So she gathered all her strength, and said, ‘I can’t.’
Beneath his olive complexion he went white. ‘You can’t?’
She swallowed. ‘No.’
She looked at him across the distance of a few feet, and it felt as though it was a hundred miles.
‘But I thought . . . ’ he said in whisper. ‘But it seems I was mistaken. Is it the man I saw you with in Sidney Gardens?’
Sidney Gardens? She cast her mind back. She had not been in Sidney Gardens since she had met Thomas. She remembered Thomas’s exuberant embrace. So Lucien had seen that? Yes, he could have done. He had been on his way to her house, to visit her, and he would have had to pass close by the gardens.
She was about to tell him the truth of the matter when she saw that here was a way out of her terrible predicament. By going along with his suggestion that she was to marry Thomas she would have a reason for refusing Lucien’s hand, and then she would not have to endure the exquisite torture of becoming his wife. For that’s what it would be, to marry him without his love. A kind of torture.
‘Are you sure he will stand by you?’ Lucien said in a low voice. ‘After such a scandal, are you sure he will not abandon you? Because I will not.’
The huskiness of his voice set her insides quivering. But she must not give in to it. She must be strong.
‘I am sure. Thomas will not let me down.’
She hoped that he would now leave. But he did no such thing. Instead his eyes looked directly into her own. ‘And do you love him?’ he asked.
She could not answer him. So she turned away from him, and walked over to the fireplace. But he followed her. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and turned her round.
‘Do you love him?’ he asked again.
She knew she must say yes. End it. But with his eyes looking so deeply into her own she could not lie to him. And yet she must say something.
Pulling away from him, she gave a light laugh.
‘Love? What is love?’ she asked. ‘Something for poets to make verses about.’
She hoped she was fooling him. She was certainly not fooling herself.
‘Are you so certain that is all it is?’ he asked.
It would be so much easier if only he was not standing so close to her. She could feel the nearness of him, even though he was no longer touching her. She could feel the heat of him. She longed to go to him. And the longing was becoming more and more difficult to contain.
This was dangerous. She must bring the conversation to a speedy end. And to do so she must finally find the strength to lie.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I am twenty-six years old. If it was real then I would have found out by now.’
‘And haven’t you?’
The question was a direct challenge.
Her eyes flew to his, and for one insane moment she wanted to answer him honestly. She wanted to say, Yes. I have. I’ve found it with you. But she could not do it. She must maintain the charade, so that he would accept she would not marry him. So summoning all her courage, she said, ‘No.’
‘Then there is no more to be said.’
He gave her one last glance, full of an emotion she could not read, let alone begin to understand, and then strode out of the room.
Eleanor remained standing for one more minute and then collapsed onto the sofa. She had done it. She had rejected him. But it had cost her every last ounce of her strength.
‘You refused him?’ Arabella was aghast.
She had come back into the room once Lucien had left, and was looking at Eleanor in concern.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Eleanor, do you think you were wise? I know it is not what you once hoped for from marriage, but you were not made to be single. And Lord Silverton is an honourable man. I know you do not love him, but —’ And then she broke off. ‘Oh!’ Her eyes opened wide. There was a dawning of understanding. ‘So that’s it. You do love him. Now I understand.’
Eleanor nodded. ‘So you see, Bella, there is no way I could marry him, knowing that he does not love me.’
‘No. I see that. It would be too dreadful.’ Her face was stricken. But then her tone became determinedly cheerful. ‘Never mind, there will be someone else for you, you’ll see. Charles and I will have lots of balls and parties when we return from the Lake District and you will come to them all. And don’t forget we have a house in London. You will stay with us for the Season. There are a lot of nice young gentlemen in London,’ she said encouragingly. ‘You will soon forget all about Lord Silverton and fall in love with someone else.’
‘Of course.’ Eleanor spoke bracingly.
But she knew, and Arabella knew, that she lied.
Lucien felt numb as he left Ormston House. He had been so sure that Eleanor loved him, and he had been certain that she would accept his hand in marriage, but she had refused him.
His own feelings for her were so strong he’d been convinced they were returned, and it cut him to the heart to know he’d been mistaken.
That one fact destroyed his happiness and peace of mind.
All he could do now was bury himself in his work. Tie up the loose ends of the Drayforth affair; weed out Drayforth’s associates; and embark on some new mission which would distract his thoughts from his unbearable pain.
Chapter Eleven
Eleanor wandered over to the window. Cooper could be seen outside, digging over the garden. Until all of Drayforth’s associates had been rounded up there was a possibility she was in danger, and he had instructions to remain.
His presence reminded her of Lucien. She turned away from the window. The handsome lord was someone she would rather forget. She gave a hollow laugh. Forget him? That was impossible. But still she must do her best to put him out of her mind.
She turned her thoughts away from such a painful subject and fixed them firmly on the garden. As she was to have Cooper with her for some time longer, she decided she would ask him to create some extra flower beds. If she re-organized the garden it would give her something to occupy her mind.
Lucien remained in London throughout the months of October and November. Tidying up the loose ends surrounding Drayforth’s capture kept him mercifully occupied and left him little time to dwell on Eleanor’s rejection of his hand. Which was just as well, as it had caused him ferocious despair.
He had never known love before, and he had certainly not been looking for it, but when he had met Eleanor he had discovered feelings he had never known he possessed. She had aroused in him a sense of admiration as she had dealt with one dangerous situation after another, overcoming them with boundless courage. She had earned his respect for her loyalty to her sister. She had delighted him with her humour and shown him what it was like to have a strong sense of rapport with a woman. She had stirred his passions. And she had aroused in him a hitherto unknown instinct that had made him fiercely protective; a desire to make her his mate. She made him want to woo her and wed her; to hold her close and never let her go.
But she had refused him.
He must not dwell on it. He must turn his thoughts aside. But he could not do it. It preyed on his mind. She wasn’t in love with Thomas. She had admitted it. And yet she was going to marry him anyway.
The desire to go to Bath and convince her that she couldn’t marry such a fop came over him, as it had done every day since their last meeting, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he managed to fight it down. Again and again he thought over her words.
Love, she had said. What is love?
It was strange. For a time he had been convinced that she had been in love, and in love with him, but yet she had declared that she had never known that emotion. Could it really have been nothing more than arrogance that had led him to believe it? It must have been. And yet he still found that difficult to believe. He was not usually deceived about women’s feelings. But then, Eleanor was like no other woman he had ever known.
The door opened and Beddows walked in. ‘The carria
ge is here, my lord,’ he said.
Lucien withdrew his thoughts from their dark channels with difficulty. ‘Thank you, Beddows.’
Forcing his face into a normal expression, he put on his caped greatcoat and went out to his carriage, then headed off for his club. He was due to meet the general, and to discover whether the last of Drayforth’s associates had been captured, thus putting an end to the matter once and for all.
As he climbed out of his carriage, however, he was shocked to see Thomas on the pavement, just about to head into the same club. Only the greatest effort prevented a snarl from appearing on his face. But he must be polite. This was Eleanor’s intended, and no matter how bereft he was at the knowledge that she was to marry this ridiculous fop, he would not wound her by cutting her betrothed.
‘Hello, Silverton,’ said the younger man politely. Then, seeing that Lucien did not know his surname, he continued, ‘Darby. We met at Arabella’s wedding.’
‘Darby.’ Lucien tried to make it sound as though the meeting was a pleasure and not a form of torture.
Thomas proffered his hand and Lucien took it, resisting the urge to crush the younger man’s hand in his vice-like grip.
‘I want to thank you for helping Eleanor to retrieve those dreadful letters,’ said Thomas.
‘Think nothing of it.’
Lucien’s manner, whilst polite, was not welcoming, but Thomas did not seem to notice. He fell into step beside Lucien as the two of them went into White’s.
Lucien was torn between a desire to get away from Thomas as quickly as possible, before he said or did something unforgivable, and a desire to ask about Eleanor and find out how she was. He had not seen her since the day of his disastrous proposal and he wanted to make sure that she had recovered from her wound. He wrestled with himself for a moment, telling himself to put her out of his mind. But in the end he could not resist. ‘How is she?’ he asked.
Thomas sighed. ‘As beautiful as ever,’ he said.
Lucien clenched his fists but said nothing.
‘I don’t mind telling you, Silverton, I think she’s an angel. Her eyes - heavenly! And her smile - enchanting! Marriage suits her.’
‘Marriage?’ Lucien went white. Oh, God, the deed was done. She was married. And Thomas, this undeserving fool, was her husband! He fought down an urge to knock the man down. He should leave; get away. But he could not do it. Painful as it was, he had to know more. ‘When was the wedding?’ he asked, in what he hoped was a normal voice.
Darby looked at him strangely. ‘Why, last month, of course.’
‘In October?’ Ah! It was too terrible. So she had married Thomas almost as soon as she had rejected him. It had given her no pause for thought, then, his proposal. It had not made her reconsider, or delay. Then she could never have had any feelings for him after all. The knowledge was devastating.
‘Of course,’ said Thomas, looking at him more strangely than ever. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Remember?’ asked Lucien, wondering if Thomas thought he had been invited. That would have been the final straw, if he had actually been expected to attend.
‘Are you foxed?’ asked Thomas. ‘You must remember. You were there.’
‘There?’ asked Lucien, astonished.
‘Of course. In the abbey.’
Lucien started to breathe again, and his colour began to return. ‘You were talking about Arabella?’
‘Of course. She’s a beauty. I wrote an ode to her hair, and a sonnet to her eyes! Charles is a lucky man.’
‘Quite so,’ Lucien agreed mechanically. Against all reason, his hopes were beginning to rise. ‘But I was not talking about Arabella. I was talking about Miss Grantham. Miss Eleanor Grantham,’ he said, to make sure there could be no further mistake. ‘I have not seen her for quite some time. I was wondering whether she was well.’
‘Oh, Eleanor!’ said Thomas. ‘I see! We were at cross purposes. Yes, she’s well. In fact, she’s very well. Or at least, I suppose she is.’
His words startled Lucien. ‘You suppose?’
‘Well, I can’t say for certain. I haven’t seen her since the day of the wedding.’
‘Not seen her since the wedding?’
‘No.’ Thomas looked at him curiously. ‘Are you sure you’re not foxed?’
‘Perfectly. It’s just that I’m surprised you have not seen Miss Grantham.’ He wrestled with himself, and then ground out through clenched teeth, ‘I thought you and she were engaged.’
Thomas’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. ‘Eleanor and I engaged? What on earth gave you that idea?’
‘I . . . don’t know.’
‘No, I can never marry, alas! I am wedded to my art.’
‘Then you are not betrothed to Miss Grantham?’ asked Lucien, trying vainly to suppress a smile.
‘No. Nor ever have been. You must have heard talk of Arabella’s betrothal and somehow got confused,’ said Thomas, with the air of one who has just solved a thorny problem to his satisfaction.
‘Very probably,’ said Lucien, no longer able to suppress his smile and letting it break out all over his face.
So Eleanor was not betrothed to Thomas. What’s more she never had been. Then why . . . ?
He did not know. But nothing on earth was going to stop him finding out.
Eleanor was in her garden in Bath, supervising Cooper as he created a new flower bed. Thankfully his services had not been needed in a protective capacity, but Eleanor reflected that the house and garden had never been in such a wonderful state. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of her emotions.
She had tried to put all thoughts of Lucien out of her mind, but she had failed. He was like no other man she had ever met. He filled her with the strongest and most wonderful feelings she had ever known. She had endured some very dangerous and difficult circumstances since meeting him, but she would not have changed a minute of their time together.
Everything about him made her want him more. She loved him. She trusted him. She desired him. She wanted to spend every day of her life with him. And yet she had to resign herself to the fact that she would never see him again.
Should she have accepted his hand? That was the question that plagued her, as it had plagued her every waking minute since she had turned him down. True, it would have been a kind of torture for her, to marry him knowing he did not love her. But was this any better? Never seeing him, never touching him . . . never even hearing of him?
She recalled her thoughts from their useless wanderings. What was done was done. She could not change the past. She turned her attention with difficulty back to the garden plan she held in her hand. With some new flowerbeds, some choice new plants, and a judicious rearrangement of the ones she had, she would be able to make it truly lovely. It would help to ease her spirit in the difficult months to come. Or so she hoped.
She wandered down to the gate, where she was planning to plant a bed of scented flowers. She was just deciding whether to have them on both sides of the gate, or only one, when she was distracted by the sound of a horse coming up the lane.
It was unusual enough to make her lift her head, for the only horses that passed as a general rule were those belonging to the doctor or the rector, if they had to make a call. She was just wondering which one of these two worthy gentlemen it would be when the horse rounded the corner.
Lucien!
Against all reason her spirits soared. His black hair, falling in a lock across his forehead, was wild and untamed. His body, long and lean, exuded masculine strength. Her heart began to race.
He had not yet seen her. But at any moment he would do so.
She hurriedly swept her cap from her head, pushing a stray tendril of hair back behind her ears and patting the small curls that softened her forehead into place.
And then he turned his head.
She longed to run towards him, to be swept up into his arms and placed in front of him on his horse. She still remembered how it felt to be held in his embrace,
and the memory was wonderful. But then she told herself to be sensible. All such times had passed. He must have come to take Cooper.
The thought, likely though it was, deflated her. She had hoped for one impossible moment that he had come to see her. But common sense told her that he had tied up the last lingering threads of the Drayforth affair, and had come to tell Cooper that he was no longer needed in Bath.
Schooling her face into a polite expression, instead of the joyful expression it had worn on first seeing him, she prepared to greet him. She would be cool, calm and collected. She would let him know nothing of the turbulent emotions that were swirling in her breast. She would not make him feel obliged to repeat his offer and press her to take his hand in marriage. For if he did, she knew she would not be strong enough to resist.
She stilled her fluttering heart as he drew level with the gate. He dismounted, then tethered his horse to a nearby tree.
‘Luc — ’ she began. Before remembering herself. ‘Lord Silverton,’ she said formally.
They were separated by the gate, but even so she could not prevent her wayward thoughts from imagining him leaning over it, taking her face in his hands and kissing her deeply . . .
She gathered herself together. ‘This is a pleasant surprise.’
His eyes roved over her face, drinking in every line and every curve. They roamed over her brow, following its breadth and clarity before dropping to her nose, and then caressing her flushed cheeks. They lingered there for a moment and then fell still further, to her lips.
Why did he have to make her feel like this? she thought, as her heart began to pound in her chest. Was it not bad enough that she must love him unrequited, his mind, his spirit and his soul? Did she really have to react so strongly to his body as well? It generated an aura so powerful that it robbed her of rational thought. She could not think. She could not breathe. She could only imagine him taking her in his arms and kissing her.