Lady Eleanor's Seventh Suitor

by Anna Bradley

  Her delight was short-lived. He didn’t chase after her, but he didn’t need to, for he easily matched her wild sprint with his long-legged strides. By the time she reached the tree he was right behind her, and he didn’t even have the courtesy to be winded.

  “Charlotte?” Eleanor scooted under the branches and dodged around the thick trunk, elbows out and skirts held wide, doing everything she could to block Camden West’s view. “It’s no use pretending you aren’t there, Charlotte. I saw your gown. Come out at once, or—Charlotte!”

  Eleanor clutched the neck of her gown in nerveless fingers, all the blood rushing from her head at once. She swayed back against Camden West, who pressed his palm into her lower back to steady her, a gesture that would have infuriated her under any other circumstances.

  As it was, she forgot all about Camden West. She forgot Lord Tidmarsh, the garden, and the Foster’s ball entirely. Dear God. She’d reconciled herself to a shock, but this? This went well beyond a stolen kiss or two.

  Hairpins, hooks, buttons, and, Eleanor suspected, closing her eyes in despair, the tapes on Charlotte’s drawers had all fallen victim to Julian West’s seeking fingers. Her sister’s elegant chignon lay in ruins across her bare shoulders, and her bodice sagged around her waist and neck, leaving plenty of room for his hand to slip into her chemise to caress her breast. He clutched a fistful of violet silk in his other hand, raising Charlotte’s skirts so high Eleanor caught a glimpse of her sister’s lace-trimmed garters.

  And Charlotte . . .

  As much as Eleanor wanted to blame this entire episode on Julian West, she couldn’t deny her innocent sister was . . . well, rather an enthusiastic participant in her own disgrace. She was on her tiptoes, her fingers tugging at his hair to bring his mouth closer to hers, and unless Julian West had torn a button off his own waistcoat . . .

  “Charlotte! Step away from him at once!”

  But neither Charlotte nor her seducer appeared to hear her, or to notice they had an audience, for they kept on with their debauchery as if Eleanor and Camden West were invisible. Eleanor struggled to pull some air into her lungs so she could shriek, but despite her gasps, they refused to fill, and she could do nothing but stand, horrified, as that dreadful rake debauched her younger sister.

  Eleanor was about to leap upon Julian West and wrestle him to the ground when she heard a sound behind her—a discreet cough, or a muffled laugh? She clenched her fists until she drew a drop of blood from her palm. Did Camden West think a quiet cough enough to pry his cousin from her sister, then? He certainly didn’t look as if he were about to step forward and separate them.

  Or perhaps he found the whole thing amusing?

  Rage took hold of Eleanor then, and she scrambled forward and grabbed her sister around the waist. She hadn’t any idea where she got the strength, but she succeeded in dragging Charlotte backward, out of Julian West’s embrace, and then she threw herself in front of her sister so she stood between them.

  Just let Julian West try to touch her breast, or pull up her skirts. He’d come away with fewer fingers, the rogue.

  “Not. One. Step.” She spat the words and held a hand out in front of her, glaring at him.

  Camden West moved to his cousin’s side and waved a careless hand in Charlotte’s direction. “I can assure you my cousin won’t stir from this spot. See to your sister, Lady Eleanor.”

  Eleanor stared at him. Bored. Camden West sounded bored, as if his cousin’s ruination of an innocent young woman was all part of a pleasant evening’s entertainment. Her fingers curled into claws. Villain. Oh, how she’d love to scratch his eyes from his face.

  But she couldn’t. Not only couldn’t she do him a physical injury, she’d also have to find a way to swallow her rage and treat both men with some modicum of civility, for Charlotte’s reputation was theirs to ruin, should they choose to do so. Bitterness flooded the back of her throat, choking her. She wanted to rage at the unfairness of it, and yet it was no use. There was only one thing she could do.

  See to her sister, just as Camden West told her to.

  She turned on Charlotte then, her earlier anger swelling in her breast. Eleanor opened her mouth to deliver the furious scold Charlotte deserved, but as soon as she saw her sister’s face, she closed it.

  Charlotte stood unmoving and silent, her face drained of blood.

  Eleanor instinctively reached for her hand. “Charlotte? My dear . . .”

  Charlotte’s hand was ice cold, trembling. A wave of dread swept over Eleanor. She’d expected defiance, or perhaps careless dismissal, not this look of lost, numb shock.

  She took Charlotte by the shoulders and turned her around. “Here now, it’s all right. I’ll just button you up, shall I? I’m afraid your pins are gone for good, but I can secure your hair with a few of my own.”

  Eleanor patted and fussed and soothed until she’d pulled Charlotte together as best she could. By the time she finished Charlotte had regained some of her color, but she looked to be on the verge of tears. “Eleanor, I. . . I beg your pardon. I never meant . . . I . . . I didn’t think it would go so far—”

  “Hush.” Eleanor laid a hand against Charlotte’s cheek. “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later.”

  There was no way they could reenter the ballroom. Charlotte was decently covered, but by no means presentable, and she’d been gone for far too long. Her absence would have been noticed by now. No doubt the whispers had already started.

  No, it wouldn’t do. She’d have to leave Charlotte here, alone in the dark garden while she went to call for their carriage, and then they’d have to find a way to slip from the garden to the carriage without going through the ballroom.

  “Shall I fetch your carriage, Lady Eleanor?”

  Camden West again, all smooth solicitousness now. The perfect gentleman. Eleanor, provoked to the last degree, opened her mouth to tell him to go to the devil, but she didn’t get a chance.

  “There’s a gate at the far end of the garden that leads directly into the mews behind the house,” he added. “Your driver can meet you there. There’s no need for you to return to the ballroom.”

  Eleanor swept her gaze over one West, then the other, and prayed her scornful look conveyed how contemptible she found them both. Oh, to be a gentleman, skilled at the sword, or accurate with a pistol! But no, a stony expression and a few tepid curses was the best a lady could do.

  Julian West avoided her eyes, but oddly, despite his actions tonight, it wasn’t that Mr. West who’d earned all of Eleanor’s animosity.

  Camden West merely looked at her, waiting, one eyebrow raised in polite enquiry.

  It was that one.

  She dropped into an extravagant curtsey. “How excessively helpful of you, Mr. West. How can we ever thank you for your kind assistance?”

  “It’s my pleasure, my lady.” He bowed again, all polite attention, as if he’d just put his name on her dance card, and Eleanor clenched her teeth against what she suspected was intentional mockery.

  As it turned out, neither Eleanor nor Charlotte thanked either of the Wests. Julian West waited in the garden with the ladies in some twisted parody of a polite escort while his cousin went off to call the Sutherland carriage. Not a word passed between the three of them while they waited, and neither lady deigned to speak to Camden West when he returned to direct them to the carriage.

  The sound of the horses’ hooves ringing against the cobblestones had faded away before either gentleman spoke, but at last Julian stirred. “That was badly done, Cam.”

  Cam didn’t argue, but the hard expression on his face didn’t soften. “Badly or not, it’s done.”

  Julian shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

  Cam smiled without humor. “You looked as though you liked it well enough. Christ, Jules, I never asked you to tear the chit’s clothes off.”

  Julian winced and ran a hand through his hair, then turned away without answering.

  Cam relented and put a hand on his cousi
n’s shoulder. “There’s no other way. Think of Amelia.” His voice gentled as he said the name.

  Julian sighed and turned back to face his cousin. “I always do, cuz. I always do.”

  Chapter Three

  “What a shame you had to leave the ball early last night.” Lady Catherine shook out the wool blanket at the end of the chaise and draped it across her knees. “I do hope Charlotte hasn’t caught my cold. She hasn’t been downstairs at all today.”

  No, she hadn’t, but she couldn’t hide forever. One way or another, Eleanor would have the explanation Charlotte refused to give her last night, even if she had to scale the roof and go through Charlotte’s bedroom window to get it.

  She rose and crossed the room to tuck the blanket around her mother’s legs. “Are you chilled, mama?”

  “No, no, I’m well enough, only tired of being cooped up with this cold, and so sorry to miss the Foster’s ball last night.”

  Eleanor stifled a sigh. Her mother couldn’t be as sorry as she was, and that was to say nothing of Charlotte, who’d looked sorry indeed on the carriage ride home from the ball. Her sister would never have escaped to the garden at all last night under their mother’s watchful eye, but as it was, Lady Catherine felt too ill to attend the ball, and their brothers Alec and Robyn had gone to Kent this week to see to some flooding at Bellwood, the family’s country estate.

  Eleanor and Charlotte had been obliged to content themselves with Lady Archer’s chaperone. Poor Lady Archer had a fondness for wagering, however, and she’d disappeared into the card room the minute they arrived.

  A wretched thing, wagering. No good ever comes of it.

  “Did Charlotte dance with Lord Hadley last night?”

  “Yes. Twice.” Such a perfect gentleman, Hadley. If only Charlotte would marry him.

  “And you, dear? Did Lord Tidmarsh ask you to dance?”

  Ask? It wasn’t quite the right word. Begged? Yes. Pouted like a child who’d been denied a sweet when she refused? Yes. Stormed off in a temper when he lost his wager? Yes, that too. “He did. We danced twice together.”

  Her mother gave her a tentative smile. “He intends to offer for you. Soon, I think.”

  Eleanor returned her mother’s smile, but shook her head. “He’s too young to marry.”

  Too young, and too flimsy.

  “He’s three-and-twenty.” Lady Catherine frowned. “Many gentlemen marry at his age.”

  Chronology, alas, had little to do with maturity. Lord Tidmarsh had no business marrying until he knew better than to wager on a lady’s affections.

  Perhaps some facial hair would help, as well.

  “Why, he never once let you out of his sight at the Chester’s rout last week,” her mother added. “He followed you about all night.”

  He had. His attentions had become so tedious she’d spend the last hour of the evening hiding in the lady’s retiring room.

  “He seemed so determined, Eleanor.”

  Oh, he was determined, all right. Determined to win his wager.

  Eleanor crossed the room to ring the bell for tea. “Indeed, mama, you’re mistaken.”

  She was wicked to tell such lies to her mother, but people often were wicked, weren’t they? She thought of the cold, dismissive look Camden West had given Charlotte last night, his bored tone when he’d told Eleanor to look after her sister.

  Some were much wickeder than others.

  Her mother was still puzzling over Lord Tidmarsh. “I can’t account for his not making an offer—”

  A quiet knock on the door interrupted the discussion, much to Eleanor’s relief. “Yes?”

  Rylands, their butler, entered the room. “Excuse me, my lady. There’s a gentleman below requesting a visit with Lady Eleanor.”

  A gentleman? Oh, good lord. Hadn’t she made herself clear to Lord Tidmarsh last night? He’d scurried away in a perfect sulk, and she’d thought the matter rather tidily concluded, but perhaps that was too much to hope for.

  Her mother let out an irritable sigh. “We said no visitors today, Rylands.”

  “Yes, my lady. I beg your pardon. This gentleman is quite insistent, I’m afraid. He demands to speak to Lady Eleanor at once.”

  Drat. It did sound like Lord Tidmarsh, deep in the throes of another imaginary passion. Good Lord, her head ached. “Who is it, Rylands?”

  Rylands sniffed. “I’ve never seen him before, my lady. Mr. Camden West.”

  Oh, no. Eleanor’s heart leapt into her throat. “Camden West?”

  No sooner did the devil cross one’s mind than he showed up at one’s door, and here was proof of it. Why, she’d rather face a dozen tragic Lord Tidmarshes than spend another moment in Camden West’s company.

  Eleanor’s mother turned to her. “Who is Camden West? I don’t recognize that name.”

  “You remember Julian West, I think? This other Mr. West is his cousin. He called our carriage for us last night when Charlotte was taken ill. I’m sure he’s only here to enquire after her health.”

  “How kind.”

  Eleanor stretched her lips into what she hoped was an agreeable smile. “Yes, isn’t it? That’s the very word that came into my head when I met him—kind.” The worst kind of devil, that is. “Very well, Rylands. I’ll be down at once.”

  But Eleanor dragged her feet every step of the way to the drawing room. What could Camden West mean by coming here? He wasn’t here to inquire after Charlotte. He hadn’t batted an eye when they found her sister half naked in the Foster’s garden, and Eleanor doubted he’d developed a conscience since then.

  So what in the blazes did he want?

  A shiver of dread raced down her spine. Did he plan to expose Charlotte? Tell the ton the whole sordid tale? As far as anyone knew, Charlotte had been taken ill last night, and they’d left the ball early. No one had any proof to contradict that story.

  No one except Julian and Camden West.

  Eleanor made her way downstairs, paused in the hallway outside the drawing room, drew in a deep breath, then swept inside and closed the door behind her. “Mr. West. What a pleasant surprise.” As pleasant as a sliver in one’s thumb. “To what do I owe the—”

  He stood with his back to the door, facing the fireplace, but at the sound of her voice he turned, and just like that, Eleanor’s thoughts scattered like an overturned tray of hairpins.

  Goodness, he was handsome. It was his eyes—they were a remarkable shade of green, rather dark, like moss. She’d never seen eyes quite that color before, and he had a headful of thick, chestnut-colored hair, streaked with gold from the sun.

  Eleanor bit her lip. He appeared remarkably . . . sturdy. His shoulders were half the length of the mantle, for pity’s sake, and he wasn’t thin or gangly like so many men of such imposing height. Perhaps he padded his coats? Yes, that must be it. The chest and the arms, anyway.

  Eleanor’s gaze dropped to his tight, buff-colored breeches. He must pad those, as well.

  Her face heated. My. That is a great deal of padding.

  “You’re kind to see me, Lady Eleanor.”

  He bowed politely, but Eleanor didn’t miss the hard glint in his eyes, and it snapped her back to herself as if cold water had been thrown in her face. It mattered not one whit what he looked like. Lions were handsome, too, but they could still claw your belly open and feast on your entrails.

  Camden West was a villain, and anyway, it likely took him hours in front of the glass to coax those silky waves of hair to fall across his forehead in such a fetching, boyish manner.

  “Mr. West. Why do I feel certain this isn’t a social call?” She may as well get right to the heart of the matter. The sooner he told her what he wanted, the sooner she could be rid of him.

  His green eyes narrowed at her frankness, then crinkled at the corners in what could have been appreciation.

  Eleanor hoped it was a digestive complaint. She didn’t need or want Camden West’s admiration.

  “Perhaps I’ve come to inquire after your
sister’s health?”

  She considered him for a moment, then shook her head. “No. I think not. But since you make the pretense of concern, I can tell you she’s more upset than I’ve ever seen her, and she hasn’t left her bedchamber all day. A tidy night’s work for your cousin. I do hope he’s pleased with himself.”

  “He isn’t, though I doubt you’ll believe that. But I didn’t come to discuss my cousin, or to inquire after your sister.”

  “Indeed? Then I fail to see why you’ve come at all.”

  He studied her face for a moment, then let out a low laugh. “The gossips didn’t exaggerate about you.”

  Her eyebrows rose. She could just imagine what he’d heard about her. “Gossips always exaggerate. Do you make it a habit to listen to them, Mr. West? How disappointing.”

  “I’m distressed to have disappointed you, my lady, but gossip occasionally proves a useful source of information.”

  “Certainly, if you’re not troubled by a small thing like the truth. A gentlemen never listens to gossip.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not a gentleman, Lady Eleanor. By the time we finish our conversation, I’m sure you’ll agree that’s true.”

  “I agree even now.”

  He smiled. “Just as I’d heard. Cold.”

  Eleanor cleared the sudden lump from her throat. She knew the gentlemen thought her cold—they’d dubbed her Lady Frost, after all. Still, to know it was one thing. To hear it from a pair of full, handsome lips quite another.

  But she didn’t have any use for his lips, full or otherwise, and she’d do well to remember it. “Not cold enough, for you’re still here.”

  The handsome lips parted on a laugh. “You do have a certain frigid charm. I’ll give you that.”

  She bit back a sharp retort. It would only encourage him, and she’d rather he make whatever demand he intended to make so she could refuse, and be rid of him. She didn’t care for this conversation, or the cat-in-the-cream smile on his face.