by Anna Bradley
“The Ring!” she announced, then smiled proudly at him.
Cam tried for an indulgent look, and an air of congratulations. “Very good, my lady.”
They hadn’t gone more than ten paces before she began to fret and wring her hands, however.
“Is something amiss, Lady Eleanor?”
“No. That is, yes. I fear I’ve made a mistake, Mr. West. I believe I’d prefer a stroll, after all.”
The dark eyes seemed about to fill, and her lower lip trembled. Good Lord. Was it possible she could squeeze out an actual tear? “I beg you not to distress yourself. It’s no trouble to turn the carriage around.”
She slid him a coquettish glance and fluttered her long, dark eyelashes. “Oh, would you? How kind you are, sir.”
Cam let his gaze drift from her eyes to her plump, red mouth. Perhaps he should try and convince her he detested flirtatious, forward ladies—the kind of lady who let a gentleman kiss more than her hand, or who sat on his lap during a drive through Hyde Park . . .
His body snapped to such sudden, aching awareness at the thought he was forced to abandon it at once, or else be obliged to cover his lap with the edges of his coat for the rest of the afternoon. Instead he lifted her gloved hand and gave it a reassuring pat, which would have been innocent enough if he hadn’t also stroked a thumb across her palm. “Not at all, my lady.”
Her dark eyes flashed, but she recovered at once and managed to disguise her reaction with a simper.
Tilly, however, wasn’t so forgiving. “Keep your hands to yourself if you don’t mind, Mr. West.”
Cam turned to her in surprise. He was so distracted by Lady Eleanor, he’d forgotten Tilly was there. The woman hadn’t said more than two words since they left, but now he found her eyes narrowed on him, as if she thought he’d try to ravish Lady Eleanor right here in the carriage. The thought may have crossed his mind, but he wouldn’t even get his lips on the lady’s gloved hand with Tilly’s beady gray eyes on him.
“Ah. Here we are.” The driver brought the carriage to a halt on the drive. Cam alighted and held out a hand to assist Lady Eleanor, who couldn’t quite disguise her hesitation at touching him. He hid a smile, helped her down and offered his hand to Tilly, who eyed it with a pinched expression, then clambered down without his assistance.
He tucked Lady Eleanor’s hand into his elbow and started to walk, leaving Tilly to stalk after them. Unless he was mistaken, they’d out-distance the older woman before they reached the bend in the river.
“Tell me, Lady Eleanor, do you often walk in Hyde Park?”
She gave him a bright, meaningless smile. “Oh, yes. There always seems to be some gentleman or other about who wants to escort me.”
Fascinating, the way every word she spoke now seemed heavy with hidden meaning. She meant for him to realize she was surrounded by gentlemen who wished to court her, and she regarded him as no more significant than any of the others.
She’d soon find out otherwise. “Do you wish to walk with them?”
She hesitated, then shrugged, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “They wish to walk with me, and I have no objection to it. Oh, look at the ducks! Aren’t they precious?”
“Perfectly so, yes.” Cam didn’t spare the ducks a glance. “What do you do, Lady Eleanor, when you’re not accommodating the wishes of all these gentlemen you mention?”
“Do?” Her mouth fell open a little at the idea she might do anything at all once the gentlemen in question had disappeared.
Cam glanced at her mouth again and his breath came shorter, as if a fist were squeezing his lungs. Did she believe her half-open mouth would persuade him of her witlessness? All it did was make him think of her tongue. Damnation. This had been easier when she bored him into unconsciousness.
He cleared his throat. “I suppose you must spend time with your nephew?”
“Yes, I do. He’s precious.”
Cam drew in a deep breath and tilted his head back to gaze at the tree branches above them. They hadn’t yet walked ten paces, and already this felt like the longest walk he’d ever taken. “What sorts of things do you do with your nephew, then?”
“Oh, I play with him. He has the sweetest little toy boat, you know. It’s. . .” She paused, as if she couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
“Precious?”
“Yes!” She beamed at him. “Just so.”
Good Lord. She was far too good at this. He knew she was performing, yet even so his brain was turning into pudding. “It must be gratifying for a family like the Sutherlands for Lord Carlisle’s wife to have so quickly produced an heir.”
She paused just long enough for Cam to grow wild with impatience to hear how she’d manage to answer such a pointed question with a few bland words.
“Gratifying?” she asked, with the air of one who wasn’t sure of the meaning.
He almost smiled. She was determined not to reveal a thing.
He wanted to reveal her. Explore her every word, every thought, every maddening half-smile. He wanted to bare her from her hairpins down to her slippers, slowly, until she stood exposed before him.
Metaphorically, that is.
For now.
“Yes, my lady. Gratifying. Satisfying. Surely you know what it feels like to be satisfied?”
He shouldn’t have said it. One didn’t speak of satisfaction to a lady, especially not in such a low, suggestive voice, but he couldn’t help himself. He burned with curiosity to see what she’d do now. Would she acknowledge the innuendo? Or better yet, return it? Take it into that saucy mouth of hers, turn it over on her tongue—
Her steps faltered. Cam’s lower belly surged with anticipation.
“I think you must refer to that feeling,” she whispered, “that feeling a lady has when she, well, when she . . .”
“Yes?” Cam asked, surprised at how hoarse he’d grown.
“She finds a particularly flattering bonnet?”
She didn’t say another word or make a noise of any kind, but her entire body vibrated with suppressed laughter.
The breath he’d been holding left him in a heated rush. Damn her. She’d held him right on the edge just now, and had delighted in hurling him to the ground. Risky, to toy with a man’s lustful urges, but if he didn’t want a knife in his back from Tilly—who no doubt hid one under those folds of gray wool—he’d have to ignore it.
He glanced back to find the servant had fallen far enough behind she couldn’t overhear their conversation. That was the best he could hope for today, but tomorrow he’d take care to get Lady Eleanor to himself.
“I can’t comment on the heights of ecstasy a lady might reach in relation to her bonnet.” At least he could enjoy the innuendo, even if she refused to. “But I imagine Lord Carlisle’s satisfaction with his son must be comparable.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “But my brother doesn’t wear bonnets, Mr. West. At least, not that I know of.”
Cam stifled a laugh. Oh, she was enjoying herself. “No, I imagine not, but you see, my lady, one thing hasn’t anything to do with the other.”
Her brow furrowed. “It hasn’t?”
“No. I mean to observe for a family like the Sutherlands, a family with such an ancient and respected title, it must be comforting to know the family is secure. Not just for Lord Carlisle, but for all of you. I believe you’re a close family?”
If they weren’t, she wouldn’t be playing these games with him to secure her sister’s future.
“Oh, yes, very close. My sister is not two years younger than I am, and Lady Carlisle and I are of an age.”
Cam sighed, amazed he’d managed to lead her this far in the conversation, as skilled as she was at making sure it went nowhere. “Ah, yes, but I don’t refer to your ages, my lady. I mean “close” in the emotional sense, not the chronological one.”
She blinked at him. “Oh. Well, that too, then.”
He pressed on valiantly. “I only mean to say that as you all are so close
, Lord Carlisle’s happiness must be your own.”
“Happiness? Yes. We’re all very much concerned with each other’s happiness.”
Her tone didn’t change—it remained vague and pleasant—yet Cam sensed a subtle shift in her, undetectable for one who wasn’t attuned to every nuance of her conversation.
But he was. He’d underestimated her once, and he wouldn’t do it again. She didn’t seem to realize it, or detect any shift in his attitude toward her, but she had his full, undivided attention now.
Lady Eleanor had just delivered a warning—an oblique one, yes, but a warning nonetheless.
“With each other’s happiness, and with the security of the family, just as you said earlier, Mr. West.”
Well. Not so oblique, after all.
Trifle with one Sutherland, and you trifle with us all.
She hadn’t broken character to do it, but it was a near thing, which meant she’d felt it necessary he understand . . . what? The depths of her loyalty to her sister? Cam already understood that kind of loyalty. In Lady Eleanor’s case he depended on it, for that loyalty would be her downfall in her dealings with him.
He understood it, and he wouldn’t hesitate to exploit it.
And now it was time he delivered a message of his own. “Anyone who knows the Sutherlands, either personally or by reputation, knows that, my lady.”
She gave a bright, tinkling laugh. “Indeed? How would they?”
Cam paused to choose his words. “Because, my dear Lady Eleanor, if your brother weren’t concerned for your happiness, he would have forced you to accept one of the five suitors who’ve asked for your hand since you made your debut.”
I know all about you.
A slight tightening of her fingers on his arm indicated she’d understood his warning, but otherwise she remained calm, controlled. “My. You do listen to gossip.”
“Perhaps gossip exaggerates in your case? Or have you really declined five suitors?”
“Hmmm.” She tapped her fingers one by one against his arm, as if counting them off. “It’s so difficult to recall, you see. There was one, two. . . oh, bother! Shall we just say five, and allow the gossip to be correct? It usually is in these cases.”
It would be so simple to dismiss this speech as nothing more than a stream of nonsense from a frivolous belle, but Cam heard the scorn underlying the carelessness—scorn for the ton’s vicious gossip, and for him, for listening to it.
He couldn’t help but admire such a brilliantly played game, but her intelligence made no difference at all in his plans, any more than her stupidity would have, had it been real. “Do you count Lord Tidmarsh among the five? I don’t believe he got as far an actual offer, so perhaps not.”
She sighed. “Poor Lord Tidmarsh. He didn’t seem to understand in the least what he’d got himself into.” She tapped her finger against her bottom lip regretfully, but Cam knew her words for what they were.
Another warning.
“If you mean he was surprised to find his heart crushed under your slipper and handed back to him at the end of the quadrille, then I’d have to agree with you. What can have made him believe your affections were engaged? Him, or any of your five suitors?”
She stilled. The expression on her face didn’t change, but Cam sensed a sudden anger spark to life under her cool facade. Ah. He’d struck a nerve. Justified or not, the ton thought Lady Eleanor a tease. She knew it, and she resented it.
She waved a careless hand in the air. “Oh well, as to that, Mr. West, I suppose I must have encouraged Lord Tidmarsh, and all my suitors, without realizing I did so. It’s excessively mortifying.”
She’d gone breathless partway through this speech. Not from mortification, as she’d have him believe, but from anger. “It’s just the gentlemen are so impressive, you see, and so worthy of my regard. I suppose they believed my affections were engaged when they weren’t, and so my brother was compelled to refuse his permission on my account.”
“How unfortunate.” He lapsed back into silence.
Was it possible she hadn’t encouraged any of her five suitors, but their arrogance had led them to pursue her? He could believe it of Lord Tidmarsh, but what of the others, the gentlemen who’d made her legitimate offers of marriage? Mr. Fitzsimmons? Hadn’t Lord Ponsonby also made her an offer?
Five suitors, all mistaken in her affections? Unlikely.
“Your brother obliged you each time. You’re fortunate, Lady Eleanor, that Lord Carlisle is so concerned with your happiness.”
For the first time that day, she looked him straight in the eye. “Perhaps my brother wishes to ensure I won’t marry beneath myself, Mr. West.”
Cam stiffened. Ah, there it was—that Sutherland arrogance. In this, at least, she fulfilled his expectations. “There are many, many ways a woman can marry beneath herself, Lady Eleanor.”
“Yes. There are.” Her voice was flat. “We’ve come a long way, sir, much farther than I intended. I’m sure Tilly is fatigued. Tilly?” She dropped his arm and turned toward her servant, who’d now fallen some distance behind. “We’ll return to the carriage now.”
Tilly turned and began to walk back in the direction from which they’d come. Lady Eleanor followed after her without a backward glance at Cam.
That was it, then. He wouldn’t get any more out of her today, except perhaps another observation on the preciousness of the ducks. He caught up to her to escort her back to the carriage, but didn’t attempt to take her arm again.
He’d pushed Lady Eleanor as far as she would go this afternoon, but tomorrow, well . . .
That was another thing entirely.
Chapter Eight
“Lady Abernathy’s roses are lovely, aren’t they?” Ellie laid a hand on Charlotte’s wrist. “See? Just there. She’s famous for the yellow ones.”
Charlotte turned obediently in the direction Eleanor indicated, but her expression remained absent. “Hmmm. Yes. Lovely.”
“She grows nettles, as well. Did you know? Perhaps you’d care to take a stroll with me among the nettles, Charlotte?”
“A stroll? Yes. That would be lovely.”
Eleanor gave her skirts an irritated jerk and the pile of daisies in her lap spilled to the ground. “Lady Abernathy keeps the poisonous plants well hidden, of course—behind the roses, in the shady area just by the terrace steps. But then you’ve heard the tales about how she poisoned Lord Abernathy, I’m sure.”
“Shady area?” Charlotte murmured. “What a lovely place for plants.”
“One day he had the headache, and the next, just like that . . .” Eleanor snapped her fingers next to Charlotte’s ear. “Dead.”
Charlotte nodded, but she didn’t look up from the rose she held on her lap. She’d torn the petals off, one by one. “Yes. Dead. That would be—”
“If you say lovely again, Charlotte, I vow I’ll stick a thorn in you.”
Charlotte looked up at last with a surprised expression. “How cross you are, Eleanor.”
“You haven’t listened to one word I’ve said since we sat down. I wasn’t at all cross until I realized I was talking to myself.” A lie, of course—she’d been cross before she lifted her head from the pillow this morning.
Usually she loved Lady Abernathy’s annual garden breakfast. The garden club matrons brought their daughters, and it was a tradition for the ladies to help the younger girls string daisy chains. Eleanor looked forward to it every year, but this morning she’d almost asked to be excused. Her mother was a founding member of the Society for the Relief of London’s Poor & Indigent, however, and the garden party and breakfast was their grandest charity event of the year. Eleanor couldn’t hurt her mother’s feelings by begging off today.
Besides, what was her alternative? Another drive through Hyde Park with Mr. West? She had no doubt he’d force his company on her again today if he found her at home, and she still hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s fiasco.
She’d promised to make herself available to him for
two weeks as part of their agreement, but she’d rushed out of the townhouse this morning as if it were on fire.
Agreement be damned, and honor right along with it. Why should she be the only one who had any? She never promised to sit at home and breathlessly await his every whim. Anyway, there wasn’t a thing he could he do about it, unless he wished to chase all over London searching for her.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte muttered. “I have the headache, I suppose.”
They were sitting outdoors on a blanket spread in a corner of Lady Abernathy’s wide green lawn. The society ladies were gathered under a white tent to the west side of the grounds, ready to greet the guests as they arrived. The ladies were all atwitter, for there was to be a guest of honor this year. At the last minute someone had donated a large sum of money to the charity, and she was to be introduced this morning as a principal patron.
Charlotte plucked another rose from the enormous pile at their feet and began to rip it to shreds. Eleanor grabbed it by the tip of the stem and slid it from Charlotte’s grasp, careful not to prick her.
“We’re meant to be stripping the thorns from the roses, Charlotte, not the petals. Here. Shred this instead.” She handed her sister a long piece of grass from a clump the gardeners had overlooked. “No need to spoil the roses.”
Charlotte took the grass with a sigh and laid it in her lap. “I feel out of sorts.”
Eleanor hesitated. Every time she brought up the Foster’s ball, Charlotte retreated behind a stony wall of silence. Eleanor hadn’t pressed her, because she was afraid if she did Charlotte would demand to know why Ellie was spending so much time with Camden West.
Eleanor had no intention of explaining herself. She’d make that problem disappear before Charlotte or anyone else figured out what was going on.
They’d spent the past few days circling each other warily, like two dogs deciding whether to sniff or attack. But here at last was an opening, and Eleanor was determined to plunge ahead before it slammed shut again. “You’ve been out of sorts since the Foster’s ball. You spent all day in your bedchamber again yesterday, didn’t you?”
