‘Goodnight, Alexander.’ She set out on the long traipse through Fearnoch House to her bedchamber where only this morning she’d decided she would relish becoming better acquainted with passion. And now, less than twelve hours later, that acquaintance had not only been short-lived, it was over.
Chapter Nine
‘I’ll see you at dinner. Enjoy your day.’ Alexander kissed her cheek and departed for the Admiralty, leaving Eloise to finish her breakfast. Outside, the sun was struggling to penetrate a haze of grey cloud. After a beautiful spell of perfect summer days in June, the weather had turned. This first week in July had been persistently muggy, the air oppressive, turning a walk in the park into an endurance test. It looked like they were in for more of the same.
None the less, when she had finished the dregs of her tea, she opened the French doors and stepped outside, making for the shade of the trees at the bottom of the garden where she’d had a wrought-iron table and chair set up. Opening her notebook and her appointment book, she set about the task of mapping out her day. They were hosting a dinner for twenty tonight, for the last remaining stragglers of the Season. She checked the menu, which was more or less as Phoebe had suggested, making notes about flowers, place settings, the dinner service to be used. She had a small list of calls to be returned. She had an appointment at a tea warehouse. Mrs McGilvery was anxious for her to inspect the linen cupboard with a view to a comprehensive clear out. The decorators would finish painting the music room this week. She had to decide whether or not she wanted new hangings, and which room she wished them to tackle next. She had not finished the cushions she was making for the library sofas. And then there was the book catalogue. And...
Eloise set her pencil down with a heavy sigh. If this was the life of a countess, she didn’t want it. What was Alexander doing now at the Admiralty? She had tried asking him over dinner a few times. He talked vaguely of auditing, accounts, shortfalls and budget cuts. She didn’t believe for a second that he’d spent the day poring over ledgers—there was never a telltale sign of ink on his hands or his cuffs—but it was clear that he didn’t want her to know, and since she didn’t want to force him to lie, she hadn’t persisted.
A bead of sweat trickled down her back under her chemise. Her nape was damp with perspiration and her feet were clammy. To hell with it, she thought, kicking off her slippers and pulling off her stockings. She was screened from the house, and the gardeners worked elsewhere on a Monday. Standing up, she surveyed the cluster of trees. They were mostly oaks. The one nearest to her was that tree. She averted her eyes. She didn’t allow herself to think about that night, that kiss, that moment. It had been a mistake. It could not happen again. It was completely contrary to the terms of their arrangement.
It usually worked, but today her recitation failed her. Why, when it made such perfect logical sense, did she still pine after more of Alexander’s kisses? Her eyes were drawn back to the tree. She leaned her back against the trunk, digging her bare toes into the ground. The earth was baked hard now, not nearly so green, but she remembered that moment with perfect clarity, when she had forgotten all about the delicious feel of her toes on the grass and lost herself in their kisses. In the way Alexander touched her. The sensations his touch aroused. Melting. Burning. Tingling. Aching. Yearning. The moment when her hands curled over the taut muscles of his behind. The moment when she’d arched against him, pulling him closer.
Her cheeks were burning, but there was no one to see her. She stood up, making her way to the darkest point of the tree cover, to the one plane tree in the garden. The bark was mossy grey, the scales that would peel off later in the year like painted swirls of colour. The leaves were thick, leathery, the fruits still spiky. She dragged her chair over to the base of the tree and stood on it. The first branch was a stretch, but she could just reach it. The need to climb was sudden and irresistible. Quickly, she divested herself of all her petticoats, dropping them carelessly on to the ground. The table was higher than the chair. She pulled that over, clambered up and swung herself easily on to the first broad branch. Scrabbling to find purchase with her bare feet, she stood up and tested the next branch. The leaves rustled as she climbed. Her arms and legs ached, but it was a pleasant ache. She’d become sedentary since arriving in London. Concentrating hard, she didn’t notice the broken twigs that snagged on her hair, grazing her arms and feet as she climbed ever higher, until she reached the highest limb which would safely support her weight.
Perched there, completely obscured by thick foliage, her heart pounding with the effort, a sense of well-being filled her. She was on a level with the topmost floor of Fearnoch House. Leaning over, far down below her she could see the white-painted table. The ground rushed up, making her dizzy, and she caught at a branch just in time. It was a very long way down. Alexander had warned her not to climb, but Alexander was at the Admiralty and he would never know. Clinging on, she leaned over again, smiling with elation. A very long way. How astonished her new London acquaintances would be to see her. The Climbing Countess.
Her smile faded as she recalled joking with Alexander on the subject. It had been their wedding day. They were having dinner at the Admiralty. He’d wanted to make the day memorable. She remembered every moment. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy being married,’ Alexander had said. Did he still enjoy being married? They were rarely alone these days, attended by servants at breakfast and dinner, or playing their allotted roles as the recently married Earl and Countess of Fearnoch when in company. The kisses they did not share seemed to Eloise to hover in the air between them sometimes. The attraction they must not acknowledge was a constant, haunting presence. Why was it, when she knew it was wrong, that she persisted in wanting him? Why was it that this inconvenient, dangerous passion stubbornly refused to go away? Why shouldn’t they kiss each other, when kissing each other was what they wanted to do? Because those kisses would lead to other things, Alexander had said. She knew it was true, but she still had no real idea what those other things were. More kisses? Where would he touch her? How? And how should she touch him? Eloise shivered, excited and afraid in equal measure.
A faint breeze ruffled the leaves of the tree. They had been married two months now. Was that long enough for the world to consider them an established couple? There wouldn’t be many people left in London to impress, soon. Would Alexander resume his foreign travels next month, the month after? She ought to be looking forward to that day, because it would force her to abandon her lethargy and decide how she intended to spend her own life. But there were so many things she still wanted to know about him. What had happened to him to make him lose interest in lovemaking? Surely it must involve a woman, despite his very determined claim never to have been in love. She didn’t want to think of Alexander in love. She didn’t even want to imagine him kissing another woman, forced to do so because it was wrong for him to kiss his wife. Who would very much like him to kiss her.
She had to stop thinking about kissing! What was Alexander doing at this moment? What the devil did a Victualling Commissioner do? Victual ships, she supposed was the obvious answer. But victualling ships, though undoubtedly a taxing role, did not require a man to be handy with his fists or a crack shot. A man could victual ships whether he had a wife or not. Assuredly, there would be crises when supplies ran out or weren’t in the right place, but were they the sort of crises that demanded a man to be ready to react immediately, to throw himself into resolving them, in Alexander’s own words, without compromise? What sort of crises required a self-sufficient rule-breaker with a cool head?
She had known from the first that he was not a mere Admiralty clerk. Meeting Sir Marcus confirmed that Alexander was a very important man. Married to his country. Not the Admiralty, his country. Something cold clutched at her heart. Sir Marcus had said he didn’t want her to get hurt. She’d thought he meant that she would always come second to Alexander’s job. She’d thought that, because that was what Sir Marcus told h
er. But unlike Alexander, Sir Marcus would have no compunction in lying to her.
She swayed, catching the overhead branch just in time, clutching it ever more tightly as her mind raced on. What if Sir Marcus had meant something else entirely? What if he was warning her not to become too fond of her husband because Alexander’s job was dangerous?
It was like a curtain lifting. Sir Marcus didn’t want her to get too fond of Alexander because Alexander might die. This was why men in Alexander’s position were not usually permitted to marry. Alexander undertook dangerous tasks for his country. Alexander was a government spy.
Stunned but certain, Eloise clutched at the branch, staring sightlessly at the speckled sky through the leaves. She was married to a spy. A hysterical laugh escaped her. She had no more idea what a spy did than a Victualling Commissioner. What did he spy on? Who? Where? Did he assume different identities? Did he steal secrets? How dangerous was it?
She must be wrong. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Yet it all fitted so well. Too well for her to dismiss it out of hand.
She would confront him tonight, demand the truth from him. And then what? He couldn’t tell her the truth. If Sir Marcus discovered that she’d forced the truth from him, Alexander might even be locked up. She would have ruined his life, the life he loved. She couldn’t possibly ask him. She’d have to keep it a secret from him that she knew about his secret life. Besides, imagine what a fool she’d look if she was wrong.
But she wasn’t wrong. Appalled, Eloise stared into space for a very long time, wondering how on earth she was going to live with the knowledge and keep her knowledge from him. The sooner Alexander left the country the better, then. But the moment he left the country he’d be in danger. How was she to get through the days wondering where he was, what he was doing? She couldn’t bear it.
Eventually, her panic gave way to common sense. Alexander had chosen his life, and he loved it. She would not spend her life in limbo, waiting to hear whether he had survived his latest mission. She didn’t love Alexander, she was not about to turn into a copy of her sad, pitiful father, but she did care about him. So she must take control of her own life, and stop worrying about his. Turn her attentions to what made her happy. Her sisters. She would invite them to London forthwith. They were long overdue a visit.
She studied her hands, noticing with dismay the fretwork of stinging scratches. How long had she been up here? It was not like her, to be so—so indecisive. She needed to give herself a shake, she needed a plan. And the first step was to quite literally bring herself back down to earth. Which looked a great deal further down than she’d thought. Her muscles ached. Her legs felt distinctly shaky. Her hands and feet were stiff. If only Alexander did know she was here, he’d help her safely down. Taking herself firmly to task, Eloise reached for the branch over her head and rose cautiously to her feet.
* * *
The Grand Dining Room was aptly named, a vast salon with gold-painted walls adorned with an elaborate pattern of cornicing and panels depicting what seemed to Alexander somewhat debauched mythological scenes. Eloise had made no changes to this room, as far as he could determine. The ceiling was painted duck-egg blue and every bit as elaborately decorated as the walls. A huge basket of flowers was arranged in the grate of the immense white-marble mantelpiece. There were matching sideboards ranged against three of the walls, their polished tops cluttered with epergnes, urns, statues and candelabra. The floor was covered in a carpet of dusky pink which must have been woven especially to fit the room, and the curtains, drawn against the murky summer evening, were heavy gold damask. The effect was overpowering and not altogether pleasing.
There was ample room for themselves and their twenty guests around the table. Dinner had been excellent thanks, he knew, to Phoebe’s menu suggestions, but he had little appetite. It was the weather. It was the tedium of his days spent idling away at the Admiralty studying maps, reading intelligence reports, staring out of the window at the endless, repetitive, seemingly pointless drilling on Horse Guards Parade, and wondering what Eloise was doing.
At the other end of the table, out of conversational reach, she was listening to Lord Henry Armstrong holding forth. The esteemed diplomat would either be boasting about his clutch of sons or the latest, highly lucrative trade deal the Crown had sealed with Arabia, which he would claim the credit for. Alexander smiled grimly to himself. He had seen the official dossier on Lord Armstrong. That pillar of the community had some very sordid secrets in his past that would ruin him if they ever became public. And as to the lucrative trade deals with Arabia—were it not for Armstrong’s enterprising daughters, they would not have been struck. The man had five girls by his first wife, Alexander knew, but to listen to him, you’d think he had only four sons, all of them budding diplomats, if Armstrong was to be believed, raised in their father’s image. Poor blighters.
On Alexander’s right, the second Lady Armstrong was far too concerned with her dinner to make conversation, save to assure him each time she methodically emptied her plate, that the Countess of Fearnoch was fast becoming known for having the best dinner table in London. And Lady Armstrong would know, if her ample curves were anything to go by. At least she enjoyed her food. He couldn’t imagine that life with Lord Henry Armstrong would be much of a pleasure.
Lord, but he was bored. He’d far rather be dining à deux with Eloise. Though if they were alone, there would be no need for him to kiss her hand, her cheek, to put a proprietorial arm around her waist. To smile benignly at her down the length of the table as she looked up and caught his eye, the tiny quirk of her brows, just for his benefit, telling him all he needed to know about her conversation with Armstrong. If they were alone, he wouldn’t be required to remember how she felt in his arms, the feel of her lips on his, the heat of her kisses, so that their guests could see just how passionately he desired her. If they were alone, she wouldn’t return that gaze, blush, look away as if she was embarrassed.
Eloise got to her feet to lead the ladies out. Alexander watched as Wiggins set out the port and the snuff boxes. Another hour, maybe two, and the night would be over. He would kiss his wife goodnight on the cheek. And he’d retire to bed congratulating himself on having endured another boring, frustrating, pointless day.
* * *
‘Thank you, Wiggins. I will snuff the candles. Dinner was excellent, as usual. Please thank all the staff. Goodnight.’
The drawing room doors closed softly behind the butler, and Eloise smothered a yawn. ‘Thank goodness that’s over. That Armstrong chap!’ She threw herself on to the sofa, kicked off her slippers and began to unbutton her gloves. ‘Dear heavens, you’d think that no one had ever fathered twins before. I mentioned my sisters at least three times only to be ignored, but I forgot, silly me, that female twins don’t actually count.’ She pulled off her gloves and flexed her fingers, which were unaccountably stiff. She remembered too late why they were, and tucked them quickly under her evening gown. Unfortunately not quite quickly enough.
‘What the devil?’ Alexander sat down beside her. ‘Let me see your hands.’
‘It’s only a few cuts and grazes.’
She granted him a brief flash before trying to tuck them away again, but he was too quick for her, catching her wrist, pulling her to her feet, turning one hand over, frowning over the mass of scrapes and scratches which covered not only her hand but her forearm. ‘Please don’t tell me you climbed one of those trees in the garden, Eloise.’
‘Very well, I won’t tell you.’
He declined to be amused by this quip. ‘I thought you said that the branches were all too high.’
‘There’s a plane tree at the back that’s more accessible. I used the table to climb up—you know, the little one that I...’
‘I know the one. Let me see the other hand.’
‘It’s just a few scratches, Alexander.’
‘Let me see your o
ther hand.’
She sighed dramatically, holding out her arm. ‘As I said, superficial, nothing more. Certainly nothing to make a fuss about.’
‘Did you tell anyone where you were?’
‘Did I tell Mrs McGilvery that I was off to climb a tree? What do you think?’
‘So if you’d fallen...’
‘I didn’t fall.’
‘You could have broken your neck. Or you could have been stuck up the damned thing, and no one would have known where the hell you were. What were you thinking?’
‘Why are you so angry?’
‘I distinctly remember asking you to promise that you wouldn’t be so foolish.’
‘And I distinctly remember that I made you no such promise. I have been climbing trees since I was five years old and come to...’
‘No harm?’
‘A broken ankle once, that’s all,’ she admitted, flustered. ‘But I did not come close to breaking anything today, for goodness’ sake.’
‘I won’t have you climbing trees.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Unlike your parents, I would prefer you not to risk life and limb while you are in my care.’
‘I am not in your care. How dare you tell me...’
‘You’re my wife. I am responsible for your well-being.’
‘I am your wife in name only. You have no right to scold me like a naughty child.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Eloise, all I’m saying is that I would rather you didn’t kill yourself.’
‘The feeling is entirely mutual.’
‘What the devil is that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’ She could have bitten her tongue. ‘I’m out of practice, and the tree is in full leaf. It was silly of me to climb it.’
He took her hand, running his fingers over the scratches.
The Earl's Countess of Convenience Page 17
