To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (21 page)

Eleanor blinked rapidly, nibbling on her lower lip as she
considered his words. At last, she nodded. "I do believe
you. You care deeply for your grandmother, don't you?"

He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Aye," he said at
last, a bit gruffly. His grandmother was the one person
who saw past his striking resemblance to his mother,
who found a measure of comfort in it, perhaps. Unlike
his father and grandfather, she did not hold him responsible for his mother's death.

If she blamed anyone for the loss of her child, it was
his father-for seducing her only daughter, taking her
away from her home, from Connemara's savage beauty.
Fiona had not belonged in England, his grandmother
believed, and her untimely demise was proof. Still, she
had taken comfort in Frederick, as he had in her. His
grandfather, however, was a different matter altogether.

"I wanted to write you a poem," he said, quickly and
easily changing the subject. "But alas, I found I had not
the talent. I hope you'll forgive my cowhanded attempt
at a love letter."

Eleanor reached into her cloak and withdrew the missive in question, fingering the edges with trembling fingers. "Did you mean these words, Frederick? Or is this
letter full of your usual empty flattery?"

He started to speak but she held up one hand, cutting
him off. "No, I must ask this, and you must answer in
all honesty. We cannot proceed, otherwise"

"Each and every word is true, though I am perhaps
not so skilled at putting my feelings to the page"

Her eyes widened a fraction, her lashes fluttering like
butterfly wings. "You asked if you suffer alone from ...
from .. She shook her head, unable to say the words.

He took two steps toward her, reaching out to untie
her cloak once more. "Desire, Eleanor? Longing? I
cannot sleep for thinking of you. I cannot look upon another without seeing your face. When we are apart, all I
can do is wonder when we will next be together. Aye,
somehow you've taken over my mind, and in so short a
time. Never before has a woman made me feel such
things, such longings, such desires. Tell me I am not
alone in these feelings, before I go mad with them"

For a moment, Eleanor said nothing. She dropped her
gaze to her hands, then peeled off her kidskin gloves,
one by one, dropping them carelessly to the floor beside
her cloak. Nodding almost imperceptibly to herself, she
took two steps toward him, closing the distance between
them, then looked up to meet his gaze. One delicate
hand reached out, slowly, tentatively moving toward his
face.

Gently, achingly so, she stroked his rough jaw with
her palm, moving closer still, so that her breasts grazed
his shirtfront. The sweet, lavender scent of her overwhelmed his senses, his erection straining nearpainfully against the flap of his breeches. Though he
wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms, he
dared not move a muscle, unwilling to risk her drawing
away in fear.

"No, Frederick," she said, her voice a soft, sensual
caress. "No, you are not alone in these feelings."

"Thank God," he said on a breath before savagely
crushing her to him, taking her hot, sweet mouth with
his own with complete and utter abandon.

Eleanor gasped as Frederick's lips crushed hers with
a near-bruising force, his muscled body pressed so
tightly against hers that she could feel the pounding of
his heart through the layers of fabric that separated them.

Oh, how she'd wanted this! Each and every kiss had
made her hunger for more. She'd told herself that her
only purpose in going to the cottage was to find out if
he'd meant the words he'd written her-nothing more.
But this ... this was the true reason, she realized, as she
opened her mouth invitingly against his.

His tongue invaded her mouth, gently at first, then
more insistently. Eleanor's knees felt suddenly weak and
she swayed against him, clutching the back of his head
for support. He tasted of wine and a hint of tobacco, an
intoxicating mix, she thought, barely cognizant of the
fact that his hands were sliding down her back, moving
stealthily toward her backside.

She heard a soft moan and was surprised to realize it
had been her own, laced with desire, an almost primal
sound. Frederick's mouth retreated, then returned to nip
softly at her lower lip, his hands cupping her buttocks,
kneading them through her thin gown. A molten heat gathered in her belly, radiating downward, and she realized with a start that she had grown strangely damp between her thighs.

His lips trailed lower, down her throat where he
pressed hot, moist kisses to her burning flesh, whispering her name over and over as he did so.

Oh, how she wanted him-terribly so. How would
she ever stop, now that she'd tasted the forbidden fruit?
She'd never have enough of him. Never

His fingers moved around her waist, beneath her
breasts, his thumbs brushing tantalizingly across her
nipples, drawing gooseflesh across her skin.

"Frederick!" she said on a sharp gasp, unsure whether
she meant it in protest or invitation. Her muddled mind
could think of nothing save the sensation of his lips
against her skin, his hands on her body, setting every
inch of her afire with some unknown sensation.

"What is it, love?" he murmured, his lips pressed just
above her collarbone.

"I ... I'm feeling a bit dizzy." It was the truth, as the
ground swayed dangerously beneath her feet.

"Are you, now?" he drawled in reply, straightening to
meet her gaze. "I'm glad. I meant to kiss you senseless."

Grasping his forearms for support, she took a step
away from him, blinking rapidly. "Truly, I'm feeling a
bit ... faint."

His dark brows drew together at once. "Come, sit
down" Reaching for her arm, he led her to the chaise.
"A drink, perhaps? I've brought some wine. Not the
finest vintage, I'm afraid, but it'll do well enough."

Eleanor nodded, settling back on the velvet cushions.
"Just a sip, no more."

Hurrying to the ornate table beside the chaise, he
poured a splash of deep red wine into a goblet and
handed it to her before coming to stand behind her, his warm hands resting upon her shoulders. She took a long
draught, shuddering as the liquid burned a path to her
stomach. A warmth stole through her veins at once,
calming her racing heart.

"Better, love?" Frederick asked, bending down so
that his lips brushed her ear.

Eleanor nodded. "A bit. I vow, I don't know what
came over me"

"Oh, I think I do," he answered with a chuckle. "But
I did not mean to frighten you. Here" He reached for
the goblet and returned it to the table, then scooped her
up in his arms, as if she weighed no more than a feather.
"Just let me hold you for a moment" Straddling the
chaise, he lowered himself to the cushions and settled
her between his legs, her back pressed against his chest.

Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he wrapped his
arms around her. Eleanor sighed, never before as comfortable as she was at that very moment. Dear Lord,
how right this felt. How utterly perfect it felt in his
arms, the glow of the fire casting a warm orange light
about the room, the wine warming her belly, her skin
still tingling from his kisses.

"This is lovely," she sighed, dropping her head back
against his chest. She would not consider the impropriety; she couldn't. Not now. It was far too late for that,
besides.

"Aye, it is lovely," he agreed, resting his chin upon the
top of her head. "Have you any idea of the monumental
restraint I'm exercising in not ravishing you this very
minute? You'd better speak of something else, right
away, before I change my mind and take you right here
and now."

"Very well. What shall we discuss?"

"George Whitby?" he offered, his voice full of mischief

Eleanor couldn't help but smile. "Most definitely not
George Whitby"

"You'd deprive me of such pleasure? Ali, very well.
The weather, then?"

"Really, Frederick. Surely you can do better than
that"

"Music?" he asked, reaching for her hand and lacing
his fingers with hers. The contrast was startling-her
hand so pale, his bronzed by the sun. And while she'd
never been what one would consider delicate, her hand
appeared tiny in his. His grip was strong and sure, entirely masculine. Comforting.

"You can start by telling me the name of the piece
you played tonight," he prompted, drawing her from her
musings.

A smile spread across her face. "It was Beethoven,
his Piano Sonata Number 14. He dedicated it to a pupil
of his. Many believe he was in love with her."

"And after hearing it, I'd have to agree. I had no idea
you were such an accomplished pianist"

"You've much to learn about me, Frederick. Anyway,
I don't play as well as all that. But I do so love that particular piece"

"Aye, and now I do, too. Tell me, just what other secrets have Ito discover about you? Are you an accomplished artist, as well? A poet?"

Heat flooded her cheeks as she recalled her awkward
attempts at writing poetry. "It's you who remain a mystery. You claim that a reputation does not make a man.
So tell me, then, who is the real Frederick Stoneham?"

"Well, let me give it some thought. Hmm, I correspond with my grandmother; that you've learned
tonight. She's a grand old bird, and I shudder to think
how I would have survived my youth without her. What
else? You've already learned of my fondness for Irish poets. I don't believe anyone before you, male or
female, has ferreted out that bit of information. What
more could you possibly wish to know?"

"Tell me about your father. I've always wondered
why the Baron Worthington resides at his modest estate
in Essex when his baronial seat is in Oxfordshire"

She felt his entire body go rigid behind her. "I do not
wish to speak of my father," he said, his voice tight.

"Nor did I wish to speak of my mother earlier today
on the bluff. And yet you asked, and I answered with all
honesty about matters which only bring me shame. I am
not sorry I chose to speak candidly. If we're to be
friends, you might consider doing the same. Besides,
the more evasive you become, the more wildly I begin
to speculate. Your father's sins cannot possibly be worse
than my mother's, now can they?"

"Touch&. Since you've put forth such an effective argument, I can't very well deny you. Since my mother's
death, my father has chosen not to take up residence in
Oxfordshire. Too many memories, he claims. Nothing
more than that."

"How long ago did your mother pass? I can't recall
ever having met her."

"She died the day I was born," he answered, his voice
suddenly gruff. "Complications of childbirth."

"I did not know that. I'm so very sorry."

"Don't be. It was a long time ago, though my father
has never fully recovered"

"I suppose he loved her very much, then"

"I suppose he did. Anyway, after my brother's death,
my father sent me to Ireland to be raised by my mother's
parents"

"But why? Hadn't you older sisters to care for you?"

"Five older sisters and a spinster aunt. My father
simply wanted me out of his sight. I reminded him too much of my mother and what he'd lost. When Charles
was still living, he was able to ignore my presence altogether. But with Charles's death, I became his heir. He
could not live with that knowledge on a daily basis"

"And ... and your grandparents were kind to you?"
she asked tentatively.

"Kind enough. My grandfather was the land steward
on my father's estate in Ireland, so it seemed a practical
enough matter to have me there, learning the basics of
estate management. It lent my grandparents a bit of
status, actually. The lord of the manor, their grandson.
Still, they disliked my father for having taken away their
daughter, and they took pleasure in raising me not as an
English gentleman, but as one of their own. I did not go
to Eton, did you know that?"

"No, I did not "

"Aye, I was schooled by the nuns in Clifton. It's a
wonder I ever got to Cambridge. I was not certain my
father would shell out the funds on my behalf"

"I must apologize, Frederick. I did not mean to pry so
into your personal affairs"

"And now you know the truth. I was not good enough
for my father, nor was I good enough for my grandfather, heir to a barony or not. My father was doing yours
no great favor when he signed that marriage contract"

"Most would consider you far too young to settle
down. It's expected of a woman my age. But not of a
man of three and twenty."

"I am my father's only heir. No living male cousins,
no uncles to inherit the barony if I do not produce an
heir myself I'm sure he fears that if he does not see me
suitably wed in haste, his title will eventually fall into
abeyance. No matter his ill feelings toward me, he does
not wish that to happen"

"And there you have it."

"And there you have it," he agreed.

"I vow, I cannot understand why novels and poems
romanticize love in such a fashion as they do. In truth,
love seems to bring nothing but grief to so many. Both
our fathers are excellent examples, are they not? My
own father grieves daily for a wife who will never return
his sworn love and devotion. Everyone in all of Essex
knows it to be true"

"Will you not allow yourself to love, then, Eleanor?"

"How can I? How can you?"

He paused a beat before replying. "All I know is, with
you in my arms, how can I not?"

As her mind digested those words, her heart began to
beat furiously, the sound of her blood rushing through
her veins near deafening. She wanted to believe he
meant what he implied ... wanted to believe it desperately. Still, she didn't dare.

He cleared his throat. "And now what shall we do, my
sweet? The night is young"