To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (32 page)

The rain poured off the brim of his hat, partially obscuring his face as he moved closer still. Her hungry
gaze traveled over his familiar features-thick brows
knitted over dark, penetrating eyes; an angular jaw; full, sensual lips. His wild, dark hair-now fully soakedbrushed his broad shoulders.

It was him. Not merely a figment of her imagination,
but flesh and blood, there in the road, dripping wet.
Looking menacingly large and powerful, devastatingly
handsome. As always.

Recognition at last lit his eyes, narrowing them perceptibly. "Eleanor?" he asked, his voice breaking on the
last syllable.

Just a single word, spoken with such emotion that her
breath caught in her chest. She had not expected that,
had not expected the look of pain that darkened his features, if only for a moment.

"What the devil are you doing out here?" he asked.

"I ... I got caught in the rain," she stammered.
"Whatever are you doing here?"

For a full minute he said nothing. Eleanor did not
move-waiting, watching, her breath coming dangerously fast. The rain continued to bear down, sluicing off
them as they stood there on the edge of the road facing
one another silently for what seemed an eternity.

"How is your shoulder?" she asked at last, unable to
bear the silence a moment longer.

"Nearly healed, thank you"

"And ... and how is your sister Maria?"

"She is well," he answered. "My eldest sister and her
husband have come to take her home"

Eleanor nodded. "I'm glad to hear it" She looked
away, toward the top of the road, wishing he would say
something-anything-to make this less awkward. Rain
dripped from her nose, and she wiped it away with her
sleeve, knowing she must look a terrible fright. "I ... I
must know why you are here, Frederick."

"The truth? Because I could no longer bear to stay away, try as I might. You did not give me a chance to
explain, to have my say"

She shook her head, sending a spray of rain into her
eyes, stinging them. "There was nothing you could say,
Frederick"

"You're mistaken. I had much to say, if only you
would have listened. I would have told you that Molly
is a damnable liar, that nothing she said to you that day
in Jermyn Street was true. Aye, and that you were a fool
to believe her."

Eleanor inhaled sharply, indignation surging through
her. "How dare you call me-"

"I've never before lied to you, Eleanor. Not once," he
snapped, closing the distance between them with long,
angry strides. "There's more, and this time you will
listen. I could have said that you've taken over my heart,
my soul, my every waking thought. That each morning
you are the first thing I think of, and each night the last."

"Please don't," she cried, not wishing to hear the
words. It was too late, far too late. "Don't do this, not
now." Not when she'd finally found a measure of peace,
a numbness of mind and soul that had served her well.

"You will hear me out," he said, raising his voice
above the din of the rain. "I've stayed away as long as
possible, but it's no use. I'm ruined." He spread his arms
wide, then dropped them to his sides. "You've stripped
me of my defenses, left me bare, and despite my best intentions . . "His voice trailed off as he shook his head,
looking utterly defeated. "I love you, Eleanor Ashton"

The very words she'd so desperately wished to hear,
come too late. She struggled to catch her breath as a
flood of emotions engulfed her, catching her in their turbulent tide.

"And even as I say those words, I can see the doubt,
there in your eyes" He moved forward, his lips only inches from hers, his gaze scouring her face, lingering
on her mouth.

Despite everything, she realized she wanted him to
kiss her, so thoroughly and senselessly that she no
longer knew up from down, left from right. Right from
wrong.

Instead, he staggered back, flexing his hands as if
he'd suffered a physical blow.

Eleanor blinked in confusion. This was not the Frederick Stoneham she knew, the arrogant roue with a quip
at the ready, who did exactly what he pleased, no matter
the consequence.

No, this man was vulnerable, instead. Hurt. Restrained and self-doubting. Was this the real Frederick,
kept hidden behind the devil-may-care facade, beneath
the rakehell veneer? For protection, she realized with a
startling clarity.

And he loved her. He loved her!

"We must talk," she said quickly, her voice infused
with hope.

"Indeed we must" He reached out, as if he were
going to take her hand. Instead, he let his arm fall back
to his side. "But not here," he added, "not like this,
standing out in the road soaking wet"

Eleanor nodded, vaguely aware that the rain had tapered off to a fine mist. Her clothing and undergarments clung wetly to her skin, and her teeth began to
chatter.

"Come," he said, gesturing toward his horse. "I'll
take you home"

Shivering now, she followed him to his mount and allowed him to hoist her up into the saddle. As she tucked
her cloak about herself, he stood below in the road,
holding the reins as he gazed up at her, his eyes suddenly as hard as flint.

"We must speak-alone," he said, his voice clipped.
"Tomorrow. There's an old artisan's cottage on my
father's property; I often stay there when in residence.
Henley can tell you its exact location. Tell your parents
you are going to pay a call on Lady Henley; tell them
whatever you wish. Henley will give you a horse; it's an
easy ride from his stables. If you have not come by
sunset I will return to London, and that will be the end
of this."

Eleanor only nodded, swallowing the lump in her
throat.

"But listen to me, and listen well," he continued, a
muscle in his jaw flexing perceptibly. "Do not come
unless you are entirely prepared to put your fate in my
hands, to trust me with all your heart, with every inch
of your being. To accept my word as the truth. I do not
want you, otherwise."

With that, he swung up onto the saddle behind her,
one arm wrapped protectively about her. Kicking his
heels into the horse's sides, he spurred the beast into a
gallop, off toward Covington Hall.

Water dripping off her, Eleanor trudged past the twin
fountains on either side of the tree-lined drive where
Frederick had deposited her just moments before. Her
skirts dragged in the mud as she made her way across
the flagstones and up the wide stairs toward the familiar, aged yellow stones of Covington Hall. Her mind
was still reeling, her heart racing despite her sluggish
pace. Her garments were shockingly heavy when wet,
and all she could think of was getting out of them and
into a hot, steaming bath.

Wondering where the butler had gone off to, she let
herself into the front hall and stopped short, gaping in
surprise at the sight before her, at the singularly handsome man who stood leaning lazily against the wall, his
arms folded across his broad chest as he regarded her
with barely concealed amusement in his deep blue eyes,
eyes the exact same shade as her own.

"What the devil has happened to you?" he drawled,
his mouth curving into a grin.

"Henry!" she squealed, launching herself across the
hall and into his arms. "Whatever are you doing here?
Oh, don't tell me. I'm just so very happy that you are "" She pressed her face against his coat, smiling giddily as
he embraced her. It had been too long-far too longshe realized, stepping away from him at last.

"Perhaps you should go change," he said, brushing
off his lapels. "What did you do, fall in the river?"

"I got caught in the rain, you fool. You did notice it
rained, did you not? Quite heavily, too."

"At least there was no thunder," he teased. "Or you
might have perished there in fright, coward that you are.
Good God, but you're soaked. Here, let's get you upstairs." He reached for her elbow, guiding her up the
wide, sweeping stairs.

"How long can you stay?" she asked, still barely able
to believe he was there.

"I'm afraid I must return in the morn, as I'm only
here for the night."

"All this way, just for the night? Surely not, Henry.
Blast it, but I've missed you. You've no idea"

"I had to come, El. Something about your last letter
alarmed me. I wrote to Father-"

"And I suppose he told you everything?" she snapped.

"To the contrary, dear sister. He told me nothing. Go,
have a bath. And then you can tell me everything yourself."

Eleanor looked up at Henry and nodded, amazed as
always that he had grown so tall since he'd gone off to
university. He'd been such a scrawny, sickly boy, always
a head shorter than her and trailing a step behind. To look
at him now, well over six feet and heavily muscled ...
it made her heart sing with joy. He looked healthy and fit,
and she could not have been happier for it.

"I shan't be long," she said, then slipped inside her
bedchamber, calling out impatiently for Solange.

An hour later, she joined Henry in his sitting room
across the hall, warm and dry, her hair twisted into a
single plait that fell across one shoulder. She took a seat on the gold velvet bench beside his dressing table while
he sprawled in a worn leather chair, his coat tossed carelessly across the back. His long limbs were stretched out
toward the hearth where a fire crackled pleasingly. So
many times they'd sat just like this, discussing their
hopes and dreams. Henry had talked about his passion
for painting; she, of her love for poetry. Life had been
so much simpler then. If only she'd realized those years
would pass so quickly, she would have savored them
more, for now they were lost forever.

Henry cleared his throat, pulling her from her
thoughts. "Now, then," he prompted. "Tell me what's
troubling you. And please"-he held up one hand-"no
tears. You know I cannot understand you when you get
all blubbery."

She glared at him across the room. "I do not get all
blubbery."

"Yes, whatever," he said, examining his fingernails.
"Go on, from the beginning."

She took a deep, fortifying breath. "That would be
the betrothal agreement. Papa arranged a match for me,
you see. With Frederick Stoneham, of all people."

"Stoneham? The Baron Worthington's son? He can't
be more than three and twenty."

Eleanor nodded. "He's precisely that"

Henry shrugged, reaching up to untie his starched
white cravat. "Well, I suppose you could do worse than
a baron's only son. Worthington is well connected, and
rich, too. Successful estates in Oxfordshire, Essex, Ireland." He ticked them off with his fingers. "Whatever is
the problem, then? Had you higher hopes than that?"

"It's nothing to do with my hopes, Henry. Oh, you'll
never understand" She folded her arms across her
breasts and turned toward the fire, staring blindly into
the flames. "Never mind, I cannot tell you"

"Of course you can. You better, as I came all the way
from Oxford to hear it."

Her gaze snapped back to his. "You'll laugh; you'll
think me silly. It's all far too embarrassing"

"I solemnly swear I will not laugh," he said, placing
one hand across his heart. "There, will that satisfy
you?"

"Have you been painting?" she hedged, noticing a
trace of pigment beneath his neatly trimmed nails. "I
hope you will not give it up in favor of-"

"Indeed, I have been painting, but pray, do not
change the subject. Come now, out with it."

"I ... I kissed Frederick Stoneham," she blurted,
"when I was but ten and six. In the maze. And ... and
I've fancied myself in love with him ever since."

"You what?" he barked, sitting erect at once, his
hands gripping the chair's arms so tightly that his
knuckles turned white. "You cannot be serious. You, in
love? Impossible."

"I told you it was humiliating," she said, her cheeks
suddenly hot. "But true, nonetheless."

"Love? Haven't you seen what it's done to our father?
Can you honestly wish that for yourself?"

"No, of course not. And I didn't wish for it, not at all.
It came ... unbidden" Yes, that was the word. She'd
wanted nothing to do with love, and yet it had found her
anyway.

"And did he ... does he love you in return?"

"He didn't, not then. He kissed me to win a ... a
wager. Do not get angry, Henry," she said, seeing a vein
throb in his temple. "Else I will not tell you the rest"

"There's more?" he groaned.

Eleanor nodded, gathering her courage, forcing back
the tears that had gathered in her eyes.

"Devil take it, Eleanor, don't tell me he's trifled with you, that you're in some sort of trouble. Why, I'll kill
the bastard-"

"Goodness, Henry," she interrupted with a scowl.
"Take a damper. It's nothing so bad as that"

It took nearly an hour for her to recount the past two
months' events-liberally edited, of course, as she did
not dare tell him of their far-too-intimate encounter at
the cottage on the cliff. Heavens, no; her brother would
likely have suffered an apoplexy had she done so.
Clearly she'd underestimated his protective instincts
where her virtue was concerned.

When she finished her tale, ending with their most
recent exchange in the rain, Henry merely shook his head.

"Well, go on. Say something," she prompted, his silence making her squirm.

"I ... I don't know what to say. I'm stunned, to say
the least. I thought you far more sensible than this"

"Don't you dare criticize me, Henry Ashton."

"You must admit it sounds insensible," he muttered,
raking a hand through his dark hair.

"Oh, very well. I suppose it does" Eleanor dropped
her head into her hands, sighing deeply. "My mind tells
me that marriage is about security, companionship,
about advancing one's position. But my heart tells me
otherwise"