The Disgraced Marchioness

by Anne O'Brien

  He had done the right thing. Of course he had. He must not allow his impeccable reasoning to disintegrate into so much smoke and dust in the dark hours of early morning when sleep evaded him, to torment him over and over again with visions of impossible loss. He had made the only sensible decision. Taken the only honourable course. If he allowed himself to question his logic, he would begin to regret. And then it would be the easiest thing in the world to reject all honour and take the next coach back to London. Or Burford Hall. Or to wherever he could find Eleanor. No, he must not even consider such action. It was desperately important that she be kept safe in a life of cushioned luxury, her reputation untarnished, their child secure to inherit as was his right.

  He cursed fluently as he watched the sun rise to herald a new painful dawn.

  What had he done? His mind refused to listen to the sensible advice, his senses refused to be swayed by clear, cold argument, his blood refused to run quietly in his veins when he remembered their final night together. Her willing submission to his demands, her unquestioning response to his every caress, of hands and mouth and body.

  He had been given his heart’s desire. And wilfully turned his back on it. Not coldly, not with calm acceptance of the inevitable. By God, it had torn him apart. And continued to do so with the vicious claws of a predator, laying in wait with diabolical cunning for every moment that he allowed his defences to fall. But it had been madness to think that it was ever possible to take and to keep Eleanor at his side. And yet he could not get her out of his mind. Soft and naked and pliant in his bed. In his arms.

  He groaned as he tossed and turned, sleepless once more, despite the renowned comfort of the Black Bull accommodation.

  At least when the Sea Emerald sailed, there would be no going back. The decision would have been made, finally and irrevocably.

  On the day before the proposed sailing, Lord Henry transferred his meagre luggage on board. It was a less than spacious cabin, but he had paid for the privacy it offered, and for that he would willingly tolerate the cramped surroundings as they sailed out of sight of land.

  Later that night, before they would sail at dawn, he returned to the vessel after a final glass of wine with a group of associates at the Black Bull.

  ‘Evening, sir.’ Captain Armstrong touched his hand to his hat as he stood waiting on deck.

  ‘Captain Armstrong. A clear night. Good weather for sailing.’ The last thing Henry desired was a lengthy conversation, but resigned himself to it. He would spend many weeks in the Captain’s company.

  ‘Indeed, indeed. There’s been a delivery for you, sir. I have sent the package to your cabin. A matter of urgency, I was given to understand.’

  ‘Then I must go and investigate.’ Henry bowed his departure and made for his cabin. He could not think what might have arrived with urgency. Letters forwarded from London? Had he mislaid something of importance that Nick had posted on with such speed? He shrugged, unable to guess. It really did not seem to matter. With such preoccupation, he did not notice the amusement in Captain Armstrong’s face, or the knowing gleam in his eyes. Nor had he noticed the bustle on the dock. The smart coach and four, dusty from fast travel. Or the luggage being manhandled on board the Sea Emerald.

  He went below, treading carefully in the ill-lit gangways below decks. It was well enough now, he thought idly, but what would it be like in a major storm after weeks at sea? His muscles tightened at the anticipation of such discomfort as he opened the door of his cabin. Stepped in and closed it behind him.

  And halted, heart picking up its beat, breathing shallow. He was unprepared for this. The room—little more than a space—was small, dark and cramped, made worse by his recently disposed luggage. But someone had entered and had lit a half-shuttered lantern, which cast a circle of light onto the narrow cot against the bulkhead. The rest of the cabin was in deep shadow.

  But on the cot, swathed in a soft shawl and blankets, and making every attempt to escape, sat a baby. A child with Faringdon features. A child who looked up at the opening of the door and blinked disconcertingly at him with amethyst eyes.

  Henry halted, shocked into immobility by the totally unexpected. It was as if he had been robbed of all breath, of all power of thought and action. Then behind him, to his left, there was the smallest of movements.

  He turned his head.

  Eleanor.

  She wore her fashionable travelling costume, high waisted, shawl-collared, eminently practical, a straw bonnet, feathered and be-flowered, and kid gloves, standing hands clasped before her, waiting for him. As if she had just stepped out of the house in Park Lane with nothing more important on her mind than to stroll through the gardens or to visit the expensive shops to spend a little money on fripperies in Bond Street. Her face was calm, her mouth relaxed and unsmiling, but her eyes were watchful. And fixed on him.

  ‘Eleanor…’ The words would not come.

  ‘Lord Henry…’ Now she could summon a slight smile at his obvious confusion, but her heart was beating fast, as fast, if she had but known it, as his.

  ‘What have you done…?’

  ‘I am coming with you.’

  ‘I told you that it is not possible…’

  ‘I do not accept your reasoning.’

  She was so damnably calm, so assured and certain of the step that she had taken! He immediately sensed danger here. His gaze went to the baby, who appeared to be watching the scene with utmost fascination, and back again to Eleanor. Should he rage and curse? Or take her in his arms? Shake her or kiss her? Or simply ask her to leave, to take herself and the baby back to London. Perhaps that would be too cruel. But if she stayed… He knew well the limitations of his own control where she was concerned.

  Eleanor could not read his face. It was severe. Harsh, even, with deeply engraved lines around his stern mouth as the consequences ran through his mind. Had she made the wrong choice when she had gambled everything on his needs being as great and all-consuming as hers? Icy fingers of dread began to tease their path down her spine, but she held them at bay. She would not make it easy for him to reject her again. She would trample on Hal’s principles if she had to. But his honour was another matter…

  ‘Nell…’

  ‘If Octavia can follow Edward to the ends of the earth, then I can follow you.’

  ‘Octavia? What has Octavia got to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’ With carefully controlled fingers, casually and without haste, she unfastened the ribbon bow of her bonnet, removed it and placed it on the cot with her gloves. Then unbuttoned her coat and disposed of it likewise. ‘I have arranged everything and am here with the blessing of Nick and Judith.’

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘Yes. And you should know that Captain Armstrong has found a cabin for Sarah and John.’

  ‘Sarah!’

  ‘Even Mama waved me off,’ she continued, smoothing down her fine woollen skirts, ‘almost with good grace.’

  ‘Your mother! Oh, God!’ Henry ran his hands through his hair. ‘It seems that within the last minute, lady, you have turned my world upside down and my wits have totally deserted me.’

  ‘So I think. You sound like a demented parrot, my love.’ She came to stand before him. But not too close. Not to touch. The ultimate decision here must be his.

  ‘I will not take you with me.’ The words were forced from him, but immediate.

  ‘Hal. Look at me.’ Still she did not smile. There was a challenge in her eyes. ‘The only reason for me to leave this ship is if you tell me that you do not want me—that you do not love me enough to spend the rest of your life with me.’

  He looked at her, a brooding quality in his eyes. How unfair that she should have done this, using his one weakness. But how magnificent. He was aware of nothing but her grace and beauty and the love that shone in her eyes. The love that he knew, without doubt, was for him alone. And he knew that she intended to fight for her happiness. He stifled a groan at the prospect.

  ‘I ca
nnot. You know that I cannot say that.’ It was the only answer he could make in all honesty.

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘It does not solve anything, Nell.’ A hint of desperation crept in. ‘It does not negate any of my reasons for leaving you in London. I have nothing to give you compared with what you have here.’

  ‘My son needs his father far more than he needs a title and an estate.’ Now there was the faintest snap of temper. ‘And when he is old enough, he will tell you the same. You are not free to reject him, Hal. Nor me.’ She played her final cards, flinging them defiantly at his feet. ‘If you love me indeed, you must in all honour take me with you.’

  ‘I should send you back.’ Desperately, aware of his resistance crumbling before her deliberate and irresistible provocation, he held back.

  ‘What? With my reputation even more besmirched, after joining you on board ship? What would the Princess Lieven say? I shall be banned from Almack’s for ever! I cannot believe that you would do that to me, Hal.’

  ‘Blackmail, Eleanor?’ Now there was a spark of appreciation for her tactics in his sombre eyes, matching the glint in hers. Against his will, against all his intentions, he felt the tight knot of despair that had constricted his chest with tight bands begin to dissolve, replaced by an insidious warmth and hope.

  ‘If it is necessary.’ She raised her chin, accepting the blame, if blame there must be, but the flush that tinted her cheeks fluctuated deliciously. ‘But I would rather you took me willingly, than under duress.’

  ‘Your reputation is inestimable,’ he stated, dropping his gaze because hers was too bright, too certain, with the faintest of sighs. ‘It always will be. There is no duress for either of us.’

  Suddenly, aware of possible disaster of a domestic nature, Henry turned from her with a rapid movement to scoop up Tom, determinedly attempting to crawl to investigate the space over the edge of the cot. With gentle hands and remarkable efficiency he smoothed the ruffled curls, then wedged the baby back into safety behind the barricade of a small travelling bag and the blankets, thoughtfully removing the enticing prospect of Eleanor’s feathered bonnet out of reach.

  She watched and smiled and waited. Perhaps the battle was almost won. When he turned back to her, she stretched her arm across the void still separating them, to touch his cheek in the lightest of caresses. Much as she might have stroked her son’s cheek—but the result was intoxicating. Fire and heat sparked between them across the space.

  ‘Do you love me, Hal?’ Eleanor noticed with interest that she was suddenly breathless.

  ‘Yes. As God is my witness. Yes.’ All the doubt and uncertainty seemed to smooth from his face as he took a deep breath. ‘I do not need to ask if you love me. If you have thrown in your lot with me, you must indeed be besotted, you foolish girl.’

  ‘Will it be so bad?’

  ‘Desperate.’ Still he did not approach her. ‘You will be Mrs Faringdon and live in a two-roomed garret above a business premises. You will have to learn to cook and clean and take care of money—no frivolous spending on gowns and kid gloves.’ A faint sardonic smile tugged at his lips as he took in her stylish and expensive gown. ‘We shall be forced to live on bread and soup—or something of that nature.’

  ‘As bad as that?’ It would be all right! Her pulse throbbed, her senses swam with relief. ‘Should I change my mind, after all.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ He took one step closer. ‘You had your chance and deliberately threw it away. You are in my power now, my lady.’

  She veiled a satisfied gleam with long lashes, fighting to hold back tears. ‘Thank God for that.’

  Then he took another step. And she was in his arms. Held as he allowed his lips to claim his own. Hair, eyes, temples, lips, he kissed her with intense deliberation and growing urgency, halting only to murmur her name, to seek out the impossibly soft skin at the base of her throat where the pulse beat in tune with his. And Eleanor clung to him as the warmth in her blood was so effortlessly ignited into heat, to cleanse and burn, to obliterate all doubts for the future, all pain from the past.

  ‘Hal—oh, Hal. I thought you might send me home,’ she whispered as he tangled his hands in her hair, the better to seek and take possession of her mouth, slanting his head to capture and demand.

  ‘You are home.’ Drunk on heady passion, he tightened his hold, hands fierce, mouth scalding. ‘You will stay with me! You no longer have a choice.’

  His lips made their searing pathway along her elegant shoulder—then came to a halt as they brushed against a fine gold chain. He raised his head to look down at her, immediately lost in the shining depths of dew-sprinkled heart’s-ease, but his desire was reined in and lightened with humour.

  ‘I thought you would have brought the diamonds.’

  She choked on a little laugh, putting up a hand to her breast.

  ‘No. They are not mine to bring. But this is. It was given to me a little while ago. By an admirer. An admirer whom I choose to remember.’

  ‘With fondness? With a little charity, perhaps?’

  ‘With ecstasy!’

  He lowered his lips to her breast, to press them against the fine amethyst jewel in its diamond setting, in recognition of the past before they put it from them for ever.

  ‘I would give you more than this. I would give you my name, Nell.’ His laugh was, for a moment only, heavy with irony, muffled against her hair. ‘But you already have it.’ His fingers encircled and tightened around Thomas’s diamond and sapphire ring that she still wore, that he himself had replaced on her finger that night at the Red Lion with a silent promise to love and care for her. ‘And you already have the Faringdon bridal ring.’

  ‘You gave it back to me when I would have rejected it, Hal.’ Eleanor bent her head to touch her lips to his hand, as it still enfolded hers, in recognition of that gesture.

  ‘It is where it belongs. And where it will stay.’ Hal’s expression was stern as he spoke, his words a confirmation of his promise at the Red Lion, so that Eleanor might hear and know. ‘I would give you the protection of my body. The worship of my soul. The adoration of my heart. Is that enough for you, my love, my heart?’

  ‘I will accept all that.’ She spread her palms against the solid beat of his heart, absorbing the comfort and the promise.

  He put her from him, taking her hands and lifting them to his lips, first one and then the other, before looking down into her lovely face. ‘Then this is all simply unfinished business, awaiting its completion for two long years. Your mother kept us apart. But Thomas kept you safe for me. Now you are mine. It is our destiny. And I would reclaim my own. In the eyes of God you, and Tom, are mine. With or without the sanction of the law, I claim you. I will love and cherish you to the end of my days. Will that be enough for you, my dearest and only love? It is all I have to give—and it is yours to take, if you will have it.’

  Now Henry’s hands folded around hers, encircling them in a gesture of strength, both comfort and protection. And the most tender expression of love.

  ‘I accept, my lord.’ Eleanor allowed her hands to rest in his as the heat spread urgent fingers to tint her skin with a blush of becoming rose. How splendid he was, how aware of her needs and anxieties, the weight of the past on her heart. How could he think that any woman would refuse such an offer? How could she possibly refuse?

  ‘I will construct for you a house in New York. And build a life for you, worthy of you.’ But he knew that she was now his, whatever the future would hold.

  ‘I will live with you, Hal. With joy and contentment, assuredly. I will give you all the love that fills my heart and soul.’ She hesitated, but only for the length of a heartbeat. ‘And, Hal, I will give you back your son.’

  His breath caught, moved unbearably by the generosity of her offer after all that had passed between them.

  ‘A man could ask no more. Eleanor, my love.’

  His lips once more took hers and sealed their future together.

  ISBN: 978-1-45
92-3167-2

  THE DISGRACED MARCHIONESS

  Copyright © 2005 by Anne O’Brien

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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