Behind the Mask (House of Lords)

by Brooke, Meg

  He laughed. “I suppose you are right. But I think the answer to both questions is no, Miss Chesney.”

  “Are we in great danger?” she asked seriously. “I know you told Mama everything was all right, but I can’t help but worry—”

  “I do not believe you are in danger now, Miss Chesney. But if you insist on accompanying me as I search for the assassins, you will be.”

  “Was that what your friend Yates was doing?”

  “I think so,” Colin said, though it was a question that had been troubling him for much of the day. Why, exactly, had Yates been captured and killed? As soon as Strathmore and Leo returned he meant to investigate the circumstances that had led to Yates’s death, for he had many unanswered questions about how the Serraray had found him so quickly. If Yates had confronted them, that was one thing, but Colin did not believe the man would have been so foolish. And yet the other explanation was even more terrifying: somehow, the Serraray had known that Yates would be in Porter-on-Bolling, had been looking out for him. It would have been highly unlikely for them to have captured him so soon after his arrival in the village without some prior knowledge that he would be there.

  And if they had known that Yates would be there...well, Colin did not even want to think about the possible implications. He had dealt with double agents before, and it was an experience he never wished to repeat.

  She shook her head. “There is no one else who can help you discreetly, not until Leo returns. He does not know the Park as well as I do, in any case. And I really won’t be any trouble, I promise. I can take care of myself; I know how to shoot a pistol.”

  “Miss Chesney,” he said, “are you under the impression that I don’t want your help?”

  She looked up at him. “I just assumed...”

  “You were wrong. I need your help. You’re right—there is no one else who can assist me effectively. There is only you, or possibly one of the grooms. And quite frankly, I would rather spend long hours in the saddle with you than him.” She blushed, and he realized the double entendre of his words. When she raised her eyes and met his, the temptation to take advantage of this moment alone was too great. He dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers. When he did, he felt her grip on his sleeve tighten. He stepped closer, sliding his other arm around her waist, pulling her against him. She made a soft sound low in her throat that nearly undid him. He forced himself to pull back, though he didn't let her go. When he broke the kiss she looked up at him through her thick lashes, her expression unreadable in the feeble light of the single candle. But then she went up on her toes, her free hand clutching at his lapel, and pressed her lips to his.

  It was too much. With a low groan her pulled her even closer, forcing her mouth open so that his tongue could slide inside. He could feel his erection pressing against her, her body molded to his in the sweetest torment. Her fingers teased his ear and slid into his hair. He gripped the fabric of her gown, forcing himself not to reach up and pull every pin from her glorious golden hair.

  “We must stop,” he whispered against her lips. “We must stop now.” Though he knew it was true, he had never regretted any words more than those. “This is a mistake.”

  She rested her forehead against his shoulder. “You’re right,” she said softly. She stepped away from him, smoothing her skirt. “Are you satisfied with the condition of the tunnel?” she asked, her tone perfectly neutral.

  He knew his face was bright red. “Yes, of course,” he said.

  She nodded seriously, then turned and led him back out into the cold room. “I’ll go up first,” she said, handing him the candle. “You can follow when you’re ready.” Then she left him standing there in the cold room, staring after her as she swept out. He pushed the shelf back into place, hearing the invisible latch click when the hinges stopped groaning.

  By the time Colin collected himself and followed her, she was sitting at the piano playing a duet with her sister. There was not another opportunity for them to speak for the remainder of the evening.

  ELEVEN

  August 31, 1834

  Eleanor arose before the sun. She had spent a restless night, tossing and turning. When she managed to drift off to sleep she found herself dreaming of Lord Pierce, of the way his lips had felt against hers in the Priest’s Passage. She woke feeling groggy and confused. As she dressed in her riding clothes she asked herself what had come over her in the Priest’s Passage.

  He had pulled away. He had given her a chance to escape, and instead she had thrown herself at him. He had not seemed horrified by her licentiousness, but he had certainly made it clear that it had been a foolish misstep, and he was right. If there was one thing her mother had consistently taught her, it was that men did not marry girls who behaved so wantonly.

  But it had felt so good, so right, to be there in his arms. Perhaps it was the fear of being in that dark tunnel again that had made it so exciting. Whatever it was, she had allowed herself to be swept up in the moment, to forget everything else and think only of him. Eleanor wondered now if this was the mystifying emotion Clarissa felt for her husband, if this rightness was what had made Cynthia fall in love with the Duke of Danforth. Had she ever felt that with Toby? As she lay awake in her bed long past midnight, staring up at the ceiling, she tried to remember those days, but sixteen seemed so long ago that she could not quite picture herself then.

  She had certainly felt a stir of emotions when she saw Toby again. She was able to recognize that much. Seeing him, she had been transported back to that night, when she had climbed the ladder up out of the tunnel into the ruins and seen him there in the moonlight, waiting for her, his mother’s ring burning a hole in his pocket. Now she knew that she had not really loved him then. She had been too young, too naive, and too rash. She could certainly blame her foolishness then on her youth, and the moonlight. Perhaps now, when she was so much older and wiser, she could come to truly love him. He was certainly a far more stable prospect than Lord Pierce, who would be gone to the Continent again in the space of three weeks. She would never see him again. Was it that instability that made him so appealing?

  No, she decided. It was quite the opposite. He made her feel safe, protected, as though he would never, ever hurt her and would certainly never allow any harm to come to her. She had always been terrified of the Priest’s Passage, even on that night so long ago when she had known what awaited her at the end. With Lord Pierce at her side she had not been afraid to go into the darkness. But Toby had abandoned her, had walked away when she expected him to stand and fight, and though she knew it would fulfill the hopes of many to see her marry him, she was not sure she could ever forgive him.

  Now, as she made her way downstairs, she tried to steer her thoughts to the task at hand. It was good to feel needed for something other than her ability to choose the correct floral arrangements. Of course, Mrs. Clarence would not be happy when she discovered that Eleanor had gone out for the day, not when there were still so many preparations to be made. But Eleanor was holding out hope that Sir John Conroy might see reason and agree to take the princess back to London, and that she would not have to worry about all the decisions that still waited for her.

  In any event, Leo would return today with Mr. Strathmore, and they would know whether or not they should still expect their royal visitor.

  She had hoped to be able to enjoy a few moments’ solitude in the dining room, but as she neared it she heard voices within, or rather one voice—her mother’s. Lady Sidney was not characteristically an early riser, and so Eleanor slowed her steps outside the door, treading silently, wondering sardonically who was enjoying her mother’s company.

  “...terribly wounded, I think, Lord Pierce,” her mother was saying. “It was a dreadful business. I hated to refuse him, but what could I do? She was so very young.”

  There was a pause. Eleanor tried to imagine Lord Pierce’s face. She supposed it was probably almost the same shade of red as her own. What was her mother doing telling a
relative stranger about Toby?

  “Whatever her feelings about him now, I do not believe her heart will be easily touched. You will have your work cut out for you there.”

  Eleanor could bear no more. She put one hand on the door just as Lord Pierce said, “My Lady, I do not—” but he stopped abruptly when she walked in. Her mother looked up, her face transformed in a beatific smile.

  “Why, Eleanor! Did you sleep well, dear?”

  “Very,” Eleanor lied, going over to kiss her mother’s cheek. She was sure she looked quite haggard, though her mother at least had the decency not to say so.

  Lord Pierce’s face was, indeed, almost the same color red as the roasted tomato on his plate. She sat down beside him with her coffee and toast, and for a long time no one spoke. Lady Sidney stared down at a letter that was spread across the tablecloth before her. Eleanor tried to pretend her mother was not there, imagining that it was just she and Lord Pierce at the table. She caught herself wondering idly if this might be how every morning progressed if they were married and pushed the thought away.

  “The girls and I will be attending church later,” her mother said. “I suppose Mr. Loden will have something to say about these terrible circumstances.”

  Eleanor nodded silently but did not reply. She knew she should not be angry with her mother for telling Lord Pierce about Toby, but she could not seem to keep her emotions in check, and she knew that if she opened her mouth she would only make matters worse. When she had swallowed the last of her breakfast she stood. “Shall we be off?” she asked.

  He took a last sip of coffee. “Of course.”

  “Have a pleasant ride, dear,” her mother said as if she had no earthly idea what they were about. Eleanor wondered if she had decided to pretend none of this was happening, that it was just another lazy week in the country. Perhaps it was for the best—it would save Lady Sidney a good deal of worry.

  Lord Pierce followed her out into the stable yard, where they waited for their horses to be saddled and she endured John’s penetrating stares. The man had an uncanny ability to see right through Eleanor—he always had, even when they were children. Eleanor remembered a day when Leo had broken a window in her mother’s sitting room. It had been an accident, but Leo had been fourteen or so and had not wanted to take the blame, and so he had disappeared while Eleanor was called before their father to explain the incident. She, thinking that she was protecting her brother, had lied and said that it was her fault, and had taken the punishment. Late that night when she had endured an evening alone in her room without supper, John had appeared with a cup of chocolate and several biscuits, but before he would give them to her he asked, “Why did you do it?”

  “Break the window?” she asked, ready with a made-up reason.

  But he had shaken his head. “Why did you lie for Leo? Your father knows he did it, he’s just waiting to see if Leo will be a man and admit it.”

  Eleanor had wanted to cry when she heard this. All her suffering seemed futile in that moment. But she had bit her lip and stubbornly refused to let the tears fall. “How did you know I lied?”

  “You’re like an open book,” John said, disappearing back into the corridor.

  Now the head groom seemed to understand that there were layers to the situation that he could not see, things hidden below the surface that were like the gnarled roots of a tree, impossible to unravel. He was silent as their horses were led out, but after he had boosted her into the saddle he said softly, “Be careful, Eleanor.”

  She almost smiled at his use of her name, but Lord Pierce was watching, so she simply nodded and led the way out of the yard. Veering south, she headed for the flats. It seemed logical to begin there, where anything out of the ordinary would be immediately visible. Besides, there was an old man who owned one of the windmills out there who always seemed to know anything and everything that happened in Porter-on-Bolling.

  When they had almost reached the edge of the park Lord Pierce drew up alongside her. “Miss Chesney,” he said, “about last night...”

  “Yes,” she said, turning to meet his eyes. “Allow me to apologize for my behavior. It was—”

  “Miss Chesney,” he interrupted her. “I meant to apologize to you. I acted rashly, and I only hoped you were not offended.”

  She knew she was blushing again. She looked away. “I was not offended, My Lord,” she said, and then, taking an even greater risk, she added, “Quite the contrary.” He was staring at her—she could feel his eyes upon her.

  “I am glad to hear it,” he said at last. It was impossible to tell what he really meant, but Eleanor felt her flush deepen. He stared at her in silence for a long moment before he asked, "How much of what your mother told me did you hear?"

  "What makes you think I heard any of it?"

  He grinned. "You don't do a very good job of hiding your emotions," he said. “I saw the instant you came into the room that you had overheard at least some of what she said. You looked as though you might throttle her, poor woman.”

  "My mother has never known how to moderate her speaking voice," Eleanor said wryly. "I suppose she told you all about Toby."

  "Mr. Hollier? Yes, I suppose she did, or everything she knows at least. From my limited experience with you I would wager there is more to the story than what I heard."

  She nodded. "And you would be right. But that is in the past now," she added, embarrassed that she felt the need to stress her lack of connection with Toby. But she could not lie to herself about her reason for it: she wanted him to understand that she was unattached, that she was free. Perhaps nothing would come of it, but she knew that she could not deny the attraction she felt to him.

  “She told me about Lord Marsh, too,” he went on. “And Lord...oh, I can’t remember his name now.”

  “Lord Sherbourne,” she supplied, though it took her a moment to recall his name as well. The man had only displayed the mildest interest in her, after all, and had very quickly transferred his affections elsewhere when he discovered that Eleanor’s interests extended beyond embroidery and fashion.

  “Are you a committed spinster, then?” he asked jokingly.

  She knew she frowned. “I am hardly old enough to be a spinster, Lord Pierce,” she said. “But I suppose few would be surprised if I ended as one.”

  They were nearing the place where the valley opened up onto the wide, low floodplain, but Lord Pierce slowed his horse now. He reached out and gripped Mabon’s bridle, pulling the horse over towards him until their legs were touching. “Why should that be?” he asked, and when her eyes met his she saw something in them she did not quite understand.

  “I am not...to most men’s tastes,” she said, silently praying that he did not ask her to elaborate.

  He leaned over and kissed her—not the intense, devouring kiss he had given her last night, but something sweeter, softer, gentler. She found herself leaning into him, losing all ability to resist. The worry she had felt that she had offended him with her wanton behavior melted away, and somehow, with only the brush of his lips against hers, he made her feel that she could never do anything that would drive him away.

  When he pulled away, he said, “If we were not both on horseback I would show you how wrong you are, at least where this man is concerned.”

  “Lord Pierce—”

  “Do you think that you might call me Colin now?”

  She looked down at the place where their thighs were still pressed together. “I don’t know if—”

  “Only when we are alone.”

  She met his eyes again. “Very well. Only if you will call me Eleanor,” she said.

  His hand brushed her thigh as he loosed Mabon’s bridle. “I’d like that.”

  As they rode out onto the flats, Eleanor asked herself what sort of foolish game she was playing. He had made it clear he was attracted to her, but he hardly knew her. He certainly could not claim that he would still find her as appealing when he knew not only how she looked but also the woman
beneath. Perhaps she would not even let him get that close. That way lay only disappointment and heartache.

  But when she looked over at him and he flashed her a rakish smile, she wondered if he might not be worth it.

  He was losing control. Colin had to force himself to admit it, though he was reluctant to acknowledge such an uncomfortable truth. For years, ever since Angeline, he had prided himself on being the master of his emotions, above the feelings other men felt. He had believed that he could make himself immune to the charms of a woman. That did not mean he had been a monk, of course. There had been women, but none of them held a candle to the beauty riding beside him, blissfully unaware of the effect she had on him.

  Perhaps he should turn the whole mission over to someone else. It might be for the best. Another man would be able to look at the situation with an unbiased eye.

  But that would be admitting defeat, which was something he could not imagine doing. He had been humiliated enough when he had been forced to leave Vienna in disgrace. He would not fail again. Colin knew, however, that he would not be able to resist Eleanor’s charms much longer, either. When she had said that she had not been offended by his kissing her—and, what was more, indicated that she would welcome such advances again—his heart had skipped a beat. How was it that the woman was so oblivious to the effect she had on men? Did she really think that other men would not be just as thrilled as he at the prospect of holding her, kissing her? Why should that be? What fault did she see in herself that he could not perceive?

  Focus, man, he chastised himself as they rode out onto the flats. There are more important things to think about.

  Eleanor led him along the river to another little bridge. Not far away stood one of the famous windmills of the Broads, this one painted a bright, sunny yellow. Attached to its base was a small structure painted the same cheerful color.

  “Most of the mills are windpumps,” Eleanor explained as they drew nearer. “But the Guller’s is a working mill. He and his wife raised twelve children in that little house.”