To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (25 page)

Was the duchess his secret lover? Silently, she cursed
Frederick for planting such a notion in her mind, for
now her fertile imagination was taking flight, picturing
the two in the throes of passion atop the lavishly draped
bed. Dear God, what a thought!

Struggling to banish the unpleasant images from her
mind, she looked entreatingly to Selina, who mercifully
found her voice at last.

"Your Grace, while the idea of a house party sounds
lovely indeed, I am afraid that we shall be returning to
Essex, as soon as Mister Stoneham's and Henley's business is concluded here. Within a day or two, I should
think."

"Can you not extend your stay a few days more?" the
duchess asked, dragging her attention away from Mister
Whitby. "It would give me such pleasure. Tell them they
must, Whitby."

"Indeed, you must," he agreed, wiping a stray blade
of grass from his breeches. "You will not find a more
gracious hostess than Her Grace, I vow."

"I'm sure it is so," Eleanor said. "But we really must get back to Essex posthaste. I'm afraid we cannot tarry
a day more than is necessary. Perhaps another time, if
you would be so kind as to repeat your invitation at a
later date?"

"Oh, very well. It will be up to you and you alone to
amuse me then, Whitby." The seductive smile she favored
the man with all but confirmed Eleanor's suspicions.

And yet, both her husband and son were looking on,
smiling as if it mattered not. Odd. Very odd, indeed. At
least she was not alone in entertaining such thoughtsshe could see Selina's confusion as her friend contemplated the very same thing, no doubt.

"Still, I would very much like to make Mister Stoneham's acquaintance," the duchess added.

Eleanor's enjoyment of the afternoon ebbed away,
leaving her feeling weary, cold, burdened with a vague
sense of unease. Just what was Frederick doing now, as
they all sat around drinking tea and discussing him as if
he were naught but an idle curiosity? For all she knew,
he had located Mister Eckford by now and the two had
battled it out on the field of honor. Who would be left
standing at the end of the day?

A silent sob tore at her throat. Never before had she
felt so helpless, so utterly and completely at a loss. Her
world was topsy-turvy, her future, once so bright, now a
muddled blight. She could not trust the man she loved,
could not confide in her dearest friend, and the one
person who might be able to help her sort things out, the
single person whom she trusted implicitly and entirely
her brother Henry-was away at Oxford, enjoying the
many freedoms afforded his sex, whilst she remained
caught in the noose of the feminine plight, afraid to maneuver this way or that for fear of being strangled.

With a small, choked cry, she rose from her seat. "If
you'll excuse me," she said, hurrying away from the as sembled party as fast as her feet would carry, nearly
twisting her ankle in the process.

She must do something. She hadn't a clue what, but
she could no longer sit idle, waiting for something to
happen, for everything to sort itself out. But what? What
could she possibly do to make certain that everything
would end satisfactorily, that she would make the right
choice regarding Frederick, and that he would agree to
whatever choice she made? If he hadn't gone and gotten
himself killed already, of course, and that was an alltoo-real possibility.

She skimmed the stairs, her breath coming faster as
she ran down the corridor, opened the door to her bedchamber, and hastened inside. "I've a terrible headache,
Solange," she told her startled maid. "You must tell
them that I shan't be down to dinner." Instead, she
would think. She would search her soul, if need be, and
then, by God, she would do something to make her life
right again.

If only she knew what.

Eleanor stood at her bedchamber's window, watching
as the duke's carriage clattered down the drive, the
moonlight reflecting off its dark exterior.

She had joined them for dinner, after all. Solange had
convinced her that hiding away in her bedchamber would
have been a terrible affront to Mister Whitby's esteemed
guests, putting her host in an awkward position. As loathe
as she was admit it, her maid had been correct. So, not a
half hour after she'd dashed off so indecorously, she'd
come back downstairs, claiming a headache had briefly
incapacitated her but that she had quickly recovered.

Dinner had passed in an unmemorable blur. Lord
Trelawny had sat beside her and spent the meal doing
his best to entertain her. And he had, somewhat. She'd
been far too distracted to follow the vein of conversation and had been accused more than once-by the
duchess, no less-of woolgathering. She had been lost
in her own thoughts, of course. As soon as the meal had
ended, Lord Trelawny had declared that Eleanor looked
frightfully wan, fawning and fretting over her like a lisping nursemaid. She'd wanted to kiss him in gratitude when he'd suggested that she forego the remainder of
the evening's entertainments and retire. And so she had.

She'd spent the past hour standing at the window,
doing naught but stare at the night sky as her mind cast
about for a suitable plan. She would speak candidly
with Selina, she'd resolved. No more pretending that her
feelings for Frederick were mere trivialities. She would
confess her true feelings, her concerns, convince her
friend that Frederick Stoneham was a far better man
than Selina believed him to be.

Not that he did not have flaws-serious flaws, perhaps. She would risk her friend's censure and tell her
what had transpired in the cottage. And then she could
only hope that Selina would advise her well, for where
else had she to turn?

Nowhere. Her situation was intolerable, and she could
no longer bear to suffer through it alone.

No time like the present, she thought, stepping away
from the window and letting the drapes fall back against
the glass. Minutes later, she rapped on the door to
Selina's bedchamber.

"Selina, dearest," she called out, her voice tremulous.
"Might I have a word with you before you retire?"

Eleanor heard the tap-tapping of footsteps, and then
the door swung open. "There you are," Selina said, her
fair head appearing in the doorway. "Oh, dear. You still
look dreadfully pale. Please, come in and tell me what's
the matter."

Eleanor silently obeyed, entering the room and shutting the door softly behind herself.

Selina threaded her arm through hers and escorted
her to a settee in the room's far corner, her brow knit in
obvious concern. "I do not like the look about your
eyes, either. Have you not been sleeping well? Did you
not nap before the guests arrived?"

"I tried to nap, but sleep would not come," she answered, sinking gratefully onto the soft, worn velvet
beside Selina. "I must speak with you, but you must
give me your promise of complete and utter confidence
first."

"But you've always had my complete confidence,
Eleanor." Selina reached for her hand, and Eleanor noticed that her friend was blinking back unshed tears.
"You must tell me at once what's troubling you. Please,
you're frightening me."

"It's nothing so very dreadful, I vow. Only my own ...
indecision. On delicate matters, I fear."

"Has this to do with George? And the duchess? For I,
too, was made uncomfortable by their seeming familiarity. I spoke with George, just now, you see, and he
vows that nothing-"

"It's to do with Frederick Stoneham," Eleanor interrupted, giving Selina's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Oh, dear."

"Indeed. But I vow he is not the vile debaucher you
believe him to be, Selina," Eleanor said earnestly. "I
think I am in love with him."

"Oh, no. Not again. You believed yourself in love
with him once before, did you not?"

Eleanor shook her head. The sound of hooves in the
drive briefly drew her gaze to the window, and she
heaved a sigh before returning her attention to her
friend. "Perhaps I did, but it was nothing more than a
girlish fascination. I did not know him then."

Selina appeared unconvinced. "And you do now?
You've only spent, what? A day here and there in his
presence? However could you allow yourself to fall
prey-"

"I haven't fallen prey to anything. You must believe
me, Selina. I do not say this lightly, as I still have my reservations, but I believe his reputation has been
highly"-she swallowed hard-"exaggerated"

Selina nibbled on her lower lip before replying. "Are
you certain? Truly certain, Eleanor?"

"I wish I could say that I am entirely certain of his
character. I want to be sure-"

"But you're not," Selina cried. "Let that be your
answer, then."

If only it were as easy as that. "There is more to Frederick than meets the eye. There are things about him to
be admired, and I think perhaps I know him better than
most, even after so short a time. I know how naive that
sounds, truly I do. But ... but I believe it to be true."

Selina shrugged. "I suppose it could be," she conceded.

"I realize you want to protect me, that you have my
best interest at heart"

"Precisely, Eleanor. I only want to see you happily
wed, protected, cherished as Henley cherishes me. Just
now George assured me that there is nothing between
him and the Duchess of Dandridge; in fact, he laughed
at the very suggestion of such a thing. What's more, he
told me quite plainly that he believes you to be everything he could want in a wife."

Eleanor shook her head, a bittersweet smile upon her
lips. "But you must see that I cannot marry Mister
Whitby, not feeling as I do about Frederick. It would not
be fair to him."

A single tear escaped Selina's cornflower blue eyes,
and she quickly wiped it away. "No, I suppose it would
not. Oh, Eleanor, do you truly love him? Frederick, I
mean."

Eleanor met Selina's questioning gaze and smiled. "I
do. Perhaps I've turned into a bedlamite, but I do"

A harsh knock on the door made both women start in
surprise. "Lady Henley?" the housekeeper called out.

"You may enter," Selina answered, rising and moving
briskly toward the door which swung open at once.

The gray-headed housekeeper stood on the threshold
wringing her hands, her lace cap slightly askew. "Forgive me for disturbing you, my lady, but Mister Stoneham is downstairs, asking-nay, demanding-to speak
with Lady Eleanor."

"Is Lord Henley with him?" Selina asked, the color
draining from her face.

"No, my lady. Mister Stoneham arrived alone, and in
a bit of a state, I must say."

Eleanor was on her feet at once, moving to stand
beside Selina. "Whatever do you mean, `a state'?"

"He reeks of liquor, miss," the housekeeper answered
coldly.

He was foxed? Eleanor's heart began to race. Frederick downstairs, at this hour, foxed? It didn't signify.
"If you'll excuse me," she said, brushing past the housekeeper and into the corridor.

"Shall I accompany you, Eleanor?" Selina called
after her.

Eleanor continued on toward the stairs, her palms
dampening in fearful anticipation. "No, I shall see to
him myself"

Frederick paced back and forth before the fire, his anxiety mounting with each second that passed. Damn it,
what was taking so long? Surely he'd been waiting a full
quarter hour. He shook his head, still slightly muddled
from the fair amount of gin he'd consumed before leaving Henley to watch over Eckford.

He'd jumped on his horse and ridden to Whitby Hall like a man possessed. And perhaps he was. Reaching into
his coat pocket, he fingered the crude pouch that held the
ruby ring-the ring he hoped to slip onto Eleanor's finger
before the night was out.

He realized, perhaps a bit too late, that he hadn't a
choice in the matter. He could no longer play the role of
long-suffering hero, keeping the woman he desired
above all else at arm's length in order to protect her, to
save her from himself. The devil knew what would
happen on the morn, and he wanted this settled now.

True, he was an excellent marksman. Hell, he was
more than excellent; he was superb. He would not have
the slightest trouble disposing of Eckford with a single,
expertly placed shot, straight through the blackguard's
heart. If Eckford followed the dueling code of honor,
that is. But, as his brother-in-law was nothing short of a
goddamned coward, there were no guarantees.

If he were to die tomorrow, he would bloody well die
knowing that Eleanor knew he meant to honor their betrothal contract. And, damn it, not only would he honor
the contract, but he would mean every word of his marriage vows, too, including the one that stipulated he
remain faithful to his wife as long as they both should
live.

Molly would be sent packing straightaway, and she
would be the last of her kind. With Eleanor by his side,
he would not want for anything. He was sure of it, more
sure than he'd ever been of anything in all his sorry, misbegotten life.

He'd spent the better part of the day attempting to
push aside all thoughts of Eleanor, but it was useless.
Knowing that nothing was settled between them was distracting him from his task at hand-ridding the world of
Eckford. Henley had finally convinced him that he was no good until he set things to rights, and so, by God, he
was going to set things to rights. Tonight.

He pulled out his watch and checked the time, then
shoved the heavy timepiece back into his waistcoat.
Where the bloody hell had the housekeeper gone off to?
Where was Eleanor? For all he knew, she was off with
witless Whitby somewhere, reciting poetry as the man
made calf's eyes at her. That thought alone made his
blood boil, and he tightened his hands into fists, stopping to stare blindly at the fire in an attempt to rein in
his emotions.

"Whatever are you doing here, Frederick?"