Unfortunately, her face was no less enchanting than the rest of her, and unobscured by low lighting David was left tongue-tied; struck with the full force of her dark violet eyes. No, he thought they must be blue, it was only the fire making them appear so…He studied her more closely. No, they were indeed darker than blue, the most arresting shade of violet, with a smudge of dark lashes.
She licked her lips. They were red from the cold, and a flush of warmth from the fire brought a blossom of color to her cheeks. She was quite simply the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Everything about her was so… bountiful. There was none of the cool, angular beauty so practiced by other women he had known; sharp and bitter in words as much as form. Lady Eleanor was soft, feminine, genuine; and they were alone. And she was a Hawthorne.
Oh, this would not do!
He cleared his throat; would that he could clear his mind of wicked thoughts with as much ease. David turned away from her, “I will just go get that servant,” he said roughly. “And our drinks. Please, excuse me.” He gave her a brief bow and fled.
The hallway was cooler than the parlor, and he took a deep breath of the fresh air. It was terribly unfair to have a woman like that show up on his doorstep, quite literally out of the blue, and to know he could never have her. A Hawthorne. Why ever did she have to be a Hawthorne? Indeed, he had been searching for the right lady to be his bride. Lady Eleanor Hawthorne, was obviously single, and there were worse reasons to get married than because he found her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, were there not? Passion was a vital element in a marriage, surely.
David was so buried in his thoughts he nearly ran into the servant he had been trying to find. The young woman, a maid, hopped backward with a squeak of alarm.
“Terribly Sorry ,” said David as he reached out to steady her. “Please bring mulled wine to the parlor,” he said. “Three glasses. Make sure it is piping hot.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and scurried off. David watched her go for a moment. She was a pretty enough girl, with golden hair and a wide smiling mouth, but she did not elicit any of the feelings a single glance at Lady Eleanor Hawthorne had stirred in him. He had never been the sort of man to fill the dance cards of all the prettiest girls at a ball, nor to visit the light-skirt establishments many other gentlemen frequented. Base, animalistic desires had no place in his life. Why, then, did Lady Eleanor’s beauty have him in such a state?
He contemplated this as he made his way back to the parlor. By the time he reached the door, he had come to a clear, obvious reason for his attraction. Lady Eleanor was so lovely to him because he knew he could never possess her. It was one of the failings of mankind, to want what one could not have, and he was just as susceptible to it as any other human. Now that he knew the cause, it should be a simple enough thing to put this attraction out of his mind. She was just a woman, a lady like any other that he had danced with and spoken with and drank mulled wine with when his mother insisted he attend the gatherings of the Ton. She was nothing special. He had nearly convinced himself of the fact, before he reentered the parlor and saw her, still flushed and beautiful before the fire.
~.~
Eleanor stepped closer to the fire and looked down at her clothing. There was a ring of wet marring the bottom of her skirts, but apart from that, her clothing was in fine shape and her outfit was fashionable. She shrugged off the man’s odd behavior and gave the fire another poke. It was still recovering from his rough treatment, but Eleanor thought it would survive. When it seemed back to life, she sat down on the tufted, yellow armchair beside the fire to wait for Lord Firthley to return. She had not expected him to be so handsome. In fact, she did not know the Firthley’s had a son so young. From the way her father spoke, she had thought all Firthleys were just this side of ancient and in possession of a countenance somewhat like that of an ogre.
She was beginning to thaw and used her time to inspect the room around her. The parlor was magnificently decorated in shades of yellow and burgundy with accent leaves of sea green. A book of poetry lay on the side table and she picked it up, seeing that it was bookmarked to Coleridge, one of her personal favorites. Clearly Lady Perrilyn was a woman of taste and restraint.
There was nothing jarring, nothing out of the ordinary. The Firthley home appeared to be much like her own home at Sweetbriar. What had she expected to find? She wondered, chiding herself for her stiff attitude. A portrait of her father with a quiver of arrows stuck into it? A statue of her mother smeared with mud? The Firthley’s were like any other family. Still, she could not sit easily in the parlor, as if she could feel the disapproving thoughts of her family pressing down upon her. She got up and paced, hoping Arthur would hurry from the stable to keep her company. She knew it was grossly improper for her to be entertained by a gentleman alone in his home, even if he were not a Firthley and now that she was beginning to warm, she doubted her decision to visit. Eleanor hoped one of the Firthleys’ servants was nearby, and would stay to chaperone, perhaps a staunch old housekeeper.
The door opened. Lord Firthley returned his face stormy.
“Someone should be along any moment with our drinks,” he said, coming over to grab the iron poker from where it leaned against the stone. He began jabbing at the logs as if they had personally offended him. “I hope mulled wine is acceptable. I did not think to ask.”
“Most acceptable.”
Lord Firthley picked up the book of poetry from the side table and jammed it hurriedly into a nearby bookshelf.
“I am sure your lady would not appreciate your losing her place,” Eleanor commented.
“What?” he said, and then he seemed to recover himself. “There is no lady. Well, there is my mother, The Lady Perrilyn.”
“Does she enjoy Coleridge?” Eleanor asked. It seemed strange to think of a Firthley enjoying the same poems she enjoyed.
The gentleman turned away and Eleanor watched the angry moments of the poker as he stirred up the fire. “Are you feeling all right, my lord? Have I done something to offend you? You did insist on my visit, but if you are having second thoughts…”
“No!” Lord Firthley exclaimed, spinning around, poker in hand. Eleanor stepped back.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“No,” he repeated, tossing the poker down onto the stones behind him with a clang. “No, of course not. I…It was my book,” he admitted his face suddenly glum. “I know poetry reading it is not oft considered a worthy pursuit. For a gentleman that is…”
“Oh but, I love poetry,” she said smoothly “Most especially sonnets. I think it is so clever to use the constrictors of the style and yet still be so creative.”
“Yes, quite” he said, suddenly animated. “The old ones. Shakespeare’s and of course, Milton’s.”
They talked for several moments comparing their favorite poems until Eleanor heard a door open and a slight draft and just like that, the conversation was ended.
“That must be Arthur,” she said softly.
Lord Firthley stalked out of the room, his long legs taking him to the door in several strides. “I will retrieve him.”
The two men returned to the parlor at the same time as Lord Firthley’s servant. The maid was a slight thing, who carried a silver tray laden with cups and a matching carafe.
“Thank you,” said Lord Firthley to the girl. “That will be all.”
The blonde maid set down the tray and hurried out, casting curious glances at Eleanor and Arthur as she left. Eleanor grimaced. Servants talked. There was certain to be gossip flying about tomorrow. Eleanor just hoped it would not cause Firthley, or herself, any trouble with their families.
Arthur did not sit. He stood twisting his hat between his hands with a pinched expression on his wrinkled face as he looked at Eleanor as if to communicate his discomfort with her via the sympathetic affectation of one mind to another.
Eleanor went to Arthur, and tried to lead him to a chair.
“Thank you, Lady
Eleanor, but I will stand. When you are as old as I am, sitting down beside a warm fire with cold bones is a guaranteed nap,” said Arthur.
He smiled as he spoke, but his eyes flitted around, jumping from Lord Firthley to the family portraits on the walls. Each of the past Firthleys painted there seemed to be eyeing them with disapproval. Eleanor did not think Arthur’s reluctance had to do with his age, but more with his desire to be gone from the house as quickly as possible. Like the ancient Israelites, he stood in readiness to flee if the angel of death should deign to appear, most likely she thought, in the guise of another, elder Firthley.
“Here you are,” said Lord Firthley, passing a glass of wine to Eleanor first, then to Arthur.
She held the glass in her hand, soaking up the warmth into her still-frozen fingers. Lord Firthley had his back to her, poking around in the fire again, though it was lively now and in no danger of going out. The gentleman’s actions seemed a sudden sort of shyness. Eleanor had the feeling they had overstayed their welcome. She took a sip from her cup and found the wine near hot enough to burn her tongue, and spiced heavily with cloves. If nothing else, the Firthleys could make a decent cup of mulled wine. The small sip warmed her directly.
“Was Mouse easy enough to settle, even in a strange place?” she asked Arthur. He had not touched his wine, and was turning the cup around and around in his hand in a nervous gesture.
“Yes, he was eager to get to the hay and the water, and to be out of the harness if only for a moment. I suspect he liked the stable boy that saw to him, owing mostly to the treats in the boy’s pockets,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “I suspect we will be hard-pressed to convince Mouse to leave, when it is time to go. Like me, warmth and comfort will mean a nap.”
“Then we should not dally overly long. It is not fair to keep the horse from his well-deserved rest,” said Eleanor. In truth, she was growing more uncomfortable with Lord Firthley’s silence by the moment. She was dismayed that he was a Firthley and nothing could come of their acquaintance.
“Still, I am glad for your company. Even if it only for a short time.” Lord Firthley added.
Eleanor thought it a strange choice of words. Certainly she had been nothing but an inconvenience, to him; appearing on his doorstep and dragging him out into the cold. He could not be glad for her intrusion. Just as she was about to say so, he said, “I enjoyed our conversation…about poetry.”
“As have I, but we truly must go.” she said, getting to her feet.
Firthley also stood. “I wish to see you again,” he said.
Arthur cleared his throat. The look on his face was half horror and half incredulousness.
Eleanor set her half-empty wine cup down on the tray. “That cannot be,” she said.
Arthur set his full glass beside it.
“Because of a half remembered ancient feud?” Firthley said, anger apparent in his voice. “It has nothing to do with us.”
“There can be no us,” she said with finality.
“I do not believe that,” he replied. His face was so full of hope she almost believed that they had a chance…almost. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Firthley,” she said. “I am quite reinvigorated, and prepared to face the storm.”
Eleanor reached to collect her things from the back of the sofa. In spite of the fire, her outer coat was still cold from the snow. The Lord Firthley hastened to her aid. A proper gentleman, he held up the garment so she could slide her arms into the sleeves, though he did not meet her eyes.
“Very well, then,” he said coolly. His gaze settled somewhere over the top of her head.
A prickly, inconstant nature must be a Firthley family trait Eleanor thought as she yanked her fur cap down over her curls and wrapped her scarf around her neck. Why had she thought differently? Whatever moment of comradery they shared when they first encountered one another had quickly faded.
“It is late, and I am afraid the storm may only grow more fearsome as night comes on.” Eleanor glanced at the window. White flakes whipped by, tossed about in the wind, and frost marched farther across the panes of glass, obscuring the bottom three inches of the window with a crystalline pattern.
“I do wish you did not have to journey back out in that,” said Lord Firthley, so softly she almost missed his words. He glanced at her, met her eyes, and looked away again. “But of course, since you must, I suppose sooner is better than later.”
“Must you speak so?” she snapped.
Arthur inhaled sharply. He went to stand in the doorway, close enough to see and hear, but far enough away to pretend to not be doing either.
“How is that, pray tell?” Lord Firthley snapped back.
Add a second point to the Firthleys’ inconstant nature, Eleanor thought, Meek one moment, fiery the next. “Well oddly. You have gone all strange. Acting as though you wish to be rid me and then seeming upset when I decide to go, as if you cannot make up your mind.” Eleanor shrugged. “I quite understand, I am a Hawthorne, and you are a Firthley. Politeness can only take you so far.”
“Politeness?” He asked incredulous.
“Well, here we are; leaving.” Eleanor continued. “Good evening, Lord Firthley. I thank you for your assistance with the sleigh.” She stalked past him.
Why was she so offended? Before today she did not even know the man existed. He meant less than nothing to her, and she would never see him again unless they chanced upon each other on the street. Yet it bothered her. It bothered her so that tears threatened on her lashes. Annoyed, she sped past Arthur through the front door and out into the storm. Eleanor slowed only to take the steps with care, holding tight to the railing; then turned toward the stables. She ducked her head to keep the snow from hitting her face, but the tiny things found their way in and pricked her face with their stinging bites. She pulled her hat close.
Arthur hurriedly caught her up. “Lady Eleanor! Please, go back inside and I will have the sleigh brought up post haste. There is no reason for you to be out in this!”
“I shall be just fine waiting in the stables,” she said as she trudged towards the structure. Up ahead, she could see the light of a lantern within and heard the nicker of the horses awaiting their dinner.
A moment later, Firthley appeared at her other side. She had not heard him come up. He had not stopped to retrieve his old great coat before coming outside and was only in jacket and trousers. His hair was covered with snow in less than an instant, clinging to the fine strands and giving him a rather wild appearance.
“I do not care one wit that you are a Hawthorne,” said Lord Firthley.
Eleanor wheeled on him, slipping in her leather boots, but she steadied herself before she needed his assistance. “Do not lie to me! You were perfectly civil before you knew my name, and we had a lovely conversation, but after you knew my true name, you extended only the barest of courtesies to me. I am grateful, do not misunderstand, but there is no reason to pretend your action was anything but charity.”
“You are the one misunderstanding,” Lord Firthley argued. His words were choked by the tightness of his jaw, clenched as it was against the cold. “I was merely uncomfortable due to of our lack of a proper chaperone. And do not say your driver counts; you know he does not. I would not want people to think anything… untoward happened during this, our first meeting.”
Eleanor looked over her shoulder and saw that Arthur had continued on, no doubt to get the sleigh and put an end to this strange night.
“First meeting?” she questioned him, as she struggled to get her gloved hands into her outer mittens. Did he expect that there would be a second?
Lord Firthley caught her hand, and held one mitten, then the other so that she could easily slip them on. Eleanor then realized with her mittens on, she could not button her coat. She thought she would remedy the situation in the sleigh, but Lord Firthley turned her toward him and proceed to button her coat as if she were a child.
“I was trying to be respectful, considerate, not rude,”
he said finally. “And you have gone and made a mess of my good intentions.” He wrapped her scarf more firmly about her.
“Your lips are turning blue, Lord Firthley,” Eleanor said, thinking in the next second that she had no business noticing his lips at all. “And my sleigh is approaching,” she finished shakily. It had not taken Arthur long at all to get Mouse back in his harness and rigged up to the sleigh. No doubt he had help from the Firthley stable master. Which was for the best, she thought. She did not want to spend another minute in Lord Firthley’s altogether too confusing presence.
Now that she was properly bundled, the gentleman seemed at a loss for words. When the sleigh arrived, Lord Firthley stepped back to make room for Mouse, and Eleanor would have climbed onto the seat, without the help of his proffered arm, but her exceedingly slippery boots gave her pause. Drat the things.
“Thank you,” she said as she allowed Lord Firthley to help her climb into the sleigh. She settled herself in the seat behind Arthur. “You have been most kind.”
“You are most welcome, Lady Eleanor,” Firthley said. His teeth had begun to chatter, and she bit her lip to keep from telling him to get himself inside before he took a chill. It was certainly not her business if he caught his death. The thought made her catch her own breath. Instead of speaking again, she waved a hand in farewell as the sleigh moved past him. And that, Eleanor believed, was the end of her acquaintance with Lord Firthley.
~.~
Chapter Three
David was frozen. He had stood, staring stupidly after the sleigh and the young woman in it, for an absurd length of time while the snow fell on his hair. The sleigh was long out of sight by the time he moved again, and found his fingers and toes numb, his hair turned to icicles, and his nose running. Inside, a servant told him that his valet had ordered hot water for a bath for him. Bless George. He was a sensible sort. David grabbed the rest of the carafe of mulled wine and brought it upstairs to warm beside the fire in his room. He kicked off his boots and shed his wet clothes. It was not until he was sinking into the hot water that logical, rational thought returned to him.
The Forbidden Valentine_Lady Eleanor Hawthorne_Regency Romance Novel Page 3
