Worse, though, was the stirring of the air against her cheek. Fallen leaves picked up and floated down the path, to fall again as the eddy died.
The wind was coming.
Eleanore clutched at her belly, her heart shrieking painfully in her chest. What to do? What to do? It was tempting to return to the pavilion and cower there, but there were too many people. Too many witnesses.
Her face felt clammy and her spine prickled uncomfortably.
She couldn’t go back. Therefore, she must go forward. Eleanore picked up her train and almost ran to the first hansom cab waiting at the curb. She gasped the address at the driver, who tugged on his brim. She wrenched open the door of the cab and threw herself onto the bench.
The cab jerked into motion and she realized with dismay it was one of the older kinds with no glass at the front to protect the passenger. The air streamed against her face.
Eleanore pushed herself into the depths of the corner, shivering. Her wrap was back at the club, her shoulders were bare and the air was icy against her heated skin.
The thunder rumbled again, a low warning. Wind gusted.
Eleanore gave a little gasp and pulled her feet up onto the seat and hugged them, her shivers turning to violet shudders. The storm was coming quickly. She felt it in her veins. The cricket club was miles from Belgravia.
She tucked herself into the pleated leather corner of the seat, her face against her knees, too afraid to look out. When the first loud crack of lightning and thunder stuck, she screamed and slid off the seat, onto the floor behind the half doors, hiding.
The wind howled. She heard it in her mind as well as her ears. It sounded just as it had that long night and day she had floated in the sea, barely conscious.
She didn’t notice the cab stop. She was too deeply inside her mind, where she felt herself being lifted by a wave, to plummet down the other side in sickening swoops and dips. The taste of salt in her mouth mixed with blood from her cracked lips.
And always, the roar of the wind and the spray of water against her face.
Hands on her arms roused her.
“Eleanore, can you hear me?” It was James’ voice. “We’ll have to lift her out. Tennyson, help me.”
“I’ll do it, my lord. Don’t you exert yourself.”
“Quickly, man,” James exhorted. “I’ll keep the umbrella over you. Don’t let the rain touch her face.”
James knew. He understood, as Belmont had not.
Tennyson pulled Eleanore to her feet and down onto the pavement and guided her inside while she flinched and cowered against him, her teeth chattering. Inside, with the door shut, she could still hear the wind.
Tennyson and James put her between them and walked her upstairs to her room. Someone had already pulled the drapes and her bed was waiting. Her mother’s soft, vexed voice sounded, as her dress was loosened and removed, then her corset. She was guided under the blankets, where she curled up in a tight ball and lay shivering.
They knew enough to leave the light burning beside her, yet they left her alone. She didn’t have the energy to protest or demand someone stay. Who would stay with her, anyway? Her mother thought these moments were a product of Eleanore’s excitability and should not be indulged.
James understood better than any of them, only he did not have the strength to help her.
Cian would understand, but he was not hers to turn to.
She must deal with this on her own. Somehow.
The roaring of the sea and the wind followed her into her dreams, turning them black and restless, too.
Chapter Eight
There was solace in the music which Cian rarely found elsewhere these days. He let his gaze become unfocused as he listened to the sweet, soaring notes of the violin, blind to anyone sitting around him.
This was the third time he had attended the recital. It was still as much a pleasure as the first time.
The footman shook his shoulder, pulling Cian out of his reverie, and shoved the folded note at him. Cian took it, frowning, and unfolded it.
May I speak with you? I am in the salon.
E.
Cian got to his feet and hurried down the irregular avenue between the individual chairs pulled up around the small orchestra. The conservatory was a good place for music, for the hard floors and glass walls reflected the sound back at the listener yet did not echo it. Only, the lack of permanent chairs meant the arrangement of them became distorted as people shifted them to accommodate hems and to talk to each other.
It wasn’t until he reached the door and stepped into the long gallery which led to the interior of the building that he realized the orchestra was reaching the sequence he enjoyed the most.
Without regret, he hurried through the gallery and into the main building. The salon was on the far side. Only one person was seated at the small tables.
Eleanore did not smile when he entered. She was paler than usual. He had not seen her in weeks and he ran his gaze over her, his heart strumming. She had been avoiding him, of course. Only, had she grown even more slender since he had seen her?
His gut tightened. Cian didn’t bother with formalities. He sat. “What is wrong, Eleanore?”
Her mouth twisted. “I suppose it is a fair question. I only ever seem to see you when there is trouble of one kind or another. This time, there is no trouble.”
Cian shook his head. “You look ill. What has happened?”
She pressed her lips together, turning them white. “There was a storm, two days ago.”
He nodded. “Late in the afternoon. They’re still picking up the branches in Hyde Park—” Her meaning registered and his heart sank. “You were caught out in it…” Dismay gripped him. “Oh, Ellie.”
Eleanore put her gloved hand on the table. “It happened again,” she whispered.
Cian glanced around the salon. There was no one there.
He laid his hand over hers and gripped her fingers. “Have you recovered sufficiently?”
“I haven’t slept properly since,” she admitted. “That is why I came to see you. I cannot go on this way, Cian. To be afraid of wind and rain…to be turned into a little, weeping child by such things…it is ridiculous.”
“No, it is not,” he shot back. “You were in the sea for a day and two nights, in the roughest storm anyone has seen in decades. You have every right to be afraid of wind and rain.”
“I don’t want to be!” she cried softly. Her eyes glittered with building tears, making his gut tighten. “I don’t like feeling so helpless. I want to be normal again, Cian. I don’t want to have to check the horizon each day and worry about someone noticing. Or worse, have no one at all to turn to!”
Something in her voice alerted him. An odd note. Cian breathed heavily. “Who left you to face the storm alone?” he demanded, his voice more strident than he wanted it to be. Harsh tones would make her shy away from talking to him about the shipwreck. This was the first time she had spoken about the aftermath since she had regained her memories.
Eleanore shook her head. “No one. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I cannot go through life expecting other people to prop me up every time there is a little wind. Do you see?”
Cian reined in his emotions. He reached for a calm expression. “Perhaps, in time, your reactions to storms will lessen.”
“I don’t want to wait for time to pass,” she said, her chin lifting. “I want to cure this right now…You are smiling. Are you laughing at me?”
“Not at all,” he said honestly. “I am admiring your stubbornness. How do you intend to cure yourself?”
Eleanore’s fingers squeezed his. “I have been considering it. I think as you do—that in time, I won’t react as strongly. Even this time, I only curled up in the corner of the carriage. I didn’t scream and flail about…what is it?”
Cian smoothed out his features, hiding his dismay. “Nothing. Go on.”
“Well…what if I made time pass more quickly?”
He shook his head. �
�You have a magic wand?”
“I have you.”
His heart stuttered to a stop. “Me?” he made himself ask.
“That is, if you will help me.”
Cian drew in a breath, then another, pulling himself together. “You know I will. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to take me to sea on your ship.” Her expression was calm, her brown eyes serene.
He could feel his jaw descend. “No, Eleanore! No!” His voice came out as a croak. “Are you mad? It would be like holding one’s hand against a white-hot stove because one doesn’t like heat!”
She nodded. “Yes, exactly,” she said. “Think about it, Cian. Whenever you learn something new, you must practice it over and over. Gradually, you become used to the new thing. It is no longer new. It is just something you can do.”
It bothered him that she was making complete sense. “You would be terrified,” he breathed, his chest aching. “I could not put you through that.”
“You will,” she said, her voice still eerily calm. “I am asking you to, so it is not you doing it to me. It is my decision.” Her smile was small. “I think it quite likely I will be terrified, at first. If you are there, though, then I think I can bear it until the terror departs.”
Cian drew in a breath which shook. “It is complete madness.”
Her smile was warmer this time. The expression in her eyes was knowing. “I know you think it makes sense. You’re just afraid for me. You mustn’t be. If I make myself do this, perhaps more than once, perhaps many days in a row, or every week, it will be like facing a dozen storms, one after another. Then I don’t have to wait for time to pass to be a normal woman once more.” She untangled her hand from his and sat back. “You are the only man I know who has a ship and who I trust to help me with this.”
Cian pushed a hand through his hair, ruffling it. Now it would be in disarray, for the thick curls never stayed neat for long. He breathed out a heavy sigh. “What does James think of your plan?”
Eleanore shook her head. “I haven’t told him. Think of it, Cian. If he reacts as you did, then he will strain himself…” She shook her head. “I don’t want him to worry.”
“James worries about you constantly, anyway,” Cian said roughly.
“Then I won’t add to his burden,” she said lightly. She lifted a brow.
Cian sighed. “Very well. I will help, but only if we do it my way, Eleanore. A flat calm day, when the barometer is at its least offensive, and we do not leave sight of land. The crew will barely have time to raise sail before we return.”
“I will hardly get used to the sensation if we return before we leave,” she pointed out.
“You haven’t stepped foot on a ship since the storm,” he said. “You might find simply standing on a moving deck is overwhelming.”
He knew his own heart would find it a strain to watch her suffer through it.
Eleanore’s smile was serene once more. “Then I will continue to stand on the deck until it is nothing to me. I want this over, Cian. I will do what I must.”
His admiration for her courage grew. “Very well. When? Now?” He reached for his pocket watch.
She swallowed. “You have a boat here in London?”
“I have several ships here in London,” he told her.
“I was thinking…Falmouth, at the end of the season.”
“To give yourself time to get used to the idea.”
Her smile was brilliant, like light on crystal, rewarding him. It stole his breath all over again. “Today is June twenty-ninth. The Glorious Twelfth is barely six weeks from now. Let us agree that when the season is over, you will take me sailing.”
Cian’s heart squeezed and danced. “I have the Natasha Marie in Falmouth. She is a good, solid ship.”
“I know. You used her to get to Algeria.” Her smile was teasing. “Where you did not take me.”
Cian’s emotions were already in disarray, so her teasing had no effect. “You are quite sure about this, Eleanore?”
“I’m not sure at all,” she said bluntly. “I only know that something must be done. I cannot go on like this.”
Cian nodded. “The twelfth, then. I will make arrangements.”
Eleanore got to her feet. “Thank you.” There was deep gratitude in her voice. She moved around the tiny table, the dull golden-brown dress swishing softly. The tweed brushed his knee. She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You are the only man in the world I would trust to help me with this.”
His heart jolted. Before he could recover, she bent and kissed him, which delivered far more than a jolt to him. He tasted softness and richness. His body tightened beyond tolerance as her tongue brushed his lips, seeking entry. He fisted his hands, straining to contain himself. “Ellie…don’t.”
Eleanore straightened. Her lips glistened. Her cheeks were tinged with color which had not been there a moment ago. “Why not?”
“Someone might see.” It was the most useless defense he could possibly give. The entire salon was deserted. Not even staff lingered.
Eleanore turned her head, taking in the empty room. She raised her brow.
Cian reached for the truth instead. “It isn’t me you want when you kiss me. I have no intention of being just another diversion for you.”
Eleanore’s face grew still. The color faded from her cheeks. She picked up her reticule from the table, her movements stiff.
Cian reached for her arm, to explain himself. She pulled her arm out of reach and shook her head. “No, you made yourself quite plain,” she assured him. She turned and walked from the salon, her chin up, her shoulders square.
He would never be able to tell her now, only in that moment, with the little squaring of her shoulders, she raised his admiration and love for her to their greatest.
THE WEEKEND HOUSE PARTY was the most boring affair Eleanore had ever attended. Weekend house parties were as fashionable now as mummy-unwrapping, cricket and fern hunting. However, Eleanore failed to see the attraction of an entire two days and three nights spent in the company of tiresome people who never had anything new to say. Even Trenton Belmont’s less than subtle seduction had become wearily repetitious.
After dinner on the Saturday night, when the houseful of guests was meant to move into the drawing room for an evening of charades and drinking, Eleanore excused herself and retired to her borrowed bedroom. She had a fresh package of cigarettes from France and she had acquired a copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Beneath the Sea by M. Jules Verne. She was determined to read it, for the title alone sent cold fingers walking up her spine.
On her way to the bedroom, she waylaid a footman and requested a decanter of brandy and a glass be sent to her room.
She removed all her clothing and dressed in the light silk wrapper her mother considered the height of vulgarity because of the thinness of the fabric. On such a hot night, it was heavenly against her bare skin. Eleanore opened the window and sat on the window seat beneath. She could watch the late sunset and smoke when the descriptions of the sea on the pages of her novel became too much to bear.
The soft knock at the door would be the footman with the brandy.
“Come in,” she called.
Trenton Belmont stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He wore the latest in evening wear, his white shirt and tie both stiff and proper. His eyes narrowed. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said softly.
Eleanore swung her feet to the floor and wrapped the silk firmly over her knees. “I thought you were the footman,” she said. “You cannot be here, Belmont. You must leave.”
His face tightened. “Because of some stuffy rule, or because you want me to leave?”
“Because I have told you, more than once, that nothing can ever come of any attraction you might feel for me.” She got to her feet. A silent voice in her mind suggested it would be better to be standing and able to move freely.
“Which is all nonsense,” he said shortly. “You reached a marriageable age
a long time ago, yet you have not wed your Prince yet. You romp, you drink, you gamble…” His gaze flickered toward the window seat. “You smoke and play cricket. You, Eleanore Neville, do what you please. I suspect you and I can do what we please, just as nicely.” He moved toward her.
Eleanore sighed. “You really do not understand anything about me, do you?” she said, feeling a great tiredness gnaw at her.
“Oh, I understand you well enough.” He gripped her waist and smiled when he felt nothing but flesh beneath the silk. “Very well indeed,” he crooned and pressed his lips against her mouth.
She struggled, her heart screaming. She pushed at his shoulders. Then she got her hands between the two of them, planted them on his chest and shoved with all her might.
Belmont staggered away, his green eyes widening in shock. Then his jaw flexed and his brows came together. “You dare refuse me!” He swung his arm. Hard.
His hand slapped her face, spinning her about with the force of the blow and turning that side of her face instantly numb. Her eye throbbed.
Dull, heated fury tore through her. Eleanore placed her feet properly, Cian’s deep voice instructing her in her mind. She formed a proper fist. Belmont didn’t see it coming. He was reaching for her arm, possibly to renew his attentions.
She aimed for his nose and used her full weight to punch at his face. Her weight and strength weren’t enough to blind him, although she felt his nose give way.
He howled in pain. Instead of staggering away from her like any sensible man would, Belmont lunged forward, reaching for her with what little vision he had left.
Her fury drove her. As he was already reaching for her, all she had to do was drive her knee upward. Her knee buried deep into the soft flesh between his thighs
Belmont jerked forward as if he had been hit by a mallet from behind. He clutched at the juncture of his thighs, his face turning gray.
Rules of Engagement Page 8
