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He paused on the landing. A lighthearted feminine giggle wafted out of the nearest doorway.
Lex stalked over and stared into the room.
Eleanor sat on a dusty rug with her legs tucked under the drab skirts of her traveling gown, maneuvering his old tin soldiers into position. Next to her knelt the boy, a solid child with thick, tousled hair the color of a rifle stock. He gently reprimanded his mother, “No, Mama, you must form into a square. That’s the way to defeat a cavalry attack.”
The mere sight of the two of them, huddled together in easy companionship, in the nursery of all places, wrenched the breath from Lex’s lungs. His throat constricted and he struggled for air.
Damn her.
He knocked a fist against his chest, loosening his airway. When he’d taken a normal breath, he said, “Eleanor.”
She started, most likely at the harsh tone he’d used. Ignoring the boy, Lex focused on her. The rage seething within him blunted the force of her fresh-faced beauty.
“I instructed you not to bring the child. You disobeyed me, Eleanor.”
“You threatened me, Octavius.” Rising, she brushed at her skirts, setting a small cloud of dust afloat.
He nearly growled. “My name is Lex.”
Her honey-colored eyebrows lifted, forming perfect arches over those damnably perceptive eyes. “Oddly enough, the baptismal record at the church in Lexden reads, ‘Octavius Rupert Henry Mayne.’”
Through gritted teeth he managed, “Nevertheless, I’ve told you to call me Lex.”
Her smile was maddeningly cheerful. “Nevertheless, I refuse to.”
She never missed an opportunity to contravene him. Her defiance was the reason he’d sent her away six years ago.
One of the reasons.
She’d not changed. Still, he had to endure her presence. He’d told Robson she would be available to entertain Mrs. Robson. He did not, however, have to countenance the child.
“I will not have that by-blow in my house.”
Eleanor gasped, rushing to the boy’s side. “Henry, wait for me in the sitting room. The room where we had tea.”
“But, Mama, I haven’t been introduced to the earl yet.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lex saw the boy peeking around Eleanor’s skirts. He was about to order the child to do as he was told when she spoke again.
“Henry, do as I asked.”
The boy sent a hopeful look Lex’s way, but Lex pretended not to notice. Face hung with utter disappointment, the youngster trudged out of the room.
Lex steeled his jaw, erasing that image from his mind. Eleanor slipped over and closed the door, giving him a wide berth, which he didn’t mind in the least. It seemed not to matter that he hadn’t seen her in six years or that he loathed her unfaithful character and contrary disposition; she was still too damned attractive.
She rounded on him. “How dare you! Do not ever repeat your filthy accusations in front of Henry again.”
She clung to the doorknob, her hazel eyes flashing darkly. Lex wanted to demand she send the child back to Mayne Castle. Hell, he wanted to send her back. But he needed Eleanor, and he needed her biddable, not angrier than a wet cat.
He made no reply, refusing to acknowledge her demand. He was content enough to stare at her, to dream of setting her unruly mane free of its pins, to itch with the need to kiss those defiant lips and soothe away the wariness lingering in her eyes.
No. A string of curses blasted through his brain. Six years on, his disgraceful lust for his adulterous wife still endured. He was truly madder than his father ever had been.
She lifted her chin, tilting that upturned nose into the air even farther. “I cannot change your erroneous thinking, but I will not have you espousing your vulgar theory to all and sundry.” Something akin to horror crept into her eyes. “Unless you’ve already done so?”
He scoffed. “The last thing I want is to admit I’ve been cuckolded.”
The very last thing. History could not repeat itself.
“You haven’t been cuck—”
“Enough,” he barked. He had been. She’d had an affair with William Drummond, and he would never forget it.
“You complicate matters, Eleanor.” But not as much as she might hope. Compromise felt as uncomfortable as a coarse wool shirt; however, he could use the boy to make her comply. Besides, it wasn’t as if he would ever have to see William Drummond’s bastard. This would be the last trip Lex ever made to the nursery, which is where the boy would remain.
“The horses are too worn out for a return trip to Essex. For the time being, the child may stay—here in the nursery.”
Eleanor looked confused rather than grateful, and Lex hated it when she seemed vulnerable. He’d spent two-thirds of his life repairing the damage vulnerability and its insipid partner, love, had wrought. He’d made himself impenetrable, so why couldn’t others do the same? Why give anyone the power to wound?
Her hand slid from the knob, and Lex took the opportunity. He moved quickly and yanked the door open. But something kept him from walking out. The too-near scent of her? She reminded him of flowers that had been carefully tended in the Mayne Castle conservatory.
She was staring up at him, those hazel eyes more golden than green this day, attempting to breach his long-held defenses. Another thing he didn’t like about her: her inability to let matters lie. He wouldn’t deny she’d married a churlish brute, but that was that. She’d come out well enough in the bargain, not only a countess, but freed from her family’s persistent poverty. Must she ask for more?
God, he hoped he could conclude his business with Robson soon.
“Dinner is served at seven,” he said. Eying her wrinkled, dusty traveling gown with disparagement, he added, “Don’t forget to change.”
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ELEANOR STEPPED INTO the dining room at precisely seven o’clock. Not because she cared to be on time for Octavius, but because she wanted this dinner ordeal over as soon as possible.
A footman greeted her politely, if warily, and seated her at one end of the table. Surely all the servants must wonder why she had returned. Even she was curious as to the purpose of her visit, for that’s what this was: merely a visit. She could not live with Octavius.
When they married, the Earl of Lexden had been a sometimes fractious, mostly aloof young man who treated her with civility. She hadn’t been entirely satisfied with their polite interactions, but if he’d ever shown her the slightest bit of affection she would have easily been halfway down the path to falling in love. He hadn’t though, and when he discovered she was pregnant, all pretense of even a polite marriage vanished. Her husband had turned mean and spiteful, accusing her of carrying another man’s child. She’d been relieved more than anything when he ordered her to Mayne Castle.
Not that she had been physically afraid of Octavius. However, the occasional glimpses of pain in his angry eyes struck terror into her heart. As far-fetched as it seemed, the emotionally forbidding Octavius might have a vulnerable side—one she was cursedly drawn to. Luckily, he was determined to keep it caged and silenced. Otherwise, danger lay that way.
Eleanor shook herself and looked to the other end of the table. Octavius had not yet arrived—surprising, since she knew he valued punctuality. Punctuality and money. And authority.
His own, of course.
The footman slid a bowl of mushroom soup in front of her. How odd, that she was to begin without her husband.
But she did, and her thoughts wandered to Henry. When she’d met up with her child in the sitting room he’d been quite out of charity with her; however, his mood brightened considerably when she informed him he could sleep in her bed that night, the nursery not being habitable yet.
Habitable? It might be that one day, but it would never be home to her and Henry. Regarding Octavius’s hateful insinuations, Eleanor obviously needed to lay down some rules.
Ha! When had Octavius ever done anything but what he wanted? He’d been allowed great latitude since the day of his birth, much like any heir to an earldom.
The footman removed her soup bowl and slipped a plate of roasted capon and boiled asparagus onto the table, which finally jostled her brain awake. There had been no need to change into another gown, no need to even come down. She could have eaten in her chamber. Octavius was not going to join her. Yet her husband’s tone had indicated she must appear for dinner.
What boorish behavior. She should have expected no less, but sometimes one couldn’t control one’s expectations. Replacing her napkin on the table, she stood and addressed the footman.
“Pardon me. What is your name?”
“I’m Richard, my lady.”
If she sat back down now and kept her mouth shut, she could enjoy her dinner in peace. But Eleanor could not leave well enough alone. She’d spent much of her life being overlooked, and now, at twenty-seven, she finally realized no one else was going to advocate for her.
“Richard, does Lord Lexden intend to join me?”
The servant had the grace to look abashed. “No, my lady.”
“Do you know where he is?”
Richard hesitated, but only a moment. “Mr. Bickley took a tray to the study.”
Eleanor gave the young man a brave smile and then sailed off down the corridor.
A perfunctory knock on the study door elicited a deep-voiced command to enter. Eleanor flung open the door, but, after that, temerity escaped her, for she realized how foolish she was to beard the lion in its den. Especially foolish when her body’s betrayal proved just how base she was. She wouldn’t soon forget the image of Lexden sprawled in a leather chair in his shirtsleeves, his buff pantaloons stretched tightly across quiver-inducing muscular thighs, though he immediately got to his feet at the sight of her.
Her thighs did quiver. Her breasts tingled. And she hated, hated, hated herself for those reactions.
“Eleanor.”
His scowl, complete with deep v-shaped marks between his eyebrows, reminded her of her mission.
Taking a deep breath in order to dispel the desire vibrating through her body and the heat radiating from her cheeks, she asked, “Why must I bother to dress and come down for dinner when I am to dine alone?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You must accustom yourself to playing hostess.”
She couldn’t look away from the linen drawn taut across his shoulders, and her cheeks nearly blistered as she struggled to find her voice. “D-do you think I didn’t entertain at Mayne Castle?”
“Who did you entertain?” he asked with repressed indignity.
Sometimes Octavius could be so righteous that she wanted to laugh, but one glance at his forbidding glower cured her of that notion. “The vicar and his wife, the Misses Amberston, Sir Geoffrey...”
Her husband grunted and turned away, slipping his chocolate-colored waistcoat back on. Shot through with gold thread, it fairly sparkled in the firelight—as did his brown eyes, the flames making them glow with false warmth.
Eleanor needed to get away. She gave him the glare she reserved for a disobedient Henry. “My dinner is getting cold. I merely wanted you to know how rude and disrespectful I find your behavior. Good night, Octavius.”
She escaped without looking at his face again, not wanting to see his reaction. He was undoubtedly impervious to her remarks, and she didn’t need to feel the painfully cold stab of his indifference.
Returning to the dining room, she began to eat her tepid capon. How long must she endure here? Not just endure, but also entertain. Put on an agreeable face for Lord knows who. Elevated persons who would look down their angular noses at her, who would frown on the countess who’d been pulled from the bottom social rung and then shunted off to the country less than a year after her marriage.
She took a bite of asparagus, which now tasted like tree bark, and realized she was no longer hungry. Why had she even returned to the dining room? There was no need.
Suddenly, a fully-clothed Octavius strode into the room, trailed by a footman carrying a plate and a napkin. Her husband seated himself at the opposite end of the table, and Richard hurried to pour him a glass of wine.
With a sudden self-consciousness, Eleanor closed her gaping mouth. Her heart beat doubly fast, an annoyance she didn’t want to contemplate. She grasped her wine goblet and took two steadying swallows.
“I have invited Mr. and Mrs. Robson, newly arrived from America, for dinner tomorrow,” Octavius announced, as if they conversed about household matters all the time. “Make arrangements with Mrs. Carston and Cook in the morning.”
It would be too much to expect a “please” to precede that statement.
“Mrs. Carston...?”
“Housekeeper. No, I suppose you don’t know her. Mrs. Smith passed away two years ago.”
Eleanor nodded, still not capable of saying much, still afraid to dwell for even a second on the fact that Octavius had joined her without a loaded pistol pointed at his back.
She concentrated on her dinner as he continued.
“I want the Robsons treated with respect and deference. Expenses are not to be spared in preparation for tomorrow’s dinner, or any entertainment involving them.”
Ah. Another one of Octavius’s money-making schemes. Although, she did detect a hint of respect for the Robsons in his voice.
After another sip of wine, Eleanor took a bite of capon and spared a surreptitious glance at her husband.
With difficulty she swallowed past the laughter bubbling up her throat. A monstrous centerpiece occupied the middle of the table, obscuring her view of Octavius, so what she did see was his thick crown of hair adorned by two fern leaves, making him look like a green-eared bunny.
A giggle slipped out, which begat another giggle, which dissolved into laughter.
Short-lived laughter.
Her husband’s head snapped up, and he shot her a look of loathing. “I have not said anything to amuse, Eleanor.”
“I’m not laughing at you.” Well, she had been. Not in a mean-spirited way, but still. No one liked to be laughed at, least of all someone as serious as Octavius.
She sobered and explained, “I’m sorry. The flower arrangement is so ridiculously large, I can barely see you.”
He muttered something, shaking his head. Then he rose, tossed his napkin on the table and mumbled again. This time, she understood.
“I can’t do this.”
He was gone before she even blinked.
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LEX BOLTED FROM THE dining room as if one of those legendary black-furred, red-eyed hounds from Hell were after him. He even locked the study door after he’d gained its sanctuary.
He could not do this.
Why had he ever thought he could play at domesticity? He might have done, if he’d married one of those meek, never-look-you-in-the-eye girls who were cowed with a glare, but he’d not been wise enough to do that. Nor had he been judicious enough to remain unmarried, which had been his goal since the age of twelve.
He sank into the fireside chair and wrenched off the cravat he’d so recently re-tied. Was this deal with Robson worth the torment of living with Eleanor? Could he send her back without any repercussions? Lex blew out a breath. Above all, he must ruin the Drummonds, as the Drummond family had ruined first his family and second his marriage. In order to keep Mr. Robson happy, Mrs. Robson must be entertained. So it all came back to...
Eleanor.
Her proud nose, so clearly out of joint, and sharply thrown words had compelled him to join her. He might have endured the entire dinner if she hadn’t laughed. Discussing household affairs, his expectations for Eleanor and her wardrobe—he must still address that issue—fell within his capabilities if not his preferences.
Her laughter, though, so sweet and airy, did not bode well for his future. A man could lose his bearing in such a tune, could forget his purpose and become mired in tranquil domesticity, as he had done in the first months of their marriage. Until calamity struck, catching him unaware.
Well, he would not be caught again. He would not carry on the legacy of his father. Thus—Lex grabbed the poker and stabbed at the fire, inciting the flames—he lived a solitary life, a life devoid of anyone with a familial connection. No mother, no sister, no wife. No children.
Except, he did have a wife, thanks to his rashness. She was now living here at his insistence. And there was the boy who slept in the nursery, the one who wanted to be introduced to his parent, though he’d referred to Lex as “the earl.”
Lex’s gaze strayed to the ceiling. What a damned coil.
One he’d only begun to wade through.
So, he had a wife, and he needed her. Despite that inconvenience, he could not let her get the upper hand. She owed him.
He must begin as he meant to go on.
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ELEANOR RETURNED TO her chamber to find a travel-weary Henry there, curled up in the large bed, fast asleep. Tomorrow she would see if a maid could be spared to help his nurse ready the nursery. Considering the necessary preparations for the evening’s entertainment—the Robsons?—she might have to ask Beth, her own maid, to assist instead.
As the servant now removed her gown, Eleanor tried not to dwell on dinner...to no avail. When would she learn not to have expectations? She wasn’t twenty years old anymore.
At twenty it was acceptable, if not wise, to expect a fairy tale romance when an earl walked into the shabby home you shared with your parents and offered marriage. A girl of that age would expect her husband to dine with her on occasion.
Eleanor should now know better.
I can’t do this.
Octavius had said that once before—after he’d accused her of adultery. She’d tried to defend herself, tried to ask why he thought she’d done such a thing, but he’d refused to listen. Instead, he’d ordered her removed to Mayne Castle forthwith and taken himself off to his club. With child and having suffered weeks of miserable living—a true shock after the mildly pleasant start to their marriage—she had complied with great alacrity. A letter a week later assured her that her infant child would remain in her care and that her husband would not darken her doorstep. Ever.
Octavius had certainly kept that promise.
Eleanor being Eleanor, she hadn’t let the matter of her child’s paternity fade quietly away. She’d written Octavius a dozen letters in the months leading up to Henry’s birth. At first, she’d protested her innocence. Then she’d demanded to know who had supposedly fathered the babe. Finally she’d begged Octavius to tell her his suspicions. Not one of those letters was answered.
Beth finished unlacing Eleanor’s stays and disappeared into the dressing room. Eleanor, more than warm enough in her shift, sat before the dressing table. One thing she would say for Octavius, he was always more than generous in supplying life’s luxuries. Rooms, whether here or at Mayne Castle, were always kept warm, larders were filled with the highest quality foodstuffs, and the substantial pin money she received every quarter day never failed to overwhelm her.
She’d gained a life of luxury and of freedom from her reproachful mother and spendthrift father. Marriage to the Earl of Lexden was a dream come true—as long as she didn’t actually have to live with him.
She jerked the pins from her hair and began to brush out the long strands. She’d been content in Essex, and Octavius was obviously not delighted to have her back in London, so why had he demanded she come? If he simply needed a hostess, his poor, lonely sister would have been a much better choice.
But, no. Sweet Portia continued to rusticate in Somerset, more wretched than ever. Eleanor had met the young lady only twice, when she, aged a daring sixteen, had paid a visit without her brother’s permission to Mayne Castle after the birth of Henry. Octavius’s subsequent wrath had meant his sister never again strayed away from her home, but she and Eleanor, both in need of a human bond, maintained a friendly correspondence, and two years ago Eleanor had made the trip to Somerset to visit her sister-in-law and the two of them spent a joyful five days together.
Eleanor sighed and stared at her reflection. Was she really better off for having made a Faustian bargain in marrying Octavius? Her soul was certainly lost, but at least she’d escaped her family and had Henry. Henry made anything and everything worthwhile.
She rose, wanting to see her boy again, but the soft click of a door opening stopped her cold.
Octavius filled the doorway connecting her chamber with his, and a shiver scudded along her spine. She noted with dismay that it was not induced by fear.
He moved into the room with a grace that belied his austere personality. An unbuttoned emerald banyan flapped about his pantaloon-covered legs and revealed that he wore no shirt beneath, and her breath hitched. In the next instant she silently cursed herself. She should not desire his touch. Why couldn’t her body understand that?
“Eleanor.”
The coldness in his voice should have stemmed any rising passion. But, no, his effect on her was the same as ever. Her eyes took in his ruffled hair, firm chin and stark cheekbones, and her blood raced.
Her rational side searched for an offensive remark, anything that would force him to leave so she could retain her dignity.
“Thank you for joining me for dinner.”
Egad. She had just handed him her dignity on a platter. He’d spent five minutes with her in the dining room before leaving in a huff, and she was thanking him?
His eyes widened. Then, before she could memorize that look-that-was-not-a-scowl, his features shifted into their customary expression. “We must discuss your wardrobe.”
Eleanor glanced down at her shift and wanted to run into the dressing room. Even she could see her nipples jutting against the thin cotton.
Octavius stepped toward her, his pupils large and fixed upon her bosom. Thrilling frissons shot along her nerves, and she shuffled backwards out of self-preservation.
“The gown you wore tonight was at least three years old,” he continued, his accusing tone in contrast to the fire emanating from his dark gaze.
“I live in the country,” she reminded him. Alone, she didn’t say. No one cared what she wore. She saved her best gowns for churchgoing and the rare social occasion. With such little use, they always looked new, though she would admit they weren’t fashionable.
Octavius advanced again, and Eleanor was distracted by the flash of skin revealed by the loose collar of his banyan. Near her thigh, her fingers flexed, itching and aching to touch.
Thoroughly annoyed with herself, she slid back another few feet.
He followed, bringing his musky scent within range. “What have you done with your pin money over the years if you haven’t spent it on clothing?”
Why couldn’t that bilious voice dispel her lustful haze? She tried to look away from her husband’s hot eyes but wound up staring at his lips instead. Yes, they were drawn into a tight line, but she knew what they could do. To her. He might seem cold and lifeless, but Octavius could kiss like the most passionate hero of a Minerva Press novel. Those lips alone had driven her into frenzied desire again and again during the early weeks of their marriage. And what followed after...? Eleanor flushed with the scorching memory of their lovemaking.
She pinched her thigh hard enough to make herself wince. There. Now, what had he asked? Pin money. Initially she’d saved it, fearful that someday Octavius might cut her and Henry off. Unfortunately, her mother’s entreaties for financial assistance had become more pronounced and more frequent after Eleanor was banished, and to stop the begging and earn a little peace Eleanor eventually passed on the majority of her pin money on to her mother.
Her name cracked from her husband’s lips, a sharp report. “Eleanor.”
An apology rose in her throat, but she gulped it down. She’d done nothing wrong, and she owed him no true explanation. “Living so far outside Society, I didn’t feel the need to dress myself in the first stare of fashion, so I economized.” She thrust her shoulders back. “I will repay you if you wish.”
“It’s yours. I don’t want it back.”
He sounded offended.
Surely, though, that was too human an emotion for Octavius, god of brooding unreasonableness that he was. Eleanor stepped backward again, fighting with all her will to deny the urges coursing through her. Her backside bumped into the footboard of the bed, but that barely registered.
As if drawn by a leading string, Octavius moved with her until a mere whisper of air separated their charged bodies. She wished, oh how she wished, she could have prevented her strumpet’s body from leaning into him. But she could not prevent it. This—physically reuniting with Octavius—had been the stuff of her shameful daydreams of the past six years.
As she pressed herself into the sinful solidness of him, his hand slithered up to claim the back of her neck, pulling her closer and closer to his lips. His breath fanned over her chin, and she let her eyelids fall shut.
Finally.
“Mama?”
Octavius leapt away from her as if she had the plague, leaving Eleanor to hang awkwardly in the air, fighting for balance. She managed to right herself and twisted to see Henry peering around the bed curtains, blinking sleepily at his parents.
In between harsh breaths, Octavius spat out, “Eleanor, explain.”
She pushed aside the curtain and sat beside her son, smiling down at him. “Everything is all right, sweet. I’m sorry if our talking woke you.”
He tried to look around her at his father, but Eleanor tucked her child firmly beneath the bed linens; the devil only knew what epithet Octavius might spew next time. She leaned over and kissed her son on the forehead. “Back to sleep, my boy. You’ve had a long day.”
With a snap, she closed the damask bed curtain. Then Eleanor moved toward Octavius. Henry’s interruption, like a dousing of cold water, had cooled her ardor. She lowered her voice as she faced her husband’s glower. “The nursery wasn’t ready for him.”
“Because you were not supposed to bring him.”
Well, she supposed, she’d set herself up for that retort. “It is only for one night.”
“It had better be,” he bit out. “He is supposed to remain in the nursery.”
Unfazed, Eleanor found her gaze sliding toward the door that led to Octavius’s bedchamber. Her ardor had cooled but not been killed. She hated herself anew in that moment.
Apparently, so did Octavius. His lip curled in distaste before he spun on his bare heel and stalked out of the room.