The Earl with the Secret Tattoo
Page 8
They’d never speak again.
James’s heart swelled with so much feeling that he had to stand. And once Stubing left and Reeves did the same, he was glad to walk. He lingered in the neighborhood as long as he could without looking obvious, his eyes flicking occasionally to Lady Eleanor’s window as he browsed a few shops.
And then he saw it, the flower in the blue vase.
His heart caught in his throat. Eleanor was safe—his Eleanor was safe.
Thank God.
<#>
It was a week later, and what a week it had been for Eleanor. Her mother had been thrown into a profound depression. But seven days after Lord Pritchard had been hauled off in a most ignominious manner, Eleanor felt a glimmer of hope when she brought in her mother’s tea tray.
“You must eat today, Mother,” she told her.
Mother sat up, her face still slack with grief and shock. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You will.”
“Ah, Elly. You must hate me.” Mother closed her eyes, but little tears squeezed out anyway. It was the first time she’d cried since her traitorous husband had been arrested.
“I don’t hate you.” Eleanor sat on the bed next to her. “I love you.”
Her mother opened her eyes and placed her hand on Eleanor’s arm. Eleanor saw the first signs of aging in her mother’s hand. The skin was thinner, her fingers more gaunt, and there were several brown spots sprinkled on her flesh. But that fragile hand only made Eleanor feel more tender toward her parent, despite all the sadness and wrongs that had come between them.
With great love, Eleanor placed her hand over Mother’s.
“I’ve been wicked,” Mother said. “Wicked. But I can’t tell you why.”
“I already know,” Elly replied softly. “You were in love with Lord Pritchard long before Papa died, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Mother said. “Yes, I was.” She clutched her coverlet with her free hand and let out a long moan. “Oh, Elly, I was blinded by his charm. We were the same, both of us…shallow, selfish people. And I didn’t appreciate what I had in your father—a man of substance. A man who loved me. I should go to hell. I should keep Pritchard company there.”
And she burst into real tears.
Eleanor held her tight and let her cry. “Mother, you should not go to hell. You might have been selfish, but Pritchard’s evil.”
“I had no idea I was sleeping with a murderer,” Mother said into her shoulder. “How will I ever hold my head up again? How will I look at myself in the mirror? How will I face you?”
Eleanor leaned back and took both her hands. “By killing off the silly character you’ve adopted all these years. Be the woman of substance Papa recognized in you when you married.”
Mother sniffed. “It’s true. I used to be quite…nice. And clever, too, in a simple way. Not showy. I beat your father at chess often, and it wasn’t because he let me.” She chuckled. “We had fun in the old days.”
Eleanor laughed. “You can still be that way, and I’ll be the proudest daughter in the world when you are.”
“I feel I want to be a mother much more than I want to be acclaimed.” Mother sounded surprised.
“I’m glad,” Eleanor said. “Because I want to be your daughter. Very much. We need each other, Mother.”
They shared a long hug and talked of smaller things, too, such as the state of the weather, which Mother hadn’t seen in seven days, as well as the numerous calling cards that had been left in the tray for her downstairs by concerned friends—the genuine friends that Mother still had, including the Marchioness of Brady.
Then Mother got out of bed and decided to visit the lending library, not to see her friends but because she had a great urge to read Plato. She wasn’t sure why, but she planned on doing so immediately.
But to do it in Bath.
Clare decided to go to Bath with her. Eleanor was surprised that Clare had withstood the drama of the past week with such élan—but she had. She’d already apologized to Eleanor several times, as well.
And now she was doing it again from the carriage window. “He’s my father, Eleanor, and he did horrible wrongs. I’m so sorry. But Henly refuses to let me take any responsibility for Father’s deeds. Henly loves me anyway.”
“As well he should,” Eleanor said. “You’re not at all to blame.”
“Thank you.” Clare’s face softened. “Henly’s the only man I care to impress. And you’re the only woman.” She reached down her hand, and Eleanor gripped it. “I love you, sister.”
Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears. “I love you, too. And when you get back from Bath, you’ll be married soon after, and to a wonderful man. You’ve loads to look forward to, so stay strong.”
“I will.” And Clare had waved to her and the chaperone Mother had arranged to come stay with Eleanor—Aunt Phillipa, Mother’s very plain spinster sister, who lived in Kensington but who’d graciously agreed to come to stay now that “that fool Pritchard was gone for good.”
When James paid his usual call that afternoon—the highlight of Eleanor’s day—Aunt Phillipa stood up in the drawing room (James immediately stood as well) and said, “Children, my eyes need a rest. Forgive me, but I’m going to the attics for a nap. And Lord Tumbridge, I hope you’ll also forgive us for allowing every single servant an afternoon off. I’m afraid you’ll have to do without a second cup of tea.”
And then before they could protest, Aunt Phillipa walked out and left them alone.
When the last of her footsteps faded away, James moved a step toward Eleanor. “She sleeps in the attics?”
“She feels most comfortable in a cramped space.” Eleanor stood and took a step toward him, too.
There was a low table between them holding the tea tray.
James took a step over the top of the silver teapot and landed right next to her.
“You couldn’t go around the table?” she asked him softly, her brow arched high.
“No,” he said with a grin, and pulled her close. “It would have taken too long.”
And then he kissed her, turning her world completely upside down. They sank to the carpet and leaned against the couch, kissing all the while.
“James,” Eleanor said, and rubbed her hand on his back. She couldn’t help remembering what had happened between them the last time they kissed—and hoping it would happen again.
“Eleanor,” he said back, kissing her face, her earlobes, her neck. “Your aunt is either hopelessly naïve or the shrewdest member of your mother’s family. I suspect the latter.”
“You’d be right.” She put her hands on his chest and snuggled up to him.
And then he lowered his head to the tops of her breasts and kissed them, all while rubbing her back and caressing her waist and stroking her hair with his long, agile fingers.
How did he manage everything at once? Eleanor wondered.
He was also working hard on lowering her bodice, but she distracted him by yanking on his jacket. And then her hands were all over his chest. Somehow, with much fumbling and only the tiniest ripping sound that came from a seam at his shoulder, she was able to get his shirt off.
“Could I please ask you to turn around?” she said. “I’d like to see that tattoo. Up close.”
“All right.” He kissed her chin and cupped her right breast at the same time. And then his fingers were playing at her lacy neckline.
But she reminded him: “Please? Your tattoo?”
“Are you sure? Right now?” His voice was the husky tone she remembered it being the first time they’d kissed.
A marvelous sense of anticipation welled up in her.
“Yes,” she said, adoring every visible inch of skin she could see on him. His chest was a work of art. “Right now.”
“Very well.”
She could tell he was striving for patience. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned around.
And there was the tattoo.
“Oh, my,” she said, on her knees. “It
’s a stunning picture.” She fumbled with her own ties and shimmied out of the top of her gown. Silent as a mouse, she removed her stays. “A circle of three cats, their tails intertwined in the center of the circle. Tell me about them.”
And so he did. He told her a wonderful story about how the Celtic cat design had come to her father in a dream and he’d woken up and quickly sketched it to represent the men of the Brotherhood. The cat was the legendary guardian of the secrets of the hidden realm—clever, silent, and stoic. Three cats with their tails intertwined represented the unity of those who’d chosen to serve their country without public recognition.
“How fitting for Papa and you. Did everyone in the Brotherhood get the tattoo?”
“No,” James said, warming to the subject. “Only I.”
“Really?” she said, feeling a bit breathy. “It makes a special bond between you and Papa, doesn’t it?”
“That was my intention.”
“Ah! That makes me very happy. But for now let’s not talk about the Brotherhood or the tattoo.” What she was about to do was extremely daring. And naughty. “Let’s talk of you. Of us.”
And she wrapped her arms around James’s back and squeezed him tight. The feeling of her breasts pressed against his hot, naked form was exquisite.
He almost flinched but caught himself. Instead, just like a man, he tried to get control of the situation by grabbing her forearms. “You minx,” he said on a groan. “What happened to your gown?”
“It’s around my hips,” she said, and kissed the back of his neck.
“Not for long,” he said, and twisted around to kiss her.
Ah, she thought. Love was a heady, wondrous banquet—and she had James with whom to share it. She reached for the hard length of him beneath his taut breeches and squeezed gently.
“What shall I do with it?” she whispered as she stroked him with a slow, burning anticipation.
“Nothing,” he croaked, and kissed her. “It’s you I want to touch, you I want to bring to pleasure again.”
“I want that, too,” she said. “But I also want to do the same for you. I want to see you as euphoric as you make me.” Without asking permission, she went to work on unfastening his breeches, which annoyed her at the moment as they were preventing her further explorations of his athletic form.
“Don’t,” he said.
She laughed. “That was the most insincere don’t I’ve ever heard.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps it was.” Then he grabbed her wrist and pulled it up. “Fine,” he whispered. “But you first.”
He took her other wrist, too, and laid her down on the carpet. His eyes sparked with an appealing masculine triumph that sent shivers through her.
“Have it your way, then,” she said softly.
“I shall.” His tone was silky.
A thrill went through her.
She couldn’t help a nervous giggle when he pulled her already rumpled gown off her body and then her silky drawers. His next surprising move was to spread her legs with sure hands and kiss the inside of her thighs, pausing only to run his tongue in light, lazy circles that moved ever closer to her most sensitive flesh.
The next thing she knew, Eleanor was in Heaven, or as close as she could come to it while still on earth.
In London.
Beneath Aunt Phillipa’s attic bedchamber.
And in Mother’s stuffy drawing room, which would never look the same to her again.
<#>
Eleanor was in a love stupor. That was all she could think to call it when she and James strolled through Hyde Park an hour later. Could anyone tell how happy they were? Did they sense that mere moments ago, the two of them had been naked and prostrate on the rug in her mother’s very proper drawing room?
Could they tell that she’d kissed the Earl of Tumbridge’s tattoo? That she’d managed to get his breeches off, after all, and stroked that marvelous creation between his legs until he’d lost complete and utter control, much to her delight and satisfaction—and his?
That he’d kissed her thighs?
Her breasts?
And then he’d adored the very vulnerable center of her femininity with his mouth, tongue, and fingers, sending her into even more paroxysms of pleasure than she’d experienced the first time he’d brought her to utter bliss at his house?
If anyone could tell, she didn’t care.
“When I met your father, I was drunk, bleary-eyed, and hopeless,” James was telling her now.
His nearness, the way the sun glinted through his hair, was driving Eleanor mad with the desire to kiss him again.
“I was at a pub outside of Oxford,” he said, seemingly oblivious of her frustration, “and it was the third time I’d been sent down from the university for bad behavior and failing grades.”
“Goodness,” said Eleanor.
“No, badness,” he replied with a chuckle. “I was very, very bad.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said lightly. “You said it yourself that the aloof, cold, bad Earl of Tumbridge was an illusion.”
“Yes, he was, but illusions prop us up when we’re too afraid of the truth. And the truth was, at that time of my life, I was a lonely young man with no direction.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll grant you that.”
He wouldn’t be lonely anymore if she had anything to do with it.
He pulled her arm closer through his, which made her very happy.
“At any rate,” her beloved said, “I was asked by the dean never to return. So I began contemplating jumping off a bridge.”
Eleanor gasped. “No.”
“Yes. I told you how my diplomat father had been killed in the wars, brought down by a French team informed of his whereabouts by none other than Lord Pritchard.”
“We both have that in common, don’t we?” Eleanor said sadly.
“Yes. And my mother had recently died, as well.” James’s profile was sober. “My sister would have none of me, and I don’t blame her. But in one of the most profound moments of my life—which also happened to be one of the lowest and neediest—Lord Kersey appeared at my table, dragged my inebriated body to his coach, put me to bed for two days at an undisclosed location near London, and when I was perfectly sober on the third day, urged me to join the—”
“The group,” Eleanor supplied.
“Exactly.” James grinned. “Your father said he knew I was better than the way I was behaving. He’d known my father, and he even remembered me as a little boy. He said he refused to give up on me, and he wouldn’t let me give up on myself. And for that, I’ll be forever thankful to him.”
Eleanor’s eyes began to burn. “We both had excellent fathers.”
James gripped her hand. “We did.”
She stopped and faced him. “I received a letter today.”
“Oh?”
“From a family who wants me to serve as governess to their children.” Her chest constricted with worry. What if she were imagining everything? What if this love she felt for James wasn’t returned? Yes, he liked to kiss her—and he did it exceedingly well—but what if she were simply a distraction from the fact that he had nothing exciting to occupy himself with anymore, except the regular duties of an earl?
“This family is in Devon,” she continued. “So…it’s not too far from London. And my mother. Which is a good thing, now that she’s improving.”
“Really.” James didn’t look terribly happy for Eleanor.
Hope rose up in her, like a butterfly.
“Yes,” she said. “The family wants me to start in two weeks.” She began walking again.
“Will you interfere again this time?” She kept her tone light.
He didn’t say anything for a long time, his eyes on the one fluffy cloud in the sky. “No,” he answered firmly. “I won’t.”
They continued strolling, and Eleanor’s heart fell so hard to her feet, she couldn’t feel them anymore. It felt as though she were walking through sludge.
“I’m done protecting you, remember?” He squinted at her as the sun was behind her head.
She nodded, hating that he looked so handsome, so rough-and-tumble. “I don’t need you to protect me anymore, much as I appreciate the sentiment.”
They walked on and on, and it grew harder and harder for Eleanor to breathe.
And then James stopped. “But I wondered something….”
“Yes?” There was a big gust of wind. The leaves on the trees rustled; their branches swayed. Eleanor’s heart didn’t know how to beat at this point. It simply did. First, fast. And then slow. And then somewhere in between fast and slow, the longer she looked at James and recognized what a good, good man he was.
“Would you be interested in protecting me?” he asked her, and her heart took off again at a ridiculous pace.
“From what?” she asked.
He pulled a strand of hair out of her eyes. “From a broken heart, you see. Because if you go, Eleanor, I’ll never be happy again.”
A robin swooped down on a nearby branch and flitted off again on another gust of air.
“You won’t?” she whispered.
“I won’t,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Not unless you’re with me. I love you. You’re my heart. And soul.” He kissed her. “Marry me, Eleanor. Please, my darling.”
She smiled so broadly, she caught another strand of hair, this time in her mouth.
James pulled out the wisp of dark gold and held it to his lips for a kiss of its own.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, James Dawbry,” Eleanor said.
And in his eyes, she saw their story—its beginning, its vast, as-yet-unknown middle that she longed to write with him, but no ending.
Because love, Eleanor knew, was forever.
Read on for an excerpt from Kieran Kramer’s next book in the House of Brady series
THE EARL IS MINE
Coming in March 2013 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Chapter 1
For Lady Pippa Harrington, it wasn’t going to be the usual Sunday family dinner at Uncle Bertie’s. Those were full of ridiculous speeches by her stepfather, Sir Harold Tavistock, followed by taut silences and the occasional grrr from one of Uncle Bertie’s eight corgis under the table. No, tonight, Pippa’s great-uncle was celebrating his birthday, and as always, he would have the same guest, his godson Gregory Sherwood, Lord Westdale, son of the Marquess and Marchioness of Brady—one of the most eligible bachelors in London and a talented young architect.