The Disgraced Marchioness

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Can I tell you what I think?’ Unable to remain seated, unable to bear her pain without sheltering her in his arms, Hal rose to his feet to stand beside the fireplace. ‘I don’t think you should shut yourself away in the depths of the country. It would be a terrible mistake. You are young. Very beautiful. There is no reason why you should not attract a husband and marry again. And find contentment, even happiness.’

  She was silent, eyes wide as they connected with his.

  ‘You look as if you had never contemplated the possibility!’

  ‘No. How could you expect it? My situation would hardly attract a husband. No man would want his wife to be the subject of gossip and speculation. And without a dowry, not to mention an illegitimate child into the bargain.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘Apart from the fact that my experience of marriage would not encourage me to repeat it. I think not!’

  Henry remained motionless, elbow resting against the heavy oak mantel, face set, no hint of the direction of his thoughts. Then, ‘I would marry you, Eleanor.’ He ignored her sharp intake of breath, as much surprised as she. ‘I would protect your reputation from the world’s censure with my name.’ He stepped across to her, reached down to still her restless fingers with his own. ‘Consider the advantages before you refuse.’

  As he watched her reaction, one of utter amazement, he was forced to admit to his own astonishment at his words, which had come unplanned, unbidden, but at the same moment knowing in his heart that he wanted it more than anything—to protect and shield her from his brother’s disastrous and ill-chosen course of action. But he was by no means certain of her response to his offer, and could have wished it unsaid as he saw the reaction sweep over her.

  Eleanor flinched as if she had been struck, a sharp open-handed slap, her face becoming ashen as blood drained from beneath her fair skin. Her hands flexed under his. When she could find words to speak around the confusion of horror and intense longing in her mind, it was the horror and bone-deep humiliation that emerged to the surface, to colour her answer.

  ‘Do you really think that I would leap at the prospect of marriage to you, Hal? After your deliberate and callous rejection of me?’ Her voice was low, a bare whisper, but laced through with deadly venom.

  ‘Why not?’ Her refusal did not surprise him to any degree—but the tone of it hurt. ‘I did not reject you…’ What use going over this old ground? ‘Surely we can deal well enough together, given the present circumstances. I can offer you security and respect, a comfortable life for you and your son.’

  But not your love! ‘Two years ago you did not want me.’ She held up her hand, palm outward toward him, as he would have refuted this accusation once more. ‘So why change your mind now? How dare you offer me pity!’

  ‘I would never offer you pity, Nell.’

  ‘No? It is the only reason I can think of, why you would offer me marriage now! Or do you think that our night here together might compromise my reputation? It may have escaped your notice, Hal, but I have no reputation.’ The bitter irony lay heavily between them. ‘You owe me nothing! I suppose I should thank you for making the grand gesture so selflessly, in spite of your attachment to Rosalind. You should feel proud of that. But you will doubtless be relieved to know I refuse your offer! There is no need to make the ultimate sacrifice for me.’ Pushing back her chair, she stood, her eyes now level with his and full of contempt.

  ‘Think what you wish, Nell. But don’t be so quick to misjudge me.’ There was a hint of temper in his voice, brows snapped together. ‘I would give you and the child—Thomas’s son—some security, some respectability—some recompense for the loss of all you had hoped for, if you wish. There could be worse scenarios, as you yourself admitted.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it! I could live in the gutter with the dispossessed of London!’ He was taken aback by the sneer. The débutante he had known did not sneer. ‘But to live in gratitude for your sacrifice for the rest of my life? For my son and myself to be dependent on your charity? I will not. Rather Edward’s than yours!’

  Tell her you love her, you fool. She is hurt and despairing and without hope. Of course she will refuse your offer! Take her in your arms and kiss that soft, sad mouth. Tell her that she holds your heart in her hands, and always will. And that Rosalind means nothing to you.

  But in the face of such contempt he could not. He sighed, lips pressed together into a harsh line.

  ‘Go to bed, Eleanor. Perhaps we have both said too much this night.’ He turned away, so did not see her blink back the tears before she turned to the door.

  Well done! You handled that magnificently!

  Henry flung himself back into the chair with a curse, disgust riding him hard. He had been given a chance to make her life easier, with care and consideration, with compassion. Perhaps even at some time in the future to win her love. Instead she was under an indestructible impression that he had made his move through pity. The barrier that she had built between them in the last half-hour was formidable indeed. And to be honest, he could not blame her. He had, unwittingly, helped her to heap stone upon stone between them.

  He swore again and reached for the decanter of port to refill his glass.

  And, even worse, she would in all probability refuse out of hand any help offered by him now.

  Subtlety? Finesse in his dealings with women? Ha! He did not know the meaning of the words! Instead he had ridden rough-shod over her feelings and sensibilities. To offer her marriage in such a situation had been crass in the extreme. But what man of honour could remain unmoved before so courageous and so lovely a woman in distress?

  And he loved her.

  He had tried to build her trust and, he thought, with some success. She had begun to relax a little in his company. He remembered her listening to his plans not an hour before, a smile on her face, a certain contentment in her eyes. Now all destroyed. He had hurt her pride—and she would feel that pride was all she had left. She was so sad and he had simply made it worse.

  He drank the port, struck anew by the knowledge that, although she had now rejected his offer of marriage twice, he could still want her. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with pity!

  What had she said to him? Hurtful things. Terrible things. She had meant none of them, but they could not be unsaid and now he would never forgive her. Eyes closed, she leaned with her back against the bedroom door, permitting the longing in her heart to sweep through her. What better future could she envisage than to allow him to take all her troubles on to his strong shoulders and let him stand protection against the world and its condemnation. And Tom. Her son would grow up with no slur on his name. As he should, as was his right.

  And perhaps, one day, Hal might even return the love that burned so brightly and hopelessly through her veins.

  The tears that she had battled against claimed victory at last. She removed her dress with fingers suddenly numb, her shoes, to stand in the centre of the room, in her chemise, hands by her sides, and weep helplessly, heartbrokenly for all that was lost.

  Because she truly did not know what to do and Hal had offered her her dreams, to hold in the palms of her hand. And by the manner of her refusal, she had alienated him irrevocably. She knew that he did not want her, so she had refused his offer. Of course she had, as any woman of integrity must—but her pride was obliterated by bitter tears.

  In the parlour, Henry rescued the sapphires and diamonds in their golden setting from the table. He held the family jewel in his hand as if it might give an answer to his problems, and then, with a shake of his head, slipped it into his pocket, to return it to her on a less emotional occasion. A thought struck him, chilling him to the marrow in his bones. He had offered Eleanor marriage carelessly and without consideration, acting without any thought other than his own desires, other than the simple expediency of rescuing her from her worst fears.

  But it could not be.

  The law recognised Eleanor’s affinity to him only as his brother’s wife and so in its wisdom
frowned on any closer association between them. Certainly not marriage.

  Eleanor had not realised it. Nor had he in the heat of the moment.

  Marriage, with the possibility of further scandal attached to Eleanor’s name, was no answer at all. The realisation stuck him with the force of cold steel.

  The minutes ticked past in the Red Lion in the village of Whitchurch. Henry continued to sit by the fire, booted feet propped on an iron fire-dog, contemplating an uncomfortable and sleepless night, probably on the oak settle, when a faint sound from beyond the door to the bedroom brought him out of a morass of far from pleasant thoughts.

  He sat up. And knew without any doubt.

  Oh God, no! He rubbed his hands over his face, dragged his fingers through his hair and pushed himself to his feet.

  The coward in him told him to ignore it. Eleanor would soon be exhausted and would fall asleep without any intervention from him. Any attempt to comfort her would solve nothing for either of them and might make the situation even worse with impossible legal complications that he did not feel up to explaining to her just at that moment. He bared his teeth in a grimace at the prospect of holding her in his arms and remaining unmoved by her softness and her beauty. No! Don’t even think about it!

  But he could not ignore it, of course he could not. Especially when he had in some sense been the cause of her emotional state of mind. His mouth curled sardonically. He had not expected that an offer of marriage would reduce any woman to a fit of hysterics! Rosalind, he thought, would leap at the chance.

  With a sigh he walked to the door where he hesitated, listened, head bent. And then, without knocking, before he could change his mind, opened the door and went in.

  She stood on the rag rug in the centre of the floor in her chemise, her feet bare. She was shivering with emotion and cold, but had been unable to make the decision to get into bed. And she wept, sobs that shook her whole body, tears streaming down her face. She made no effort to hide them or her tear-ravaged face from him, even if she were aware of his presence. He was not certain. She was beyond awareness, lost in a wilderness of insecurity and grief.

  ‘Nell.’ He felt his heart turn over in compassion, touched beyond measure by her wretchedness against which she had no defence. Courage she might have, but not the will to fight this deluge of pain. ‘This is no good.’ He stepped quietly to her. ‘You will make yourself ill if you weep in this way.’

  ‘Go away!’ She choked out the words and now covered her face with her hands. ‘I don’t want you!’

  ‘I will not.’

  Without hesitation, he folded his arms around her, as any man must, and pulled her close, using one hand to press her head to his shoulder. She resisted, as he knew she would, standing rigidly against him, refusing to accept his comfort. But he persisted, until suddenly on a sob she melted and clung to him, turning her face against the base of his throat. Too sad to be embarrassed or to refuse the warmth offered by the one man who had possession of her heart and whose offer she had discarded with wounding and unforgivable words.

  Henry stroked her hair, removing the pins that secured her curls as he did so, allowing it to tumble over his hands in a heavy fall of silk. He murmured and crooned, foolish words that promised the impossible, the unattainable, and yet soothed by their mere sound. He kissed her temples, the lightest of kisses, and let her cry, his cheek resting against her hair. She would have fallen at his feet if he had not held her.

  ‘My love. My dear love. I will not leave you. I could not leave you to grieve alone. I will love and care for you, whatever the future brings.’

  Momentarily horrified at hearing himself speak such sentiments aloud, he could not regret it, but fervently hoped that she would not remember when she awoke.

  Gradually her breathing quietened, so that he was able to stoop and lift her high against his heart, carrying her to the bed where he placed her, sitting beside her to rock her in his arms until utter exhaustion claimed her and her lashes closed on her tear-stained cheeks. Only then did he turn back the covers, place her against the bank of pillows and tuck her in. He would not look at her. His instinct told him to leave, to go whilst he could still resist the lure of her fragile femininity and her need for comfort. But she held on to his hand, even in sleep, and it would be cruelty indeed to reject her now.

  So be it.

  He eased into a chair by the bed and let her be comforted by his presence, watching her now-sleeping face. Even when her fingers finally relaxed he still remained, unwilling to leave her for fear that she would wake alone in the dark and be unable to deal with the torment in her mind.

  Eleanor…

  Images flooded back into his mind from that night two years ago, that night that had haunted him every hour of every day since, no matter how hard he had tried to banish the painful and yet glorious memory. Images that swamped him with their clarity and intensity. He would like nothing better than to strip away the fine linen and lace chemise, to feast his eyes on the creamy white perfection of her exposed body. As he had in the summer house beneath the rose pergola, in the garden of Faringdon House. Escaping her chaperon, they had been intoxicated by the sense of freedom as he had pushed her gently back on the cushions. He had seduced her with tales of America and their new life there together. And with his kisses, the touch of his hands that awakened her innocent emotions, setting her blood on fire. She was virgin, of course, but as caught up in the silver enchantment of the moonlight, as he had been. He should have known better than to take advantage of her, he now admitted in that shadowy room in Whitchurch, but that night he had given in to youth and impulse and an overriding need to bury himself within her soft and tantalising heat. The scent of honeysuckle and jasmine invading the senses, robbing him of all integrity and responsibility towards her. And yet she had willingly given him the greatest gift she could, clinging to him as he took her with less than subtle skill. He smiled bitterly. He knew more about women now. He might not be much older in years, but was vastly more experienced in the arts of seduction. Now he knew how to awaken passion, how to pleasure and delight. He must have hurt her in that moon-kissed garden, but she had wrapped her arms around him, vowing her everlasting love.

  What had gone wrong? Why had she not joined him when he had sailed for America? He could not believe that on that one night, drunk on shared passion, she had not loved him to the exclusion of all else. And yet she had rejected him. Wilfully ignored, presumably destroyed, the letter that he had sent, which he knew she had received, and thus turned her back on his offer to share his life with her. And even if he had not been so very certain of this letter, diligently delivered by his groom, there was the one further note that he had hurriedly penned on his arrival in New York. She had also failed to respond to that plea for an explanation. She might deny their existence, but the evidence weighed heavily against her. It would have been far better if she had told him bluntly that she had simply changed her mind. It would have sliced at his heart, but anything would have been kinder than the cruel edge of indifferent silence.

  He breathed deep to still the beating of his heart, the pumping of his blood to his loins. Because, in spite of everything in their past, in spite of all her apparent duplicity, he could not get her out of his mind, much less out of his blood where desire still surged. He wanted her. Now. To show her again the splendour of passion that could be awakened between a man and a woman. To bury himself deep within her hot, velvet-soft body, so that she could forget everything but the two of them. To drive her beyond control so that she could forget uncertainty and grief. To claim her as his own, bodies joined, slick with desire. To own her and possess her, the one woman he desired. He wanted all of that now!

  But he could not. And deliberately eased the unwitting tightening of his fingers around her hand. She was his brother’s widow. With a fatherless child, a reputation under attack and complications on all sides. He must not allow himself to forget it, no matter the temptation to sweep it all aside and cover her body wit
h his own, crushing her to the bed so that she cried out his name in the dark. She needed comfort and support. He would try to think as a gentleman, remember his duty towards her as a trustee of the Faringdon estate, and give her what she needed most. But, by God, he had given himself a hard task!

  He looked at her, drawing on his memory and imagination. Tormenting himself but unable to fight the bittersweet longing. Long, slender legs that she had wrapped around him. High firm breasts, her nipples hardening under the onslaught of his lips. Shadowed secrets waiting to be discovered. He had not forgotten and wanted nothing more but to rediscover them again.

  ‘I will care for you,’ he murmured on a sigh of frustration, softly so as not to wake her. ‘I will not let the world condemn you for some mischance that is no fault of yours. I will look after you, whether you wish it or no.’

  Quite what he intended to do, he was unsure, but it was a solemn and binding vow, even though she slept on, unaware of it.

  Eleanor awoke at some time in the night, disorientated and in discomfort from her long bout of tears. But even though her head ached, her first conscious thought was one of simple pleasure, that Hal had not left her. He was asleep in the chair beside her, head pillowed on one arm, resting on the edge of the bed. His other hand was still covering hers, even though lax in sleep. His face was turned away, hidden from her. She would have liked to touch his hair, the dark, vibrant strength of it where it curled onto his neck, but feared to wake him, nor did she wish to lose contact with his hand on hers. He had stayed with her, even though his stiff, cold muscles would be a matter for regret in the morning. But she would not reject his decision. Simply his presence comforted her. Thomas had been her friend, but Hal was the love of her life. She fell asleep again, holding the thought, as she held his hand, against the onslaught of disturbing dreams.