“What truth?” Cleo demanded, clearly unwilling to be swayed. “The fact that she was nearly a child when he took advantage of her? The fact that she has led an otherwise exemplary life?”
Eloise grimaced. “Hardly exemplary. Indeed, if you had not taken me to task last year for my behavior toward others, I could very well have alienated all of London.”
“But you didn’t,” Cleo protested. “And no matter what happens, your friends will stand by you.”
“And who are my friends besides you and Leslie? I began driving others away long before I met Mr. Darby. You are a dear for forgiving me the times I doubted you. I have not been so fortunate elsewhere.”
“Well, you cannot blame the other girls for shying away from you when we were at school. Few people deal well with perfection.”
Eloise sighed. “You must believe me, Cleo, it was never my intent to snub anyone. It was your honesty that helped me see how I was not acting like the woman I wished to be.”
“However, Cleo is right,” Leslie put in. “Your behavior of late has been remarked upon, and kindly.”
“She is much changed,” Cleo added with evident pride. “Even Lord Owens confided that he had misjudged you, and I know you remember how he ceased his suit of you last year. He knows you are a different person now.”
Eloise could see Leslie smiling as he gave his wife’s hand another squeeze. “I would argue that Eloise isn’t so much changed, my dear, as she has finally decided to hoist her true colors.” He nodded to Eloise. “And I sincerely hope that you do not let Jareth Darby force you to fly a false flag again. You have too much to offer.”
His words and Cleo’s support eased her heart, yet she could not seem to stop the churning of her mind. The last year of her life had been the best since she was a child, largely because of her friendship with the Hastings. Just tonight she had been sure she had achieved her goal of being a woman worthy of acceptance, appreciation, approval. Why now did Jareth Darby have to reappear in her life!
By the time they reached her father’s townhouse on Curzon Street, she had regained some of her composure. She suffered the butler to solemnly remove her cloak.
“His lordship is awaiting you in the garden withdrawing room, Miss Watkin,” he intoned.
“Thank you, Bryerton,” she replied. Although she’d lived in the house with her father since graduating from the Barnsley School three years ago and knew the various rooms well, she let the butler lead her. His step was slow and stately, as if he ushered her to her coronation rather than a late night conversation with her father. Such was Bryerton’s way.
He had been the family butler for as long as she could remember, but, by his own choice, he had never become the faithful old retainer so many families boasted. One had only to look at Bryerton’s regal bearing, the powdered wig he still affected, and the impeccably tailored black velvet coat he wore to know that he took his position as head of the household staff seriously. If his demeanor were not enough, the spotless glow of the stately rooms with their corniced ceilings, pastel-colored walls, and buffed wood floors would have told her that the household staff marched to strict orders and considered polish next to godliness.
At times, she wished for a less formal existence, but her father seemed to relish it. Now he responded with a curt answer to the butler’s rap at the door to the second-floor withdrawing room that overlooked their small garden.
As Eloise entered on Bryerton’s heels, she saw that her father was sitting in a scroll-backed chair near the wood-wrapped fireplace, freshly ironed evening paper in front of him. His spare form was clothed in his usual brown suit and tan-striped waistcoat. Like Bryerton, he held to an immutable order of things, which seemed to include never allowing his daughter to see him in less than a formal setting. Tonight she would much rather have curled up beside him on the sofa, but she knew better than to suggest such a thing.
“Miss Watkin to see you, my lord,” the butler announced as if she’d been away years instead of a few hours.
Her father put down the paper. A smile lit his thin, pale face. “Ah, Eloise. Come in. Tell me about Almack’s.”
Eloise hesitated only a moment before going to stand before him. A part of her would have liked nothing better than to throw herself into the seat beside him and tell him exactly what had happened and how much it concerned her. Before retiring from the diplomatic corps, her father had traveled throughout Europe. She’d heard that he’d seen any number of volatile affairs and found ways to smooth them. Surely he’d know how to handle Jareth Darby.
The only problem was, he had no idea what Jareth meant to her.
Besides, Bryerton was stationed beside the door, and she didn’t want to speak of sensitive subjects in his hearing. So she remained standing and returned her father’s smile. “Almack’s was a bit tiring tonight. But I did dance with Lord Nathaniel. He requested to call later in the week.”
Her father’s pale blue eyes were thoughtful. “Does this please you?”
Even before Jareth had appeared she hadn’t been certain of the answer to that question. Now that he threatened her future, she was even less sure. “He’s a good man,” she said defensively. “Stable. Courtly. He honors me with his interest.”
“He should be the one to feel honored,” her father told her. “But I look forward to meeting this paragon. Now perhaps you should retire. You look tired.”
“I am a bit fatigued,” she allowed. She dropped a respectful curtsey. “Good night, Father.”
Her father inclined his head, and Bryerton stepped away from the wall to lead her to her bedchamber.
Normally, the pale blues of the bed hangings and draperies in her room were calming and peaceful, but tonight they did not comfort her. Neither did her maid, Martha. The older woman had a round face that was surprisingly stern and narrow-spaced eyes. Her movements were quick and sure. Eloise was never tempted to linger over brushing out her hair at night or bathing in the morning. Everything ran on schedule with Martha.
Still, she thought as she slipped beneath covers that Martha had efficiently warmed with a heating pan, at least Martha was better than the chaperone she had had the last two years. Miss Tidwell had had endless advice, but Eloise had soon found that the woman had little interest in acting on that advice. Instead, she used any excuse to leave Eloise to her own devices. When Eloise had had a near-scandalous run in with Leslie, before he had married Cleo, Lord Watkin had been convinced to discharge the chaperone and hire a maid instead.
Eloise had hoped that Martha would be someone in whom she could confide, but just as Miss Tidwell had been all talk, Martha was all action. And her actions were as strict as the whale-bone corset into which her considerable bulk was constrained. She did her work with a prim, “Yes, Miss,” “No, Miss,” and disappeared into the nether regions of the house. Once in a rare while, Eloise actually won a smile from her, but it quickly vanished. Like Bryerton, Martha seemed to feel that it was singularly inappropriate to mix with the master and his family.
When Martha left her alone that night, Eloise sighed. She felt unaccountably blue-deviled. It would be all too easy to cry. But she’d shed more tears than she liked over Jareth in the past, and a few tears weren’t going to change her life today. Better to focus her attentions on how she might achieve her goal of living happily ever after now that Jareth had reappeared.
She knew she would not feel comfortable entering marriage without explaining her past to her prospective husband. However, she certainly didn’t want Jareth to be the one to make the explanations. Of course, he might say nothing, but she couldn’t take that chance, not when Lord Nathaniel was so close to proposing. Yet how could she ensure Jareth’s silence?
He had no conscience, or he would never have abandoned her. His family was wealthy, so he hardly needed money. She could offer him neither position nor connections that could not be bettered by a simple conversation with his brother. The only thing left to bargain with was her virtue, and she refused to give him a chance at that a second time.
The one factor in her favor was that the story of their passion reflected no better on him than it did on her. He’d been the youngest son of a wealthy earl, and terribly cozened. Even then, few were foolhardy enough to censure him.
She’d been the only child of a couple much in love and just as prone to be spoiled by their attentions. But when her mother had died, her father had withdrawn. More and more his work took him away, and she was left in the care of others—nannies, governesses, chaperones. Still, she tried to please, always eager for praise. She knew the reports to her father glowed with her accomplishments. She could sit her horse by eight. She had mastered the piano at nine. She spoke fluent French and Italian by eleven. Her father should have been delighted, but as she never received more than an occasional letter, she could never be certain.
At fifteen, she had been enrolled at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies. While the teachers were more exacting than her tutors, again she excelled. Within a few months, it was common for the staff to refer to her as the example.
“Stand taller, Miss Pennybaker. See how Miss Watkin glides across the floor.”
“More blue in that water color, Miss Courdebas. Notice the fluidity of Miss Watkin’s waterfall.”
“Relax in the saddle, Miss Rutherford. Look at how Miss Watkin becomes one with her mount.”
As Cleo had reminded her that night, her fellow students had either worshipped her or been jealous enough to hate her. Either way, what she did was mimicked, what she said repeated. She was queen of her world and confident in her ability to rule.
So was their headmistress, Miss Martingale. The imposing woman was so pleased with Eloise’s performance that Miss Martingale insisted she be allowed to accompany the teachers to their annual tea at the Darby estate. Most of the school staff had been too awed to do more than stammer answers to the questions asked by Helena Darby, then the Countess of Wenworth. Eloise, however, had had no trouble being charmingly polite to the elegant young countess. Lady Wenworth had been immediately won over.
She remembered how content she’d felt as she followed the teachers on a tour of the palatial country house. As they ventured on, she had stood alone for a moment in the Darby family chapel, gazing up at the golden cross, and thinking she could get no closer to heaven than she had today.
She had gotten closer and been knocked nigh unto hell because of it.
Even now, she could hear him as she had that first time. “Bright angel, have you fallen that I a lowly mortal should find you here?”
The voice, rich and warm, had fit so well with her mood and thoughts that she had only smiled. Turning, she’d been amazed to find that she had not conjured the sound. A man had appeared as if from her desires.
He was beautiful. His hair was the color of polished platinum, and his blue eyes were bright as crystal. The light through the stained glass window sparkled around him like fairy dust, silhouetting his lean body. He had evidently been out riding, for he wore shiny black boots, skin-tight chamois trousers, and a tweed riding jacket with velvet lapels. She wasn’t entirely sure what he thought of finding her in his family chapel, for surely he was a Darby, but she knew admiration when she saw it. To see it from him stole her breath.
“No angel, sir,” she’d answered shyly. “Merely a maid.”
“Ah, but what a maid,” he chided, striding forward to kneel at her feet. She gazed down at him in wonder. His upturned face was sweet, imploring, worshipful.
“Dearest maid,” he murmured, “grant my wish. Make me immortal by thy kiss.”
Oh, how very tempting he had been. But then, he’s always known how to tempt. Even that first day, she had been willing to risk all for him. She had bent down to touch her lips gently against the crown of his head. He’d smelled of leather and sunlight. The silken curl of his hair teased her cheek.
He’d sighed as if her mere touch brought ecstasy. She could well imagine that, as the kiss had affected her nearly as much. He rose fluidly to his feet and clasped her hand. “I cannot say all I wish here. Meet me tonight, at the lightning-struck oak behind the school stables. Midnight. The wait will seem an eternity.”
Before she could protest the impossibility, he’d brought her hand to his lips and pressed a feverish kiss into the bare skin of her wrist. His touch undammed a flood of emotions. The only thing that stopped her from acting at that moment was the sound of Miss Martingale’s voice calling from the corridor.
“Promise me,” he’d begged against her skin.
She’d nodded, retrieved her still-tingling hand, and hurried after her teachers. The rest of the tour she’d hugged her hand to her heart even as she hugged the memory.
Even now, she found the memory potent. He’d been so romantic, so dashing, made up of equal parts of danger and delight. It had taken little to persuade her to throw everything she’d been taught out the window, if only she could be with him. What a shame he had turned out to be someone who cared for nothing but himself. A greater shame, she supposed, that she’d spent much of the intervening five years bemoaning her choice. No more. She had worked too hard, come too far.
Whatever the cost, she vowed, Jareth Darby would find it much more difficult to persuade her of anything this time.
Chapter Five
Jareth lost no time in attempting to see Eloise again. The hesitation he had felt in approaching her vanished in the face of her coolness. She offered him the first challenge he had been given in a long time. With Cheddar Cliffs as the prize, he could not fail to meet that challenge. Determined to make his case, he appeared at her home at the fashionable hour of three in the afternoon.
“I regret to say,” her hard-faced butler informed him with a nose so high Jareth wondered he didn’t drown in the rain, “that Miss Watkin is not at home.”
More annoyed than deterred, he tried again the next day and the next, leaving his card each time. He tried calling early and late. He tried returning in a quarter hour in hopes he might catch her coming home. In all cases, the butler refused to allow him admittance.