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Eleanor wasn’t able to get Portia alone, completely alone without even a servant around, until after dinner that evening. The two of them each read Henry a story before tucking him into bed, and now they were uncomfortably settled in the ugly sitting room.
Portia smiled over her embroidery hoop. “Thank you for ordering that gown. I doubt I will get to wear it to your ball, but I’m thrilled to have something new.”
Their shopping trip with Mrs. Robson had been delightful and fruitful. Portia, awed by the sights and sounds of London, not to mention fascinated by the luxurious fabrics and accompanying fripperies, had been on her best behavior for the rest of the afternoon. All three ladies had ordered gowns for the ball, plus Eleanor had been able to purchase two more ready-made dresses which should assuage Octavius’s wardrobe worries. All in all, the day had turned our rather well. And here was Portia giving her the perfect opening.
She slid onto the settle, laying the book she’d brought with her on the hard wooden seat. “Your brother will be more likely to let you remain if you strive not to ruin his relationship with the Robsons.”
“Eleanor.” Portia sounded like Henry when he whined about not being tired. “I don’t give a fig about Lex, his trade, or how much or how little the Robsons like him. And I can’t believe you do.”
“If I don’t participate in his scheme, he says he will take Henry from me.”
“That odious monster!” Portia jumped up and tossed her hoop on the chair she’d vacated. “He won’t do it, Eleanor. He won’t. He cares nothing for Henry. He cares for no one. Why would he saddle himself with a child?”
“I have no intention of calling his bluff.” Eleanor tried to keep her voice even. If she remained calm, Portia would be more likely to see this situation in a straightforward manner. “He wouldn’t have to have any more to do with Henry. He’d simply hire a nurse.”
“Why does he think he can play with us like puppets? I hate him so much!”
Eleanor often felt the same, but when Portia said the words, they sounded...melodramatic, juvenile even. Regardless, this talk was not having the desired effect on her sister-in-law. “Portia, please. We will all benefit if you keep your thoughts about Octavius to yourself when we are around the Robsons. Henry and I will not be separated, and I might be able to convince your brother to let you stay.”
“But will you be able to convince him to let me...?” The younger woman broke off, her eyes gleaming. She smiled smugly and took her seat. “Never mind.”
Eleanor knew mischief when she saw it; she was the mother of a five-year-old boy after all. But, what was Portia thinking? What did she want most? At present, to marry Mr. Semple.
Of course. Now the girl thought she had leverage.
“Be careful,” she warned. “You tread a dangerous path if you try to manipulate Octavius.”
Portia laughed, a chilling nonchalance in her voice. “Pish. At last I have the upper hand over my brother. Do you know how long I have waited to be in this position? Being the meek, obedient sister year after year is tiresome. I am so glad I decided to come to London. If Octavius wants me to behave, then he will give his permission for me to marry Mr. Semple.”
Eleanor sighed. “He will just send you away.”
“It is time he realizes how grown up I am.”
Grown up? The girl reeked of immaturity. Eleanor pressed two fingers to her temple. The ache in her head expanded, and the mustard-colored walls compounded the pain. This scheming girl before her was not at all like the girl she’d visited in Somerset. She did not want to live her life playing these spiteful, dishonest games. She simply wanted her quiet existence with Henry.
“Perhaps we could discuss this again in the morning. We might each have a different perspective then. One thing for you to think about, though... I like Mrs. Robson, and I would appreciate you not offending her.”
Portia shrugged and bent over the handkerchief she was working on. “Very well.”
Eleanor ignored the book lying next to her and leaned back, closing her eyes. Maybe in the morning she’d wake from this nightmare.
Lex stayed at the arsenal for hours, long even after Robson and Collett left. How could he face Portia—now demoted to half-sister—over dinner? He couldn’t, so he proceeded to his club, where he ate very little of his roasted beef and drank more brandy than he was accustomed to. When his thoughts turned to Eleanor, a charming, sensual version of Eleanor who smiled freely and lounged upon the bed with her chemise hiked up to her thighs and her breasts threatening to spill out of her bodice, he knew for certain he’d drunk too much. He decided to return to the house and sleep off his inebriation before once more sneaking out of the house in the morning.
The footman let him in, and he climbed to the first floor, intent on heading straight to his bedchamber. However, the sitting room door stood open, a large swathe of light cast into the corridor. A rumble of voices drifted out.
He walked—lightly—to the door and peered in. Portia sat on one of the chairs at an angle toward the fire. Lex couldn’t see Eleanor, but she must be sitting on the high-backed settle for he heard her say, “This room leaves so much to be desired. If it is meant to torture, it quite fulfills its function.”
His wife went on, deriding the comfort of the chairs and the color of the walls—among other things. But Lex’s eye was drawn to his sister in profile. She leaned forward a little, casting more firelight on her embroidery piece. Now that he knew the full truth of his mother’s perfidy, he could see Portia’s resemblance to William Drummond so clearly. They were alike not just in their matching eye color, but in the shape of their faces and slight roundedness of their noses.
How would she react if she knew the truth of her parentage? Should he tell her? Would she hate him even more for destroying the definition of who she was?
That last didn’t matter, he supposed. He deserved her hatred. He’d abandoned her when she had no one else. He’d left her isolated in Somerset. But, what had his choice been—allow her to be raised by another madman, himself? She would have been no better off. Her hatred was inevitable. What surprised him was how long the ugly emotion had taken to rise to the top. In Somerset, she’d always been polite if diffident.
“I would love to see you do something with this room,” Portia was saying with a petulant lift of her lips, “but I’m sure Lex would never allow it. I wonder if he even knows how to say the word ‘yes.’”
How could he possibly tell her about her father when she was so overset about Mr. Semple? He would not risk her succumbing to a bout of self-loathing over her parentage. He’d once tried to protect her, on that dark day their—no, his—father died. He must do so again.
“Octavius.”
He blinked, finally remarking Eleanor, who had risen from the settle and noted his lurking presence. Now Portia stared at him too. He was absolutely not skilled at avoiding people he didn’t want to see. Not when they lived in his house, anyway, which was exactly why he didn’t want them here in the first place. Perhaps he could become his own hermit; that might afford him some privacy.
He bowed. “Good evening. I just returned and was on my way upstairs to retire.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, for of course if he were on his way upstairs there would be no need to detour to the sitting room. Despite her skepticism, she looked wan, which was odd considering how close to the fire she sat.
God, the brandy was making him mawkish.
The two of them were still staring, neither saying a word. Very well. “Good night then.” He turned to go but then didn’t, raising his arm in an arc to indicate the sitting room. “Yes. Change anything in here you’d like. You may have use of the household accounts.”
Without another word, he spun on his heel and stalked off, leaving his sister wide-eyed and his wife with her mouth hanging open. Fickle females. They would no doubt find fault with his acquiescence too.
After performing his nightly ablutions and donning his banyan, Lex entered his bedchamber. The room was almost dark, with only one small branch of candles lit in the far corner. The bed curtains were pulled back, and in the dim light he saw a smallish lump in the middle of the mattress.
For the love of St. Bartholomew.
Lex strode over and sat down heavily. The lump stirred, yawned, and opened its eyes.
“Sir?”
“Your bed is in the nursery.” The words didn’t come out quite as gruffly as he’d hoped. Must be because he was half-foxed.
“I like this bed,” the boy said, sitting up.
Lex pinned him with a hard look. “It isn’t your bed. Children sleep in the nursery. Do you not do so at Mayne Castle?”
Henry nodded then stretched his arms above his head, clearly unmoved by Lex’s glare. At least there was one Mayne male who didn’t seem to have raving hot blood rushing through his veins. Thank God for small favors?
Lex leaned closer, trying to summon a snarl or a scowl, but with those rosy cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes it was like trying to glower at a kitten. He rose and stalked a few feet away, breathing deeply.
“Return to your bed. Now.” He hadn’t yelled, exactly, but his voice was harsher. Better.
“I’d rather not.”
“It’s my bed!” Lex swiped a hand across his brow. It had come to this: arguing with a child about sleeping arrangements.
Said child twisted the sheet in his fists. “I’m sure Mama wouldn’t mind if you shared her bed.”
Never in a thousand nights would Eleanor agree to that again.
Lex rolled his shoulders, wondering where he could gain the knowledge to deal with this small boy. He had no model to look back on, to guide him. He excelled at business, not childrearing.
Father was one of the best—some days. On others he was a nightmare come to life. And then he died.
He didn’t die. He killed himself. Chose to leave this world. And me.
Lex muttered a curse and turned back to the boy. Business was life. Life was business. “I will give you two crowns if you’ll return to your own bed.”
The child’s small eyebrows rose, so maybe now they were speaking the same language. Then a frown creased the boy’s forehead.
“I don’t want two crowns.”
No. Too much to hope his own flesh and blood would possess the same passion for business.
Henry bounced a little where he sat on the bed, suddenly more alert. “However, I will leave if...if you’ll take me to the park. And I’ll take one crown. I need more soldiers.”
Well. The boy just might have the skills of a negotiator after all. But Lex wasn’t known around the club as the Tradesman Earl for nothing.
“The footman can accompany you to the park again, and I’ll buy you all the toys and soldiers you want.”
The boy’s counteroffer was swift and resolute. “A half crown, and you take me to the park.”
Lex did not want to take Henry anywhere, but he wasn’t going to give up his bed to the little tyrant. And if he agreed to the deal, he would have to honor it; once he made a promise in business, he kept it.
The two stared at each other, Henry waiting for an answer, Lex waiting for the rage to uncoil in his chest. He wasn’t angry, though. Not exactly. Annoyed, yes, but this tightness in his chest, it was actually something else. This boy—Henry—
He looked away, nodding sharply. “Very well. I agree to your terms.”
Henry leapt off the bed. His small bare feet padded across the floor, taking him right toward Eleanor’s bedchamber.
“Where are you going?”
“To Mama’s room. I like the bed in there too. Goodnight, sir.” Nightdress floating around him as if he were a wraith, the child slipped through the door and disappeared.
Lex collapsed onto the bed. What had he got himself into?
A hinge squeaked. “Er, sir?”
“Yes?”
“I can’t get up onto the bed. Could you help me?”
Lex lay still. There were numerous small islands in the Hebrides. Perhaps he could purchase one and settle there, all alone in the peace and quiet.
He levered himself upright and snatched the child with one arm, tucking him up like a sack of potatoes. Henry yelped with what sounded like...delight? So as they crossed the threshold Lex said, “You realize I could just haul you upstairs and put you in the nursery where you belong?”
Not that he had any intention of returning to that room. Once in the last ten years was enough.
Henry didn’t take him in earnest. The child just laughed and squirmed as he was carried into the other room.
Lex stopped before the mahogany bed. It was large, especially so from a child’s view, but surely the boy could have climbed up? Surely he had done so that first night, so now Lex suspected he’d been taken by the youth in more than just the previous negotiation.
He righted the boy, grasping him beneath the arms, then tossed him into the air. Henry spread his arms and legs wide, landing on his back with a soft whoosh in the middle of the white counterpane, popped up and rushed back at Lex, his arms outstretched and his grin just as wide.
“Again!”
Lex had no choice but to catch him, otherwise he would have thudded to the floor. Intent on scolding the boy, he hoisted him up to eye level and found himself once more incapable. Just like the child’s sleepy face, this joyful one eviscerated his surliness. He launched Henry back toward the bed with a growled, “Last time.”
“That was excellent fun. Thank you, sir.” Henry crawled toward the pillows and slipped beneath the covers. “May we go to the park tomorrow?”
Lex turned away and began to extinguish the candles. “I have to meet with Mr. Robson tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
Damnation. Those endearing expressions, the disappointed tone... Was there anything about a child that didn’t render one a prattling ninny? Lex grumbled, “The day after tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”
Henry nodded, smiling once more. “Excellent, sir. Goodnight then.”
Lex let out a soul-rattling sigh. Goodnight.”
Escape at last. Except, there was no reprieve. At that exact moment, his wife came through her dressing room door.
––––––––
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING here?” Eleanor’s head throbbed more painfully at the sight of Octavius. She wanted to crawl into bed and somehow get to sleep in spite of her headache; she did not want to contend with his harshness, his pettiness, his...Octaviusness.
A glance at the bed showed they weren’t alone. As much as she loved Henry, she didn’t think she could allow him to sleep with her tonight. She was in too much agony.
“I,” began Octavius, “was just leaving.”
Eleanor tightened the belt of her flannel wrapper and crossed her arms over her belly. “Would you mind taking Henry to the nursery?” She turned to her son, to explain, only to find his brow furrowed mulishly. That didn’t bode well.
“Henry...” The aching of her head intensified, and she grimaced.
Octavius moved back toward his bedchamber. “The boy is sleeping here tonight.”
“Yes, Mama, I am.”
Goodness, they sounded just alike. Authoritarian and used to getting their way.
“The earl and I made a deal.”
What? She must have misheard. Before she could ask Henry to repeat himself, however, another spear of pain gripped her and she reached a hand to her head, wincing.
“Eleanor, what is the matter with you?”
Her infirm mind must be playing tricks because Octavius didn’t sound as irritated as before. She took several deep breaths, trying to ease the throbbing.
“Eleanor?”
Closing her eyes, she shook her head.
“Colonel, sleep well,” Octavius said to their son. Beyond her eyelids, the room went dark, then suddenly Octavius took her elbow and steered her to his room. “You are worrying Henry.”
Just Henry? Through the haze of pain it sounded as if, just possibly, her husband was a little worried, too. She must be hallucinating now.
She breathed once, gathering herself. “I’m sorry. My monthly courses have begun and I have an excruciating headache.”
Her husband’s brow furrowed. “Do you often get a megrim during this time?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “But take relief in the fact that I’m not pregnant with your child again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must lie down. Please carry Henry to the nursery so that I may sleep undisturbed.”
Octavius glanced at the connecting door, an odd expression on his face. “I can’t. We will sleep in here—though you need not worry I’ll touch you.”
She swayed slightly. “Octavius, I am not lying. I really must sleep.”
“I am not thick-headed, Eleanor. I said I would leave you alone.”
The bedclothes were very rumpled, and Eleanor knew that had significance, but her head ached too much to think more on it. She could no longer stand, either. She trudged to the enormous bed and pulled off her wrapper. Then, slipping between the linens, she lay gently on her side and rested her pulsating head on the pillow.
“Can I get you something? Tea? Laudanum?”
Her husband, solicitous? She must be asleep and dreaming already. She popped an eye open to find him standing in front of her, his pantaloon-clad manly parts right in her line of vision. So she closed her eye. “No, thank you.”
“What about brandy?”
His voice was nearer. She opened both eyes. He was crouched in front of her. He wasn’t scowling, but his face was set in a sober expression of...what? Was this what concern looked like on Octavius?
“Even if you get me drunk, I won’t throw myself at you again.”
His lips bowed for just the barest of seconds. “That’s unfortunate.”
Was he drunk? Did she smell spirits on him? She was most definitely delirious with pain, so she closed her eyes. She heard him move away and then a door swished open. Minutes passed as she evened her breathing and tried to will the pain away.
“Eleanor.” Her name whispered past her ear. She couldn’t ever recall Octavius speaking in such a low voice. “Try some brandy. Just a bit, perhaps?”
She lifted herself up on one elbow and sipped the amber liquid. He watched, his dark eyes not brittle like tree bark but smooth like morning chocolate. Everything was so wrong. Octavius being helpful, calm, not scowling. This was the side of him she’d always feared, the side she never wanted to see. This Octavius, with the concerned frown and attentive behavior, was the one she could easily fall for. But after their rocky beginning she could never trust it.
After one more drink, she back handed the glass. “Why are you being so kind?”
“You look wretched,” he said softly.
He didn’t mean it as an insult, but she had to be insulted. She needed the old Octavius back. She needed to protect herself. “Of course, you can’t have me looking wretched for the Robsons. A haggard wife is not a happy wife.”
He blinked rapidly. “Ex...exactly.” He placed the brandy glass on the side table and rose, walking toward the corner of the room. “We must keep up appearances.”
The room plunged into darkness as he extinguished the last candle on the candelabra, and Eleanor rolled to her back and closed her eyes, grateful that the pain helped her black out the expression she’d seen on his face. It looked suspiciously as if she’d hurt his feelings. But Octavius didn’t have feelings.
Except, when he wasn’t with her, she was always wishing he did possess them. Now he was showing signs of sensitivity and...
Her brain began to hurt.
The mattress shifted. “Did the brandy help?”
The pounding in her head had lessened. If she could just stop thinking about him, it might not hurt at all. “Yes, thank you.”
She felt him roll to his side, facing her. “Can I do anything else...to ease the pain?”
Oh, God help her. She clamped her lips shut. Not another word. She would say nothing, he would think she was ignoring him, he’d become hostile again, and all would be well in her life.
The room grew dreadfully silent. She couldn’t even hear him breathing. Was he holding his breath as she was? The rigid manner in which she waited was not helping her headache.
Please, let him turn the other way.
A whispery caress grazed her forehead. In surprise, she let out the breath she had stifled. Warm fingers slid over her temple, smoothing her hair back once, twice, three times. Then a pair of fingers smoothed over her eyebrows, first the left and then the right. Next, a thumb trailed down one side of her nose and across her cheek, and then the motion repeated on the other side. She dared not open her eyes.
The soothing strokes began again. Same pattern: forehead, eyebrows, nose, cheeks. The pads of Lex’s fingers were slightly ridged, but the gentle tracing over her skin lulled her into a drowsy haze. In the back of her mind a faint voice prodded her to swat away his hand, but she didn’t have the energy or the inclination. The pain in her head receded, drawn away by his feathery touch.
What more could she ask for? Eleanor succumbed to the call of Morpheus.
––––––––
SHE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING. Octavius had sat up and levered himself off the bed. She rubbed her eyes and then opened them to find him looking at her. He stood shirtless. The sight of all that bare skin distracted her from the awkwardness she should be feeling after last night. Whatever her husband did with his days, his activities kept his muscles in sleek, hard, prime form. Her gaze dropped to the waistband of his pantaloons and she searched for that elusive scar.
“Eleanor,” he rasped. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Oh, was she embarrassing him with her whorish ogling? Cheeks burning, she looked away.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll be at the arsenal all day with Mr. Robson. Have you something planned with his wife?”
Oh dear. “As a matter of fact, we are all to attend a soiree tonight. You will need to return home by seven.”
Lex’s response was a growl of dissatisfaction. Excellent. This was the irritated husband she needed. If she must live with him, he had to be the big, bad ogre. Not the compassionate man from the night before.
She blinked up at him. “Mrs. Robson is keen to go.”
That earned a grunt—she assumed of acquiescence—as he snatched up his banyan and pulled it on. A little mewl of disappointment threatened to escape her lips.
“Seven o’clock, you say?”
Sitting up, Eleanor tucked the counterpane beneath her arms. “Yes. That should give you time to bathe and change.” She traced the coverlet’s silver embroidery. “Portia and I will be ready by half past eight.”
“No. Not Portia.”
Eleanor tipped her head up. “Mrs. Robson wishes her to attend.”
Lex cocked an eyebrow, as if to say I cannot believe you are using that argument again, and she couldn’t help but grin with pleasure. He shook his head—in an affectionate way? No, a shake of the head couldn’t be affectionate. How ridiculous.
“Portia had better be on her best behavior. I am in possession of a small estate near the Scottish border,” Lex warned. Eleanor wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a jest, but she sobered instantly, thinking of Portia’s devious air the night before. Regardless of her brother’s intention, it would be a threat when Eleanor spoke to her.
She nodded, expecting Lex to leave. Instead, he stayed and a strangled silence fell between them. At last he asked, “How are you this morning?”
Her cheeks heated. “Much better. I...I...thank you.”
Her gratitude choked the remaining air out of the room. “Right. Well. Good. I will see you this evening then.”
He was gone before she could make the inanest of replies. Eleanor collapsed back on the mattress, praying for the perseverance to get through the day, especially that evening. That’s all she asked for: strength for the day. Tomorrow, she would worry about tomorrow.
Henry burst in through Eleanor’s bedchamber door and jumped onto the mattress beside her. “Good morning, Mama!”
She smiled at her son and planted a kiss on his forehead. “How are you, sweet pea?”
“The earl calls me Colonel. I like that better than sweet pea.”
He would. He was growing up much too quickly for her liking, especially considering there would be no siblings to follow after him.
“I promise to only call you sweet pea in private. Is that all right?”
Henry nodded vigorously. “The earl is going to take me to the park tomorrow.”
Of course Octavius wasn’t going to take his son to the park. Was Henry imagining things he wished to be true? Dear God, this was a complication Eleanor had never considered.
She slipped a hand up to cradle the boy’s cheek. “Sweet pea, I know you’d like your father to take you to the park, but he’s very busy with Mr. Robson and I’m sure he won’t have time. Why don’t Portia and I accompany you instead?”
“You can come if you’d like, but the earl promised to take me tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning.”
“He did?”
More emphatic nodding, which knocked her hand away from his face. “I should have brought my hoop and stick. I’m hungry.”
Henry popped off the bed and swept her a gallant bow. Then he too was gone.
So. Eleanor’s son was possibly delusional, Portia would soon be in full rebellion, and her husband might have a tender, considerate side she couldn’t bear to imagine. She threw off the bed linens and stood up.
Entertaining the Robsons was going to be the easy part of this madcap scheme.