To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (27 page)

Eleanor swallowed hard before replying. "I confess,
at first I did hope to extricate myself from the agreement. I thought it wholly and entirely unacceptable. But
now I ... I'm not so certain"

"Please do not be uneasy, Lady Eleanor, but I must
also confess that Selina expressed her hope that perhaps
you and I would suit, instead."

"I did not want you to think this visit a calculated at tempt to ensnare you," she answered, dropping her gaze
to her lap, her cheeks growing suddenly warm. "Or we
would have told you straightaway about my betrothal. I
only hoped to make your acquaintance, and see if perhaps we would suit, as Selina felt so certain that we
would."

"I'm only flattered that Selina should think so highly
of me. Why, to think that I might suit a woman as lovely,
as warm and intelligent as you are is indeed a compliment. Truly, I could do no better."

A wave of indecision washed over her. What should
she say to that? She did not want to lead him on, to
make him think that she still hoped to gain his affection.
Nor did she wish to hurt his feelings. Remembering her
mother's careful instructions, she dutifully murmured,
"I thank you for the compliment, sir."

"But you are in love with Frederick Stoneham, are
you not?" he added, taking her entirely by surprise.

Eleanor's stomach fluttered uncomfortably. "I ... I
suppose I am," she confessed, entirely mortified. What
a strange discussion to be having with a gentleman!

"And do you think him worthy of your love? For I
confess, at first glance -I did not believe it to be so"

"I'm not ... not entirely certain. I believe that he is.
Still, he has challenged a man to a duel at dawn, and
no matter the outcome, I ... I fear I shall lose him. I
cannot condone his taking a man's life, no matter how
well deserved. Yet the alternative . . " She trailed off,
unable to voice her worst fear.

"I will offer you another alternative, Lady Eleanor.
An escape plan, if you will." He reached for her hand,
and Eleanor allowed him to take it, glad for the comfort
his touch offered. "I offer you my hand in marriage, if
you decide you cannot marry Mister Stoneham"

Eleanor drew back in surprise, a small gasp parting
her lips.

Mister Whitby continued on. "You are everything I
could desire in a wife, and I vow I would make you a
good husband, a gentle companion. A constant and true
friend. I find myself in an awkward predicament, you
see. I will not attempt to hide the fact that my heart lies
elsewhere, as it has for years, and likely always will. So,
you see, we will be equals on that count, and I will not
hold it against you if you will not hold it against me. I'm
certain we can still enjoy a happy marriage, despite the
circumstances.

"I've the unfortunate luck to have given my heart to
someone I can never marry, you see. If you find yourself similarly afflicted, if you decide that you cannot
marry him, then perhaps we can bring comfort to one
another."

"I ... I don't know what to say," she stuttered, entirely flummoxed by his speech.

"I have no doubt I would grow to love you, Eleanor,"
he continued on. "A companionable love, if you will.
This is what I offer, if you decide you cannot marry
Mister Stoneham"

Good Lord, she had never in a million years expected
such a proposal as this. He loved another, he'd confessed. But to whom had he given his heart?

"The Duchess of Dandridge?" she wondered, barely
realizing she'd spoken the thought aloud.

Mister Whitby laughed, a deep, booming laugh that
temporarily muffled the sound of the sea in the distance.
"So you came to the same conclusion as Selina, then.
No, let me assure you it is not the duchess I love." He
glanced heavenward, drawing a deep breath. "How
close you are to the truth, and yet so very far," he said
quietly, his gaze meeting hers.

"But are you certain that ... that you and she-"

"Oh, entirely so. There is no hope for us, none whatsoever. The situation is far more impossible than if it
were the duchess herself that I loved and not her-"
He cut himself off abruptly.

Eleanor's brow furrowed in bewilderment. Whatever
had he meant to say? Not the duchess's . . . what?
Friend? Had the duchess a daughter? She'd only heard
of a son, Lord Trelawny, and surely ... she allowed the
thoughts to trail off. Impossible.

"No matter," he continued with a sigh, shaking his
head. "I've always hoped to marry, and soon after
making your acquaintance I realized how enjoyable it
was having you here at Whitby Hall. Indeed, my home
seemed to come alive with you in it"

"So ... so you are suggesting a marriage in name
only, then?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Not at all. I hope to have children someday, and I have no doubt I could perform
my ... er ... marital duties when-called-up-on."

Heat flooded Eleanor's cheeks and she nodded,
unsure of what to say to that.

"Anyway, before you entirely dismiss Mister Stoneham's suit, let me give you one small piece of advice.
It is a sad and sorry thing to know you cannot marry
your one true love. Leaves one feeling interminably
lonely and bereft, I vow. Under the circumstances, I
have no choice. But you, my dear, you have a choice"
He gave her hand a friendly squeeze. "If Frederick
Stoneham is indeed your one true love, then do not
allow yourself to suffer my fate. Unless you think he
would mistreat you or humiliate you, that is."

"No, I do not believe he would do either," she said,
surprised by the degree of certainty she felt. Hadn't
Frederick said he would be a good and faithful hus band? What's more, she believed him. With all her
heart, she believed he meant it.

"Nor do I believe he would. From what Henley tells
me about Mister Stoneham, he is man who has enjoyed
very little love or acceptance in his life. Perhaps your
feelings for him have changed him, for the better. Henley
seems to think it so, and Henley knows Mister Stoneham
far better than I do"

Henley? Henley knew how she felt about Frederick?
How utterly humiliating. Things were going from bad
to worse, if that was at all possible. And tomorrow at
dawn things would get decidedly worse still.

"Might I ask a favor of you, Mister Whitby? I realize it's a terrible imposition, but still, I must ask"

"Of course," he said, releasing her hand and rising to
stand beside her. "Your wish is my command, my lady."

She rose on unsteady legs, looking off toward the stables. "I need to get to Plymouth, and long before dawn.
I must find out where the duel is taking place, and I
must get there in time to stop it."

He shook his head. "Do you really think that wise?
Truly, I do not think the field of honor is any place for
a lady. In fact, I'm sure that bringing you there would
be breaking some gentleman's code or other. That
wouldn't be very prudent of me now, would it?"

"Field of honor, you call it? Honor? Hah. It's stupidity, is what it is. A barbaric, outdated practice"

"Perhaps," Mister Whitby said with a shrug. "But
didn't the man desert Mister Stoneham's sister, leaving
her in dire straits? At the mercy of creditors? Bruised,
perhaps by his own hand?"

"Apparently so, but is that reason enough to kill a
man? Not to mention taking the risk of getting yourself
killed the process?" As the words left her lips, she realized that this was her true fear-that Frederick did not care enough for her to keep himself out of harm's way,
that he would risk leaving her to mourn him. Did that
make her selfish?

"Most men would say it is indeed reason enough," he
answered with a nod.

"And what is your own opinion on the matter, Mister
Whitby?"

He stroked his whiskers, appearing to consider the
question for nearly a full minute. "That I'd likely do
the same, were it either of my own sisters," he said at
last. "And I don't even particularly like my sisters, silly
chits"

Eleanor shook her head. "I simply cannot comprehend the workings of the gentleman's mind."

"Well, take heart. The lady's mind is equally confounding to us gentlemen, for the most part"

Eleanor glanced down at the ruby ring she still
clutched in one hand. Whatever outcome tomorrow
might bring, she would be there to witness it herselfwith this ring on her finger. "So, Mister Whitby, are you
going to take me to Plymouth?"

"I suppose I am. I'll have the carriage ready by four;
that should give us plenty of time. I expect this means
you will not be accepting my offer of marriage?"

"I'm afraid not, thanks to your own excellent advice
to the contrary. You are a kind and generous man, Mister
Whitby"

"I've been called worse," he quipped. "Try to get
some sleep, then. No doubt you'll need it"

Frederick shrugged out of his greatcoat, carelessly
tossing it to the grass beside the mahogany pistol case
as the first rays of light pierced the murky dawn. As if
he were simply preparing for bed, he unbuttoned his coat, his fingers remarkably steady considering the lack
of sleep he'd suffered.

After slipping off the coat, he reached up to readjust
his collar as Eckford's second, a weasely looking man
called Blackburn, examined the pistols. Frederick's own
second-Henley, of course-had already examined
them and given his approval. Across the dewy meadow
stood a handful of spectators, along with a surgeon, all
chattering away in eager anticipation. Next to Blackburn stood Eckford himself, glaring openly at him.

Interesting that so many had gathered there in the
field, considering Frederick was not known in these
parts, and considering he and Henley had told no one of
the duel save the surgeon. Given the illegal nature of the
morning's activities, they had not wanted to stir attention, of course. Regardless, it would be done, on this
day, at this appointed hour. No matter the witnesses.

Watching Blackburn nod his approval and hand a
pistol to Henley, Frederick yawned, straightening the
ruffled cuffs of his linen shirt. He was ready to get this
business over and done with. Henley ambled back
across the meadow and handed him the weapon, one of
a silver-mounted pair Frederick had bought from the
Manton brothers in Berkeley Square. They'd cost a near
fortune-worth every pence, in Frederick's opinion.

"How much do you reason Eckford paid this Blackburn chap to act as second?" Henley asked, nodding his
head in the pair's direction.

"Not enough, I'd wager," Frederick answered, turning the pistol over in his palm, admiring it. Indeed, it
would do its job, and do it well.

Henley looked over his shoulder at the sullen Mister
Eckford, now doffing his own coat. "Do you really
mean to kill him?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "If he shoots first and misses his mark, choosing to delope
would be insult enough, would it not?"

"I'm not here to insult him," Frederick bit out. "Go tell
Blackburn that they have procrastinated long enough"

With a nod, Henley hurried over and relayed the
message to his counterpart, who then, in turn, relayed
it to Eckford himself. Moments later, Henley arrived
back at his side, mopping his brow with a handkerchief
despite the chill in the air.

At last, Eckford took his place. Frederick followed
suit, moving to the center of the field with his back to
Eckford, ready to begin counting off the paces. The
rising sun warmed his skin; a bird chirruped in the distance. Frederick felt remarkably calm, relaxed.

And then, without warning, Eleanor's face swam into
focus in his mind's eye. Her taste, her scent, the feel of
her body pressed against his-all flooded his consciousness at once. The memory of her kiss had haunted him,
tortured him the long, seemingly endless night. Would
that kiss be their last? Would that last glimpse of herstanding there on the front steps of Whitby Hall, tears
streaming down her lovely face as he rode away into the
night-be the last ever he saw of the woman who had
captured his soul?

With a silent oath of frustration, he forced away the
images, banishing them from his mind. Damn it to hell,
but this was not the time to be thinking of her. Not now.
He could not afford the distraction, not at a time like
this.

At last, the call was given. A hush descended upon
the assembled crowd as Frederick and Eckford began to
count off their paces, slowly, leisurely. Once he'd
reached the required distance, Frederick turned, his
body sideways, his feet planted wide, and took aim.

His blood thrummed through his veins, his pulse a near-deafening roar as he focused on nothing save his
opponent and waited for Blackburn to drop the handkerchief.

Instead, a shot fired. Frederick felt a glancing blow
to his shoulder as outraged cries of "badly done" and
"for shame" rang out.

What the hell? The smell of gunpowder filled the air
and Frederick looked down sharply, surprised to see a
spot of bright red staining his linen, the circumference
increasing slowly but steadily.

"You cowardly bastard," he roared, charging toward
his opponent with his pistol still drawn.

Confusion reigned, the crowd abuzz as Frederick
knocked Eckford's now-spent weapon from his hand
and grabbed him by the throat. "You worthless, filthy
piece of horseshit. What have you to say for yourself
before I blow your brains out?"

Eckford's eyes were as cold and flinty as steel. "You'd
kill me just because I tired of fucking your sister?"

Rage nearly blinding him, Frederick tightened his
grip on his throat, pressing the pistol's barrel against the
side of Eckford's head. "I'll see you in hell for that," he
ground out through clenched teeth.

Eckford's bravado disappeared in an instant. He
began to tremble, his gaze darting about wildly like a
trapped hare as he realized at last that Frederick meant
to follow through on his threat. "Don't kill me," he
choked out, his eyes beginning to bulge. "I'll do anything you ask. Please, I beg of you"