“You cannot deny that we are physically compatible.”
“Perhaps. But there is little between us other than the vexing question of lust.”
His mouth curled wryly. “Lust can be a powerful force.” His hand briefly touched the bulge in his satin knee breeches, evidence of his still-swollen arousal.
“Which only proves my point,” Eleanor declared. “You are acting in the heat of the moment, just as you did the last time you proposed. You let passion get the better of you then, impulsively overriding your own deep-seated objections to marriage, and look how that ended. You came to regret our betrothal almost at once.”
Damon didn't respond directly to that argument, instead saying in a reasonable tone, “I want you in my bed, Elle. But the only honorable way to have you is with the sanction of matrimony.”
She had to hide a wince. She was well aware that men wanted her for her physical beauty in addition to her breeding and wealth, and now Damon was stating it quite baldly. It was ridiculous, how he had touched a raw, deep-rooted insecurity of hers. Appealing to male carnal desires didn't mean she could attract them in ways that truly counted: in their hearts. She'd feared she might never find a man to love her for herself, and Damon's renouncement two years ago had only bolstered that fear.
She bit her lower lip. “I still think you are playing some kind of cruel game with me.”
His expression instantly softened. “I promise you it is no game, Eleanor.”
“Then why are you suggesting something so absurd? I would say you are trying to distract me from pursuing Prince Lazzara, but offering for me yourself is too drastic a measure merely to prevent his court ship.”
“It isn't too drastic. I want to protect you from him, but so far I've been unable to make you see reason.”
She frowned. “So you are proposing because you feel obliged to protect me?”
“In large part. I don't want you wedding Lazzara. He isn't nearly good enough for you.”
“That is not for you to decide.”
“He will only hurt you.” Damon's dark eyes searched her face. “If you are so set on marriage, then you should wed me. I am a much better alternative than your prince.”
Her thoughts in chaos, Eleanor raised a hand to her temple. Perhaps Damon truly did want to protect her from being hurt-and if so, she had to concede it was admirable of him. But wedding him would leave her far too vulnerable. She would only fall in love with him all over again, and he would hurt her even more than before.
“Thank you for your concern,” she said at last, “but I don't require your chivalry. I don't want you sacrificing yourself for my sake.”
“It wouldn't be a sacrifice, Elle.” When she made no reply, Damon swung his legs around and sat back against the headboard among her pillows. “Your Romeo won't make you happy,” he insisted.
“And you would?”
“I would like to try.”
The siren call of his extraordinary assertion beckoned to her. Yet she should know better than to listen to Damon's blandishments.
“You forfeited that right two years ago,” she finally replied.
His gaze seemed to darken for a moment. “I won't deny that, but my particular failing doesn't mean your prince would treat you any better.” Damon canted his head. “Do you actually think Lazzara will care anything about your happiness? Your pleasure? That he would trouble himself to see you satisfied? I suspect you would enjoy the marriage bed far more with me. In fact, I believe we just proved it-and that was only a taste of what you can expect from our lovemaking once we are wed.”
Eleanor flushed at the reminder of the stunning experience Damon had just given her. She had suspected pleasure with him would be incredible, and indeed it had been.
“Perhaps so,” she conceded, “but simply because you are a marvelous lover doesn't mean you would make a good husband. Marriage should be based on more than carnal pleasure.”
“Ours would be.”
“It would be nothing more than a union of convenience.”
“What is wrong with that? Many members of our class marry to carry on bloodlines.”
That gave Eleanor pause. “Do you care that much about continuing your bloodlines? You never said so before.”
To her surprise, she glimpsed a fleeting impression of sadness in Damon's eyes before he answered with what sounded like honest sincerity. “I've always accepted that I have a duty to my title. And the years are passing. It's time for me to consider fulfilling my obligation.”
She pursed her lips in an unyielding line. “If you seriously want to marry to carry on your title, any number of gentlewomen would suit your purposes.”
His gaze held hers. “I want you, Elle, no one else.”
She badly wanted to believe him, yet she couldn't risk it.
“Well, I do not want a mere union of convenience,” she responded. “If I did, I could have been married several times over. I have had over a dozen proposals, but I turned most of them down.”
“Most of them?” Damon contemplated her curiously. “I knew you were betrothed a second time, but were there more?”
Eleanor hesitated. Her second brief engagement had been a wildly impulsive response to Damon's defection. After he had humiliated her by publicly turning to a lightskirt for his pleasures, she had wanted to feel wanted, desired, worthy of affection. But thankfully she had quickly come to her senses and withdrawn her acceptance of Baron Morley's offer.
Her third, even briefer betrothal to a nobleman, however, had been a total ruse. She'd never had any intention of following through with it, nor had her third fiance.
“I was betrothed to Lord Claybourne for a few hours this past summer,” Eleanor admitted reluctantly.
Damon's eyebrow shot up. “To Claybourne? For a few hours? I should like to hear an explanation for that.”
Eleanor waved her hand. “It is a long story. Suffice it to say that Heath asked me for a favor to help him win Lily Loring, and I willingly obliged. Our betrothal didn't really count, though, since it was a pretense and very few people knew about it. But that doesn't mean I want to risk any more broken engagements. If I were to agree to marry you, who is to say we would actually go through with the wedding this time? I am in danger of developing a reputation as a jilt as it is.”
“We would wed this time,” Damon assured her.
She managed an indifferent shrug, even though she was not feeling at all indifferent. “Well, it is pointless to speculate, since I don't intend to marry you.”
“Why not?”
Eleanor glanced away, hiding the vulnerability that she knew shone in her eyes. The undeniable truth was that Damon could never love her as she wanted- needed-to be loved. A marriage where affection was so profoundly one-sided would be even more painful than a cold contract of convenience.
“Because I am a romantic at heart,” she answered. “That is the chief difference between us, Damon… why we would never make a good match. I want true love in my marriage. I want my husband to love me.”
It was a long while before Damon responded-and then his tone was rather curt. “You are putting too much store in the notion of true love, Eleanor.”
“Perhaps. But I know it is possible. Marcus found that kind of love with Arabella. And I won't settle for anything less for myself.” She took a step closer to Damon, her hands unconsciously reaching out to him in an imploring gesture. “You know about my childhood before my parents died. How lonely I was then, and afterward, when I went to live with a widowed aunt who never wanted to be saddled with a child.”
Her voice lowered even further. “I don't want that same loneliness in my marriage, Damon. I want to matter to my husband. I want to matter deeply. I want to matter to my family. I want to bestow on my children the love I never knew from my own parents. The kind of familial love Marcus and I shared as children. That is not something you can give me.”
Damon's brow had grown clouded, and she knew he was recalling her confession that day in t
he rose garden when she'd bared her soul to him. It was humiliating now for her to even think of it, or to remember how hopeful and happy she'd been then.
“I doubt Lazzara will give you his heart,” he finally said.
“How will I know if I never try? I mean to try to make him love me, Damon.”
She saw a muscle flex in Damon's jaw as he struggled to maintain his patience. “Lazzara is not the right husband for you,” he repeated. “I would make a better one.”
That twisting ache in her heart assaulted Eleanor again. Some vulnerable part of her couldn't help but be torn by his proposal. Yet the thrilling hope she'd once felt at the chance of becoming Damon's wife was offset by the fear of being badly hurt by him once more. She never again wanted to feel the doubt and pain of such a betrayal.
“I don't believe you would make me a better husband, Damon,” she said quietly, “because you don't love me. That was the real problem before-you never really loved me. If you had, you would never have turned to a mistress.”
Rather than look away, Damon returned her gaze steadily. “I regret hurting you, Elle. I assure you, it won't happen again.”
She took a deep breath. “Indeed it won't, since I won't be idiotic enough to put myself in that position again.”
Damon roughly ran a hand though his hair, as if striving for control. “I am not keeping a mistress now. I haven't for some time.”
“No doubt because you haven't had the chance to secure one since you returned to England.”
His mouth curled. “I have had ample opportunities, trust me. But I don't want a mistress. I want you-as my wife.”
Eleanor determinedly shook her head. “What about after we are wed? You told me when I broke off our engagement that you would not promise me fidelity.”
“I can promise that now. I am willing to take a vow of celibacy if you like.”
Taken aback, she stared at him. “For how long?”
“For as long as it takes to convince you to wed me.”
“You wouldn't last a month.”
“I would, Elle.”
The certainty shimmering in his dark eyes made her want to believe him, but she was a fool if she succumbed to Damon's velvet promises.
Stiffening her spine, Eleanor pointed at the window where he had entered her bedchamber. “I am sorry, Damon, but there is no possible way I could ever trust you again. Now would you please get off my bed and take your leave? This argument is pointless.”
He hesitated another long moment. “Very well, but this is not the end of our discussion.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I beg to differ.”
He levered himself off her bed as ordered, but instead of making for the window, he moved slowly toward her. Eleanor stood her ground-which was a mistake, she quickly realized. Before she could fathom his intent, Damon drew her into his embrace, flush against his hard body.
“I won't let you wed Lazzara, Elle.”
“You cannot stop me,” she declared, raising her chin.
His eyes sparked at her defiance. “Then you leave me no choice,” he murmured in that low, husky voice. “I will have to persuade you one kiss at a time.”
Her heart leapt as his wicked mouth came closer, yet Eleanor found herself riveted in place, unable to utter a protest. His palms framing her face, Damon stole her lips-and her breath as well-in a deep, intimate, caressing kiss.
Her pulse was pounding in her ears, her body trembling with renewed heat, when at last he released her. Eleanor drew away, dazed and flustered… which clearly was his aim. Damon seemed to derive great satisfaction from keeping her off balance, if his expression was anything to judge by.
“It is sneaky and underhanded of you,” she complained with a touch of bitterness, “using physical arousal to turn my own body against me. You know I have difficulty resisting your seduction.”
“I am counting on it.” There was a distinct challenge in his gaze. “You should not underestimate my determination, Elle.”
He bent to kiss her again, but this time she summoned the last ounce of her willpower and jerked away. “Blast you, Damon, keep away from me! If you do not, I won't be responsible for the consequences.”
His lips twisted with faint humor. “Your wish is my command, my lady,” he replied, giving her a bow before crossing the room to the open window.
There he hesitated and glanced back at her. “Prom ise me you will keep on your guard when you are with Lazzara, Eleanor. His continued mishaps could put you in danger, and you need to take the potential threat seriously.”
“Right now the only threat I see comes from you,” she declared irritably.
“Promise me, Elle,” Damon repeated, his tone stern.
“Very well, I promise! Now will you go?”
He sat on the sill, then eased himself through and onto a limb of the oak tree outside. Right then Elea nor decided to have her aunt's gardeners trim those branches first thing in the morning, to deny Damon access to her bedchamber in the future.
She watched warily as he disappeared from sight and then latched the window shut and drew the draperies. Crossing to her bed, Eleanor climbed in and sank back among the pillows, utterly dismayed by the turn of events.
She had behaved like a total wanton, allowing Damon to take scandalous liberties with her body. Involuntarily, she reached up and touched her swollen lips, remembering the incredible pleasure he had shown her… pleasure he had promised was only a small measure of what she could expect in their marriage bed.
Yet not only had he breached her defenses, even worse, he'd actually had the audacity to propose marriage so he could prevent her from pursuing a relationship with Prince Lazzara.
The very nerve of him! She couldn't fault his concern for her safety, but she couldn't give his proposal any serious credence either. Moreover, she had little doubt that once the prince's courtship ended, Damon would find some way to elude any marriage shackles.
And in the unlikely event that he actually was sincere about his proposal?
She most certainly would not marry him, Eleanor swore. She was fiercely determined to move on with her life. Of course, she would first have to overcome her deplorable infatuation with Damon. The vexing scoundrel challenged her, infuriated her, captivated her-and worried her to no end.
Damon had the enchanting ability to gain whatever he wanted, and he professed to want her.
Eleanor caught her lower lip between her teeth. She wanted to curse and pray at the same time: to curse Damon and to pray for her own deliverance.
Blast you, blast you, she thought, turning over to bury her face in the pillows.
He did not want her for his wife, no matter what he claimed. And even if he did, he was not getting her!
Did he truly want Eleanor for his wife? Damon wondered as he carefully negotiated the oak tree outside her window. Admittedly, he was not as sanguine about his impulsive offer of marriage as he'd let on. In fact, he'd astonished himself almost as much as he had Elle.
Certainly he wanted to protect her from Lazzara. He'd been frustrated as bloody hell by Eleanor's determined pursuit of the prince, as well as by her romanticized ideals of love and marriage.
Damon couldn't deny, either, that one of her accusations had hit uncannily close to the truth. Once more he'd acted in the heat of the moment; his hunger for her had sent blood streaming from his brain to his loins, along with any vestiges of wisdom he should have learned from his original experience at proposing. He was sporting a raging arousal now that made descending the tree rather painful at times.
“Which is what you deserve for nearly seducing her in her own bed, you sorry blighter,” Damon murmured to himself.
His mouth curved with self-deprecation. The lust-induced madness that had infected him two years ago had struck him within mere days of encountering Eleanor again. He was climbing trees in the pitch dark, inviting scandal by visiting a genteel young lady's bedchamber late at night, and plotting how to pry her away from her princely s
uitor.
But at least his placid, boring life was no longer dull. Even more notably, the restlessness that had festered inside him in recent months was absent for the moment.
Dropping to the ground, Damon dusted off his hands and made his way to his carriage, which awaited him around the corner of Portman Place.
Still, he reminded himself, he'd had a sound rationalization for his irrational proposal besides sheer madness or lust or even protectiveness. It wasn't primal male possessiveness driving him, either, or the fact that he didn't want to give Eleanor up to any other man.
It was that he couldn't allow her to leave his life so irrevocably. He didn't want to think of his world without Elle in it.
Granted, Damon reflected, while he had always intended to marry eventually, he'd planned on making a union typical of the British aristocracy, with a genteel female who would never engage his heart. Yet he would lose Eleanor for good if she married her prince-and that he couldn't bring himself to accept.
Despite her arguments, though, a marriage of convenience between them was not so illogical, Damon reasoned. If he was to marry, Eleanor would be his best choice by far. He would never find another woman who was so ideally suited to him.
And he could say the same about his own suitability for her. Most definitely he would make her a better husband than her prince or anyone else. He would make certain of it.
He would never purposely hurt her again, he was willing to swear his life on that. Eleanor's happiness was important to him. He would see that she had everything she desired… except for love, of course.
And that really was the crux of the matter-
Damon was glad that his reflections were interrupted as he reached his carriage.
“Home, my lord?” his coachman asked respectfully.
“Yes, Cavendish Square,” he answered, before settling on the squabs inside.
As the carriage drew away from the curb, he heard the echo of Eleanor's low voice. I want true love in my marriage. I want my husband to love me.
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