Beware of Virtuous Women (39 page)

But she didn't want to leave Chance alone in the drawing room in his present mood.

"I...um, I received a note this morning from Miranda Phelps."

Chance looked at her in curiosity. "I beg your pardon, Elly. Who is Miranda Phelps? Oh, wait a moment. Would she be the widow of Chelfham's brother-in-law? The one he poisoned with brandy?"

"Yes, poor woman, although I will say that her note was generally quite...cheerful. She's home with her family, who welcomed her even though she arrived without so much as a farthing or a bit of clothes other than what she stood up in—those are her words. She wished to thank me for arranging transportation for her. And, she told me, Lady Chelfham has barricaded herself in the country at Chelfham Hall, fearful the Crown will dare to take her home from her. Do you think that will happen?"

"I suppose it's possible. Why, Elly? Do you want the place?"

"That's difficult to answer, as I'm not sure what I'd do with it if the Crown strips Chelfham of his title and properties," she said, then sighed. "I think...I think I would like to know her child has a home."

"The child who will be your blood relative," Chance pointed out needlessly. "That must be sobering and exciting at the same time."

"It's troubling, actually. What if Beales decides to take some sort of revenge on the countess?"

"No, I don't think he'll bother. It's too late for that. He has to know that Chelfham is out of his reach."

"If that's true, Chance, how and why did he arrange for Eccles to be murdered? I don't think either of us needs to be reminded just how vindictive the man is, do we? Chelfham was discovered, and all the money— and you tell me it was substantial—that had been flowing to Beales is now cut off. He has to be very angry."

Chance rubbed at his chin as he looked at Eleanor, considered her argument, which was unfortunately sound. "What do you want, Elly?"

"I don't know. But we probably should be doing something, shouldn't we? Mrs. Phelps is most likely safe, at home with her parents, but the countess is very easy to find as long as she resides at Chelfham Hall. At least until Edmund Beales finds something else, and someone else, to occupy his mind."

"Very well," Chance said, getting to his feet. "It would seem I'll be leaving you sooner than I thought. I'll arrange for guards on the woman—for what? Six months? Does that seem sufficient to you, General?"

Eleanor smiled. "Jack calls me that from time to time, and not always to flatter me. But, yes, six months seems sufficient. Thank you, Chance. And it all could be for nothing. Beales may never come back to England."

"Then we'll find him where he is, won't we?" Chance said, his expression determined. "No matter how long it takes. Now, while I go tell my valet to pack for me, you go tell that slugabed upstairs that the two of you leave for Becket Hall in the morning. London has seen the last of the Beckets for quite some time."

"I don't know if the doctor believes Jack can travel yet, Chance," Eleanor protested. "And we were none of us ever known to Beales, so it isn't as if we aren't safe here."

Chance smiled knowingly. "You're not ready to share him yet, are you, Elly?"

Eleanor got to her feet. "We'll see you in the morning, Chance, before you leave," she said, employing her quiet but firm tone, and then lifted her chin as she left the drawing room, Chance's knowing chuckle following her.

With each step she climbed on the broad staircase, Eleanor's worries dropped away.

The Earl of Chelfham was out of her life, having been a part of it in only the most unfortunate of ways.

Edmund Beales was gone, at least for now, and perhaps forever. And, contrary to what Chance feared, she believed Ainsley Becket was now strong enough again to deal with whatever might happen in the future.

She knew who she was, once and for all, and she was the person she had made. Anything else had been out of her control—the circumstances of her birth, what had happened on that ship so long ago. None of that was her. Julianna Maddox was a dream now long in the past. She was Eleanor Becket...soon to be Eleanor Eastwood.

Together, she and Jack would look to the future, because the past no longer held any danger, any pain.

And that was fine with her.

She knocked lightly on the door to Jack's bedchamber, then depressed the latch and stepped inside, to see that the heavy velvet drapes had been drawn against the afternoon sunlight.

She began to back out of the chamber, believing him to be asleep, only to cry out in shock when a strong arm wrapped about her waist.

"You wouldn't dare leave again now that you're here, would you?" Jack asked, his mouth mere inches from her ear. "The disappointment might set back my recovery for days."

Eleanor turned in his light embrace, moving against him. "What are you doing out of bed?" she asked, touching a hand to his cheek. "And you've been shaved."

"No one else is allowed to put a blade on my neck, madam. I shave myself. I also bathe myself, and may never forgive Treacle and my valet for that rather ignominious experience the other day."

"You would rather have been put to bed in your dirt? You were covered with soot by the time we could drag you to safety. Like some heavy lump of coal," she added, smiling.

"I'll never be able to live that down, will I? Fainting like a woman."

"This woman did not faint," she reminded him, then laid her cheek against his strong chest. "This woman was much too grateful to her rescuer to do any such thing. The doctor said you're lucky to be alive, that another inch lower and your skull would have cracked like an egg, and he's still amazed that you'd actually not gone unconscious long before you did. Worse, I imagine, is that Mrs. Hendersen now refers to
you
as
that poor dearie.
Are you really feeling well enough to be up and dressed, you poor dearie?"

"Possibly not, imp," Jack said, lightly stroking Eleanor's back, reveling in the feel of her. "As a matter of fact, now that you've reminded me of my physician's concerns, you should probably undress me and put me back to bed as quickly as possible."

Eleanor smiled as he cupped her bottom with both hands and drew her more closely against him, to feel his arousal hard against her belly. "Really? I don't know, Jack. I'm beginning to think you're quite prodigiously well...recovered."

He scooped her up into his arms. "Shall we test that theory?" he asked, carrying her over to the bed, his mouth locked on hers as they tumbled, together, onto the silken coverlet.

A few days ago, Jack had been terrified that he'd never be able to hold Eleanor again. Never kiss her. Never look deeply into her eyes as he took her to the pinnacle, and beyond. Never see her swollen with his child growing inside her. Never hold her hand and talk of Latin proverbs and ancient strategies. Never grow old with her, loving her more each day of their lives.

He turned onto his back, pulling Eleanor along with him, so that her face was above him as he studied her delicate, finely drawn features, felt his heart swell as she smiled down at him. "Now, my love, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted? Ah, I remember, although it's all still a little hazy. I believe I was telling you that I adore you."

Eleanor leaned down, kissed his cheek. "I think I much prefer a slightly earlier conversation. One where you were declaring rather forcefully that we were to be married. Do you remember that?"

Jack raised one speaking eyebrow. "Wbat? I'm sorry, but I've sustained an injury to my head, you know. I actually don't recall that. Marriage, you said?"

"No," Eleanor told him, her fingers busy on the buttons of his shirt. "Marriage,
you
said."

"Oh, wait. I think it's coming back to me now." His own hands were busy on the row of small buttons that marched down the back of her simple muslin gown. "You thanked me, didn't you? I was extremely flattered, although, now that I consider the thing, a simple
yes
might have been the preferred response."

"It would, if I wished to marry you," Eleanor teased as he rolled her onto her back, her gown already lowered to her waist—he really,
really
was very good at this. "I may, however, have decided that I should be happier being a fallen woman and living in sin. In my effort to no longer be so very proper, you understand. Shouldn't every virtue be tinged with just a little vice?
Mmm,
that's nice."

Jack had captured one exposed nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and was enjoying watching as she seemed to flower beneath his touch. "Nice, but no longer decadent, I suppose? And you'd enjoy feeling decadent?"

Eleanor would enjoy it if Jack would simply shut up and love her, as this newly discovered passion had been missing from her life for three entire days and nights, and his simplest touch had enflamed her senses with a swiftness that was very nearly frightening. She wanted his touch. Needed his touch. Longed for him to be inside her. Moving in her. Touching all the places he already knew to touch, even as she, in her turn, began to learn more of him.

He'd somehow pushed her gown and undergarments to her hips now, and was lightly teasing the rim of her navel with his tongue even as his fingers worked their magic on her breasts.

"Jack..." she breathed, her eyes closed as she reached down to him, slid her fingers into his hair. But he eluded her, sliding lower, kissing her belly, licking her highly sensitive skin. "Please. I want to hold you...Jack? No...what are you...? I didn't mean it. I wouldn't really even know
how
to be deca—
oh, Jack."

He gently spread her, exposing her most private secrets to his fevered gaze. "Beautiful," he whispered hoarsely, hoping to reassure her, gain her trust. "So very beautiful..."

He softly blew on her exposed center, marveled as she reacted involuntarily, as the small, sensitive bud swelled, lured him closer.

Eleanor's exquisitely honest moan of pleasure as he sealed his mouth over her filled him with the need to take her to heights the maiden she had so recently been could never hope to imagine.

He suckled on her, drawing her sweetness into his mouth, teased that small bud with his tongue until he felt her raise her hips to him, inviting all that he desired, offering all that she could give.

Eleanor's world centered on this one small, most vitally alive part of herself, any reservations or thoughts of modesty scattered to the four winds as Jack moved his tongue swiftly, deftly, her every nerve ending sending out a sweet, burning blush that enveloped her, lifted her, and at last burst into a shower of light and color as her body seemed to return his most intimate kiss.

He stayed with her as the storm he'd ignited slowly passed in a series of pleasurable pulses of her now highly sensitized flesh, before at last allowing her to hold him, bury her head against his shoulder as he soothed her with words of love.

But she couldn't be content, not yet. She needed him still, needed him deep inside her, needed to feel his pleasure. Given so much, all she wanted was to give in return.

Jack felt the tension in her, in her quick, shallow breaths, in the way she began to strain against him once more, in the way she dug her fingertips into his back.

In a matter of moments he had shed his clothing and hovered above her, his heart swelling as he looked down at her, as he slowly eased himself into her.

"I'll never let you go," he whispered. "You're my life, Eleanor. My beginning and my end."

Eleanor smiled as she raised her arms to him, gloried in the feel of his weight against her as they held each other close. "My forever..."

"Oh, there he is! Look, Jack—do you see him?"

"Eleanor, my love, my wife, my own," Jack said, amused, "there are at least fifty gulls on the beach right now. How on earth do you suppose I should
recognize
one particular bird?"

"You'll see." Eleanor took Jack's hand and led him over the shingle to the small spit of sand that led into the Channel. As they approached, the gulls reacted as one, gracefully lifting into the air, wheeling as one as they voiced their disapproval at being chased from the beach.