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Before the last syllable was even out of her mouth, the hand around Eleanor’s arm clenched so tightly she gasped.
“What?”
Her husband’s jaw didn’t move, but somehow the word escaped, for Eleanor heard it and the fierce underscoring anger. Octavius stared behind her at the dancers.
She yanked her arm free. Why must the man overreact to everything? “Mr. William Drummond. This is her second dance with him. He’s a nattering dandy who—”
“No.”
Eleanor was losing patience. “Octavius...”
“No!” he roared. His chest heaved violently as he gulped in air and stared at the dancers, and those nearby gawped in bewilderment. Maybe even fear. Eleanor’s cheeks must be as flaming red as her husband’s by now. How could he act like such a child over a simple dance?
“That dastardly snake. I’ll kill him.”
Octavius’s voice lashed out across the stunned, silent crowd. Eleanor looked back and saw Mr. Drummond bend close to Portia’s ear, whispering heaven knows what. Her sister-in-law laughed and blushed, and Octavius thrust forward—
Eleanor instinctively threw her arm around his middle, blocking him. She had to lean all her weight into him and, even then, she barely stopped his charge. Fists clenched, he kept pressing; she locked her knees, certain that if she didn’t hold him back her husband would beat Drummond into a sorry heap. At Mrs. Ardmore’s soiree. She’d known he lacked social grace, but this was ridiculous.
“Get her away from him! He can’t— They shouldn’t— They don’t know. God, they don’t know!”
His jagged breaths skittered across the top of her head. Eleanor looked up, and for a moment her grip went slack. Her husband’s eyes were screwed up with anguish, unable to focus. This wasn’t his usual stern, I’m-in-control-and-that’s-the-way-it-is temper. This was something raw, something base that had welled up from deep within, and Eleanor’s annoyance turned to stomach-roiling fear.
Freed by her distraction, Octavius pushed past and barged into the room where the oblivious dancers still twirled. She dashed in front of him and braced her hands against his waistcoat, but he drove forward, nearly plowing her over before she regained her balance. Everyone else had taken several steps back, ladies hiding behind gentlemen, peering over their shoulders. No one came to help.
“Octavius!” she whispered fiercely.
He didn’t—couldn’t—hear her. She couldn’t stop him. He was too big, too crazed. And she had no idea why.
“Where is that craven bastard? I want his filthy hands off my sister.”
The words spewed forth atop the elegant music. The musicians’ bows screeched, and the dancers stumbled to a stop. Octavius’s gaze cut wildly around the room. His fists were cocked and ready. If he spotted Drummond again, Eleanor would have no chance at stopping him.
Elliot Robson appeared at her side like a white knight. “Lady Lexden, may I be of some assistance?”
Still leaning all her weight against her husband’s torso, Eleanor swallowed a worthless sob and said, “His lordship is not feeling well.”
The dear man took the understatement in stride. “Indeed. Let us get him home then.”
With a strength belied by his age and slender build, the American looped one of Octavius’s arms around his shoulder and maneuvered him toward the entrance hall. Eleanor caught a glimpse of Portia, whose eyes glistened with tears. Beside her, Mr. Drummond had an odd expression on his face.
Portia needed her. But, first things first. Eleanor swept past the still gaping crowd and asked the nearest footman to summon a hackney.
Just then, Octavius shook free. He swung back toward the ballroom, his face blazing. “Drummond! Get away from my sister!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Eleanor saw Justine wrap her arm around Portia and draw her away from the ghastly scene in the entrance hall. At the same time, the Duchess of Burnham hooked her arm through William Drummond’s and guided him in the opposite direction. Eleanor blinked back stinging tears and grabbed one of her husband’s arms, while Robson took hold of the other. Somehow, they two steered Octavius’s fifteen stone of seething fury out the front door and down the steps.
The hackney arrived not a moment too soon. Eleanor and Robson shoved Octavius inside, none too gently, then Eleanor turned to Mr. Robson. “We’ll leave the carriage for you.”
“Will you be all right?”
She had no idea. But her husband had never been violent with her before, so she would trust that he wouldn’t hurt her now, no matter how angry he was. “Yes, of course.” She faltered on the step and Robson caught her hand. She said, “Portia. How could I—?”
“Entrust her to us,” Robson said. “We’ll take her back to our hotel. If you wish her home tonight, send word. Otherwise, we’ll escort her home in the morning.”
Eleanor squeezed his hand and ducked inside the hackney with a grateful nod. He slapped the side of the vehicle, which drove off.
At the lurch of the carriage, Octavius whipped up his head. He’d been in a brown study. “My sister! We can’t leave her. I can’t—”
Not knowing what else to do, Eleanor placed her hand upon his back. “She is going home with the Robsons. She is quite safe in their care.”
At this, he dropped his head into his hands.
They rode in silence. Humiliation burned Eleanor from the inside out. She had lived in dread of embarrassing herself and her noble husband amongst the gilded ton. Little did she know, her behavior had been the least of her worries. She looked to the man sitting beside her. His breathing was rough and loud. If he wasn’t Octavius Rupert Henry Mayne, Earl of Lexden, a man as hard as marble, she might have imagined he was crying.
Words were useless right now. As were anger and mortification. She settled quietly back against the squabs.
––––––––
HE’D BEEN PUSHED, PULLED, shoved, and hauled about without compunction in the last ten minutes, but it was the gentle pressure of a hand upon his back that dragged him away from the brink of madness.
An inch away, maybe two. That raging fire still burned through his body, making it difficult to breathe or think. Base instincts were the only connections being made in his brain. The urge to pummel William Drummond was overpowering. If not his enemy, more’s the pity, but something. Anything.
The carriage jerked to a halt. That steadying hand deserted him. He clambered out and staggered up the steps of his house.
He stood in the hall, blinking, unable to see clearly. So many images flashed through his mind: Portia and Drummond dancing and flirting, the resemblance between the two of them, Drummond bragging about bedding Eleanor, the announcement of her pregnancy soon after, his father’s lifeless body, blood oozing everywhere, his haughty-faced mother kissing the elder Robert Drummond just days later...
He struck out with his arm, knocking the salver and a vase of flowers off the pier table. The resounding crash was somewhat gratifying. Swinging in a circle, he looked for something else against which to do violence.
“If you are going to destroy things, please do so in the sitting room, which is about to be refurbished anyway.”
Eleanor’s matter-of-fact tone slashed through the red haze choking his mind. His breaths came easier all of a sudden. He turned to find her standing, arms crossed beneath her bosom, just inside the front door. Stray locks of hair hung limply beside her flushed cheeks, and more recent images replaced the horrifying ones filling his head: Eleanor holding him back, that desperate call of his name, that hand on his back.
“Please forgive me,” he said.
He retrieved the salver and, using his handkerchief, swept up the broken bits of vase and crumpled flowers. Setting the mess back on the table, he gave Eleanor a brief bow and then took the stairs two at a time.
He had his waistcoat unbuttoned and his cravat loosened by the time he reached his bedchamber. Here he would change into his banyan, eat as many biscuits as Cook had on hand, and work on the plans for the arsenal. Robson had left one of his American rifles, so perhaps Lex would take it apart and then sketch each piece. Although, considering the current state of his mind, perhaps he shouldn’t be anywhere near a gun.
Truth be told, no one would care if he followed further in his father’s unbalanced footsteps. He’d made certain of that, hadn’t he? Eleanor would be the merriest of widows. Portia would be an heiress able to marry as she pleased—
That right there ensured he wouldn’t dare harm himself. He had to keep Portia away from Drummond.
In the darkened room, he whipped off his cravat. A rustle sounded from the bed. Then a cheerful, “Good evening, sir.”
Lex’s heart seized, once, painfully. He swallowed thickly. “Colonel.”
“I have our trip to the park planned out. Ten o’clock, right, sir?”
Thank God for the dark. Lex squeezed his eyes shut. “Excellent. I will see you in the morning, then.”
“Is Mama here? She usually kisses me, even if I’m asleep, before she retires.”
“I’m certain she’ll be up soon. R-rest well.”
“You too, sir. Good night.”
Lex stole toward his dressing room. The door from Eleanor’s chamber clicked open, and light spilled in.
“Mama!”
“Right here, sweet pea.” Eleanor bustled across the room, breaking her stride and her tender tone briefly as she passed Lex. “I expect you in my room within five minutes. One paltry apology is not reparation enough for what you did this evening.”
He stood stock-still as she proceeded to the bed and tucked the linens around Henry, murmuring loving, motherly words. It was too much for his shattered brain, so he forced his feet to carry him to the dressing room. There his valet helped him out of his quite-rumpled coat and his shoes, and Lex dismissed the man. He stripped to his shirt and pantaloons then shrugged into his banyan. A splash of cold water on his face didn’t help as much as it should.
He stepped back into his dark and silent bedroom and crossed to Eleanor’s door without glancing at the bed or its occupant. Not for a second had he considered disobeying his wife’s edict. His mind was still clouded, but he knew his behavior had been abominable. Enduring Eleanor’s lecture would be his penance.
Very well, a fraction of his penance.
He entered, expecting to be immediately assaulted by her sharp tongue, but Eleanor wasn’t even there. He collapsed into the chair by the fire and stared at the carpet until its blue and gold fibers swirled together, then concentrated on those colors, staving off any and all thoughts. He could not think. Remembering what he’d seen, what he’d done, what he knew, would drag him back into madness and misery.
Eleanor. It was imperative that he focus on arming himself against her. Knowing his wife, she was bound to pry, to chisel away at the defenses he’d built. A few stones had fallen of late, and there was no time to lose in rebuilding.
He felt her return, but he didn’t look up. She paused in the doorway; then he heard her slippered feet shuffle across the carpet. Silence ate up the next few minutes. Lex could feel her glare scorching the top of his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to straighten.
“For someone who lives a cold and closed life, that was an impressive display of emotion this evening.”
A bludgeoning hit to the gut.
He withstood it.
After an interminable delay, she paced to the middle of the room. “So, that is your strategy? Silence? Very well, I have much to say and now twice as much time in which to say it. Your behavior was...was...” She huffed out a breath. “There aren’t suitable words to describe it. I think Henry, at age two, would have been better behaved in public, even if I’d refused him another biscuit.”
A glancing blow. Calling him childish would have been much more direct. Come, Eleanor, I know you can do better.
“Do you know how humiliating that was? I had to hold you back, Octavius. Physically restrain you.” She slapped something—perhaps the bedpost? “I know my family doesn’t have much cache, but not one of us has ever... Never. And you just—just—”
The hitch in her breath nearly knocked the wind out of him. He raked his fingers into his hair and stared hard at the carpet, fighting to keep quiet. You have the grace of ten duchesses, Eleanor, he wanted to say. I never meant to hurt—
She sniffed and cleared her throat, and then she spoke in her usual even-keeled voice. “It seems to me we had three objectives for this evening: one, to ensure the Robsons were entertained; two, to display our blissful marriage to the ton; and three, to give Portia a chance to meet other gentlemen.” She paused. “You failed magnificently on all three counts.”
Eleanor’s accusation was as damaging as a punch the kidneys. This situation was entirely his fault, though it would be quite satisfying to lay the blame upon Drummond. He had failed once again.
“I don’t know how to recover from this. Portia... I shudder to think how she might react, given the state she was already in. The Robsons are gracious, of course, and will undoubtedly pretend this evening never happened. But the others? Society? They will feed off this scandal for some time. And I will somehow be to blame.”
Lex bolted upright. “No. I won’t let them blame you.”
“Out of all I just said, that pried your mouth open?”
They stared at each other for a moment, Eleanor clearly flabbergasted. She looked away first, her cheeks pink, but Lex waited, having no idea how to go on. His armor was failing him. This was the worst of it: the damage done to Eleanor. Even more, that he cared about that damage.
She turned away, her honey-colored hair, now free of pins, spilling down her back. He sank into his chair, aching. She had to be nearly finished with him. Had to be. He was also afraid she would ask why he’d reacted so to Portia and Drummond. Afraid she wouldn’t.
“I am tired. This night was exhausting enough, but to end the way it did... And now you, defend—” She spun back around so fast that Lex didn’t have the chance to look elsewhere. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin pale. “I just want to know one thing. What could William Drummond possibly have done to you to make you so crazed?”
Crazed. Yes. Everyone—his sister, the Robsons, the ton—would know it for certain now. He’d given them clear proof of his mental state. But why did Eleanor sound mystified, as if she couldn’t imagine Drummond committing any kind of sin? She herself had committed the most grievous with him. And why didn’t she care that her lover had moved on to Lex’s sister?
Lex realized his jaw hung loose. He snapped it shut as she demanded, “Well?”
She wanted him to say it aloud, for that would be the fatal blow—forcing him to admit their affair. Fine. If she wanted to discuss her infidelity, they would. Just as his parents had done. Who cared that his father had taken his own life—taking himself out of Lex’s—immediately after acknowledging the last of his wife’s trysts? His mother hadn’t cared. Not about the loss of her husband, and certainly not about the existence of her children.
Lex stood, trying to get on equal footing with Eleanor. “What has William Drummond done to me? Many things but let us start with the most base: He took my wife to bed.”
Her features screwed up in confusion for a few seconds before they cleared in dawning understanding. Then she laughed. Not the soft musical laugh that wrapped around him like a blanket, but a harsh snicker that scraped his nerves raw. “I knew you were deluded in thinking I had an affair, but thinking I did that with Mr. Drummond?”
“I know you did.”
“Oh? And how, pray tell, do you know, my lord? Did you espy us in criminal conversation with your own eyes?”
“Drummond himself admitted the affair, though in much cruder terms.”
First she blinked at him several times, then her eyes went round, her jaw slack. “He did? Why? Why would he do that? He’s just a...a...”
Lex’s voice was sharp, full of more feeling than he wanted to hear in it. “I can think of plenty of names to call him, even if you can’t. As to why he told me, that’s simple. Drummond gains no satisfaction if I’m not aware that he’s fu—”
Her hand came up, as if she meant to slap him, but stopped in mid-air. “No,” she whispered. “He didn’t. We didn’t. Why would he say that about me? We’re friends.”
Lex snorted. “Friends?”
He paused before saying anything else. However much he might usually be a thick-headed ox, even he could see how distressed Eleanor was. She wasn’t crowing over his admission that she’d betrayed him with Drummond, either. She hadn’t cared that the man danced with Portia, and somewhere from the hazy depths of his mind he recalled Eleanor naming Drummond a “nattering dandy.” Not exactly an insult, but neither was it high praise. Not for a lover.
Oh, God. Lex stepped backward. Drummond was a snake, but was he that much of a snake that he would lie to Lex about sleeping with Eleanor?
Yes. Of course.
The air between them seemed to fog over, swirling around and obfuscating his view of her. His ears rang in the numbing silence and, as before, scenes from the past flew through his mind.
He’d got it all wrong.
He sucked in a breath and the air cleared. Eleanor still stood there. But not the same Eleanor. He didn’t know this Eleanor. She was a stranger.
She gave her head a little shake. “It is an extraordinary shame that Mr. Drummond is not here at present, for I find myself in complete unity with your desire to harm him.”
Ah, well, not a stranger entirely.
“Eleanor...”
He took her hand, but she took it back and walked—unsteadily—to the bedside table. “I brought up some tea and Shrewsbury biscuits. I know they are one of your favorites. Would you like some?”
She knew his favorites, and he’d accused her of the worst. It should have been liberating to know his wife hadn’t betrayed him. It should have made him happy. Instead, he was miserable. She’d been young and innocent and trusting. Now she was cynical and shrewish. Because of him. Because of—
“Stop it. You are getting that wild look on your face again.” She shoved a plate and cup in his hand and waved toward the chair. “You’d best have some tea because, as I’ve already lamented, Drummond is not at hand.”
He stood frozen. “Eleanor, we must talk. I want to—”
“No.” Her hazel eyes were so very dark. “Not yet. I’m not ready, Octavius.”
He’d never wanted to hurt his family as his father had hurt him. That’s why he’d kept his distance from Portia. That’s why he’d never planned to marry or sire children. Now, here his wife stood, pain evident in her sagging shoulders and the lines across her forehead. He’d hurt and humiliated her. And she wouldn’t even let him apologize.
He sat and ate the biscuits, washing their tasteless crumbs down with tea. After a few minutes, Eleanor sat opposite him. She whisked a straggling lock of hair behind her ear and then said, “I don’t understand why he would do that. I thought of him as a friend. He always had a kind word for me, always asked me to dance at least once. I thought he would be good for Portia. I thought he would make her feel...wanted.”
Lex fought down a shudder at the idea of Drummond wanting Portia. Beyond that, Eleanor had shot a different arrow into him: Except for when he’d first proposed, he’d never made her feel wanted.
“Perhaps...” They were both too wounded to go on. “Perhaps we’d best retire. It’s been a long evening. Has the megrim returned?”
Eleanor shook her head. “I just don’t understand.”
“I’m not certain there is any way to understand someone like Drummond.”
His wife pegged him with sharp eyes. “I’ve often thought the same of you.”
Yes, well, he’d meant to be that way. Yet his success at impenetrability didn’t sit well with him. It had cost Eleanor. For the thousandth time, he regretted marrying her. Yet, if he’d not married her, her father would have landed in debtor’s prison and she and her mother would be living in penury. What a damned coil.
She rose and arranged the dishes back on the tray. Then she tamped down the fire and began extinguishing the candles. Every move was deliberate, almost stiff, as if her muscles were tender.
He had to offer something. “Perhaps...perhaps I should move the boy in here and sleep in my own bed.”
“No, let us not disturb him.” Eleanor flicked a glance his way as she plumped her pillow. “He has an important meeting in the morning, after all.”
The relief coursing through him was disconcerting, but Lex ignored it. “Yes, I am well aware.”
He waited as she slipped off her wrapper and slid between the bed linens. Then he blew out the last candle.
She’d turned to face away from him, but still he settled as close to the edge as possible, giving her ample room. The silence was stifling. He wanted to say something. Not something. The right thing. The words that would best salve this impossible wound. But he could think of nothing that would repair the damage he’d done to Eleanor.
And what of Portia? Thank God she was with the sensible and kind Robsons right now. No. Not God, actually. His wife had refused his apology, but perhaps this was the right thing to say. “Thank you, Eleanor. You would have been justified in taking Portia and leaving me at the Ardmores’.”
Her response was so soft he had to strain to hear. “I understand, now, why you feel the way you do about Drummond. Your actions this evening—while still shocking—make more sense.”
Except that she didn’t truly understand. She didn’t even know the half of it.
Suddenly, he wanted her to know. With all that already stood between them, he didn’t want her in the dark on this. But, how—where—to begin? At the ugliest place, he supposed.
“My parents...”
He couldn’t quite continue, but at the croaked words she turned onto her back and whispered encouragement. “Your parents...?”
Lex closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see Eleanor’s reaction, whether it be pity, contempt, indifference. He rolled onto his back, and his hand accidentally landed atop hers. After a moment’s hesitation, he curled his fingers around her palm. She didn’t pull away.
“My mother regularly cuckolded my father.”
Eleanor’s hand stiffened. Lex hurried on, too aware how transparent his feelings were.
“I think I first realized it when I was ten or so, but she’d been doing it for years. She wasn’t particularly discreet. I think all of Society knew. When my father was off tending to his estates, I’d often pass one of my mother’s...paramours on the stairs in the morning.”
“I’m sorry, that must have been upsetting for you. But surely now you realize some marriages are like that by design.”
“I wish my parents’ marriage had been so designed. However, my father loved my mother. Passionately.”
“Oh.”
That one, whisper-soft word spoke volumes.
“His behavior could be quite erratic,” Lex admitted. Just like mine. “By passionate, I mean that he was either wholeheartedly demonstrative of his love for her or listless and melancholic, despairing that he could ever be worthy of her or that she would ever love him equally in return. He was like that with most things, actually, either enthusiastic to an unusual degree or so forlorn and despondent that he wouldn’t get out of bed. He wasn’t an easy man to live with.”
“I...I had no idea your life was so unstable.”
“That’s not the point I’m trying to make,” Lex snapped. His voice was too harsh; he knew it, but he couldn’t moderate his tone. He hadn’t meant to reveal this much. What if Eleanor realized how alike he and his father were? Why hadn’t he just started with the simple fact that Portia and Drummond were siblings?
“The point is, my mother carried on an extended liaison with Drummond’s father. I knew of the affair at the time but only recently made a significant connection. Portia is not my father’s daughter.”
Silence. But Lex knew exactly when Eleanor understood. She clenched his hand, and he heard the harsh intake of her breath.
“Open your eyes, Octavius.”
He turned toward her and did as she asked. At first nothing changed; blurred darkness prevailed. Then a soft, shadowy version of Eleanor’s face came into focus.
“You cannot hide from this,” she whispered. “It’s painful and ugly, and there are some things we should never know about our parents, but you can’t bury this secret.”
“I can’t—”
She laid her fingertips on his lips for the briefest moment. “Yes, you can. Only Portia need know. But she must know.”
He shook his head. “No. Portia’s behavior is already unpredictable. She is overset about Mr. Semple as it is. If I tell her this, if I tell her she is not the daughter of the seventh Earl of Lexden, I don’t know what she’ll do.” He huffed out a breath. “But I’m certain I won’t like it.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened, and she blinked rapidly. “You’re right. My goodness, how perceptive of you.”
“Try not to sound so shocked.”
She smiled. “I knew you cared for your sister. I just didn’t think you understood her. Heavens, even I don’t understand her. She’s not the girl I thought I knew through our correspondence.”
The barest hint of bitterness came through, and Lex realized Eleanor expected an ally when Portia came to town. Now she was saddled with an unruly, reckless charge—and a devil of a husband who’d humiliated her in private and public.
“Eleanor, I’m—”
“Don’t.” She disentangled their hands. “At present we need to keep our attention on Portia.”
Lex fell onto his back, irked that she continued to deny him the opportunity to apologize. A man should have the right to at least try to make amends for his behavior. And she thought he was a stubborn ass?
Very well, he would pretend the last few minutes of their conversation never happened.
“Of course I care for my sister. I’ve only ever tried to protect her.” From myself. “I will continue to do so. She will not be told the truth about her parentage, at least not now. Not by me and not by you.”
The bed linens rustled as if Eleanor shrugged. “Then you will have to tell Drummond.”
“No.”
“One of them must be told.”
Did she not see how impossible the situation was? “This is the kind of information Drummond lives for. What is to stop him from telling Portia the truth?”
“You and your menacing glower.” At his silence, she poked him in the side. “That was meant to be amusing. And at least partly true. You can try to appeal to him on behalf of the sister you have in common, but I think you’d best be prepared to threaten him into silence if necessary. He obviously doesn’t possess the moral fiber I thought he did.”
Anything Lex said would make him sound like a whining, sentimental fool. He knew there was no escape from this damned situation. That’s what had set him off in the first place.
A soft hand came to rest on his upper arm. “Tell me what you’re thinking. I’m willing to help, but I have to know your thoughts.”
Persistent to the last, Eleanor. Why fight her? “I don’t want to share my sister with Drummond. I want to be well rid of that family. They’ve caused mine nothing but pain.”
“Perhaps we should just send Portia back to Somerset. Then there would be no need to tell her or Drummond.”
“But Semple is there, and we’d not be able to keep watch over her.” Lex scrubbed a hand over his face, surprised by his next thought. “I’d like Portia to remain here, too. You and Mrs. Robson are steadying influences.”
Eleanor squeezed his arm. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I wasn’t in favor of sending her away, but it did seem the simplest solution.”
“Where family is concerned, nothing is simple.”
“So true.”
The wistfulness in her voice jarred him. As did the fact that she didn’t contradict him.
He rolled over and pressed his lips to hers. She stiffened at once.
So did he.
He reached up and smoothed back her hair. “Eleanor...”
She wouldn’t let him say he was sorry with words, but he could try this method again. He lowered his head once more, placing the gentlest of kisses on her closed lips. They opened ever so slightly, and he took her mouth more fully. Still, he kept his kisses undemanding. All he needed was for her to accept his contrition.
She softened beneath him on the third time he touched her lips, kissing him back with the same deliberateness he’d shown. It was as if they were kissing for the first time, each unsure of the other. Amazing. She was his wife of six years, but he didn’t know her at all.
He traced his thumb over the outer shell of her ear while he nipped at her lower lip. Though he desperately wanted to, he touched her nowhere else. Perhaps this could be a new beginning. A beginning where they finally, truly became acquainted.
He placed one last kiss on her pliable mouth then pulled back. “Goodnight, Eleanor.”
She kept her eyes closed. “Goodnight, Octavius.”
As she settled down into slumber, Lex stared at the dark canopy of the bed. A thought had come to him. Perhaps, instead of constantly apologizing, he should strive not to do things that called for an apology.