Lady Eleanor's Seventh Suitor

by Anna Bradley

  Eleanor’s chest burned with shame.

  “I always wished for a sister,” Amelia said, her tone wistful. “A younger one, so I could show her things, and share things with her, the way Denny does with me.”

  Eleanor placed her hand over Amelia’s small one. “That’s the best part of having a sister—sharing things.”

  It was, and yet she couldn’t recall the last time she’d shared anything with Charlotte. It had been weeks. Perhaps she shouldn’t have lied to her sister about Julian West. If she’d been honest from the start . . .

  No. There was no sense in regret, especially not now. She turned her attention back to Amelia. “What kinds of things would you show her?”

  Amelia considered it. “All sorts of things, like the garden here at Lindenhurst, and how to ride a horse, and I’d take her for a lemon ice at Gunter’s.”

  “Those are just the kinds of things a little sister would enjoy, I think. A friend would enjoy them, too, so perhaps we should go to Gunter’s together for lemon ices when we return to London.”

  Foolish of her, to promise such a thing to the child, when not half an hour ago she’d threatened to expose Amelia’s secrets to the ton. Cam may never let her see Amelia again after they left Lindenhurst.

  But it was difficult to care how foolish it was when the promise made such a smile bloom on Amelia’s face. “Truly? Just you and me?”

  No matter what else might happen, Eleanor vowed to herself she would have lemon ices with Amelia at Gunter’s. “Just you and me.”

  Amelia bounced up and down on the bed. “I wish we could go back to London now!”

  “When you wake up tomorrow morning, it’s only one more day until we do.”

  To Eleanor’s surprise, Amelia frowned. “I suppose you’ll send me to bed now.”

  “Do you? I’m not sure why.”

  “Because grownups always talk about going to sleep right before they send you to bed.”

  Eleanor chuckled. “I daresay they do, but I won’t send you to bed if you don’t wish to go. Aren’t you tired, though?”

  “Just a little.” Amelia ran her hand back and forth across the coverlet. “I’ll go soon, but before I do, won’t you tell me a bit about what you and Lady Charlotte used to do when you were little girls? Then I’ll know what to do if I ever have a younger sister.”

  Eleanor hesitated. “Goodness, we did so much, I hardly know where to start.”

  Amelia knew, however. “Start with how you used to brush each other’s hair.”

  That startled a laugh from Eleanor. “Brush each other’s hair? Where did you get the notion that sisters brush each other’s hair?”

  “From the Mowbray sisters,” Amelia said, as if everyone in their right mind should know perfectly well who the Mowbray sisters were.

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “And who would they be?”

  Amelia giggled. “Oh, they’re Lord and Lady Mowbray’s grandchildren. The Mowbray’s estate borders Lindenhurst, you see. Their grandchildren come twice a year to visit, and Lady Mowbray brings them here to play with me. Aunt Mary says she does it to get them off her hands, for they’re quite naughty, you know.”

  “Are they, indeed?”

  “Oh, yes. There are three of them, and they’re forever squabbling over one thing or another. But Adele Mowbray told me they brush each other’s hair every night. They used to kick up such a fuss over having their tangles brushed out, one evening their maid threw the brush across the room and refused to do it ever again.”

  Eleanor choked back a laugh. “I can’t say I blame her.”

  “Me, either. So now they do each other’s. I asked Adele if it was wretched, but she said no. She said it was quite nice, and the only time all three of them can be together without fighting.”

  “They sound awful.”

  “Oh, they are. But you see, sisters do brush each other’s hair.” Amelia eyed Eleanor’s coiled hair with interest. “I had it from Adele Mowbray herself, and she’d know.”

  Eleanor, who had by now deduced the purpose of this conversation, reached over to tweak one of Amelia’s plaits. “But your hair is already brushed and bound.”

  “Yours isn’t.”

  Eleanor hid a grin. “Hmmm. So it isn’t. Amelia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you like to brush my hair?”

  Amelia leapt off the bed. “Yes, please. How did you know?”

  Eleanor rose from the bed and grabbed her brush from the dressing-table. “Oh, a lucky guess. Mind the pins. There are about a thousand of them, and you’ll have to get them all out or else they’ll become tangled in my hair while I sleep.”

  Amelia dragged the pillows from the bed and plopped them onto the floor in front of the fire. “I will. Will you sit here?”

  Eleanor settled onto the rug, pulled her knees up and hugged them with her arms.

  Amelia began to pluck the pins from her hair, one by one. “You were about to tell me about when you and Lady Charlotte were girls.”

  “That’s right. I was. Let me see.” Eleanor tapped her fingers against her legs. “We learned to ride together. There’s a lovely wood on the grounds at Bellwood, our home in Kent, and we used to ride there and pick bluebells.”

  Pluck. “Did your papa teach you to ride?”

  Hardly. “No, our brother Alec taught us—me and Charlotte, and our other brother, Robyn.”

  Amelia dropped a handful of hairpins on the floor next to Eleanor. “Uncle Julian taught me. Uncles and older brothers are quite as nice as younger sisters, I think.”

  “They are, rather.”

  They both fell silent for moment to consider the merits of uncles and older brothers, then Eleanor said, “I hate to say it, but Charlotte was a naughty child, just like the Mowbray sisters. She was always the first to dirty her frock, or race Robyn on her horse, or climb to the top of the oak tree so she could peer into the governess’s window on the third floor.”

  Amelia paused her rhythmic strokes to consider this. “She does sound naughty.”

  “Oh, she was. Once she even climbed the tree at night and scratched at Miss Lettings’ window until the poor old thing heard her at last, then nearly had an apoplexy to find Charlotte’s face leering at her through the glass.”

  Amelia dropped another handful of pins on top of the mound on the floor. “There, that’s all of them, I think. Was Miss Lettings your governess?”

  Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief as the last cursed hairpin slid free and her hair tumbled down her back. “Yes. One of many, I’m afraid. She left soon after that, which was, of course, what Charlotte wanted all along.”

  “Oh, my. I suppose Charlotte was punished?”

  Ellie’s smile faded. “That time she was.” By their father, who’d been livid to find he was to be put to the inconvenience of securing another governess for his daughters.

  “But not every time?”

  “Not as often as you’d think. Certainly not as often as she deserved.”

  Amelia gathered a thick lock of hair in her fingers to work through a knot. “Why not?”

  Ellie didn’t answer at once, but closed her eyes and let Amelia pull the knots from her hair.

  Because I made sure of it.

  She was still making sure of it, even now. “She didn’t often get caught. I was usually the only witness to her crimes, and I never told.”

  Amelia’s small fingers plucked at the knot until she’d worked through it, then she picked up the brush again. “I suppose you were naughty yourself, and didn’t want her to tell on you.”

  Eleanor turned her head to the side so Amelia could brush the hair by her ear. She’d been as naughty as Charlotte, but in a different way. Even as a child, she’d been careful to pull the strings from behind the curtain. “I was as bad as Charlotte was, but that’s not the reason I didn’t tell.”

  “Why, then?”

  Eleanor clasped Amelia’s wrist and drew the child around to stand in front of her. “Because sisters prot
ect each other, Amelia.”

  “But what if your sister did something terrible, and you were very angry with her?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “Sisters do not turn their backs on each other, no matter what.”

  Amelia ran a finger across the bristles of the brush. She remained quiet for a long moment, then, “Do you think . . . do you think that might be true of a friend, too?”

  Eleanor looked into Amelia’s dark, uncertain eyes, and the knots that had tied themselves in her chest began to come loose. She could never hurt this child—could never betray her, no matter what happened with Cam.

  She rose to her knees and pulled Amelia into an embrace. “I do. I do think so.”

  Amelia’s body relaxed against her, and her arms went around Eleanor’s neck. “You’ll always be my friend, won’t you, even if you don’t marry Denny?”

  Eleanor froze in the child’s arm. Dear God. Had Cam told Amelia they’d marry?

  She eased Amelia away from her. “Where did you get the idea I might marry your brother?”

  Amelia flushed guiltily. “I heard Denny and Uncle Julian talking about it. Denny said he would marry you, but Uncle Julian said you didn’t want to. I can’t think why you wouldn’t, though, because Denny is the handsomest man in the world. Don’t you think him handsome?”

  “I—I do think him handsome, but—”

  “He’s so funny and smart too, and very nice. I do wish you’d change your mind and marry him, after all.”

  Eleanor didn’t know whether to laugh or sob. “There’s more to it than that, Amelia.”

  “Oh, I know. You must love him too, but why shouldn’t you love Denny?”

  Eleanor took Amelia’s hands in hers. “I don’t know how to answer that, but I’m certain about this much. When I do marry, it will be for love, and for no other reason.”

  Amelia’s brow furrowed. “Of course it will be. What other reason is there?”

  What other reason, indeed? “Ladies marry for many other reasons, Amelia, but they shouldn’t, and for me, there will never be another reason.”

  This didn’t satisfy Amelia. “But then why—”

  Eleanor was saved from answering the next question by a knock at the door. She squeezed Amelia’s hands one last time, then rose to open it.

  Miss Norwood was standing in the hallway. “Oh, my lady. Good evening. I do hope Amelia hasn’t been bothering you all this time. She was to make a quick visit only, but she’s been gone this age.”

  Eleanor smiled. “She’s no bother at all, Miss Norwood. Quite the opposite. Amelia?”

  Amelia didn’t look pleased to be dragged away in the middle of such an interesting conversation. “Oh, all right. I’m coming.”

  “You should be in bed, miss,” the governess scolded.

  “Yes, Miss Norwood.” Before Miss Norwood could lead her away, however, Amelia grasped Eleanor around the waist and hugged her hard. “Good night, Ellie.”

  Eleanor hugged her back. “Good night, Amelia.” She gave one of Amelia’s plaits a gentle tug.

  After she’d closed the door behind Amelia and Miss Norwood, Eleanor wandered over to the bed, not quite sure what to do with herself. She began to straighten the coverlet and noticed Amelia had left her sketches on the bed. Eleanor picked them up and was about to put them aside when there was another knock on the door.

  She crossed the room and opened it. “Amelia, you forgot—”

  Her voice trailed off into silence.

  Cam stood there, one long arm braced against the doorframe above his head. “Eleanor. May I come in?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  He held his breath as Eleanor hesitated in the doorway, one emotion chasing another across her face. Indecision. Suspicion. Doubt.

  Please. God, please. He’d go to his knees and beg her if he had to. “I’ll leave the moment you ask me to.”

  Her fingers twitched on the knob, and after what seemed an eternity, she stepped aside. “I can’t refuse, can I? It’s your house, and as you keep reminding me, you may go wherever you please.”

  Cam winced. It seemed a shoddy ploy now, one of many he’d used over the past few weeks, and yet he crossed the threshold into her room just the same. This time, the ends justified the means. This time, he’d come to tell her the truth.

  “What do you want, Cam?”

  Everything. I want everything from you, but I’ll take anything you’ll give me.

  He couldn’t say it. Not yet. Instead he stood motionless in the middle of the room, his back to her as he tried to compose his face—tried to think of what he could say. “I just want to talk to you.”

  She drew a long, slow breath. “There’s nothing more to talk about. I’ve said everything I wish to say.”

  He turned to face her, because when he told her the truth, he’d look her in the eyes. “But I haven’t—”

  The words died on his lips.

  Masses of dark hair tumbled about her shoulders and over her breasts in lush waves that hung to her waist. In every one of his heated fantasies he’d buried his face in her hair, and now he ached to run his hands through that dark silk. He’d pictured her thus, her hair unbound and wild, spread across his pillow, tickling his chest. Dragging across his stomach. But his imagination hadn’t done her justice.

  His fingers flexed, but he kept his arms at his sides.

  A wave of pink washed over her face as he continued to stare at her without speaking. “Cam?”

  “I—your hair.” He waved a hand stupidly at her. “It’s loose. I’ve never seen it loose before.”

  She raised a self-conscious hand to her hair, then brushed past him. She hurried to the fireplace and grabbed a handful of hairpins from the floor.

  “Don’t.” Cam’s voice was hoarse.

  She turned, the pins cradled in her palm. “I think you’d better go, Cam.”

  He stepped toward her. “Please. Not yet.”

  She closed her fingers around the hairpins until he knew they must be stabbing the tender flesh of her palms. “You said you’d go the moment I asked you to—”

  “I will, but please, not before I’ve talked to you.” He held out his hands in front of him. “Please. I won’t touch you, Eleanor.”

  Unless you ask me to.

  An absurd hope. She’d never ask. Even now her eyes had narrowed with suspicion.

  “Very well. Talk.”

  Cam rubbed the back of his neck. Christ, there was so much he had to tell her, and so much of it ugly and painful, he didn’t know where to begin.

  Begin at the end.

  He dropped his hand and straightened. “I overheard you with Amelia, just now. She must not have closed the door all the way when she came into your room.”

  Eleanor’s face paled. “You—you found the door ajar, and rather than knock, you stood in the hallway and listened to a private conversation?”

  Pointless, to deny such a small sin, when he’d done far worse. “Yes.”

  Her face went from white to red, then back to white, and her chest heaved with anger. “How much—what did you hear?”

  I heard enough. “You told Amelia about Charlotte, about when you were children, and about how you—”

  He stopped, the words caught in his throat. Eleanor loved Charlotte with the same fierce devotion he did Amelia, and he’d used that love against her. He’d taken something fine and pure and twisted it in his hands until it became vicious, unrecognizable.

  But that would still be true, whether he forced the words past his lips or not. All he could do now was make amends. He drew a ragged breath. “How much you love her, and how you’d never turn your back on her.”

  For a moment her face softened, but then she jerked her chin up. “See how clever you are, Cam? You chose just the right threat.”

  He was halfway across the room to her before he realized he’d moved. “No more threats, Eleanor.”

  She backed away from him. “I don’t believe you. What else did you hear?”

 
What he’d heard then . . . his chest ached with the memory of Eleanor’s voice, so warm it was more a touch than a sound, like a hand against his cheek, or arms sliding around his neck. Her soft inflection when she’d spoken to Amelia—God, he’d never forget it. Something had leapt to life within him then, had made his blood surge through his body with such wild abandon he’d had to brace himself against the wall to keep from staggering.

  He’d promised not to touch her, but no force in the world could have kept him from moving closer to her then. “Amelia asked if friends could care as much about each other as sisters did, and you said . . . you said they could.”

  He took another step toward her. Another, until he was close enough to touch her. He moved slowly to give her time to retreat again, but she remained still, watching him.

  He wrapped his hand around her fingertips. “I went to find Miss Norwood after that, and I didn’t hear any more. But I didn’t need to. By then, I knew.”

  Her dark eyes held his, as if mesmerized. “You . . . knew?”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth, let his lips brush against her knuckles and the back of her wrist, over the pale, tender skin he’d longed to taste again. “I knew you’d never hurt Amelia, Eleanor. You care too much for her.”

  Her hand jerked at the warm press of his lips, and the hairpins slipped from her palm to scatter across the floor.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” He pressed his mouth to her open palm. “Tell me.”

  God, he hadn’t meant to touch her. He’d come here to tell her the truth, and he had to do it now, before he couldn’t remember anymore what was true and what was a lie. Before he could think of nothing but the satin of her skin beneath his lips.

  Just one more taste. She gasped as he kissed the tips of each of her fingers, one by one, then drew them into the warmth of his mouth. Her eyes dropped closed, but still she didn’t speak.

  “You could never hurt her, could you? You need to say it, Eleanor.”

  Say it for yourself, not for me.

  He already knew the truth. He knew she’d never hurt Amelia, despite her threats, but he wasn’t sure she knew it. If she didn’t say it now, if she didn’t admit it to herself and to him, then she’d always wonder if she were capable of such cruelty.