His Unsuitable Viscountess

by Michelle Styles

  ‘Oh, Romeo.’ She leant down and gathered the dog to her, even though she knew strictly speaking Romeo should not be on the bed. Sometimes comfort was more important than rules. Romeo snuggled against her, his solid body warming her increasingly cold one. She was grateful for the dog, but wished it was Ben.

  She dug her hands into Romeo’s fur and stared at the dimity curtains.

  The memory of Ben’s stricken look when the doctor had announced she had lost the baby haunted her. It had been gone in an instant, but she’d known then that she had lost something precious. She hadn’t even considered the possibility and had gone on in her heedless way. He hadn’t said, but she had known what he was thinking. If she had done things differently, concentrated on her duty towards producing an heir rather than her duty to Moles, the outcome would have been different.

  The doctor’s words thrummed through her. One day she would have a baby. She had to give it time. Once she’d done it then she’d prove herself lovable.

  * * *

  ‘Thank you for coming so promptly, Doctor,’ Ben said, cutting short Dr Fairchild’s homily about problems of disease and overcrowding. Normally he would have listened and argued with the doctor, as he had his own ideas about what the solution might be, but today he needed time to think.

  Eleanor meant something to him. He wasn’t in love with her in the heady way he’d been with Alice in the early days but he felt something—a green shoot of something that had begun to grow within his heart. Possibility. Hope. Entirely unexpected and in its own way troubling. The sense of responsibility and duty gnawed at his insides. Eleanor was not as strong as she pretended. Was she as fragile as Alice? Would her mind go? Would he be sucked into that living hell again? The one where he’d prayed for release only to find the future was far worse than he could have dreamt? He didn’t want to imagine a future without Eleanor, his strong Eleanor.

  ‘You do realise that Lady Whittonstall is older than many women when they have their first child?’ Dr Fairchild said.

  ‘She is thirty. Many women of her age safely have children.’ Ben held up his hand, forestalling any more from the doctor. Alice’s doctor had taken him to one side a few weeks after Alice had discovered that she was finally pregnant and had explained about women and their need to be left alone during pregnancy. He had refused to believe it, but Alice had cringed from his touch, accusing him of being a selfish monster. A few weeks later he’d proved what a monster he was. What would Eleanor do if she knew the full truth?

  His feelings for her were too new and too deep. He didn’t want to lose her when he had so recently found her.

  Could he trust Eleanor to look after herself properly? To tell him if she was ill? Or worse?

  ‘I refuse to allow her to take any unnecessary chances.’

  ‘Just so.’ The doctor made a deep bow. ‘Thank you for being sensible. I am sure all will be well with your wife if you are cautious.’

  Ben permitted a small smile. This time he would succeed. He would keep his wife safe. He would protect his own. He’d prove that he was far from being a monster. This time the angel of death would not win. ‘I will try.’

  * * *

  A soft woof as Romeo jumped down from the bed alerted Eleanor that someone had come into the darkened bedroom.

  ‘Mrs Nevin?’

  ‘I can get her.’

  Eleanor’s heart flipped over. Ben had returned. She longed to ask him to hold her but the words stuck in her throat. ‘Are you coming to bed?’

  She winced, hating the plaintive note in her voice. She refused to beg.

  ‘I wanted to make sure you were comfortable. Do you have everything you require?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she managed to choke out around the lump in her throat.

  ‘You will let me or one of the staff know if you require something?’

  ‘I will.’

  He stood in the doorway with his candle. Eleanor willed him to do something rather than just stand there. ‘It is one of those things that just happen, Eleanor.’

  She pleated the linen sheet between her fingers. ‘I know what the doctor said.’

  ‘And you believe it?’

  ‘I’m not sure what I believe any more,’ she confessed. She wanted to demand his opinion but knew she was a coward.

  ‘It is the shock.’

  ‘Some day we will have a baby. I want a baby, Ben. You mustn’t doubt that.’

  ‘Shall we allow God to decide?’

  ‘I’m...’ Her throat worked up and down and she found it impossible to continue.

  ‘You mustn’t apologise. Please not that. Promise me that you won’t. Ever.’

  Eleanor tightened her grip on the sheet. She knew Ben was attempting to help but he was making it harder. She wanted to take the blame. It had been her body. Her insistence on fencing when she wasn’t feeling quite the thing. ‘I want to.’

  ‘You must listen to what the doctor said. Don’t think about what could have been. Think about what will be.’

  ‘You should try it some time.’

  ‘It is how I live my life.’ He raised the candle so it hid his expression. ‘Things will be better in the morning. You are being awfully brave, Eleanor.’

  Eleanor hated the way her stomach knotted. She was tired of being brave. ‘I always try.’

  ‘It is all anyone can ask.’ He went out of the room, closing it with a distinct and terrible click.

  The shaking started again. Eleanor choked back a sob. With furious fingers she brushed away her tears. Why hadn’t Ben seen that she wanted to be cradled? Why hadn’t he touched her? Why had he left? Was she truly that unlovable?

  She clenched her fists. From here on she’d change. She flopped back against the pillows and started to make plans.

  Chapter Twelve

  The clock in the drawing room at Broomhaugh was the slowest clock on the planet, Eleanor decided. Even five minutes seemed to take an age. She’d spent the morning reading Lady Whittonstall’s list but it had not provided any great revelation. Instead it was mostly common sense and manners. Conquering society could happen, but she needed to speak with Ben about her plans to go to London.

  ‘Where are you, Ben?’ she muttered for the fortieth

  time. The clock stubbornly refused to move again.

  Exasperated, she threw off the light blanket and walked over to the window. Romeo looked up from his border excavations around the delphiniums, more a dirty dog than a pristine one. At least she could spend time combing and brushing him to perfection. She wondered if he would look good with a little blue bow. The state of your dog reflects on its owner. Romeo ignored her tap on the window and went back to his pursuit.

  What harm would there be in sitting outside?

  Reaching for the bell, she felt a wave of dizziness pass over her. She grabbed on to the ledge. Perhaps she should have stayed in the bed. She knew she should go to the foundry—particularly with the potential problems of the Bow Street Runners order—but the last thing she desired was to collapse in front of the men. She could imagine the sarcastic remarks and how much respect she’d lose. She’d fought too long and hard, and now her body was refusing to co-operate.

  ‘You need to eat more than toast, my girl,’ she said aloud. Food had never seemed so unappealing.

  Ben’s footsteps resounded in the hallway. Eleanor rapidly sat down on the covered bench by the window and knew her heart beat a little faster. She bit her lips to give them colour. If she looked well she might be able to convince him to take her out for a drive and she could try to put Lady Whittonstall’s words of wisdom into action.

  He strode into the room and gave her a hooded look. ‘Are you sure you should be up?’

  ‘I’m feeling better,’ Eleanor replied cautiously. It was far from a lie. She was feeling better n
ow that she was seated and had someone to talk to.

  ‘Most people would stay in bed for a week after the ordeal you have experienced.’ He came over and gathered her hands between his. A warm tingle flooded through her. ‘Your cheeks are pale and your eyes seem bruised.’

  Eleanor withdrew her hands and forced a smile. The last thing she wanted to think about was how dreadful she must look. She didn’t want to think about what had happened to her. She wished Ben were more pleased that she was up and trying to put the episode behind her.

  ‘I’ve been planning a new scheme for the drawing room and wanted to get a different aspect. My mind is positively brimming with ideas,’ she said brightly, keeping the hurt from her voice. ‘What do you think about spring green with an accent of pink? Something more classical? I’d like to get the decorating started as soon as possible.’

  ‘The decorating is not as important as your health.’ He held out his hands with a placating smile. ‘There is no need to rush. The walls will still be here when you have rested.’

  ‘It is time I took charge and started to make decisions. We will have to entertain at some point. It is expected.’

  If anything, Ben’s gaze became colder. Eleanor hurriedly recalled specific points from Lady Whittonstall’s list. According to his mother, Ben lived for entertaining. He knew everyone and was welcomed everywhere. So why did he object to her scheme?

  ‘It is a larger concern than you are used to,’ he said. ‘Mrs Perkins seems to be doing well as housekeeper. I am disposed to keep her on now that Mrs Nevin has decided to retire.’

  She tilted her chin upwards. It gnawed at her insides that he thought her incapable of running his house efficiently. ‘I believe I am doing it admirably under the circumstances.’

  ‘There is Moles as well.’

  White-hot anger swept through Eleanor. Did he think she couldn’t do both? Or that she would neglect her duty to her company? ‘Do you wish me to stop working?’

  He drew his brows together. A muscle jumped in his cheek as if he were struggling to control his temper.

  ‘If I had forbidden you working why did I drive over to Moles this morning and bring back the papers?’ he asked finally in an overly reasonable voice.

  ‘You have brought the papers home for me? You did that for me?’ Eleanor stared at him. She put a hand to her face. She’d had it all wrong. All the anger and hurt flooded from her, leaving her feeling flat and more than a little foolish. ‘You should have said you were going.’

  ‘It would have been irresponsible. You would have begged to accompany me and I have no wish for you to collapse twice in two days.’ A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘I take my responsibilities seriously.’

  He withdrew a sheaf of paper and handed it to her. She quickly flicked through the statement from her London bank, Childs and Co, several orders from various London merchants, and correspondence from her solicitor as well as other less important pieces of paper. She saw that Ben had made notes in the margins. She closed her eyes. From the notations, she knew who had asked questions and why.

  A great lump in her throat developed. Ben had taken the time and the trouble to make it easy for her. What was worse was that the figures failed to excite her. All they did was remind her how blind she’d been—how wrapped up in everything but what was happening to her body. A lump came into her throat. Her decision to change was the correct one. She wanted her life to be more than figures on a ledger.

  ‘I thought we could go through them if you are feeling up to it. Mr Johnson has asked me to highlight several concerns, and Davy Swaddle asked about getting more coal.’

  He stood next to her, and she was more aware of how his coat fitted his form, the way his stock was tied and the way his hands moved than the information he was pointing out.

  Eleanor took a deep breath. He hadn’t kissed her. That was what was wrong. She wanted him to kiss her. Once he’d kissed her properly everything would be fine. She would be able to concentrate properly again. She raised her mouth in expectation.

  He very deliberately turned a page over, ignoring her blatant invitation. Eleanor slumped back against the chair.

  ‘You’re supposed to look at the rate of spoilt iron. Mr Johnson thinks it is too much and advises caution. He also wants to be sure that the Bow Street Runners require this design as it has significant differences from their last order.’

  ‘He always worries—but then he is a cutler rather than a steel-maker.’ Eleanor fought to keep the disappointment from her voice. Ben had shown he cared by getting the papers. It wasn’t his fault that she felt flat. She had to stop wanting more. She forced a smile. ‘I will attend to these things immediately. You are right. In the face of these, decorating schemes can wait. Thank you.’

  ‘It was my pleasure. I found it very interesting. My first chance to poke around and ask questions without fearing that you were looking over my shoulder. Fascinating, and a real credit to you and your organisational ability. The men are looking forward to your return.’ He gave a pleased smile. ‘Don’t work too hard.’

  ‘I won’t. I know my limitations. I am looking after myself properly, Ben.’

  ‘You barely touched your breakfast.’ His smile became a frown.

  ‘I dislike porridge, even at the best of times, and Romeo begged politely for a piece of toast.’ She regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You looked green when I came in,’ he continued relentlessly. ‘Are you sure you should be out of bed? Being a martyr impresses no one—least of all me. You can take the papers with you.’

  ‘Yesterday I had a miscarriage. An unfortunate occurrence but one which happens to many women, according to Dr Fairchild. Staying in bed is for people like my mother.’ She clasped her hands together and hoped she’d convinced him. The thought of quarrelling was beyond her. It required too much energy.

  He raised his eyebrow. ‘I know you feel rotten. It will pass. I promise.’

  ‘How can you know anything about it?’ The words erupted from a place deep within her. ‘How can you know anything I feel?’

  A muscle jumped in his cheek. He paused for a long while. ‘I’ve been married before. I have intimate experience with such things. Unfortunately.’

  Eleanor closed her eyes and cursed her quick tongue. Of course he knew. Alice and the baby he’d lost. The thing that they’d never discussed except on their wedding night and the last thing she wanted to talk about now.

  ‘I’m not Alice. I’m me.’

  ‘Do you think I can’t tell the difference?’

  He patted her shoulder. The touch felt more like that of a brother or an uncle rather than a lover. A shiver went down her spine. Suddenly the papers he’d brought seemed less than appealing. Lady Whittonstall’s admonition to keep Benjamin’s interest; remember he is highly competitive and likes to win leapt into her brain.

  ‘Shall we have a game of chess?’ she asked, pushing the papers away.

  ‘You look exhausted, Eleanor. There are dark smudges under your eyes.’

  ‘With wagering?’ she continued. A warm glow filled her as she remembered their last game. It had ended in a draw before Ben had taken her to bed and made passionate love to her. Though right now she’d settle for being held all night.

  ‘We shall have to see.’ He squeezed her hand but his eyes didn’t meet hers. ‘It depends. You need to conserve your strength. In next to no time you will be back to your old self. We will fence again to celebrate.’

  She toyed with her pen. ‘I’m not ready for that.’

  ‘Some day you will be. Give it time.’

  His words hurt. As if what had happened to her was something trifling. She didn’t want to go back to who she had been. She didn’t see how she could. She’d learnt a long time ago not to allow hurt to show, not to be weak, but it didn’t
stop her throat tightening or her longing to be held. She could remember clearly how she’d wanted her mother to hold her after her father had committed suicide, and to stay with her. Instead her mother had fled to the relative safety of Gilsland Spa, leaving Eleanor to cope with the mess and save Moles.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said around the growing lump in her throat. ‘Time is a great healer.’

  ‘Now, are you going to look at these papers or shall I keep them for later, when you have rested? You look all washed out.’

  All washed out. The words stung. Did that mean she’d lost whatever little bit of beauty she’d possessed? Eleanor thought about the picture of Alice she’d found buried in his handkerchiefs. All blonde, dimples and curls. She’d be willing to wager that he’d never called his late wife washed out.

  ‘I suppose you are right. It is best not to make any plans,’ she said when she trusted her voice.

  ‘Sense at last.’ His hand touched her cheek. ‘You are too impatient sometimes.’

  ‘I dislike wasting time,’ she said, tilting her chin upwards. She wanted her new life to begin. ‘Right now I need to get on with these papers. I promise not to work too hard.’

  * * *

  ‘Eleanor, have you finished with those papers?’ Ben stopped on the threshold to the library. The past few days had gone well. Better than he had anticipated. But an aura of sadness clung to her.

  Each morning he went to Moles and returned with papers, hoping to interest her in them. He had never dreamt that the foundry could be so interesting. The more he learnt, the more his admiration for her business sense and the way she delegated the work grew. Every time he brought papers home he hoped that they would trigger that spark within her.

  She looked at them, but her conversation revolved much more around redecorating, or other un-Eleanor activities like visiting. Her excuse was that she didn’t want to return to the foundry until she knew she was completely well. She did not want to appear less in the men’s eyes. Given her stature within the company, he doubted that would be the case.