by Sabrina York
“Who wouldn’t? Did you invite them?”
“Heavens no. It’s Darlington’s birthday. He would never forgive me.” She shuddered. “Besides which, I couldn’t bear it. Have you heard Lady Hammersmith sing?”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?”
Helena, who’d just taken a sip of tea, choked. “Eleanor, for shame.”
“It is rather like a cat fight.”
“I was thinking more of sheep in season.”
“Hmm.” Eleanor blinked innocently. “All the bleating.”
Helena snorted a laugh. “Too true. No, I would rather keep the guest list short. It wouldn’t do to have a large affair.” She patted Eleanor’s knee. “You’re still in mourning, after all.”
“I don’t need to come, you know. If you’d rather invite the Hammersmiths.”
Helena shot her a glare. “You are a naughty girl.”
Eleanor grinned. “I am, aren’t I?” It was rather a new feeling. She’d done the right thing her whole life, at great sacrifice. Being naughty was so much more fun. “And the others? Who else is coming to the party?”
“Dent is arriving sometime next week. He’s bringing his wife and his sister. And then,” she cleared her throat, “Lord Haversham is coming that Friday.”
“You invited Haversham? I had no idea he was friends with James.”
Helena became suddenly fascinated with the arrangement of a leaf in the bouquet on the table.
“Helena?”
“Oh, all right. I invited Haversham for you.”
“For me?”
“He’s handsome. Well-heeled. And, most importantly, kind. He’s a kind man, Ellie. He would be a wonderful husband.”
“I don’t want a husband.” The words were past her lips before she was even aware of them. Of the thought. And no. God no. She did not want a husband. Ever again. The prospect made her blood run cold.
“But think, Ellie. What if our plan doesn’t work? You’ll need options.”
“It will work.”
“Ellie.” Helena put her hand on Eleanor’s. “How long were you married to Ulster?”
“Five years.” She tried not to, but couldn’t help but wince at the thought. The memories.
“And you never got with child. What are the odds you can conceive in one short month?”
“I will. I’m certain of it.”
“All right, dear.” Helena took a sip of tea. “But meet Haversham. Just meet him. Give him a chance. Promise?”
Eleanor frowned at her friend. But her annoyance was impossible to maintain. Helena was far too charming. And she did want to help, bless her. “Fine.”
“And speaking of our plan, now that we’re private, do tell me how last night went. I am practically expiring with curiosity. Did you find someone?”
Eleanor took a finger sandwich but didn’t eat it. She merely wanted something to hold.
“Well?”
She dipped her head. “Yes.”
“What? Yes? Do speak up, Ellie. I want to hear everything.”
“I am not telling you everything.”
“Was he handsome?”
“As far as I could tell.” At Helena’s look, she elaborated. “He was wearing a mask.”
“A mask. How mysterious.”
“Yes.” Eleanor gazed off out the window, though she saw nothing. Nothing but his face, wreathed in shadows as it was. “He was tall and muscular.”
“Always promising. And did you seduce him?”
“I rather think we seduced each other.”
Helena considered Eleanor, her mouth working a bit, as though she was having trouble forming words. Finally, she murmured, “Well, did you? I mean, did you complete the act? Did our plan work?”
Oh dear. How did one respond? In the parlor? Over tea? “Yes.”
“That’s wonderful. Just think, Eleanor, you could be with child right now. All your troubles could be over. I’m so happy for you.”
She wrapped Eleanor in a warm, rather un-countess-like hug. Eleanor allowed it because she adored Helena, and because she needed a hug. But she didn’t feel wonderful. She didn’t feel wonderful at all. And it all had to do with the roiling regret, still scalding her heart, that she hadn’t gone to Hyde Park. That she’d never seen his face, and now she never would.
Just then, the butler scratched on the door to announce yet another visitor, which released Eleanor from the burden of having to converse.
Other burdens, however, remained.
* * * * *
Eleanor shivered against the chill. The fire burned, but halfheartedly and far away, on the other side of her cavernous chamber. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the red stain on her petticoat as though she’d never seen such a thing before. Suddenly very cold, she wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
It didn’t help.
That easily, all her hopes evaporated. All her dreams came crashing down. An enormous weight descended upon her, panic pounded in her chest.
She was not with child. She was not.
She stifled a heaving sob with her fist but it bubbled out anyway, an anguished wail.
It wasn’t her dire circumstances tearing at her heart, although she did worry what would become of her when Berwick returned to London and discovered her belly flat. No, her sorrow came from an entirely different heartbreak.
She hadn’t realized she’d made so much of it, made so much of him. The dream lover, the man who made her soul sing. She hadn’t realized how many hopes she’d arranged around his memory. Around the child who would have been his. The child would have been a constant reminder that life was not always difficult and love did not always hurt.
But now it hurt. She hurt.
Her maid, Celeste, entered the room through the servant’s door, carrying a bowl of warm water. It would be tepid at best. Even though Celeste hurried, it was a long tramp from the kitchens to the master’s chambers of Ulster House.
Sympathy, and perhaps pity, tinged her expression. Celeste knew what this meant for Eleanor. For both of them. Berwick’s eye had danced over her from time to time too.
She took the petticoat from Eleanor’s stiff fingers with a no-nonsense attitude. “We must get rid of this,” she said, wrinkling her nose. Without pause, she whirled, crossed the room and tossed the telltale garment in the fire.
A laugh rose in Eleanor’s chest. “Have a care, Celeste. I haven’t very many.”
“You have enough. Besides, no one else can know.” She shot a glance over her shoulder. “Especially Mrs. Winter.”
Eleanor shivered at the thought of the forbidding housekeeper who ruled Ulster House with an iron fist. Even though Eleanor had been the Lady here, Mrs. Winter had never accorded her an ounce of influence. The old witch had held on to her keys and her control with a frightening fanaticism.
Ulster had allowed it and Ulster’s mother had delighted in it, encouraging Mrs. Winter’s contempt of her son’s unwanted bride at every turn. The old dowager had never accepted Eleanor and had reveled in any opportunity to show her her place.
That Eleanor hadn’t wanted a place here did not signify.
But now it was essential to keep her secret from Mrs. Winter. From Lady Ulster. From everyone.
Celeste cleared her throat. “We should leave now. This morning.”
Eleanor was still reeling under the weight of her loss, but slowly, Celeste’s words seeped through her brain and she recognized the truth of it. It would be difficult, if not impossible to hide the evidence of her condition—or lack thereof—in this household. With the exception of dear Celeste, all the maids and footmen and scullery wenches were firmly under Mrs. Winter’s thumb. Blood on the sheets, on the petticoats, on anything, would not go unnoticed. Especially when so many eyes were looking for it.
“Yes. You’re right.”
“To Lady Darlington’s, I think?” Celeste ducked into the dressing room and dragged out a small trunk.
“Pack for a month, Celest
e.”
Her maid shot her a conspiratorial grin. She too would enjoy a break from this dour prison. “At least.”
“And Celeste?”
“Yes, mum?”
“Let’s not tell anyone we’re going.”
Chapter Three
It was a beautiful day for a ride. Ethan wasn’t sure why he and Darlington were languishing in the coach with their mounts—including Darlington’s new thoroughbred—tied behind. The ride to Exeter wasn’t long but he was edgy, in need of exercise. He was certain his restlessness had nothing to do with his constant mooning over Mignon.
How annoying was it that he could be filled with the utter conviction to forget her one moment, and the next he was thinking about her again? His daydreams featuring her were truly idiotic. He’d even gone so far as to picture them married with a brood of beautiful children living at his house on the coast.
Most of his musings, however, involved the making of those children.
There she was. Mignon draped across his bed, naked and writhing. Mignon in the drawing room, panting her passion. Mignon in the stable…
It was becoming a problem. More than once in the past few days his valet had had to call his attention back to the choosing of the day’s ascot—which had only resulted in yet another flight of fancy. Mignon wearing his ascot—and nothing else. Oh ah, Mignon tied to the bedpost with his ascot. Yes. A charming picture.
He readjusted his position, suddenly glad he was not on horseback. James was riffling through some papers, too busy, thank God, to notice Ethan’s preoccupation with a woman he would never hold again.
“What are you working on?”
“Huh? Oh. I’m just going through some legal documents for one of Helena’s friends…” The way he trailed off with a guilty glance caught Ethan’s attention.
“Whose?”
James dropped the papers onto the seat beside him and crossed his arms over his chest. “I meant to tell you…”
Ethan narrowed his eyes. “Tell me what?”
“Helena’s invited one of her friends to the party. A widow.”
“And why should I care about that?”
“It’s Ulster’s widow.”
A chasm opened between them.
Red-hot fury shot through Ethan’s chest at the mention of Ulster’s name. Bile tickled the back of his throat. His hackles rose. True, the man was dead, but he wasn’t dead enough for Ethan’s liking.
“Come now, Pennington. Give her a chance. You will like her.”
Ethan stared at James. Good God. The thought of spending a month with this widow, even in the vast confines of Darlington’s estate, made him want to wretch. She would be a constant reminder of the man who had gone out of his way to ruin his father and then, as though that weren’t enough, gone out of his way to ruin him.
No. He couldn’t spend a month with her. Couldn’t spend a day with her. He would never be able to forget exactly who she was. He most certainly could not like her.
Oh, she was lovely. She was without exception the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. But she was Ulster’s wife. Ulster’s widow.
No. He wouldn’t like her. How could he? Though she was beyond gorgeous, she had married him. Ethan’s sworn enemy, the man who had ruined his father and then driven him to take his own life. It had taken Ethan decades to recover from the scandal, to build his fortune, recapture the respect of his family name. It had cost him much. Very nearly his sight.
He rubbed at the scar that still ached at his temple. No. He couldn’t like a woman who had willing placed herself—body and soul—into Ulster’s care. Who had held him. Loved him. Fucked him. The thought made his stomach churn.
That Ulster was now dead and gone—God rot his soul—make absolutely no difference.
“Ethan?”
He shot a dark frown at his friend. Damn Darlington. He’d known how Ethan would react. He’d kept this tidbit a secret until it was too late to turn back. If James had told Ethan Ulster’s widow was attending this party, he’d never have agreed to come.
He would have avoided James like the plague.
He would never have been caught.
But he had been caught, and James was his friend. A man who’d stood by his side when so many others had deserted him. He’d paid for Ethan’s commission. Financed his early investments. Saved him in oh so many ways.
He would suffer her presence for Darlington’s sake, but no more. He wouldn’t talk to her or dance with her when not strictly required by good form. He would avoid her company. Ignore her presence.
He certainly wouldn’t like her.
“This is lovely, isn’t it?” Helena, who was standing by the window, fixated on the lane snaking its way to the house, peeped over her shoulder and smiled at Eleanor. “Just the two of us?”
“Yes.” They’d come to Exeter two days early so Helena could organize the party. It had been quite restful, just what Eleanor had needed. A chance to forget. To forget about him. She’d spent the past few days in absolute leisure, reading and walking and exploring the grounds to her heart’s content, giving herself permission not to worry about her future. At least for now.
She hardly ever thought of him.
It was a struggle, but she hardly ever did.
It had been a shock to discover Darlington’s gardeners were constructing a yew labyrinth—much like the Carlisle-Grant creation—at the southern end of the sprawling gardens. Eleanor had not visited it yet. She simply couldn’t bear to.
But each time she saw it, her heart would flutter and her breath would catch.
And she’d look away.
Helena sighed heavily and trudged back to the divan as though her slippers were filled with mud. She plopped down beside Eleanor. “I have enjoyed spending this time with you, Ellie. Though, I must say, I do miss James.”
Of course she did. “When will Darlington arrive?”
“Anytime now.” Helena lit up at the thought and Eleanor struggled to hold her gaze. It was wonderful her friend had found such a love, such a gentle husband. She should not be envious. She really should not.
She cleared her throat, searched for a topic. “And when will the other guests arrive?”
Helena gusted out a sigh and fiddled with the twill on her gown. “Well, Uncle Andrew is already here.”
Eleanor lifted a brow. “I haven’t seen him.”
“No. And you probably won’t, until dinner. He headed straight for the library to research his book. He’s writing a tome on the Darlington family history.”
“Lovely.”
“It’s already seven hundred pages long.” Helena leaned forward and helped herself to a lemon cake.
“Fascinating.”
“Quite.” The cake flaked apart as she bit into it, and she dusted the crumbs from her skirts. “Mind you, that’s the first chapter.”
Eleanor laughed. “Oh dear.”
“Mmm hmm. Whatever you do, don’t ask him about it. You will undoubtedly become mired in a swamp, eight hundred years in the making.”
“Thank you, ever so much, for the warning.”
“Indeed.”
“And the others?”
“Let’s see.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Dent in a few days.”
“With his wife and sister.”
“Yes, yes. And,” her lashes flickered, “Haversham on Friday.”
Eleanor sighed and stirred her tea desultorily.
Helena put out a lip. “Don’t be so gloomy.”
“I’m gloomy.”
“You are. Come on, Ellie. You promised to give him a chance.”
“I know. I know. I will consider him.”
“Do you promise? Do you?” Helena leaned toward her. Her voice rose with each new demand.
“Yes, yes. All right. I promise.” Eleanor laughed. Then she blinked. For Helena had leaped up from the couch and bounded back to the bay window.
“Do you hear that? Is that a coach?” She hopped up and down and squ
ealed—yes, squealed—in delight. “It’s him. James is here.” She ran to the door but stopped short. She turned. The chagrin on her face was disconcerting.
“What is it?”
“I forgot to mention one little thing.”
“What’s that, dear?”
Helena squared her shoulders. “Darlington is bringing a friend.”
“Oh?” How this information could explain Helena’s reticence was a mystery. “Who?”
Helena pursed her lips like a trout, as she always did when she didn’t want to say something she really had to say. “Pennington.”
A hardball wedged into Eleanor’s throat—for no particular reason. She took a quick sip of tea. “P-Pennington?”
“Yes. Colonel Pennington. The war hero.”
Oh dear. “Ulster hated Pennington.” It was difficult to speak. Her lips were numb.
“Ulster hated everyone.”
The ball flowered into full-fledged panic. Pennington was here—or nearly here. That huge, intimidating, horrifying man. “I must not stay.” She stood and rushed to the door, to the staircase, toward the safety of her room, desperate to be gone before her husband’s enemy arrived.
But she was too late.
As she entered the foyer, the front door swung open, revealing two tall men at the entrance. Only one caught and snared her attention. She couldn’t help staring at him. At it. His beautiful, frightening scarred face.
The face Ulster had given him.
Ethan stood on the threshold and studied Lady Ulster. He tightened his lips to keep his vitriol in. When he looked at her, he saw only Ulster. Ulster’s bride.
She was as lovely as he remembered, even dressed in widow’s weeds. Her countenance was a porcelain masterpiece, exquisitely carved and as mobile as marble. Her nose was long and proud, but in a delicate, feminine way. Her nostrils were tiny, terminally pinched. Her eyes were clear and wide and a shade of gray that brought to mind the mists on the moor or starlight perhaps. And her chin—its curves were flawless, shaping her face like the heart he was certain she did not have.
For as she was inexpressively lovely, she was as cold as winter’s breath. Those misty orbs, while dreamy and deep in repose, sliced through a man as though she saw his every secret, exposed his every flaw. And that nose, as dainty and delicate as it was, seemed nothing more than a gauge for that cold gaze, a compass for her distain.
