Eulogy's Secret (The Huntley Trilogy)

by Grace Elliot

  “Please, I would like to go.”

  Huntley nodded and made their excuses.

  As they walked away, Eulogy felt Melissa’s gaze biting into her shoulder and shuddered. Huntley leant his head close to hers.

  “You mustn’t mind Miss Cartwright. She’s been sweet on me for as long as I can remember.”

  Eulogy swallowed hard. “But she’s right. You shouldn’t be escorting me, especially without a chaperone. I’m beneath you. People will make assumptions and not good ones.”

  “You are the model of an eminent artist who I sponsor. That alone is sufficient reason to escort you.”

  So it was true! Huntley saw her as a business investment nothing more. The disappointment was crushing.

  “Miss Cartwright despises me, because I’m not wealthy, or a lord’s daughter. That’s how the ton works.” The irony stuck in her craw. “As a doctor’s daughter, I am nothing.” She said it as a statement, an observation of the strangeness of her situation.

  Huntley glanced at her. “To Miss Cartwright wealth, power and position are everything. But that is the ton and where I make my living.”

  All became clear. Huntley could never care for her, because she was beneath him. If only he knew the truth! Devilment tickled her lips, the temptation to confess her secret and watch his reaction, but she suppressed the urge. She had promised Devlin and would not go back on her word.

  Once gained, the sanctuary of the carriage was short lived. For all her anxiety to leave, Eulogy had quite forgotten she would be alone with Huntley in a confined space. He reclined nonchalantly against the leather upholstery from cleft chin to wide shoulders, from guarded eyes to broad chest, every inch undeniably male and it left her breathless. Huntley mistook her agitation.

  “If it’s any comfort, Miss Cartwright is jealous and that’s why she was vile.” His eyes searched hers. With a rush of heat, she remembered that kiss in the parlor. His firm skin over iron muscle, the press of his lips against hers. A flutter of desire woke in her belly.

  “Feeling any better?”

  “Still a little heady, it was so very stuffy in there.”

  “Indeed, let me lower the window.”

  A blast of air reeking of rotting vegetables and coal dust made them both splutter.

  “Hmmm, perhaps less is more after all.”

  Covering her mouth, Eulogy laughed. Huntley arched a dark brow.

  “You are bewitching when you smile.”

  A pulse throbbed in her neck, but before she could frame a reply Huntley yelped.

  “Damn it.” He set to rubbing his eye.

  “Don’t rub, it’ll only make matters worse.”

  Like a bad tempered bear, Huntley rubbed harder.

  “Let me see.”

  Eulogy slid across to sit beside him.

  “Look to the left….”

  He yielded, Eulogy faced a befuddling wall of masculinity that addled her senses. After commanding her shaking hand to be steady, she angled Jack’s chin to the light.

  “Keep still!”

  So close now, she noticed gold threads running in the corolla of dark mossy green eyes now regarding her like a hungry lion. She fumbled for a handkerchief and twisted the corner into a point.

  “Look up.” The warm scent of him almost unhinged her. “I see it! A tiny coal smut, not a fearsome splinter at all.”

  Jack winced as she dabbed the linen against his eyeball.

  “There. I have it!”

  But in the moment of triumph, as Eulogy congratulated herself on withstanding his attraction, the carriage lurched aggressively, rocking wildly on its leaf springs. Eulogy scrambled for a hand hold as strong arms grazed her waist, pressing her tight against an unyielding chest.

  “Steady, sweeting, I have you.”

  The carriage lurched to a halt, amidst a barrage of curses from outwith. Eulogy felt far from safe, captive in Huntley’s arms, she could feel his pounding heart against her ribs.

  “What happened?”

  “At a guess some idiot ran into the road.”

  A deal of swearing and cursing outside substantiated Jack’s theory as the carriage moved off again.

  Eulogy waited for Huntley to release her. It felt good to be held. Within the security of those strong arms, she sighed. When it was just the two of them, everything fell into place. Huntley shifted position, loosening one arm to stroke her back, slowly, shyly, as if gentling a flighty horse. She glanced up. His expression made her bones as weak as honey. He had the look of a starving man who had found his next meal.

  “Are you hurt?” His deep voice cracked.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m glad.”

  “You can let me go now.”

  Neither moved.

  “I think not.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “Because you like being held. And I like holding you.” His hand lifted her chin, a strong thumb tracing the line of her jaw. The rational part of her mind screamed in objection, but there was something in his expression that held her.

  “Miss Foster…Eulogy…” Jack lent closer, his hot breath against her cheek. “I would very much like to kiss you.”

  At that moment, Eulogy wanted nothing more.

  “May I?”

  A strangled sob caught in her throat as, despite her better judgment, she nodded.

  He leaned forward and his lips found the hollow just below her ear. He fluttered soft kisses on the tender skin. Tenderly, he addressed the angle of her jaw, feathering kisses up across her cheek. Eulogy’s lips burnt for his touch, as his male warmth and the press of his arm around her waist made her giddy and when his lips found hers, rational thought eluded her.

  After the kiss in the parlor, Eulogy expected his attention to be rough and bruising, which made this tenderness all the more potent. His lips soft, nudged and nibbled at her lower lip, until her innards turned to jelly. She responded with a groan, snaking her arm behind his head to pull him close. A great dam of longing unleashed itself, she needed Jack Huntley as she needed air. He teased her lips apart, exploring the sensitive entrance to her mouth, setting her nerves on fire and turning her body liquid. As he explored deeper, a deep ache of need throbbing between her legs.

  His breathing came in heavy rasps, his body trembling. With a groan he broke away and Eulogy wondered if her forwardness was distasteful.

  “Let me hold you.” Wrapping both arms more tightly around her, he smelt her hair. His jacket itched against her cheek and she lay still.

  “Miss Foster, do you enjoy my company?”

  “Yes.”

  Jack swept her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss in the gloved palm, sending shafts of longing shooting up her forearm. The soft sensuality of his caress devastated her senses.

  Jack squeezed her hand, placing it demurely in her lap and covering it with his.

  “Miss Foster, Eulogy, over the weeks I have developed a powerful attachment to you. I have tried to deny my feelings but cannot. Dare I hope that in some small way you feel the same?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  Jack looked thoughtful. “But that kiss gave you away. You desire me as I desire you.” Embarrassed, she made no denial.

  “Eulogy, I wish to make you a proposition.”

  Her cheeks flamed scarlet and the blood thundered in her ears. Had she not already been seated on Huntley’s lap, she might have fallen. Merciful heavens! She barely knew him. Dare she hope? Mrs. Featherstone seemed certain he held a tenderness for her. Her chest locked in an iron band and she quite forgot to breathe. Such was his gravitas that she half wondered if he were about to propose marriage.

  “We are well suited. I hold you in high regard, and London would be a dull place without your company. Miss Foster, in short, I request you would do me the great honor of becoming… my mistress.”

  At first the request made no sense. She understood the individual words, but they didn’t add up, the sentence flawed.

  She c
hoked out the words. “You want to make me your mistress?” She thumped her fist against his chest. “How dare you!”

  Jack looked thunderstruck. “I thought you understood. A woman of your background and with my social standing you didn’t imagine I was about to propose!” He attempted a laugh as the horrible truth dawned. “But I care for you deeply, more than most men for their wives and wish to protect you.”

  Her world imploded, he saw her not as an equal but as a commodity; a woman to be bought, not even a brood mare but a hack, something to use for pleasure then be sold on.

  Jack mistook her silence for indecision and ploughed on.

  “As an experienced woman, I hope you take my offer in the spirit in which it is intended. As my mistress you would be given my protection, and I shall settle an annuity on you which would make you more independent than most married woman.”

  Her head reeled. He thought her a whore. He thought her experienced with men! She felt sick. Even posing for Tristan’s painting she insisted on appropriate costume. Her nose glowed red with anger.

  She snatched her hand away and looked him square in the eye.

  “Sir, you are a hypocrite. You are worse than Melissa Cartwright. She openly despises me, whereas you treat me like a lady and then ask me to be your whore. What kind of woman do you think I am?” Steely anger glinted in her voice as she fought back tears. She grasped blindly at the handle of the moving carriage, fully intent on dismounting there and then.

  Huntley blanched and grabbed at her arm. “My humble apologies, ma’am, I meant no offence by my remarks.”

  “You assumed only a woman of easy virtue would be alone in the streets at night. Did it not occur you...” Despair bubbled up in her throat, choking off her words. That this gorgeous man thought what he did was injury enough, what had been said could not be undone, the disappointment bitter and falling into a chasm with no bottom. She could no longer pretend he meant nothing to her, and yet evidently this tender love was retuned by lust and nothing more. Defiant she opened her mouth to shame him, to reveal her secret and prove his assumptions wrong.

  “The reason I came to London was to find…” The words died on her lips. He didn’t deserve an explanation. A man should respect and love her for herself, no matter what her rank. No, her parentage would stay her secret, her’s and Farrell’s, until she saw fit to do otherwise.

  Chapter 10

  Hot sun beat in through the studio windows. The air was heavy, still and thick. Dressed in a costume of ivory satin, sweat trickled down Eulogy’s back, and yet this discomfort was as nothing compared to the ache in her heart. She stared out at the sapphire sky and the swifts darting against azure blue and sighed.

  “Mauvoreen, it pains to see yer like this. Will yer not tell me what ails yer?”

  With a pang of guilt, Eulogy shook her head. “I can’t”

  “Tis as plain as day that summats not reet.”

  “It’s nothing really, just feeling sorry for myself. It will pass.”

  “Don’t forget, Mauvoreen, that I’m an artist. Artists notice everything. You’ve not been yerself for two weeks now. Tell me, yer’ll feel better.”

  “Have I not the right to be sad? The people I love are dead, my real mother was a stranger and my life based on a lie.” She bit her tongue, hating herself for the outburst.

  Quietly, Farrell laid down his brush and came to her. Gently he touched her cheek.

  “Of course, tis natural for you to be sad. But there is summat else. A wistfulness. As if y’er pining for summat…or someone.”

  Eulogy jerked involuntarily.

  “Aha. Getting close?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Farrell sighed. “Well I’ll not press yer. But whatever it is…just remember y’er noble by birth and by nature y’er kind and true, whoever cannot see that is a fool.”

  Ironic, Eulogy reflected, that Farrell saw what Huntley could not.

  “Y’er trembling. Not turned to drink I hope?” he joked.

  “No!”

  “T’would be wrong. Especially as not a drop has passed my lips—t’anks to yer.”

  “That’s your own doing. Not mine.”

  “Aye, but tis yer that gave me the will” Farrell tapped his chin. “It pains me to see yer so ill at ease with Huntley. Can ye not tell what he did to upset yer so?”

  Eulogy jumped at his name. “How did you guess?”

  “Yer two had a falling out that afternoon at the Academy, didn’t yer?”

  “Not exactly a falling out.”

  “Well summat happened cos y’ve barely spoken to him since. And if he hurt yer, his exhibition is nothing. I shall cancel it.”

  “Oh no! Don’t do that. Cry off and no one will touch your work again.”

  “I mean it.” Farrell’s expression remained grave. “Yer happiness means more than any exhibition. Tis him isn’t it? I shall tell him where to stick his poxy gallery.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Aye, Mauvoreen, in a heartbeat.”

  “No, you mustn’t.” Her breath caught. “It was a misunderstanding, nothing more and Huntley apologized immediately.”

  Farrell stood and paced the room. Eulogy watched, horrified by the doubt she’d sown in his mind. Huntley had placed his faith in the artist’s reformed character. For Farrell to throw that away would be inconceivable.

  “Yer know the man loves yer?’’

  “No! You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “He’s caught, Mauvoreen, between what he feels and society’s rule. Just like me and Gabriella were.”

  Eulogy tensed. Had she heard him correctly?

  “Mauvoreen, don’t make the same mistake as me.”

  “Tell me.”

  Farrell stopped pacing, and casting sideways glance, returned to his canvas.

  “You first.”

  Eulogy took a deep breath and on their own accord, words spilt out. “He made an improper suggestion.”

  “Huntley?” Farrell bristled.

  “Yes.”

  “He touched you?” Farrell’s ire tangible, Eulogy hastily shook her head.

  “No, at least not how you mean. Only I mistook his intentions for something different.”

  “Then what?”

  Eulogy hung her head. “He wants to make me his mistress. He thinks me a woman of compromised virtue.”

  “Then the error is his.” Farrell’s blue eyes darkened to slate. “Have it out wi’ him, demand to know why he came to that conclusion.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing. London is full of malicious gossips. Who knows which jealous belle wants revenge because Jack Huntley has eyes only for you?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” She grew still. “And the letters would imply I’ve invoked someone’s displeasure.”

  “Letters? What letters?”

  Too late Eulogy realized her mistake. “Really, they are nothing. Just the unpleasant scribbles of someone with too much time on their hands.”

  “Mauvoreen, what do these letters say?” Farrell glowered, fixing her with a hard stare.

  “Oh, well, one suggested I leave London and never return.”

  Farrell’s face darkened. “Who sent them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you suspect?” Farrell’s face grew dark as thunder. “Who sent the letters? Tell me! ”

  Eulogy hesitated. “I wondered….maybe… Lord Devlin.”

  But instead of laughing and dismissing her concerns, as she hoped he would. Farrell grimaced and nodded.

  “Happen it would just like that weasel, to try something so underhand.” Farrell looked grave. “You should have told me this sooner, Mauvoreen. Devlin is not a man to cross.”

  “Well if you are right, then I must confront Devlin and find out the truth.”

  “No!” Farrell pulled at his hair. “That is a bad idea.”

  “But you said to be direct with Huntley.”

  “Devlin and Huntley are altogeth
er different beasts. What applies to one does not follow for the other.”

  “First you say one thing, then another.” The sense of life being beyond her control rose to the surface. “Is it unreasonable, to wish to know who I am? To find out about mother and why father couldn’t love me. Don’t you see?”

  Farrell turned as pale as primed canvas.

  “Mauvoreen, I beg you, stay away from Devlin.”

  “So who will tell me?” She glared, defiantly. “I lost everything and know nothing. To hear of my father’s grief, perhaps then I can forgive him for giving me away.” She slipped to the floor and clutched her knees, burying her head in her skirts. “You tell me nothing!”

  “Mauvoreen, please stop”

  Eulogy rocked like a child.

  “Mauvoreen, very well.” Farrell put down the brush. “I’ll tell what I know, but only if you leave Devlin alone. Tis poking a hornet’s nest.”

  Farrell sat beside her on the dais, his ready smile and twinkling blue eyes replaced by somber sincerity.

  “Blow your nose.” He handed her a paint stained rag.

  “Thanks.”

  “Twill be hard to hear, but happen if it keeps you safe.” He drew a shaky breath. “Where to start?”

  “How did you know my mother?” she whispered.

  “Lord Devlin commissioned me to paint his wife’s portrait. During the sitting we started to talk and, over time, Gabriella and I became friends.” His words slid into silence.

  “You painted Lady Devlin once?”

  “No. Devlin liked how I captured her beauty. There were several portraits.”

  “My mother, what was she like?” Eulogy held her breath.

  “Oh, Mauvoreen, she was gentle, kind, sweet natured. With hair of burnished mahogany and warm brown eyes. Such an honor, to be her friend.”

  Eulogy let out a slow sigh. “No wonder father loved her so much.”

  Farrell’s pained expression struck her as odd.

  “But that’s the rub, Mauvoreen. He saw Gabriella as a possession, his to command and use, or abuse, as he saw fit.”