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Upon waking, Eleanor’s first thought was of her husband’s last kiss. The tenderness, the sweetness. The way he’d stroked her ear. A smile broke upon her face before she even opened her eyes, but then all the other memories from the night crashed down: Octavius’s outburst, their humiliating exit from the Ardmores’, the revelation of Drummond’s lie, the devastating secrets about her husband’s family. Her smile was gone in an instant, replaced by tears.
“Mama! Mama!” Henry ran into the room and flung himself onto the bed—the side where Octavius had slept, which was now empty. “Today the earl takes me to the park.”
Eleanor swiped away the wetness at her eyes. She wanted to grimace at the way Henry referred to his father, but she managed to smile again. “Indeed it is. Your father is looking forward to the outing.”
There was a chance that wasn’t an outright lie. Though the cost was high, Octavius had taken huge steps in admitting his erroneous thinking last night.
Henry was on his knees, bouncing and ticking off his fingers. “I will bring my ball, a fishing pole just in case the earl likes to fish, my cricket bat, an old hoop and stick I found in the nursery—”
“Excellent.” If nothing else, Henry’s incessant chatter would prevent Octavius from dwelling on unpleasant matters. “Now remember, you are to be on your best behavior.”
“Mama...”
She laughed at the face he pulled and swept him into her arms. Kissing the top of his head, she said, “I know you’re a good boy, Henry, but there are some things that mothers are required to say. Off with you then. You’d best have your breakfast and let Nurse help you dress.”
He scrambled across the bed, dropped to the floor and shot off.
Eleanor sighed. She was tempted to accompany the two males, for she didn’t entirely trust her husband, especially after the events of last night, but she knew she’d only hinder their fledgling bond. Instead, she’d warn Octavius to be on his best behavior too.
She flopped back against her pillow. What a coil. How many times had she sought out the company of William Drummond? Had she ever refused his numerous requests for a dance? No. She’d unwittingly played into his feud with her husband, making Octavius think she was like his mother all over again.
Lady Lexden. The mysterious woman who was alive and had a most ignoble history. To further twist the coil, Eleanor had written to her. She probably should have spoken to Octavius first, but then she’d known what his answer would be, so she’d gone behind his back. As it turned out, Octavius had good reason to keep Portia away from her mother. Eleanor would do her best to convince him to share his reasons with his sister, as he’d done regarding Mr. Semple. And Eleanor herself would have to admit her subterfuge in corresponding with Lady Lexden when life settled down again.
Eleanor yawned. Truthfully, she was exhausted just thinking about all this and hadn’t even risen from bed yet. But the day, and her husband, must be faced.
An hour later, dressed and refreshed, she walked into the dining room.
Octavius rose. “Good morning.”
He looked perfectly ordinary, even fine, in his buff breeches and blue coat. His dark hair was perfectly combed, his jaw freshly shaved, his cravat neatly tied. No one would guess that he’d acted like a bedlamite just ten hours ago. Only, Eleanor didn’t have to guess. She knew. She knew that and so much more.
What she didn’t know was how she felt about her husband.
She tipped her head toward him and moved to the sideboard. Mindlessly, she scooped food onto her plate. Drummond had lied to Octavius. Coupled with his family history and the inordinate amount of time she had spent with the dratted man, she could see how Octavius might believe him. As much as she wished Octavius had had more faith in her, they’d barely known each other when they wed.
What she did know was that she couldn’t allow him to apologize. Of course he had every right to, and every reason, but if he did...she was too afraid of her reaction. Too afraid she’d trip over that line she’d drawn between them and fall into his arms. Ogres didn’t apologize for their behavior, because if they did, they weren’t ogres anymore. They were human.
Octavius wasn’t entirely a monster. He’d displayed occasional bouts of protectiveness and generosity. Somewhere, buried deep, lurked a sense of humor too; she was certain of it. He was someone she could fall in love with. She’d always known that—always feared it. But was falling for him wise? Could her husband discard so easily the mistrust instilled by his mother’s behavior, or would his suspicions rear up again and again in the future, crushing Eleanor beneath the weight of...not jealousy, she supposed; this wasn’t about that. No, it was simply anger begat from his dreadful past. But he’d been downright awful to Eleanor, and she couldn’t snap her fingers and forget it.
A door clicked open. “The morning post, my lord.”
“Thank you, Bickley.”
Well, she couldn’t stand there staring at the baked eggs all morning. She took her plate and seated herself beside Octavius, looked from him to the butler and back again.
He took the hint. “That will be all, Bickley.”
As the servant left, Eleanor raised her eyebrows at the stack of letters beside Octavius. “I suppose those are from people dying to attend our ball now that we’ve given a preview of our entertaining style.”
He stared at her as if she’d grown a third eye.
She smiled and shrugged. “Sometimes, all you can do is make light of a situation. A little humor never hurt.”
“I wasn’t expecting humor. I thought you would ring another peal over my head.”
“The day is still young,” she replied with a wink.
He ducked his head and forked a piece of sausage. She could have sworn his jawline reddened. She’d not meant to flirt with him, but his reaction intrigued her. No, it doesn’t. Last night changes nothing. Be strong, Eleanor.
She nodded toward the windowed vista of the sunny park across the street. “The morning looks very fine. Henry is excited about this adventure in the park. I hope you’ll be patient with him.”
Octavius laid down his fork and took a sip of tea. “I will do my best.”
That meek answer could not have come from her husband. “You will?”
“Yes.”
She couldn’t help but believe him. He’d looked her in the eye when he said it, and there wasn’t a touch of sarcasm or exasperation anywhere to be found. Who was this man? “Thank you.”
He nodded and lifted the first letter in the stack. Eleanor spread jam on her toast as he opened it. She’d just taken her first bite when Octavius bit off a curse, and she lifted her eyebrows.
“This”—he flapped the piece of paper—“is from Mr. Robson. Portia refuses to come home.”
“Oh dear,” Eleanor said. Truly, though, she wasn’t surprised. Portia had to be upset. She had every right to be, and as emotionally immature as she was, well...
“What do we do?”
Eleanor steeled herself against that little rush of delight she experienced every time her husband asked for her help. Collaboration simply meant they weren’t in an adversarial state. Nothing more.
“Has Mr. Robson indicated if they are willing to have her?”
Octavius scanned the note. “Yes. He says she’s allowing Mrs. Robson to take care of her, and that it’s no imposition if Portia stays for a few days.” He set the paper down. “They are too kind.”
Eleanor hadn’t forgotten the friendship they’d shown her the previous evening. After Octavius and Henry left for the park, she’d intended to write her thanks. She would now also ask if Portia was inclined to see her.
She reached out and covered her husband’s hand with her own. “I agree, they are true friends. And really, this is probably for the best. Justine will know how to calm Portia down. Meanwhile, we must deal with Drummond.”
Octavius cocked his head. “By ‘deal with’ do you mean ‘allow me to pound him into the ground’?”
Eleanor smiled at his attempt at humor. “I thought the aristocracy settled things with honorable duels?”
He considered. “It wouldn’t be quite as satisfying, but Society, at least, wouldn’t blink.”
“I think we need less public scrutiny, not more.” She squeezed Octavius’s hand. “He has to be told. Why don’t we invite him to dinner?”
“Eleanor!”
“At least there would be footmen around to restrain you this time.”
“You have a wicked sense of humor.”
She couldn’t quite tell if he considered that good or bad, so she gave him a half-smile. “I’m not so certain about wicked. Cynical, perhaps. But, back to the subject at hand, would you rather speak to Drummond at Boodle’s?”
“Of course not,” Octavius protested. “But neither do I want the knave in my house.”
Eleanor reached for the teapot and refilled her husband’s cup, then poured some for herself. “I think it best if we keep this matter as private as possible.”
He gave her a look. “As do I, but inviting him here? No. He would never accept anyway.”
“I think he would—out of curiosity, if nothing else. Besides, shouldn’t we keep him off-kilter?” She took a bite of toast. “Unless you prefer I not be present?”
“I want you there.”
He leaned forward, and Eleanor caught a whiff of bayberry. Her stomach started dancing again, and she blinked repeatedly, trying to break the spell he’d unwittingly cast. Attention should not be an aphrodisiac. She knew better.
“Then,” she announced, “it’s settled. You’ll dash off a letter inviting him to dinner one night this week. We’ll need to make certain Portia is otherwise occupied.”
“Not for dinner,” Octavius argued. “I won’t subject you to eating with him. I’ll ask him to come ’round after.”
Eleanor knew very well that he didn’t want to eat with Drummond either, but she sensed he meant his solicitousness and the simple fact that was concerned for her feelings increased her desire for him. She should be furious with Octavius this morning, and yet somehow her opinion of him wasn’t as black as it should be. His parents’ marriage had been less than ideal, but that didn’t give him the right to treat her the way he had for the past six years. Nothing had changed. She couldn’t let one miserable story—and a few moments of solicitousness—alter the course of their marriage.
You’re forgetting Drummond’s nefarious lies.
She wasn’t, though. She just had to protect herself. It was of the utmost importance.
Octavius had finished his breakfast and was draining his teacup. He’d be off with Henry in a moment, and there was one question she’d had last night that she’d never asked. So Eleanor cleared her throat.
“May I ask you something?”
Octavius replaced his teacup, his eyes more than a little wary. “Certainly.”
She’d been right; he hadn’t completely transformed overnight. His tone was once again cold.
“What was your father’s reaction to the revelation of your mother’s indiscretions?”
Octavius stiffened. The air in the room got even colder, and Eleanor found herself waiting to hear his father had banished his wife to the country, perhaps even to Mayne Castle where Eleanor had been. Octavius stared at his empty plate for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then his jaw twitched a couple of times and Eleanor expected to be lambasted. At last words came, though she had to strain to hear.
“According to the Times, the seventh Earl of Lexden died when the pistol he was cleaning accidentally went off. In truth, he stood before my mother, put the pistol to his temple, and pulled the trigger. My mother ran out of the house and didn’t return for an entire day.”
Eleanor stared at Octavius in shock. After a moment, he stood up and dropped his napkin onto the table.
“It’s ten o’clock. I’m due to meet Henry.”
He was gone before Eleanor could think of the slightest thing to say. She hadn’t known how his father died. From the sounds of it, not many did. A thousand questions scrambled through her brain, foremost among them: Where were Octavius and Portia when it happened? Had he witnessed the whole episode? Please God, she hoped not.
A new thought entered her mind, and she jumped up and headed for the hall. She’d called up painful memories for her husband just as he was headed out with Henry. What if he exploded again? Could he control himself around his son?