To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (33 page)

"So what will you do?"

"I hoped you'd have an answer, Henry. I ... I'm to
decide by tomorrow."

"Then you've a long night ahead of you, haven't you?
I'm afraid I cannot help you with this. I do not even
believe such a thing as romantic love exists."

"Nor did I, till now. But now I'm entirely certain that
it does. It does," she repeated, "and it is wondrous and
frightening, all at once. I fear cannot turn my back on it,
now that I've discovered it."

"I suppose Father thought the same thing, so many
years ago. Which reminds me, whose bed do you suppose Mother is frequenting at present?"

"Don't be vulgar, Henry," she snapped. "You know I
don't wish to hear these things"

"Perhaps you should hear them. I've seen it with my
own eyes, Eleanor. For all we know, Father has, too.
You've seen how he's suffered, how she's humiliated
him, time and again. Can you risk finding yourself in
that same position?"

"This is different," she said, pounding one fist on the
bench in frustration. "Frederick is not Mama. He loves
me, Henry."

"And you're certain of that? Certain it will endure
once the novelty wears off?"

She nodded. "Entirely so"

"Well, then, Eleanor, there's nothing left for me to
say. It seems that you will get your arranged marriage,
after all. Just not quite the one you'd expected." He rose
and came to stand beside her, one hand resting on her
shoulder, patting it affectionately. "All I can do is wish
you luck."

Frederick smiled as Maria wrapped her arms about
his waist, embracing him tightly. He bent and kissed the
top of her head, relieved to see her so well recovered. He
only hoped that, when Eckford came crawling back to
her-as he no doubt would, the bastard-that she would
have the fortitude to resist him, to send him packing.

"Thank you, Freddie," she said, drawing away from
him at last. A lone tear traced a path down her cheek.
"Thank you ever so much, for finding him, for making
him do right by me and the girls. For sparing him,
worthless lout that he is," she added, a bittersweet smile upon her lips. "Truly, I don't know how I'd have
managed without you"

"Just promise me that you'll take good care of yourself"

"Only if you'll promise the same of yourself." She
reached for her bonnet. "I worry about you, you know.
Will you return to Town? Back to your wicked ways?"

He shrugged. "I might go to Ireland instead." In truth,
he'd already bought passage to Dublin, just in case. If
things did not go well with Eleanor-and he could not
allow himself to hope that they would-he would take
some time to collect himself at the Abbey, there between the lake and mountains, the most peaceful place
on earth.

"You'll write to me, won't you?" she asked, tying her
bonnet's ribbons beneath her chin.

"Every week, as always." He watched as his two
small nieces skipped down the walk toward the carriage,
their ribbons fanning out behind them as they turned
and waved.

"Goodbye, Uncle Frederick," they lisped in unison.

"Goodbye, poppets," he called back, leaning against
the doorway with a smile. "Safe travels."

Katherine bustled out, tugging on her gloves, her husband trailing behind her. "Marcus, dear, the carriage is
waiting," she called out over one shoulder. "Oh, Freddie,
darling." She hurried back to embrace him. Standing on
tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, her scent-rosewater and
soap-so comfortingly familiar.

"You are a good man, Freddie," she whispered in his
ear, tears dampening her light brown eyes. "A fine man.
I knew it all along."

Damn, but he loved her, the closest thing he'd had to
a mother. Thank God he'd returned to Essex in time to
see them off.

"You'll write?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered with a mock bow. "Now
go, off with you. See that Maria is settled. If you need
me, just send word."

"I will. Very well, then, I suppose I'm off." She blew
him one last kiss, then bustled down the stairs and into
the waiting carriage.

"Drive on," his brother-in-law called out, and the carriage sprang forward, jostling down the drive. He
watched until the clip-clop of hooves faded, until the
carriage was naught but a speck in the distance, and
then he headed back inside.

Just as he feared, his father was there in the front hall,
waiting. "They've gone?"

"Indeed. If you'll excuse me" Bowing sharply, Frederick made for the stairs.

"Frederick, I ... if you don't mind, I'd like a word
with you," his father called out after him, his voice
sounding strangely tight.

Frederick paused, one hand on the carved newel post.
Dropping his chin to his chest, he sighed, not wanting a
scene with the man, not now. All he wanted was to go in
peace, off to his cottage to enjoy a bit of solitude.

"Please, son," his father added.

"I'd planned to go to the cottage for the night"

"Your mother loved that little artisan's cottage, did
you know that? It's no wonder you've always been
drawn there."

Frederick stepped back in surprise, one boot on the
stair, thinking that hell must have frozen over. The Baron
Worthington did not speak of his late wife to Frederickever. Too stunned to speak, he simply shook his head.

"Indeed," his father continued. "This was our primary residence when we first married, until my father
passed and we took up the estate in Oxfordshire. 'Twas Fiona who had the pianoforte moved out to the cottage"
His eyes took on a misty, faraway look, a faint smile
upon his lips. "Aye, she loved to play, and to paint. The
cottage was her private retreat. One of her landscapes
still hangs there, if I'm not mistaken."

Of course-above the mantel. A bold piece that
always put him in mind of the walled flower garden at
the Abbey. As was likely intended, he realized, given the
artist's identity. He'd passed many an hour staring up at
that painting, wishing it were a portal that could transport him across the Irish Sea, to the place that felt more
like home than any of his father's English estates ever
would.

"Anyway," his father said gruffly, "I realize that I
have not always been the best of fathers, not to you, at
least."

Frederick only shrugged, wishing to put an end to the
uncomfortable discourse at once.

"I tried my best, but you cannot possibly know what
it's like to lose a wife you love so dearly, and then a son"

"You've no need to tell me this," Frederick said
through clenched teeth. He had no wish to hear it.

"Indeed, I must. You're so much like her, you see"
His gaze strayed to the portrait of his long-dead wife,
there in the front hall, and Frederick's followed suit.

For a full minute, both men simply stood there in silence, admiring the portrait of the lovely dark-haired
woman with mischievous brown eyes. Captured for
eternity standing beside a red velvet chaise, a playful
smile tipping the corners of her mouth.

At last his father cleared his throat, turning his attention back to his son. "What I'm trying to say, however
awkwardly, is thank you. Thank you," he repeated, "for
doing for Maria what I have should done myself There's no telling what the situation would be now, had you not
stepped in."

"I have always held my sisters in the highest regard,"
Frederick replied softly. "Each and every one of them.
Though you might not have noticed."

"Touch&." He stroked his long, drooping whiskers
thoughtfully.

They were entirely gray now, as was the hair on his
head, what was left of it. With a start, Frederick realized
his father had grown old.

"I underestimated you, Frederick," the baron said.
"And I am sorry for it. I hope you will reconsider marrying Lady Eleanor."

At the mention of Eleanor, Frederick's attention
snapped back into focus.

"I do not know under what circumstances the agreement fell asunder, but my greatest hope is that it can be
set to rights. I know you think me a cruel, hard man,
but, I vow, I entered into that agreement with Lord Mandeville with only the best of intentions"

Frederick could only stare at the man in disbelief.

"Aye," his father continued, shoving his hands into
his pockets. "She's an exceptional young lady, a diamond of the first water."

"She is, indeed," Frederick said. At least they could
agree on something.

"I only hoped that, with some interference on my
part, the pair of you might find a measure of happiness
together. As I found with your mother, God rest her
soul. Anyway, I hope you will reconsider."

"Of course I've reconsidered; I'm not such a fool as
that. If you must know, the only obstacle hindering our
happy union at present is that the lady in question is disinclined to marry me"

"Hmm, an obstacle, indeed. However, I'm certain you've the persuasive powers to rectify the situation.
Aren't such things rumored to be among your talents?"

"Are they?" Frederick asked with a shrug. "I confess,
I'm not precisely up to the rigs on the rumors concerning me."

"Well ... ahem. I suppose you can go off to your cottage now, though I'm glad we had this talk. I hope that
perhaps someday ... well, never mind. Go on, then, and
best of luck winning the hand of your fair maiden."

Luck-that was just what he needed right now. That,
and a small miracle.

"I'm so sorry, dear, but I simply cannot allow you to
take the carriage, not today" Eleanor's mother generously slathered her toast with butter. "I'm to call on the
Duchess of Warburton this afternoon, and I hoped you'd
accompany me"

"I'm afraid I cannot, Mama. You see, I promised
Selina-"

"Nonsense. You spend far too much time at Marbleton as it is. Besides, you know how Her Grace enjoys
listening to you play."

"It's just that ... that .. " Oh, bother She hated to lie
to her mother, but what else could she do? "Selina is
feeling unwell and I promised to keep her company, to
read to her today"

"She is so unwell that she cannot read to herself?"
Mama asked with raised brows. "If that is so, then you
should not be exposed. I do not want you taking ill."

"No, it's nothing like that" Eleanor's hand shook as
she reached for her coffee. "She's just feeling a bit ...
poorly ... is all."

Her mother's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Does
this have something to do with Frederick Stoneham?"

Good heavens, was she really as transparent as that?
Blast it, but now what was she to say?

"Oh, don't be such a ninny, Eleanor. Out with it; I can
see the truth all over your face. You're a terrible liar, you
know."

Eleanor let out her breath in a rush, her cheeks flooding with heat. "Very well, Mama. I had hoped to see
Fred-Mister Stoneham," she corrected, "at Marbleton today" Dear Lord, another lie. "We have some matters of importance to discuss. Quite urgently," she added
lamely.

"I should say so. I suppose this explains your
brother's sudden appearance yesterday, and equally
abrupt departure at dawn? Asking his counsel, were
you?"

Eleanor only shrugged, entirely unsure how to respond. Speaking of Henry always made Mama irritable,
and she did not wish to irritate her-she wanted the carriage.

"Well, perhaps I can offer you some womanly advice
instead" Mama nodded, fingering her lace fichu. "But
first, I've a confession"

"A confession?"

"Indeed. Beneath your feather mattress is not a terribly clever place to hide your diary, dear."

"What.
"What ... whatever do you mean?" Eleanor stuttered.

Her mother only arched one delicate brow in reply.

Eleanor's heart skipped a beat as realization dawned
on her. Her diary. Her mother had read her diary, and
everything in it about Frederick. Foolish words, written
when she'd been but a girl.

"There I was, doing you a favor, as it were. Suggesting to your father that Mister Stoneham was just the
man for you to marry, when heaven knows there are
surely more suitable gentlemen to be had. And some-
ome- how you managed to go and ruin it. You could have had
exactly what your heart desired-the man you loved.
Not every girl is so lucky."

"I ... I don't understand," Eleanor murmured, shaking her head in confusion.

"Do not be a dimwit, Eleanor. I read your girlish
scribblings, you see. Many months ago. I realized then
that your Frederick was the only man who would satisfy
you, and so I made certain that you secured him. Luckily your father was easy to convince, as he always is"

Why ever would her mother do such a thing? It was
not so hard to believe that Mama would read her private
writings. Indeed, that was entirely in character for her.
But act to secure Eleanor's happiness?

That she could not credit, especially when the match
she'd schemed to secure was not what she would have
called advantageous. "But you've always said I should
marry well," she insisted, "and Frederick is only a
baron's son."

"A baron's heir, my dear. I've seen Worthington's seat
in Oxfordshire, and I can assure you it is quite grand,
far more so than his estate here. And here is where my
advice comes in. You've been given the chance to marry
the one man whom you desire above all others, the man
who sets your blood afire and your pulse to racing, if
your diary is to be believed. Such a chance only comes
along once in a lifetime, and I suggest you embrace it,
no matter the circumstances. Otherwise you will never
be satisfied. I can assure you of that"

"But what if Frederick-"

"Does not love you? No matter." She waved one hand
in dismissal. "You will make him love you, Eleanor."

"That hadn't been my question, Mama. Frederick
does love me. Of that I am certain"

"Then I am bewildered. If he loves you and you him, why was the betrothal contract ripped in two and tossed
in the fire?"

"It's far too complicated to say, Mama. But that is
why I wished to see him today, to try to set it all to
rights."