by Ruth Regan
"Kiss me," he urged huskily. "Kiss me and confound them."
In a split second, she knew that he was giving her a choice. He would not force himself on her. He was flawed in many ways, but he was not that kind of man – not like Lord Boyle had been. Her heart swelled suddenly at the realization. She stood on tiptoe and threw her arms about his neck.
Eliot lifted her off the ground with ease. When their lips met, Cara closed her eyes and allowed the strange, shocking pleasure of the kiss to overtake her. His mouth was warm and his tongue found hers quickly. The sweet, wet contact sent little rivulets of pleasure running all through her body, and she let her back arch in his arms as the moment went on and on. She wound her fingers through his hair, inhaling him deeply even as their mouths were locked together. And, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she wanted Lord Quentin Eliot more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.
They both came up for air simultaneously, and then he was lowering her slowly to her feet. When her heels touched down on the marble floor, the sound echoed throughout the gallery.
Lord Eliot took her by the hand and let her swiftly towards the far door, away from the gaping Duke and his dumbstruck mistress. Cara's feet flew over the marble, barely touching it at all. With a wild gasp of laughter, she realized suddenly that all the pain in her knee had disappeared.
Chapter Five
Once outside the gallery and in the long corridor that stretched into the East wing of Hedgeton, Cara thought Lord Eliot would stop. But he didn't. He was laughing now, too, pulling her along as they ran and ran. She felt strange – her body was still reeling from the shocking sensations of his tongue caressing hers, of the heat of his body as he lifted her so easily off the floor and bade her kiss him. Her mind was abuzz with a thousand thoughts that flitted by like bees hurrying back to a hive. She couldn't seem to grasp onto any of them. They were too small, too fragmented, and too fast. Her heart was racing.
"Why...are we...still running?" she asked breathlessly.
"Because we can, Lady Boyle!" he chuckled. But then he skidded to a sudden halt and she nearly lost her balance as she tried to stop her own momentum.
"Whoa there!" he said, turning to face her. He braced her firmly as she stumbled slightly into him. Once again, his hands were on her waist and that mad thrill worked its way through Cara's body once more. She could feel a hot blush flare to life in her cheeks, and she was suddenly keenly aware of the heaving of her chest as she fought to catch her breath. Lord Eliot's face was all seriousness now. In a single quick motion, he performed a quarter turn and backed her up against the wall of the corridor. The thrill settled in the secret place between her legs and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from emitting the sharp, excited cry that threatened. His face was very close to hers now and she was sure that he would kiss her again in the next second. But he didn't. He only looked at her with those piercing blue eyes of his that had been so merry just moments before. There was a hunger in them now – an urgency.
"You're a wild little creature, aren't you?" he asked.
Cara said nothing – only swallowed hard, waiting for Eliot to elaborate. But he didn't. He inclined his head and brought his nose very near the column of her neck and inhaled. It was a strange gesture, thoroughly intimate. She knew he was sampling her, in a way. He was taking in the smell of the light sweat that had broken in her hairline during their run through the halls...the scent of her skin and probably the soap she had used this morning during her toilette. She held her breath, wanting badly to feel his lips on her once more. She yearned to feel his body pressed up against hers, to feel that sweet, full-to-bursting sensation she'd experienced in the gallery just moments before...
"I must admit," Lord Eliot murmured, "it's very hard for me to believe that Lord Boyle didn't pluck you on the one night you spent together."
The statement landed on her ears with a vulgar thud. Her eyebrows contracted sharply into an upside down V of distaste.
"What?" she said disbelievingly.
"I said, I can't believe that Lord Boyle didn't rush you from the altar straight into the bedroom, as fast as he could." He was smiling rakishly. Devilishly.
Without thinking, she put both hands on his chest and tried to push him away. Suddenly, she was feeling very claustrophobic indeed.
"Do not speak of the night of my marriage to Lord Boyle again," she bit out. The excitement in her breast had turned to a tight knot of pain. What had happened? She'd been so...happy. For the first time in ages, she’d been happy. And then, there was the sudden wolfish shift in Lord Eliot and worse, the reminder of her miserable, brief marriage to Lord Boyle. It had stolen all the delight from the day and cast a gray pall over everything.
"Come, now, I didn't mean to upset you," Lord Eliot said, stepping back a pace or two. If Cara had been able to meet his eyes, she would have seen that all the licentiousness had disappeared from them and that a truly solicitous look had replaced it. "It was only in jest."
"Some things do not bear jesting, Lord Eliot." She fought to keep the emotion at bay. She was astounded – and ashamed – to feel tears pricking at her eyes. Since meeting Quentin Eliot, she'd been prone to an awful lot of weeping. It was a fact she couldn't help but notice now.
Until this moment, she had almost completely successfully buried the memories of that terrible night. Whenever she spoke of her late husband – as she had on that first day at Hedgeton, at the party – it was always with the sour bite of irony. It was a type of irony that allowed her distance from the truth of what had happened. It was a truth that she hadn't even admitted to her papa.
But something about this moment, this day... She'd let her guard down to Eliot. She'd allowed herself to experience pleasure in his company and at his touch. She'd made herself vulnerable to him, and he'd taken the unexpected sweetness of all of that and turned it sour in an instant by bringing up Lord Boyle with his crass comment.
Cara put the steel back in her spine – not without trouble, though. Her cheeks were still flushed and her hair had come partially undone. She patted it down and brushed off her frock, trying to get hold of herself. She was striving for some detachment, for some hardness.
Lord Eliot watched all of this with great interest and no small amount of disappointment and wonder. She was still unable to meet his eyes for a long moment, during which she stood silently with her back to the wall, her hands folded before her. Finally, she looked up at him. The thoughtful look on his face mollified her somewhat. It was clear that her reaction had indeed startled him.
"I think I'm tired," she murmured. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it was a deflection. She felt strongly that she needed to get back to her room, to be alone and to consider everything silently and in her own time.
"Very well," Eliot said. His face had become blank mask. He tugged his vest down and turned on his heel. She suddenly felt very foolish, as though she'd ruined something beautiful that was just beginning, squashed a new rosebud between her fingers. But then she reminded herself that what Eliot said had been quite rude. She hadn't misheard him. Of course, his sense of humor was just that way. In fact, what he'd said had probably intended as a compliment. Still, the words had touched something painful in her that she couldn't ignore.
When they reached East wing, Eliot turned and bowed stiffly.
"I trust you have your bearings now. Just down that hall and to the right is your room."
"Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."
She was on the point of calling him back when he turned to go. Part of her wanted to offer him an explanation. But that would entail reliving the past in some way, and she just wasn't ready to do that. Not yet.
With a heavy sigh, she turned and began to make her way back to her chambers. There was a dull ache in her knee once again, and she felt tired – and confused.
***
Cara took dinner in her room, sitting on her bed with a cold cloth draped over her knee. She didn't think she'd re-injured anything. But the exerti
ons of the day had exacerbated the swelling again. Mrs. Cooper fussed over her a good deal, but Cara couldn't enjoy the old housekeeper's banter as she usually did.
"My, you're quiet tonight!" Mrs. Cooper finally exclaimed. She took the dinner tray from Cara's lap and set it aside. "Overwhelmed by the tour, were you?"
"Yes," Cara admitted. In fact, that was a pretty succinct description of how she felt, even if it lacked specificity.
"Did you see the gallery?"
"I did."
"Well?" Mrs. Cooper asked expectantly. The housekeeper's cheeks were as shiny and red as two fresh apples, and a grin was stretching her pleasant features.
"It was most...impressive," was all Cara could manage.
It was obviously not the response Mrs. Cooper had been expecting.
"'Impressive?’ Why, it's downright regal! All those portraits – the artistry! Awe-inspiring! And to think...someday your portrait will be sitting up there, too! Perhaps Lord Eliot will commission a double portrait, even. 'Twould make a good first anniversary gift, don't you think? Although perhaps he'll wait until you bring some little ones along, and then have a painting made of the whole pretty family!"
The suggestion of children caused images and feelings to pop into Cara's mind like bubbles rising to the surface of the pond. She could still feel Lord Eliot's fingers digging into the flesh of her waist as he lifted her for the kiss and the warm wetness of his lips against hers...his tongue dancing in her mouth. And children...oh God. There was a pulling in her chest at the very word, a deep yearning unlike anything she'd ever experienced. To have Lord Quentin Eliot's children...
"Lady Boyle? Lady Boyle, is something the matter?"
Cara shook her head.
"I don't know, Mrs. Cooper. Sometimes I feel..."
"What, child?" Mrs. Cooper asked, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. If Cara had been in any other mood, she would have checked the housekeeper's informal tone. But no indignant feelings stirred in her now.
"Sometimes I feel as though I'm broken inside," she finished.
Mrs. Cooper's happy features fell and suddenly they took on a look of sincere regret that Cara never would have guessed the jolly woman capable of.
"Oh, child," the housekeeper breathed. She encircled Cara in her strong arms. "I suspect you've been through some things in your life...things that have been hard. But look at you – they've not crushed you. You're here. And Lord Quentin Eliot loves you! That means for sure you're not broken – even if you do feel that way."
Cara looked up into the kindly housekeeper's face, genuinely touched.
"Do you really think he loves me?"
"I don't think it. I know it. I knew it from the first day you arrived. When he carried you up the stairs, the way you two were having a go at each other... Even through your pain, you were matching him word for word, wit for wit. When you passed out, I saw a look come over his face that I'd not seen in years – not since his Sarah died. He cared for you, even then."
Cara could feel emotion welling up inside her. She turned and buried her face in the housekeeper's shoulder. She was grateful that for once, Mrs. Cooper didn't say anything. She just silently held her, letting her vent the torrent of feelings through her tears.
When Cara was all cried out, Mrs. Cooper patted her on the back and smoothed a lock of hair behind her left ear.
"There, there," the housekeeper said. "Just you get some sleep. You'll need a lot of rest after today's exertion. You're a bit pale. I rather think that Lord Eliot might have pushed you too far today."
"That may be true," Cara said, feeling the true weight of the words.
"Well, he means for the best. Goodnight, my dear," Mrs. Cooper said, patting Cara's knee in a familiar, maternal way. "Just you ring for me in the night, should you need anything."
"I will. Thank you, Mrs. Cooper."
After the housekeeper left, Cara did not immediately blow out her candle. She found that although she was exhausted – both emotionally and physically – she was too restless and alert to try sleep. She was still thinking of all that had happened and the sour turn the afternoon had taken. Mrs. Cooper's words rang through her head. “He means for the best.” Deep down, she felt that to be the truth. Then, she remembered something Lord Eliot himself had said. She'd provoked him, and he'd replied.
There was a time when I was quite guileless. Defenseless. Made soft and simple by love. When my heart was broken because death stole that love from me, I was destroyed. Now I know how to arm myself!
Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. Perhaps his rakishness and his callousness are only the weapons with which he defends his pain. The thought made her heart soften perceptibly towards him, for she knew she had her own defenses in place – just different ones. And something else: when she searched her heart, Cara recognized that the very recklessness she had first disdained in Eliot was, in fact, quite attractive. It was what had led to the intoxicating kiss in the gallery. It was unpredictable. It was self-involved. It could even be messy, clumsy. But it was also utterly thrilling.
Once again, she felt a shockingly low twinge of excitement as she recalled the sensation of his mouth on hers. She sighed and waited for it to pass.
She knew she'd be hard pressed to fall asleep now, so she picked up one of the books on the nightstand. The binding was old and faded, almost illegible. The name on the frontispiece meant nothing to her, but she could plainly see that it was a book of French verses. Intrigued, Cara turned the page, hoping that her limited command of the language would prove no impediment to her enjoyment of the poetry. But reading the first stanza of the first poem, she clapped a hand over her mouth. It was quite bawdy – and more than a little funny. She found herself looking around the room to be sure that no one was watching – even though she knew that she was alone. Cara had heard that such works existed, but she'd never sought one out.
She read on, giggling and blushing to herself. There was a little part of her that felt guilty for reading something so improper, but then she reflected on how the book must have come to be sitting on her nightstand. Lord Eliot. Of course.
Her temper flared a little, just for a moment.
How could he imagine that it was appropriate to furnish my room with such a work? The hot question flashed through her mind, but soon it was quieted. Because he guessed that it would make me blush and laugh, which is exactly what it's done.
Once again, she had to marvel at how Eliot seemed to know her – or, at least, parts of her – better than she knew herself. It was so strange.
For another half hour she read on, giggling and sighing, feeling titillated by the naughty acts described within the pages of the book. But every so often, she'd have to put it aside. She'd close her eyes and recall the deliciousness of the kiss she had shared with Eliot in the gallery, and the sensual promise it held...
When finally she dozed off into a deep sleep, the distressing memories that had reared their ugly heads in the afternoon were nowhere to be seen
She dreamt of the warmth of Lord Eliot's body, of his caress, of the deep blue pools of his eyes searching her face as he touched her.
Chapter Six
Cara was up with the sun the next morning. She felt refreshed, excited even. The pain in her knee was almost completely gone. For the first time since arriving at Hedgeton, she was inclined to take breakfast downstairs. She performed her toilette quickly and then slipped into a simple, striped day dress of linen that she found in the closet. It had been placed there along with the rest of the fine wardrobe that Lord Eliot had selected. The maids had unpacked it all the day before while she had been out of the room for several hours touring Hedgeton.
She decided to fix her hair half up, half down, letting the better part of it spill down her back. She was eager to see Lord Eliot and set right the strain between them that had colored their parting on the previous afternoon. She'd heard that he always took his breakfast in the kitchen, just as he took his nightcap there at the end of the day. So, that'
s where her feet led her at just a little past seven.
She got a bit lost on the ground floor, encountering several servants who just stared at her wide-eyed. Finally, she had to ask for directions from a young maid, who was pleasant enough in the end.
"Just go through those doors, Lady Boyle, and then to your right. The main door to the kitchen's at the end of the hall, you'll see."
"What is your name?" Cara asked.
"Eleanor," the girl replied somewhat timidly.
"Thank you, Eleanor."
The maid bobbed a little curtsey and rushed off. Her directions were good. As Cara made her way down the final hall, she could smell the aroma of fresh-baked bread and what could only be pork sausage cooking in a griddle. She stopped just outside the door and straightened herself out. She wanted to look good for Lord Eliot on the occasion of their first breakfast together.
But when she stepped into the kitchen, there was no one about but the rather corpulent cook, who looked oddly familiar.
"Hello! You must be Lady Boyle! So delighted that you've finally come down to see the wee galley, as it were!" The big woman's words tumbled out in a happy flood. "I hope you like pork sausage with gravy – it's a bit on the heavy side for breakfast every day, but once or twice a week, I say it's just fine! And it's what Lord Eliot wanted this morning, and I live to serve, so!"
"That sounds delicious," Cara murmured. "Lord Eliot, he's not down yet? I thought he was an early riser."
"To be sure, ma'am! In fact, you've already missed him! He took his breakfast here half an hour ago and then set out."
"Oh," Cara said, unable to mask the disappointment she felt. "Where did he go?"
"He said something about a hunt today, ma'am, but I don't like to pry. Lord Eliot will do as Lord Eliot will do – likes to keep an air of mystery about him, that one does!"
The cook chuckled heartily, then. When her laughter had subsided somewhat, Cara took the opportunity to ask her name.
"It's Mrs. Cooper, love!"
"But...that's the housekeeper's name."
