To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (34 page)

"Then you shall. You might have told me straightaway rather than making up a ridiculous story about
Selina being ill." She eyed her coldly, her mouth pursed
in displeasure. "I suppose I should be glad you're such
a poor liar."

"I am sorry for that, Mama" And sorry still for the
continued lies, as she would not mention the artisan's
cottage. "But I suppose I should thank you," she said,
realizing with a start that she meant it. "If not for the betrothal agreement, I don't imagine my path would have
ever crossed Frederick's again."

"Likely not," her mother said softly. "I was in love
once, you know. Desperately, passionately in love. He
was the son of a solicitor, a beautiful boy. And then I
caught your father's eye, and ... well, he is a marquess,
after all, your father. It was entirely insensible that your
father would wish to marry me, a vicar's daughter, but
indeed he did, and there was no arguing with my parents. My lover and I hadn't a chance. Anyway," she said
with a sigh, "what's past is past. Still, I could not help
but wish that you would have your chance"

"Thank you, Mama," Eleanor murmured, reaching
for her mother's hand.

"Now look at me, all maudlin." Mama reached up to
wipe her eyes, though they did not look at all damp.
"Enough of this talk. Go on, put on your most fetching
frock, and you shall have the carriage take you to Marbleton. I cannot possibly let you go on foot and arrive
with reddened cheeks and muddy skirts now, can I?"

The noon sun was high in the sky as Eleanor set off
from Marbleton atop one of Lord Henley's mares. He'd
given her explicit directions, and assured her it should
not take more than a half hour to reach her destination.
Her route would take her across a wide field, along the
river, and then down a long, narrow lane that wound
through the woods that separated Henley's estate from
Lord Worthington's.

It was a beautiful day for a ride-sunny and unseasonably warm, the sky a breathtaking blue with nary a
cloud in sight. The autumn colors had begun to fade,
heralding the arrival of winter in the coming weeks.
Still, the countryside was lovely, soothing to Eleanor's
jangled nerves.

Whatever would she find at the cottage? The Frederick of old, laughing and teasing, entirely sure of himself? Or the Frederick she'd only just glimpsed
yesterday, somehow sad and angry, all at once? Could
she convince him of her love? That she trusted him implicitly? He had said that he did not want her otherwise,
and she knew in her heart that he meant it.

Just as he had meant it when he'd said he loved her. She had lain in bed last night, hearing those words again
and again in her mind, till a sense of peace had descended upon her. She'd expected a sleepless night;
after all, she'd had so many since becoming reacquainted with Frederick. Instead, she'd fallen into a
deep, dreamless slumber, surprised to find herself so
well rested at dawn when she'd awakened to bid Henry
farewell.

Yes, she was making the right decision in going to the
cottage, even if doing so went entirely against propriety.
More than anything, she wanted to go. She prodded the
gentle mare into a gallop, suddenly wishing to race
across the field, toward her fate. Whatever it was, she
was more than ready to face it.

Not a half hour later, she found the old stone cottage,
just as Henley had promised-nestled in the clearing
ahead, smoke rising from its single chimney. Somehow
it fit Frederick-isolated, unpretentious, and yet appealing all the same. It was larger than she'd expected, likely
encompassing more than one room, nothing like the
little cottage on the cliff in Devonshire.

And, curiously, she heard music coming from inside.
Dismounting, she led the mare around to the watering
trough and hitched her there. There was definitely
music coming from inside, a pianoforte, if she was not
mistaken. Had there been an error, a misdirection of
some sort? Perhaps she'd found the wrong place.

Nonsense, she chastised herself as she rounded back
to the structure's front facade. She'd followed the directions precisely, and how many gray stone cottages could
there possibly be, here in the woods between the two
properties? This had to be it.

Tentatively, she took a step toward the front door, her
curiosity piqued. Was it ... ? No, it couldn't be. The
slow, melodious tune became louder, clearer as she reached for the latch, causing her breath to hitch in
her chest.

She'd been correct; it was Beethoven's piano sonata.
Number Fourteen, the one she'd played for Frederick
at Whitby Hall. But played now by whom? Puzzled, she
pressed the latch and pushed open the door-slowly,
quietly.

Once inside she froze, rooted to her spot by the door,
one hand reaching up to stifle a gasp. Across the width
of the room was Frederick, sitting before a mahogany
pianoforte, his dark head bent over the keys.

His hair obscured his face as he played, but she was
certain his eyes were closed. His hands-so large, so
strong-were gently, expertly picking out the haunting
notes as if he'd played the piece every day of his life.

She swallowed hard, her mind barely able to make
sense of it all. Not daring to move a muscle, she stood
silently, listening raptly till the movement's final notes
faded away.

At last, his fingers stilled on the keys, and he raised
his gaze to hers. He did not appear the least bit surprised
to see her standing there, as if he'd known all along that
she was listening, watching. She could feel the heat of
his stare, boring through her, making her skin tingle
with awareness.

"I did not know you played," she said at last, her
voice barely above a whisper.

"Aye, taught by the nuns when I was a boy. I was not
often grateful for the instruction, till now. I purchased
the music in London."

But there was no music on the stand. "And already
you play it by memory?"

Frederick shrugged. "The nuns taught me well."

"It's so very lovely, isn't it?" Particularly when he
played it.

"Aye, I cannot hear it without thinking of you. It's
haunted me, all this time"

"Frederick, I . . " She shook her head, tears stinging
her eyelids, her throat aching terribly. "I'm so very
sorry, for not trusting, not believing-"

"Shhh, there's no need for that, love. Come here," he
commanded, his voice gruff.

Eleanor untied her cloak, dropping it carelessly to the
floor with her reticule, then rushed across the room, her
lungs near to bursting.

Without rising from the pianoforte's bench, Frederick wrapped his arms around her, his head pressed to
her breast. In unison, their hearts beat a furious rhythm,
their breathing rushed and ragged.

"You came," he said, his voice muffled, sounding
almost strangled.

She ran her hands through his hair, letting the silky
strands slip through her fingers as she pressed him
tightly to her, her legs growing dangerously weak. "Of
course I came, though I don't know how you'll ever forgive me. I was wrong, so very wrong-"

"Don't," he said, shaking his head.

"I love you so very dearly, Frederick Stoneham. I ...
I could not bear to lose you again"

He said nothing in reply, only holding her more
tightly. At once the front of her frock felt strangely hot,
damp, as if he were.. .

No. Her mind refused to accept the obvious even as
his body began to tremble, his hands clutching at her
like a drowning man. And then she heard his choked
sobs, muffled in the folds of her skirts.

He was crying. Sobbing against her like a child.
Deep, gulping sobs that wracked his entire body.

Her heart near to breaking, Eleanor did the only thing she could think to do-hold him tightly and stroke his
hair, as if he were a boy.

Nearly a quarter hour passed, Eleanor comforting
him as she tried to staunch her own tears, to remain
strong-for him.

At last Frederick stilled in her arms, spent. "You came,"
he repeated, his voice naught but a hoarse whisper.

"Of course I came," she said, her own voice hoarse.
"Did you truly think I would not?"

He looked up at her then, and the pain in his countenance took her breath away. "Why should you believe
in me, when no one else ever has?" he said.

She swallowed the lump in her throat before replying.
"But I do believe in you, Frederick."

"Thank you," he said, drawing away, taking her trembling hands in his. "I do not deserve you, but thank you"

"Thank you for giving me another chance. I was
wrong-terribly wrong. I should have allowed you to
defend yourself, to say your piece. Only a coward would
have done otherwise"

Frederick took a deep, steadying breath. Bloody hell,
but he'd lost it. He wiped his face with his sleeve, embarrassed by his tears, relieved that she had not fled in
horror. He reached up to brush her cheek, as soft as velvet
beneath his fingers. "You are no coward, Eleanor," he
said softly.

"It's only that ... that Miss Delacorte seemed so very
convincing. The very thought of you and her .. " She
trailed off, shaking her head, suddenly unable to meet
his gaze.

"She is a part of my past that I am not proud of. Aye,
there's much I'm ashamed of But I vow to you, I am no
longer that man."

God knows, he'd tried to be. After she'd so hastily
departed London, he'd spent the first two days in a drunken stupor, feeling sorry for himself, hoping to
find comfort in the arms of another.

He'd gone to Covent Garden in search of a warm,
willing body and come home alone instead, taking
refuge at his father's residence in Grosvenor Square. No
longer did any aspect of his previous life-drinking,
gambling, whoring-hold any appeal for him, none
whatsoever. In the end, he'd sobered up, set his financial affairs in order, and purchased the respectable little
townhouse in Mayfair.

Not that he'd expected to win back Eleanor's trust,
her heart; indeed, entirely the opposite was true. Still,
there was no going back to his old ways. That part of
him was forever gone, and good riddance.

At last her gaze found his again. "And I vow to you
that I will never again doubt you. Never," she repeated,
her eyes shining like a pair of deep, dark sapphires.

Which reminded him .. .

Rising, he hastened to the red velvet settee where
he'd tossed his coat. Reaching inside, he withdrew the
pouch from his pocket. "I've something for you. Come,
let me do this properly."

With a curious smile, Eleanor followed him. The fire
sputtered, its red and orange flames reflected in her face
as he sank to one knee before her, taking her hand and
tenderly kissing it.

And then he held out the ring-an enormous square
sapphire flanked by diamonds and set in heavy gold. "I
hope you will accept this ring as a token of my eternal
devotion, of my pledge to love and honor you till my
dying breath."

"But ... but you've already given me a ring," she
stammered. "The ruby one. It's there, in my reticule."

"I do not care what you do with that godforsaken
thing-it was purchased before we became reacquainted, before I knew that a sapphire suited you far better. This
one was chosen for you and you alone, though I dared not
hope you would accept it. Will you take it? Will you
marry me, Eleanor Ashton?"

"Yes," she said, her eyes suddenly damp. "Yes, of
course I will."

In an instant he was on his feet again. She tugged off
her gloves, allowing him to slip the ring on her finger.
For a moment, they both admired it-a perfect fit. And
then he kissed her, tenderly at first, wanting to savor
every moment, every taste, every touch.

Her mouth opened against his, his name upon her lips
in invitation. Reaching up to clasp the back of her head,
his tongue danced along her lower lip, teasing it, then
plunged inside. Damnation, but she stole his breath
away, her own tongue meeting his in bold exploration.

Together they stumbled backward, toward the pianoforte, their hands everywhere at once. Her backside
collided with the keys, discordant notes breaking the silence as she braced herself against the instrument.

His mouth found hers once more, his lips meeting no
resistance. As he kissed her, he allowed his hands to
roam her luscious body, taking in every delicious curve.
He was going to spend himself, right then and there, if
he did not stop.

Summoning every bit of strength he could muster, he
dropped his hands to his sides, his lips retreating to her
throat where her pulse leapt wildly. "You're going to be
the death of me yet, woman," he muttered, nuzzling her
warm, fragrant skin.

"Do not stop, not this time," she said, her voice
breathless as she lowered herself to the pianoforte's
bench. Reaching for his linen, she tugged it from the
waistband of his breeches. He shuddered as her bare hands glided up his torso, her nails raking his skin,
tempting him beyond reason.

"I must stop," he said through gritted teeth, his control teetering on a dangerous precipice.

"Why must you?" Her voice was husky, laced with
need.

"To show you that I can, God help me. I will not
compromise you. Not now, no matter how badly I want
to "" No matter that desire coursed hotly through him,
nearly making him mad with lust. For once, he would
consider the consequence; he would not take her, simply
because he wanted to.

Gaining her feet, Eleanor reached behind her and unfastened her gown, allowing it to drop to her feet with a
swish. "Oh, yes, you will."

He could only gape in astonishment as she stood
there in nothing save a thin chemise and stays, her
breasts pushed high and round, her skin flushed a delicious pink.

"You can compromise me," she said, her voice a
caress, "and you will. Because I wish it, Frederick, and
haven't you always said I should do what I wish?"