor. No, he wanted Eleanor like a hunter wanted his prey. He
wanted to collect her, to own her.

Frederick had no doubt that women like Eleanorbeautiful beyond measure, uncommonly intelligent, a
marquess's daughter, for God's sake-did not regularly
enter Whitby's social sphere, offering themselves up as
potential brides. Indeed, the man must have realized the
rare opportunity at hand. Clearly, whomever he shared
this love nest with was not considered marriageable,
else such a secret affair would not be necessary. A married woman, perhaps? He vowed to find out.

Not that it mattered. Eleanor would not be marrying
Whitby, after all. She would marry him. By Christmastide, just as their marriage contract stipulated. He'd resolved as much upon his return from Plymouth. He had
no choice now; he knew he must bed her, or die trying.
Yet she was no Whitechapel trollop, not the skilled
courtesan that Molly was. If he bedded her, he must
marry her. Eleanor Ashton was not a woman to be trifled with.

Still, she did not deserve him. She deserved far, far
better. But like the true roue that he was, he could no
longer deny himself, not when he wanted something as
badly as he wanted Eleanor.

A log crackled in the hearth, spewing up red ash that
settled back to the grate like spent fireworks. Staring
unseeing into the flames, Frederick sat, resting his
elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands.
The waiting was near enough killing him, yet he could
do naught else. Every nerve, every cell in his body
seemed taut, on edge. Never before had a woman affected him this way. Never.

As the clock on the mantel ticked off the passing seconds, the candle beside him flickered, uttering a small
hiss. Frederick turned toward the door expectantly. She was here-he could sense it. Springing to his feet, he
crossed the room in three long strides, reaching for the
door just as a faint knock sounded upon it.

His blood racing through his veins like quicksilver, he
pulled the door open, bracing himself in eager anticipation.

There she stood-the woman who had begun to haunt
his dreams-looking up at him from beneath the heavy
folds of a dark, woolen cloak pulled low over her brow.
He searched his mind for a clever quip of some sort, but
came up annoyingly blank. Instead, all he could do was
stare at her face, turned silvery in the moonlight.

"I've come," she said, her voice a mere whisper.

"You've no idea how glad I am. Come inside, love,
where it's warm" He moved aside and swept one arm
toward the hearth.

He saw her gaze stray beyond his shoulder, toward
the fire that cracked and hissed beneath the mantel. Farther still her gaze traveled, to the chaise and table where
the open bottle of wine still sat. She did not dare allow
herself to look at the bed.

Her troubled gaze flitted back to his, and she shook her
head, taking a step backward while she pulled her cloak
more tightly about herself. "No, I cannot. That .. .
that is why I came here. To tell you that I ... I cannot"

He quirked a brow, eyeing her curiously. She wanted
to come in, he could sense it in her posture. No doubt
she was holding herself in check, but he was certain she
did so to prevent herself from running to him, not away.

"Liar," he said, daring her to prove him wrong.

"Oh!" Her dark brows drew together. "How dare
you?"

"How dare I what? Call you a liar?"

She only sputtered in reply.

"You are a liar, my dear," he continued. "And not a terribly good one at that. You want to come in. Terribly
so. Will you deny it now?"

"It's ... well, whatever would Selina say? What if one
of Mister Whitby's groundskeepers were to see us, and
... and-"

"And what? That's beside the point. You said you did
not want to come in, and I said you were not being truthful. You do, in fact, want to come in. Very much so"

"Your arrogance never fails to astound me, Frederick," she hedged, changing the subject, as always. He
would not let her get away with it.

"Forget Selina, forget witless Whitby and his groundskeepers" He reached out and trailed one fingertip along
the line of her jaw. Despite the cool night air, her skin
was warm, radiating heat. Her breath came in fast puffs
of steam, betraying her calm demeanor. "What do you
want to do, Eleanor?"

She bit her lower lip before responding. "If someone
were to see, to find out, I'd be ruined"

"Answer me, Eleanor. What do you want to do? If
you truly want to leave, I will retrieve my coat, snuff the
fire, and see you safely back. But I do not believe that
is what you want. Stop denying yourself, like some sort
of martyr. For once in your life, do something simply
because you want to"

"That's easy for you to say," she snapped, her eyes flashing. "As a man, you naturally have freedoms I do not"

He reached for her hand, encircling her wrist with his
fingers. Even through the kidskin of her gloves, he
could feel her pulse bounding wildly. "Come inside,
love," he said softly, pulling her toward him, across the
threshold. "We can discuss the inequalities of the sexes
until the sun rises, if you wish to."

For a moment, she hesitated. Her entire body went
rigid, her muscles tense yet quivering. He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against the inside
of her wrist where the kidskin ended and the silky flesh
began. Her pulse leapt against his lips, and for a split
second he entertained the thought that he might very
well die if she denied him.

"What do you want to do?" he repeated, his voice a
hoarse whisper.

"I want to stay," she answered, her voice so full of
longing that it nearly took his breath away.

With a nod, he closed the door behind her. "Let me
see you," he said, reaching for the hood of her cloak.
She said nothing in reply, standing as still as a statue as
he pushed back the fabric, drawing her face from the
shadows. He nearly gasped aloud when he saw her hair,
loose and uncovered, spilling across her shoulders. Involuntarily he reached for it, combing his fingers
through the silky tresses.

"I ... my lady's maid had already taken down my
hair. I ... I didn't take the time to re-dress it."

"And I am so very glad you did not " He twirled one
shiny lock about his finger, amazed at its luster as the
fire cast its reddish glow upon it. "Have you any idea
how very beautiful you are, Eleanor? How utterly en-
chanting,-how incredibly desirable you are?"

Tears filled her eyes at once, and he watched as she
blinked them away. Briskly, she untied the ribbon at her
throat and shrugged out of the cloak, allowing it to drop
to the floor by her feet. "It is not necessary for you to
ply me with pretty words, Frederick. Did I not say I
would stay?"

Leisurely, he allowed his gaze to travel downward, to
her feet and up again, taking in the plain muslin day
gown she wore with a lavender silk pelisse. A simple
gown. Likely all she could manage without the help of
her abigail, and he was glad for it. She looked far more beautiful in this than she did in her elegant silks and
lace-less austere, more vulnerable.

Bloody hell, but she was lovely. He damn well did not
deserve to lay a finger on her, and yet he had to-he
was compelled beyond measure to. "And why should I
refrain from speaking pretty words, as you call them, if
they are naught but the truth?"

"I am no longer a girl of six and ten, eager to believe
such things about myself You said much the same then,
in my presence, but I cannot forget what you said about
me when I was not. However can I trust anything you
say?"

He drew away. "I've no idea what you mean"

"Of course you would not. It meant nothing to you,
and yet I remember that kiss as if it were yesterday. I remember every word you spoke to me-and about me,
to your friends."

"I remember it well enough, Eleanor. A man does not
easily forget kissing a woman like you, even if you were
only six and ten at the time" A white lie, of course, but
unavoidable. How could he possibly admit just how little
stealing a kiss from an impressionable young womanone not yet out in society-had meant to him at the
time? "You were beautiful then, but even more so now."

"Do you ever speak the truth? Or just what you suppose I wish to hear? I knew I should not have come
here," she said, shaking her head. "I heard you, Frederick. I stood outside your father's study door, and I heard
you laughing with your friends. Lord Hartsdale and Sir
Gregory, all of you laughing as if it were terribly amusing. You spoke such hurtful words, and now you deny
them?"

He searched him memory, suddenly desperate to
recall the night in question. He remembered kissing her
in the maze, then collecting on his wager with Hart and Gregory-he could remember nothing more specific
than that.

"A `horse of a girl,"' she continued on when he did
not answer. "I believe that was the phrase you used to
describe me to your friends"

"Let me assure you that your assessment of yourself
is so far off the mark as to be laughable. No one in their
right mind would consider you such, as I imagine you
are well aware"

"Is that so? Why, I clearly remember you speaking
those very same words. A horse of a girl, with a figure
to match. Likely the only kiss I'd ever get from a willing participant, you mused aloud. I believe you also
wished for some tooth powder."

He shook his head. "I said no such thing" Devil take
it, why would he?

"I heard you quite plainly. As did Lady Henley, I
might add."

"Lady Henley? Selina, you mean? Heard me say such
things?" His mind was reeling. "I cannot credit it"

"Perhaps your wild ways have adversely affected
your memory, then. Let me assure you that, in describing me to your friends, you spoke those exact words
without taking any pains to lower you voice"

Dear God, had he possibly done so? Called her such
unflattering, hurtful things? No, he had no memory of it.
None whatsoever. And yet he had remembered her as
plain, unappealing. Damn it all, perhaps he had said it.
And not only had she heard him, but she had remembered
the words, all these years. A wave of remorse washed over
him as he looked up and met her pained eyes.

She bent down to retrieve her cloak. "Ask Selina
yourself, if you do not believe me. Whatever was I
thinking, coming here?"

"Good God, Eleanor," was all he could say. He reached up to rub his temples, now pounding painfully.
He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.

Shaking out her cloak, she moved toward the door,
preparing to flee. His gut wrenching, he watched as she
wrapped the dark folds about her and hastily retied the
ribbon at her throat.

"Don't go," he called out, finding his voice at last.
"I was a boy then, full of arrogant swagger, and . . ."
He trailed off, unsure of what to say to make it right.
How could he ever make up for such a thing? For hurting her like he had? "I'm a bloody fool. A bastard, but
that's no excuse. My God, no wonder you've thought so
little of me, all this time"

"I had other reasons, besides," she said, pausing
before the door. "It is entirely your right to find me unappealing, Frederick. I cannot hold that against you. But
your reputation?"

"A reputation does not make a man, Eleanor."

"Perhaps." She shrugged, then wrapped her arms
around herself, as if she were cold even as the fire
burned hotter in the hearth. "But what I cannot abide is
that nothing you say can be believed. And yet you've no
idea how badly I want to believe you, Frederick"

"And is that what you came here tonight to tell me?
That, because I spoke carelessly as a boy of nineteen,
you cannot believe anything I say now?"

"Just tonight, in Mister Whitby's drawing room, you
claimed to write to your grandmother," she accused, her
voice low.

"Aye, and write my grandmother I did. Three full
pages, after I finished the letter to you"

She planted both fists on her hips, regarding him
coolly with her chin tilted defiantly in the air. "And I'm
to believe that?"

A surge of indignation shot through his veins. "It's back in my room, waiting to be posted" He folded his
arms across his chest, returning her challenging glare
with his own. "You may within your right call me a
rogue, a rake, a shameless flatterer, perhaps. But do
not call me a liar, at least not where my grandmother is
concerned"