Lady Eleanor's Seventh Suitor

by Anna Bradley

  Julian was nearly out the door, but he turned back. “Yes?”

  Cam swallowed. “See you don’t . . . disappoint Amelia.”

  “Disappoint a lady?” For the first time since he’d entered the study, Julian’s mouth turned up at the corners. Not a smile, but a bitter, angry twist of his lips. “I never do, cuz. I never do.”

  * * *

  Eleanor sat on the settee in the drawing room. A book lay open in her lap, but she wasn’t reading. It was too quiet to read. She couldn’t recall her home ever being this quiet before. This still. This empty.

  An hour ago the front door had closed with a muted thud behind the new Marchioness of Hadley and her adoring spouse. Charlotte and her husband were on their way to Hampshire, and they didn’t intend to return to London until next spring.

  It was done.

  It had been a rather lovely wedding ceremony—quiet and subdued, yes, but lovely still, in great part because of Hadley, who’d been aglow with happiness to have secured Charlotte at last. One couldn’t see the joy on his face without being moved by it.

  Charlotte had been pale but steady, and she’d smiled at Hadley as she spoke her vows. If she felt any regret over giving up Julian West, it hadn’t shown on her face. She’d made her choice, and, for better or worse, she’d made her peace with it.

  Now if only Eleanor could do the same. Hadley would cherish her sister, so perhaps it was all for the best, this marriage. And yet . . .

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Eleanor. You have a visitor.”

  Eleanor looked up, surprised. She hadn’t heard Rylands come into the room. A nervous flutter tickled her stomach. When she hadn’t been thinking of Charlotte as she lay awake last night, she’d been staring at the canopy above her, eyes wide open, thinking of Cam, the feel of his fingers under her chin as he tilted her face up to his, the way his green eyes darkened with desire right before he took her lips.

  Is there no hope for us?

  Today, at last, she had an answer for him. “Very well. Thank you, Rylands.”

  The butler bowed and returned to the entryway.

  Eleanor rose from her seat, the book still clutched in her hands, her eyes fixed on the door. Goodness, her knees felt shaky—

  “Ellie! How do you do? I’ve waited this age to see you.”

  Eleanor blinked. It wasn’t Cam after all, but Amelia. She nearly sagged with disappointment, but she did her best to hide it. “Good afternoon, Amelia. I hope you’ll come see me whenever you wish, and not wait for formal calling hours. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “I told Miss Norwood as much, but she insisted we wait, and now I have only a little time to talk to you before Denny gets here.”

  Another surge of disappointment. Cam wasn’t with his sister, then. “You came with Miss Norwood?”

  “Yes. She’s off to have tea in the kitchens. I want to speak with you alone.” Amelia swelled with importance. “It’s a delicate matter, you see.”

  Despite her low spirits, Eleanor suppressed a smile. Charlotte was gone, but Amelia was here, and as long as she was, Eleanor wouldn’t feel too lonely. “Well, it sounds as if we’d better sit down.”

  Amelia gave her a grave nod. “Yes. I think that would be best.”

  Eleanor gestured Amelia to the settee and they sat, side by side. Eleanor waited, but now Amelia had her attention, she seemed unsure where to begin. “Well, you see, it’s just this . . .”

  Eleanor touched Amelia’s hand. “Yes? You can tell me anything. You know that, Amelia.”

  “I know.” Amelia fidgeted with one of the blue silk pillows on the settee, but after a moment she met Eleanor’s gaze, and whatever she saw there seemed to encourage her. “It just won’t do. There. I’ve said it.”

  Not all of it, Eleanor hoped, for this sounded like the end of the story, not the beginning. “What won’t do?”

  “Why, you and Denny. Lady Charlotte said you were to marry, but Denny told me last night you won’t, so I’ve come to tell you it just won’t do.”

  For one awful moment Eleanor felt dizzy, as if the settee underneath her had tipped over, but then she realized it was her heart plummeting from her chest to her stomach that made her head swim.

  Not marry. Cam had said they wouldn’t marry. He’d changed his mind, then. That’s why he hadn’t called the banns or told Amelia about their betrothal. He didn’t want her.

  Ice spread from her heart to every part of her, until she was so brittle, a touch would crack her, shatter her into a thousand frozen pieces.

  This is what it feels like to lose him.

  A hysterical laugh threatened. How fitting, that fate should snatch him away at the very moment she realized she loved him. He’d said fate was cruel, and it was true. Cruel and mocking.

  Eleanor took a deep breath and forced herself to address Amelia calmly. “He told you that last night?”

  Amelia was watching her with an intent expression far too wise for her tender years. She looked, rather suddenly, just like her brother. She fumbled in the pocket of her dress, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and held it out to Eleanor. “Yes. He gave me this.”

  Eleanor took the paper, unfolded it, and smoothed it out on her knee. She gazed at it for a moment, then looked up at Amelia. “It’s a drawing of me. Is it one of yours?”

  “Yes. I drew it the day after we made daisy chains in Lady Abernathy’s garden. I showed it to Denny when I finished. He asked if he could have it, and he’s kept it since that day. Until last night, that is, when he gave it back to me.”

  “He . . . he kept it?”

  “Yes. He’s had it all this time, folded up in his pocket.”

  Tears blurred Eleanor’s eyes. Lady Abernathy’s garden party was weeks ago. That was the day he’d told her she didn’t matter, that he cared only that she was a Sutherland, yet the very next day he’d slipped this drawing into his pocket, and he’d carried it with him everywhere ever since. All those weeks, he’d held it next to his heart.

  “I won’t tell all of Denny’s secrets,” Amelia said, once again sounding far more mature than her years. “I hope he’ll tell you most of it himself, but just in case he doesn’t tell you everything, I did think you should know . . .”

  Eleanor had been staring at the drawing, but her head jerked up at this. “Yes?”

  “He said he cheated at the game, whatever that means. I suppose it’s rather bad, though, isn’t it? He said you could never love him, because of the way he’d cheated.”

  “But I cheated, too.” Eleanor choked the words out through cold lips.

  She’d lied to herself, just as Charlotte said she had. For weeks she’d told herself she didn’t want to marry Cam because she could never love him, but the truth was, she was afraid of him. Afraid to love him. She hadn’t wanted to give him her trust or her love, because she thought she’d lose herself if she did, just as her mother had when she’d married Hart Sutherland.

  She hadn’t understood then love wasn’t losing yourself.

  It was finding yourself.

  And Cam . . . oh, he was far from perfect, but then so was she, and together they were more perfect than they could ever be apart.

  “I told him you’d forgive him for cheating,” Amelia said, “but he said forgiveness isn’t the same thing as love. But you love him too, Ellie. I know you do, because I can see it in your eyes when you look at him. Anyway, why shouldn’t you love him? Denny’s the best man ever, and the handsomest, and the tallest, too.”

  Eleanor smiled a little at Amelia’s vehemence. Young as she was, Amelia knew quite a lot about being a fiercely loyal sister. “Yes, he is. All of those things.”

  Amelia beamed. “I knew you thought so, too. He’s coming here this afternoon to say goodbye to you, so I made an excuse and scurried on ahead to get to you first, because, well . . . it won’t do.”

  “No.” Eleanor swiped a hand under her eye. “No. It won’t do.”

  “I want you to have that.” Amelia nodded at the drawin
g still spread open on Eleanor’s knee. “Denny said it didn’t belong to him, but it really does, doesn’t it? It’s yours now, so you can do whatever you like with it, but I thought you might want to give it back to him.”

  Eleanor opened her arms to Amelia, who scooted across the settee and dove into them. “What a grand idea.” She kissed the top of Amelia’s blonde head. “Yes. I think that will do.”

  * * *

  Cam dragged himself up the stairs of the Mayfair townhouse and waited for Rylands to answer his knock. He’d known this moment would arrive—for weeks, perhaps, he’d known, and now it had, he was desperate to get it over with, in the same way a man who’d been shot was desperate to have the surgeon remove the ball.

  It hurt less if it was done quickly, or so he’d been told. Painful or not, it would be fatal. Extracting a ball from a beating heart generally was.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. West.” Rylands opened the door to admit him, and held out his hands for Cam’s hat and coat. “Lady Eleanor is in the drawing room.”

  She was alone, standing by the window looking out into the garden, but she turned when he entered.

  “Good afternoon, my lady. I—” He froze partway across the room, and his words died on his lips. She looked different. Something in her face, or perhaps in her eyes. A spark, or—

  No. She didn’t look different. She looked like herself again, like the Eleanor he remembered. The Eleanor he’d fallen in love with.

  Cam drank in the sight of her even as pain sliced his heart to ribbons. Did she know, somehow, he’d come to release her from their engagement? He couldn’t see how she could, but it didn’t matter. The spark was back in her beautiful dark eyes, and he’d do whatever he must to keep it there.

  Extract the ball.

  “I came here to—”

  “Charlotte was married this morning,” she interrupted in a rush. “To the Marquess of Hadley.”

  Cam stared at her. “Married?” Jesus, that was sudden. For some reason Julian’s pale, rigid face flashed through his mind. No, surely not. Surely that wasn’t why—

  “Yes.” Eleanor laughed, but she looked nervous. “We’ve kept it rather quiet, but I thought you should know.”

  That he should know? Why—

  Realization slammed through him with the force of a blow. Lady Charlotte was married, which meant her reputation was now secure. His threats against her had been rendered meaningless, and Eleanor wanted to make sure he understood that.

  No wonder, then, the spark was back in her eyes. She was free of him at last. If his heart hadn’t been reduced to a bleeding pulp, he might have laughed to find she’d gained her freedom mere hours before he gave it to her willingly.

  “I offer my congratulations, and my heartfelt wishes for Lady Charlotte’s happiness.” His voice sounded stiff, awkward, but he drew a deep breath and pressed on, desperate to get it done. “I came this morning to release you from our engagement. I—I was wrong to do such a . . . I regret, deeply, that I . . . I beg your pardon for my dishonorable actions, Lady Eleanor.”

  He owed her more than that, so much more than such a brief, stammering apology, and yet it was the best he could do. He couldn’t look at her, at the spark in her eyes that made his chest ache, but at the same time he could hardly tear his eyes away from her. It took all his control to make his formal bow and turn away.

  “Wait.”

  Cam didn’t turn, but closed his eyes at her quiet command. He couldn’t look at her again, not now—

  “Cam. Please.”

  Please. That was all it took, one soft word, and he could deny her nothing. He braced himself, but his heart wrenched horribly in his chest when he faced her again.

  “I have something here. It belongs to you.” She reached for his hand and slipped a piece of paper into his palm.

  Cam stared down at it. The drawing. Amelia’s drawing of Eleanor. Amelia must have been here, must have given it to her. He shook his head. “This doesn’t belong to me.” His voice was a hoarse rasp. “It belongs to you.”

  She reached out and wrapped both her hands around his to close his fingers over the drawing. “It did, but now I’m giving it to you.”

  He didn’t speak—he couldn’t. He could only gaze at her, his fingers going tight around the paper as if he’d never let it go.

  She looked a little uncertain now, but her eyes were soft. “I told you about Charlotte only so you understand I’ve no other reason to say what I’m about to say, aside from it being the truth. I don’t wish to be released from our engagement, Cam. I want to marry you.”

  “You want . . .” Cam forced back the joy that surged wildly inside him at her words, certain he’d misunderstood her. “No, Ellie, you don’t.”

  She took a step closer to him. Another. He looked down in disbelief as she took his hands in hers and smiled up at him. “Have you ever known me to do what I don’t wish to do, Cam?”

  Cam’s eyes slid closed again. Oh, God, he wanted to believe her so badly, but it was impossible she could want him. “What I did, all the things I said . . .”

  She pressed her hand against his cheek. “What you did, what you said—it’s not all you are.” She raised one of his hands to her lips and pressed a kiss to his palm. “The man you truly are—a man of his word, who loves with such a rare, deep love—I’m in love with that man. With you. I don’t want to be released from our engagement. I only ever wanted to marry for love, and I love you, Cam.”

  Cam heard a deep groan and realized it came from him, that she’d torn it straight from his heart. Then he was holding her, and she lay her head against his chest, as if his arms were the only place she ever wanted to be. “Eleanor. God, Eleanor, I love you so much. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t think you’d believe me, not after all I’d done—”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss on his chin. “I do believe you, and that’s all that matters. Whatever may have happened before this moment, well, perhaps it’s best forgotten. No one cares about the start of the play, Cam. They only care about the wedding at the end.”

  Cam touched his fingers to her chin to raise her face to his. “This isn’t the end, sweet—it’s just the beginning.”

  “A comedy, a farce, or a drama?” She smiled up at him. “What’s it to be, do you suppose?”

  “All of those things, likely, but not a tragedy. I never could abide a tragedy.”

  She laughed, delighted, and he couldn’t help but kiss her then, his mouth hot and hungry against hers. She opened her lips to him and he surged inside with a groan. He kissed her until both of them were gasping for breath, and he was in danger of ravishing her on the dainty blue settee, with Rylands mere feet away.

  He tore his mouth from hers, but he held her close and buried his face in her hair. “I don’t deserve you, but I’ll try to. I’ll try and be a better man—”

  Eleanor laid her fingers against his mouth to hush him. “A truce?”

  He smiled, his lips opening under her fingers. “It’s worked so far, hasn’t it?” He kissed her fingertips. “What are your terms?”

  “You don’t try to be anything but who you are, the best of who you are, and I promise I’ll do the same. And I’ll kiss you again, right here and now.”

  Cam gazed down at her, at the spark in her dark eyes that lit a fire inside him. “Ah, my lady.” He gathered her against him, and his arms and heart had never felt so full. “How can I refuse?”

  Notes

  On page 317, Eleanor refers to hope as a “waking dream.” The original quote, “Hope is a waking dream,” is attributed to Aristotle, by Diogenes Laertius.

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Anna Bradley’s next historical romance

  LADY CHARLOTTE’S FIRST LOVE

  coming soon!

  Chapter One

  London, July 1816

  A scandalous wager, a marchioness in disguise and a notorious London brothel. Julian couldn’t deny it had all the makings of an excell
ent farce.

  Off stage, it was rather less amusing.

  Bloody hell. One would think a marchioness who gambled with her reputation would choose an anonymous brothel in a quiet part of the city for her whorehouse romp. Instead, the Marchioness of Hadley had chosen this one.

  Devil take her.

  He peered into the dimly lit parlor. Despite the muted light and the haze of acrid smoke, he could see the place was crowded with fashionably dressed gentlemen. A man might tend to ignore everything else when he cupped a plump breast or a shapely thigh in his hand, but if one of these drunken dandies happened to recognize him, he’d have a glorious headline in the scandal sheets tomorrow:

  Triumphant Hero Returns to London, Frolics with a Whore

  A dark-haired doxy sidled up to him and gave his arm a flirtatious tap. “In or out, guv. Wot will it be?”

  Julian raised an eyebrow. “In or out? Must I settle for one or the other?”

  The doxy blinked at him, then broke into a hoarse cackle. “Aw right then, luv, how’s this? In or out, or in and out.” She punctuated the feeble jest with a rude hand gesture.

  Julian’s lips quirked. Ah, there it was. A quick-witted whore. It was something new, anyway.

  Encouraged, the doxy rose to her tiptoes, put her mouth to his ear and whispered in what she no doubt imagined to be a seductive voice, “It’s wot ye came fer, innit?”

  It stood to reason. If a man wanted ale, he went to an alehouse. If he wanted to shoe his horse, he went to a blacksmith. If he wanted a woman and one wasn’t readily available, he went to a whore. It was a simple enough matter.

  Except it wasn’t. Not this time. “No. I came for a marchioness.”

  The doxy flashed a gap-toothed grin. “’Course ye did. Dinnit I tell ye, guv? I’m a duchess, I am.”

  Julian rolled his eyes. No doubt this duchess was much like every other—more trouble than she was worth—but he couldn’t hover in the entryway all night waiting to snatch a wayward marchioness. He needed a prop, and a doxy in the hand was worth two anywhere else.