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Octavius, her arrogant, demanding, vituperative husband, had saved someone’s life? Eleanor would have sooner imagined he’d driven a man—or woman—to despair.
This time, she let Mrs. Robson see her surprise. “I had no idea. Octavius can be quite private at times.”
Mrs. Robson smiled in much the same way Eleanor did when speaking of Henry. “I do admire modesty in a man, but I would not deny Lord Lexden the right to shout his bravery from the rooftops. And to think he was himself hurt in the saving of my Andrew...”
Eleanor realized she was frowning and relaxed her features. She could not reconcile this image of her husband. She knew nothing of this paragon Mrs. Robson spoke of.
No, that wasn’t true. She had once thought the Earl of Lexden the most heroic of men. But she’d been mistaken. She gave herself a little shake. Much mistaken.
Linking arms with Mrs. Robson, she led the woman back to the sofa. “Tell me about your son.”
They had no sooner sat down when the gentlemen reentered the drawing room. Eleanor scrutinized Octavius, looking for signs of this mysterious, intrepid hero Mrs. Robson described. She didn’t see it. His mouth was drawn into a grim slash, and his eyes looked querulous. Considering his gaze had settled upon her, though, what did she expect? She and Octavius never seemed to do anything but quarrel. Well... Her cheeks grew hot in remembrance of the one other thing they did well besides argue. But that had been in the early days of their marriage.
Mr. Robson hurried to his wife’s side and kissed her hand as if they’d been parted for days instead of a mere half hour. The enthusiasm was endearing. Of course, Octavius would not find it so—
Eleanor grinned to herself. She flew to her husband’s side and clung to his arm, gazing up at him with what she hoped were adoring eyes. Recalling her twenty-year-old self helped. Being this near to him did not.
“It seems the ladies missed us nearly as much as we missed them,” Mr. Robson said.
“Indeed,” Octavius replied. His jaw had tightened even further while Eleanor continued to hang on his arm.
If he would just relax, he would be handsome. His features were perfectly symmetrical, his face more square than round, his skin more craggy than smooth, and his lips... A soft sigh escaped just thinking about the tender—unbelievable as it was, yes, tender—way he had kissed her that morning.
Octavius cleared his throat. “What deviltry have you ladies been up to in our absence?”
He probably meant to say that in a lighthearted manner, as befitting his role of a supposedly “normal” husband, but to Eleanor’s ears it sounded like an accusation. She chuckled, in case the others also thought he sounded harsh. “We’ve been planning a ball, dearest.”
The endearment couldn’t hurt, could it?
“A ball? Here at Lexden House?” Octavius escorted her to the chair she had occupied earlier and then stood behind it. He failed at keeping the dismay out of his voice.
“Yes, in honor of the Robsons. We always meant to entertain and make our mark in Society, but with dear Henry taken so ill...” Did Eleanor have to carry this whole farce? She shook her head and tried not to make eye contact with the Robsons. Lies piled upon lies. Who could live like this?
“A ball sounds capital.”
Eleanor wanted to giggle again. If there was anyone less suited to use the word “capital” than Octavius, she could not think who it would be. Instead, she recalled a detail from the conversation at dinner and turned to Mrs. Robson to save the hour. “Would you play the piano for us, ma’am?”
The woman played three sets, her dutiful husband turning the pages for her. She played well. The notes were lively and robust, striking a desire to dance, but Eleanor took one look at her tight-lipped husband and the urge passed. She wished he would sit, preferably across the room. Her nerves were strained enough.
As if reading her mind—and willfully ignoring three-fourths of it—he finally sat, propping himself on the arm of her chair, his black pantaloon-covered thigh overwhelming her vision.
“That was wonderful,” Eleanor told Mrs. Robson as the older couple returned to the sofa. “I envy you your skill. I wish I had learned to play an instrument.” That wasn’t a lie. But with the way her father spent money and ran up debts, an instrument in the Dryden house probably would have been sold a mere week after its purchase.
The others began to discuss various musical compositions and their suitability for the upcoming ball. Eleanor was content to listen. The night couldn’t go on much longer. Soon this debacle would end, and Octavius would remove his thigh—and his scent—from her sphere.
Mrs. Robson sighed upon hearing the name of the composer Boccherini. “He is one of my favorites. I was attending a musicale where a quintet was playing his minuet when I spied Mr. Robson in the second row. Listening to the music, looking at his handsome profile, imagining, in that way young girls do, what our married life would be like... I was half in love before we were ever introduced.”
Interested, Eleanor turned to Mr. Robson. “And what was your impression of your future wife at that point, sir?”
To her surprise, his cheeks flushed a deep red. “I am afraid my thoughts were most untoward. You see, upon introduction to the family, I fancied Justine’s younger sister.”
Octavius must have looked as shocked as Eleanor, but Mrs. Robson verified the claim. “It’s true. He thought the sun rose and set on Edwina. She was and is a beautiful woman. I was disappointed when I saw the direction of his interest.” She paused and lifted an eyebrow. “Well, no, I was a young woman, so I was anguished.”
Eleanor liked Mrs. Robson more and more.
“Go on,” Mr. Robson urged, “tell them how you changed the course of my affection.”
Beside her, Octavius shifted, bumping Eleanor’s shoulder. She straightened and inched away. If they could just keep the Robsons talking, they might survive the evening.
“Well,” the woman said, “my sister knows she’s beautiful. She flirted, danced, and walked with the intention of securing the favor of as many gentlemen as she could. Elliot”—she patted her husband’s hand—“was quite overwhelmed by the swarm around her. He decided the best way to garner her attention was to find out more about her. What her favorite flower was, the dance she most enjoyed... And so he came to me for that information.”
Mr. Robson grinned. “I thought my strategy was brilliant, and in the end it was, though not to the purpose I had in mind. In planning my courtship of her sister and gathering intelligence from Justine, I soon discovered she was the love of my life.”
“Despite that debacle, we are happy now.” Justine Robson clasped her hands and stretched her arms out. “I only remind him once a year what a disastrous mistake he almost made.”
Eleanor smiled. The Robsons were delightful. The couple’s only fault lay in how their marriage pointed to everything that was wrong with hers.
“Once we married,” Mr. Robson was saying, “we’ve hardly separated. I don’t know how the two of you made do without each other for so long.” He smiled, but his gaze remained sharp.
Oh, those blue eyes were shrewd, Eleanor noted. The American was not completely taken by their acting. Small wonder, considering their poor performances.
“Living apart was not easy,” Octavius replied, to Eleanor’s surprise. “But we did what had to be done and are that much stronger for it.”
A pretty enough speech, if he hadn’t sounded as if he were speaking of taking a dose of ipecac.
“To be sure, marriage is difficult enough without all the extra trials and tribulations thrown in.” Mrs. Robson squeezed her husband’s hand. “You must have had a solid foundation upon which to build, much as we did. If I may be so bold, how did you meet? I cannot resist a good romantic tale.”
Eleanor closed her eyes, hoping that would serve as a proper romantic reaction. The silence of the room buzzed in her ears. She could feel the tension snapping across Octavius’s nerves. Not even for Henry would she make up this kind of mawkish tale of twaddle.
She sighed, releasing herself from the burden. “Octavius, I love the way you tell it.”
Beside her, he stiffened. She peeked at his face. Panic was etched in every line. But she wasn’t going to save him this time. He could reap what he’d sown.
The Robsons waited; she with wide eyes, he with a raised silver eyebrow.
“Our—” Octavius cleared his throat after nearly choking on the first word. “Our beginning was inauspicious.”
Eleanor flicked him another glance. Our beginning was almost poetic.
“I was walking down the street when I noticed a young lady in distress. She’d dropped quite a number of papers, which were blowing about in the wind.”
Bills due. IOUs. Demands for payment.
Her father’s debts.
“I helped her gather them up.”
Mrs. Robson smiled encouragingly.
Octavius slid his hand up and down his thigh. Finally he stopped, gripping the wool-covered muscle in a fierce clench. Eleanor examined his large hand. Three freckles dotted the back, his knuckles were deeply grooved, and his fingers were trembling—trembling, despite how desperately he tried to stop them.
“When I handed the papers back, I realized I was looking at the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”
How had he made that sentence sound sincere?
“I had to know her name, however inappropriate it would be, so I introduced myself. Her mother approached at that moment and, fortunately for me, did not stand on ceremony. She made herself and her daughter Eleanor known to me.”
Indeed, her mother had suffered no trouble discerning how plump a man’s pockets were and adjusting her standards accordingly. It had been a most irregular introduction, but then, without any funds for a proper Season, there was no chance of Mrs. Dryden’s daughter meeting a gentleman of means except in an irregular way.
Mrs. Robson sighed. “Oh, do go on. This is lovely.”
Her encouragement had the opposite effect. Octavius’s fingers shook even more violently. He dug them farther into his thigh and licked his lips but said nothing else.
Eleanor was not going to speak for him. She was not going to recount how he’d paid a few token calls on her, all of which were dominated by her mother’s ingratiating conversation. How that very same parent had left them scandalously alone on more than one occasion and commanded Eleanor to take advantage of the situation to force the earl’s hand. How, in the end, Eleanor had begun to have second thoughts about her one and only suitor, but her feelings had not mattered because Octavius presumptuously paid off her father’s debts, forcing her hand.
No. She would not speak.
However...
His social unease had always tugged at her compassion. She slid her hand over his, tucking her fingers between his thumb and index finger. The trembling stopped—from the shock of her brashness undoubtedly.
Shock didn’t begin to describe what she was feeling. Why had she done something so, so nice? Yes, generally she was a kind person, or so she liked to think, but never in regards to Octavius. Not anymore. She had no reason to be. None, his frayed nerves be damned.
He spoke again: “As her father was indisposed, I received Eleanor’s mother’s permission to court her. I did so quietly, out of respect for her father. Those are some of my favorite memories, just the two of us walking through the park or visiting the Tower of London.”
Green Park, not fashionable Hyde Park. God forbid the ton take note of the woman he was consorting with. That was Eleanor’s cynical view of the past. She had to admit, however, that at the time she had loved every minute of her private hours with the Earl of Lexden. He’d been reserved, yes, but he’d listened when she spoke and asked questions as if he were interested. In short, he’d given Eleanor his full attention and, in the beginning, nothing could have made her admire him more.
How pathetic.
Octavius was staring at their conjoined hands. “As each day passed, I knew with ever more certainty I must have Eleanor in my life.”
She looked up at him. Truly, he sounded as if he meant those words. His jaw had slackened and the lines around his eyes relaxed. He couldn’t have turned into such a grand thespian in mere minutes. Why, truly, had he married her? Nothing had surprised her more than his proposal. Later she would try to get the truth out of him—about their marriage and about the Robsons’ son. It would no doubt be as difficult as uprooting a hundred-year-old oak, for Octavius guarded his thoughts and feelings as if to share them was to give them away forever. But Eleanor would try.
“She agreed to marry me and we’ve lived happily ever after since.” His shoulders fell at least an inch. He clasped the hand that lay over his and lifted it to his lips. “Thank you.”
His soft kiss lingered longer than she expected. He even made eye contact, and she knew he was thanking her for her efforts, for her support.
Her stomach flipped. She resisted the urge to yank her hand away.
She looked to the Robsons. The man seemed surprised but smiled kindly. Mrs. Robson—Justine—gushed for some minutes about the tale. Noticeably, she lost steam at the end, and Eleanor remembered their recent long journey, and she thanked God as the woman announced they now would be taking their leave.
The gentlemen allowed the ladies to precede them down the stairs. In the hall, Eleanor realized she must pull Justine aside to make plans for the coming days.
––––––––
SAD TO ADMIT, BUT LEX’S knees had nearly buckled with relief when Mrs. Robson said she and her husband were leaving. He’d let Eleanor’s hand slip from his and followed the others downstairs.
Eleanor and Mrs. Robson stood in the shadowed corner of the hall, speaking earnestly. Well. Whatever else could be said of the evening, Eleanor had been charming. And she’d displayed damn fine acting skills. And she’d offered him support... If Lex didn’t watch himself, he was going to be beholden to his wife despite their lack of true affection. He stilled a shudder.
“Shall we meet again in the morning?” Robson asked as he pulled on his gloves. “I can begin drawing up a plan for the best way to situate the machinery.”
For once the American was focused on business. A good sign. Lex quickly agreed to the meeting just as the ladies ended their conversation.
“Thank you, my dear,” Mrs. Robson was saying to Eleanor. “I look forward to seeing you again.” She stopped in front of Lex and patted his arm. He steeled himself not to pull away. “I am so honored to have finally met you, my lord.”
“Please, call me Lex.”
“He’s a bit fixated on that nickname, Justine,” Robson said, with a sly wink in Lex’s direction. “You’d best indulge him.”
“I would be delighted to—and relieved as well,” the older lady said. “I will admit to being concerned about the formality of England before our arrival here. And on the way over in the carriage. But in the drawing room... Well, my anxieties have been eased by the pair of you. I find it so endearing that you address each other by your Christian names.”
Lex tried to smile at her, for he did like Mrs. Robson, but he feared the effect was more that of a grimace. He would have to work on that.
The Robsons said goodnight, and Bickley showed them outside to the Lexden carriage, a secondary conveyance which Lex had given over to their use for the duration of their visit.
The front door clicked shut, and Lex blew out a heavy breath. As the night’s tension drained away, his muscles ached from being clenched so tightly.
He turned to Eleanor. “I think that went well.”
Her piercing look slew whatever ebullience he’d begun to feel. “Goodnight then.” She whirled and marched back up the stairs.
Some people could not accept a compliment.
He followed her, unnaturally pleased to catch a glimpse of her slim, stockinged ankle with every other step. “What were you and Mrs. Robson speaking of just now?”
She had reached the first floor. Without stopping or looking back at him, she said, “Nothing you need worry about.”
“Eleanor.”
She reached the second staircase and spun around to face him. “Enough,” she snarled.
What was she so angry about? “You’ve only just met her. What secrets can you possibly be sharing?”
Good God, Mrs. Robson hadn’t been telling tales about his rescue of Andrew, had she?
“You are as tiresome as a prying old woman,” Eleanor snapped. “If you must know, I invited her to tea tomorrow.”
She’d stopped outside her bedchamber, slightly breathless from the climb. For a moment Lex was distracted by the rapid rise of her breasts. However, he managed to lift his gaze before saying, “How kind of you.”
“Occasionally, I am kind,” she retorted. Further proof she could not appreciate a compliment, as he had not imbued his words with any sarcasm.
However, after the strain of pretending for the Robsons, he didn’t have the wherewithal to make a cutting retort. Besides, for some unthinkable reason, Eleanor had offered him her compassion in the drawing room.
He reached out for that satin-soft hand which had empowered him just a short time ago. “Yes, occasionally you are immeasurably kind.”
He never got to touch her. Her hand flew up, index finger pointing at his chest, and her hazel eyes clouded over to a dark brown.
“Don’t talk like that,” she admonished. Then she disappeared into her room. The door latched shut before he even lowered his wayward hand.
At least her ungracious behavior absolved him of ever again spouting pretty words in her direction. And she thought he was boorish?
He headed for his bedchamber. With the help of his valet, he was soon stripped down to his pantaloons and shirt and wrapped in his favorite green banyan. Lex then bid the servant goodnight and threw open the door connected to Eleanor’s room, intending to speak to her about the wisdom of hosting a ball. She wasn’t immediately visible, but the dressing room door stood ajar and from within came the sounds of rustling fabric—and a sigh, presumably, provocatively, at the removal of stays.
Lex stoked the flames in Eleanor’s fireplace and waited, his heartbeat steady and his breathing rhythmic. He was calm now. He hadn’t been calm for days. Not since Andrew Robson convinced him he must send for Eleanor. So, what had changed?
He was still saddled with a child that wasn’t his and a wife who contradicted his every word. His peaceful, family-free existence had been splintered and consumed by a fire not unlike the flames prancing in the hearth. And yet, since Eleanor had covered his hand with hers, his anger and irritability had...
Not disappeared. Not hardly. But it had gone from a raging heat to a warm breeze. The memories of their first meeting hadn’t been as painful as he expected. Eleanor had been pretty back then, alluring even. No. Who was he lying to? She was still beautiful. He wanted her just as much now as he had then, only now that desire was an ugly, demeaning contagion that further proved how mad he was. What kind of man lusted after a wife who cuckolded him? Only an incredibly demented one.
He stabbed the fire once more and replaced the poker. Eleanor’s low voice drifted out from the dressing room, while another sound, small and unintelligible, arose from the bed. Lex strode over and pulled back the bed-hanging.
“Eleanor!” His heart beat erratically. He sucked in a breath then exploded. “Hell and damnation, woman, I told you one night only.”
From behind him, his wife brushed past in a flurry of pure white lawn and stared at the bed, which was occupied by a troublesome boy who’d begun to stir.
“He’s supposed to be in the nursery,” she said.
“You’re bloody right, he is!”
She turned and poked Lex in the chest. “Watch your language, sir, and stop yelling. You’ll wake him.”
The chest-poking did not have the same soothing effect as the hand-covering. Lex lowered his voice anyway; no need to wake the whole household. “If he is awake, he can march back up to the nursery where he belongs.”
The child wasn’t awake though. Amidst their violent whispering, he’d curled up on his side and fallen fast asleep again.
Eleanor bent over the bed and struggled to take up the boy. His limbs dangled. “I will carry him upstairs,” she whispered, “but do not think I will welcome your presence in this room when—”
“Oh, for St. Bartholomew’s sake! You’ll only hurt yourself and probably the little bastard too.” Lex hefted the child from her arms, almost ripping the boy’s small nightshirt in the process.
“Don’t use that word!” His wife’s hazel eyes blurred beneath a sudden well of tears. “How could you have ever thought—? How can you continue to think—?” She dashed the wetness away with her hands and sniffed. “You are the biggest lackwit in London if you cannot see the resemblance between yourself and your son.”
Lex squeezed his eyes shut. He was no lackwit.