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In the morning, Eleanor awoke. She knew immediately something was wrong.
No, not wrong. Different. Deliciously different.
At some point during the night, she’d draped herself over Octavius. Her cheek lay against his gently rising chest and she’d thrown her leg over his hard thigh. She was naked. He was naked. They’d fallen asleep at last, after another rousing round of coupling.
She smiled at the memories of last night. That sketch Octavius had drawn: He’d made her look like an alluring goddess. She’d been bowled over by his view of her. And the way he’d turned the tables and pressured her to speak of her mother. He’d been more understanding than she ever could have imagined. And the invitation to Astley’s—that might have been her downfall right there. She was falling in love with her husband faster than she could think up reasons not to, God help her.
It didn’t help that she was exceedingly attracted to him and always had been, but it was a relief and a boon that he liked and encouraged her boldness. Calling a truce in their bitter marriage hadn’t been such a horrible idea. However, there was one important issue they needed to discuss sooner rather than later.
She lifted her head to see if Octavius was awake. His eyes were open, and as his gaze connected with hers, his lips stretched into a hint of a smile. This was definitely the right way to wake up.
Eleanor inched forward and kissed that smile before it disappeared. Then she laid her palm against his chest. “Good morning. I hate to be so practical first thing in the morning, but I wanted to assure you that I am still taking precautions to...to prevent a pregnancy, as you previously instructed.”
She stared at the hard muscle beneath her hand, unsure what she wanted his reply to be. They had so much work to do on the family they had, adding another child to the mix wouldn’t be good for anyone. Still, she couldn’t help but imagine how things could be different: Octavius by her side throughout the pregnancy, the two of them discussing names, Henry excited but just a bit jealous too.
“That’s for the best,” he replied, tone flat, a blank expression on his face. “I’m glad Henry is... We are lucky he is the way he is. But who knows with another child? I just can’t, Eleanor.”
His answer, while a bit incoherent, concurred with hers, so she could not complain. They had plenty of time to work on building their family after they built a more solid foundation to their marriage. But, unwilling to let this issue chip away at that foundation, Eleanor raised her head and planted a scorching kiss on his lips.
When at last she withdrew, he smoothed her tangled hair off her face and said, “I regret that I finally made plans to meet Mr. Robson at the arsenal again. He’s been overseeing the set up the machinery.”
“It’s just as well. I told Portia I would visit her again today. Perhaps I will take Henry. She’s always happy to see him.”
Octavius’s brow furrowed. “Do you think she’ll come home?”
Eleanor lifted her shoulder. “I don’t know. She is still so very angry.”
With a kiss, Octavius rolled off the bed and slipped out through the drapes. Eleanor heard the sounds of splashing water. “Shall we invite Portia and the Robsons to go to Astley’s with us?”
Eleanor stretched. “That’s an excellent idea.”
“Shall we also invite your parents?”
The wariness in his tone made her temper her response. “That’s not an excellent idea.”
The curtains parted on her side of the bed. Now wearing his banyan, Octavius lowered himself to the mattress. “Your mother has not treated you well, but you admitted you don’t hate her. If you want to give her a second chance, I think Astley’s might be the ideal place to make a new start. We’ll be in public and we’ll have other friends there. If you issue the invitation, perhaps your mother might begin to see you in a different light.”
“I don’t like it when you speak rationally.”
He used his thumb to erase the pout from her lips. “I don’t like it when you question me. Cheer up, though. You will always be inquisitive, whereas I doubt I will always—or even often—be rational.”
She couldn’t look away from his eyes, so alive they were. This wasn’t the old grim Octavius who’d stomped up to the nursery the day she arrived. This man was melting her heart with his touch and his attempts at humor.
He stood abruptly. “I must go before I risk being late.” He strode toward the door to his bedchamber but stopped with his hand on the latch. His voice cracked the slightest bit. “I almost forgot. What is your question this morning?”
She could understand his anxiety about speaking of his father’s death, but he’d tensed before he remembered their agreement. What had she said to make him nervous?
Espying her wrapper on the floor, she rose and quickly donned it, furiously sorting through all the questions surrounding his father’s death. Then she chose one: “Were you in the room when...when the gun went off?”
His eyes lost their focus, and oh, how Eleanor wished she’d never brought up this subject.
“No.”
A mild wave of relief washed through her. A small grace. She nodded, expecting no more.
“I heard the shouting, then the shot,” Octavius continued, his unseeing gaze pointed toward the carpet. “I rushed through the house, searching every room. I found them, my mother and my father, in the sitting room.”
“In the—” She snapped her mouth shut, aware she could ask no more, but the questions raced through her mind anyway. In the sitting room? Of this house? No, of course not. He must be speaking of Mayne Castle or one of the other family estates because how could he possibly set foot inside that room if that’s where the family tragedy had unfolded?
“I will return in time to meet with Drummond this evening. Until then.”
She looked to him just as he bowed and pulled the door open. He was gone before she could even think of what to say.
This hadn’t been a good idea. Instead of reliving the memory once, now Octavius was reliving it twice a day. Determined to address the issue over breakfast, Eleanor moved to the dressing room.
Though she did not dawdle, Eleanor walked into an empty dining room. Bickley informed her the earl had left the house, declining to partake of breakfast. She made quick work of tea and toast, all while convincing herself Octavius had left in a hurry simply to get back to the arsenal, not because he was wary of her. She had seen the spooked look in his eye, though—both last night and this morning when she’d made sheep’s eyes at him.
Eleanor sipped the last of her tea, smiling at last. He’d better get used to it.
Full of toast and positivity, she tackled the rest of her day. She ordered the carriage, collected Henry, and set off for Grillion’s Hotel to visit Justine and Portia. The two alighted in Albemarle Street before a footman escorted them to the Robsons’ rooms.
“Good morning.” Justine’s greeting was more subdued than usual, but when she spied Henry hiding behind Eleanor’s skirts she raised her eyebrows and became more effusive. “This must be Lord Corby, the young man Portia has been telling me all about. How do you do, sir?”
Henry stepped forward and took her proffered hand in a light shake. “Good morning, Mrs. Robson. What did my aunt tell you about me?”
“She said that you are quite fond of embroidering handkerchiefs. Oh, and that your favorite dish is cod with boiled turnips.”
Henry’s face twisted into a perfect imitation of his father’s scowl, and Eleanor had to bite back a chuckle. After a moment’s thought, he tipped his head up toward Justine. “I believe she must have been speaking of someone else, ma’am.”
Justine smiled brightly. “It’s entirely possible I am mistaken. While your mother speaks with Lady Portia, why don’t you come and enlighten me as to what you do like?”
After a reassuring nod from Eleanor, the two of them walked hand in hand to the window seat and arranged themselves comfortably. Eleanor crossed to the door opposite, and after a light tap entered the much smaller sitting parlor where she had met with Portia previously.
Her sister-in-law bent over the writing desk, quill flying across a leaf of paper in a notebook. After a moment, Eleanor’s presence registered and the quill stopped. Portia closed the notebook and tucked it away in a drawer before turning.
“How are you, dearest?” Eleanor asked, seating herself in a nearby chair.
Portia’s blue eyes flashed. “I’m not returning to that house.”
And so, as Eleanor feared, nothing had changed. She understood Portia’s anger at being humiliated by Octavius’s behavior. Oh, how she understood. However, she was losing patience with the girl’s lack of maturity and sense.
She lifted a brow and added a touch of starch to her tone. “I asked how you are doing. If you are unable to politely carry on the simplest of conversations, perhaps I should suggest your brother enroll you in a school for young ladies. You’ll be the oldest student, of course, but—”
Horror flashed across Portia’s face, but she quickly composed her features and straightened her spine. “I’m sorry, Eleanor. I’m quite well, thank you.”
She looked quite peaked, but Eleanor would let the small lie pass. “Good. I hope your manners toward the Robsons are not something of which to be ashamed.”
Portia shook her head. “Of course not. I am grateful for their hospitality and I am not—” She turned her palm up and began again. “If I might have your permission, I would like to stay here a while longer.”
Eleanor wanted her to come home; she wanted the girl and Octavius to make up. The two of them were family and needed each other, and Eleanor could see it even if they couldn’t. But Drummond, if he didn’t back out again, was coming this evening, so Portia could not come home just yet anyway.
“You may stay for another day—if you accept Octavius’s invitation to join us at Astley’s Amphitheatre.”
The girl’s blue eyes—eyes Eleanor now recognized as a Drummond family trait—brimmed with suspicion at the offer. “Lex wants to go to Astley’s?”
“Yes, he suggested we take Henry, and I’ve come to extend the invitation to the Robsons. I might...I might possibly invite my parents as well.” Eleanor hadn’t quite convinced herself, but if she wanted Octavius to make amends with his family, she should probably attempt to do the same with hers.
“Speaking of parents, have you heard from my mother?” Portia asked.
Eleanor wasn’t thrilled with this evasive tactic, or with the fact that she’d written behind Octavius’s back, but she couldn’t ignore the hope in her sister-in-law’s eyes. Not that her answer would satisfy Portia. “I’m afraid I have not. I think we must assume she doesn’t want to be contacted.”
The words were not what Portia wanted to hear, but they were most definitely what Eleanor wanted to believe. Still, seeing Portia sag, she reached over and hugged the girl’s shoulders. “I really think the amusements of Astley’s will do us all a world of good, dearest.”
Before Portia could reply, a young man breezed through the door. His cheerful expression brightened the room as if sunlight had suddenly slipped past the curtains. “Lady Portia, have you—?” He stopped abruptly upon seeing Eleanor, but the smile returned almost instantly. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Portia jumped up, banging her hip against the protruding edge of the writing desk. Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink, but Eleanor didn’t think that had anything to do with the injury. “Mr. Robson, may I present my sister-in-law, Lady Lexden?”
The young man stepped nearer Eleanor and made a bow. “My lady, it is a true pleasure to meet you.”
Eleanor smiled, but her heart sank. So, this was Andrew Robson. Though very happy to finally meet him, she’d also seen the ardent way Portia’s eyes fluttered. For heaven’s sakes, did Portia fall into calf love with every young man she met?
Not that Eleanor could blame the girl in this instance. Andrew Robson had much to recommend him. Kitted out in grey pantaloons, a green coat, a gorgeous waistcoat shot through with silver, and shiny Hessians, he did both his tailor and his valet proud. He must be about five and twenty, just a few years younger than Octavius, yet there any similarities ended. The younger Robson’s green eyes held a hint of mischief, while his mouth seemed to curve in a perpetual smile that Eleanor had no trouble believing charmed many a young lady.
“I’ve heard much about you, Mr. Robson, from both my husband and your parents, and I am glad to make your acquaintance at last,” Eleanor said.
He quirked a brown eyebrow. “From my parents, I can believe. But Lex talked about me? I can hardly credit that.”
She laughed. “Oh, I have ways of getting my husband to speak.”
His smile only grew bigger and, somehow, more enchanting. “I do not doubt your charms for a minute, my lady.”
Eleanor fought the urge to grab Portia and run. While she could now enjoy this kind of banter for the temporary pleasure it brought and forget it by the end of her visit, in her younger days she would have hung on Andrew Robson’s every word, smile, and glance. She feared Portia’s immature heart was in much danger from this handsome rogue.
“Did you need something, Mr. Robson?” Portia asked so sweetly Eleanor’s ears burned.
The young man snapped a finger. “Indeed I do.” He took a step closer to Portia and smiled down at her. “I need your companionship on a stroll through the park.”
Eleanor nearly groaned out loud, almost more at the realization of how affected she would have been by such beguiling attention when she was younger than for dread of Portia losing her head over yet another man. And, how alike Portia and Eleanor’s younger self were. Portia had been neglected just the same, though under much more dire circumstances. Of course a young girl left on her own in the country would be lonely, would crave the attention of anyone willing to give it, would misbehave in a sad attempt to garner her brother’s attention. She and Octavius had much work to do here, including making Portia feel like a part of their family and being truthful with her about everything.
In the meantime, Eleanor could not afford to let Portia be hurt, however unintentionally, by Andrew Robson. Asserting her sisterly authority she said, “Henry has been so longing to see his aunt.” When Portia turned suffering eyes her way, she added, “He would love to explore the park if you don’t mind taking him with you.”
If an incessantly chattering five-year-old didn’t dampen the flirtation—at least for the moment—nothing would.
Portia narrowed her eyes, but Andrew Robson spoke first. “A splendid idea! There is much for a boy to see in the Green Park.”
Portia altered her expression immediately, smiling and nodding.
“Thank you, Mr. Robson. How kind,” Eleanor said. And because she couldn’t invite his parents without inviting him, she added, “I hope you will be able to join us for a visit to Astley’s Amphitheatre tomorrow. Portia was just contemplating my invitation when you came in.”
The two looked at each other expectantly, and Portia was the first to nod. “I think it sounds like fun.”
“I do too,” Andrew said, grinning from ear to ear.
Eleanor was going to have to have a long talk with Octavius. A year of school wasn’t the answer; Portia needed to spend more time within the circle of her family. She needed love, and friendship, and the positive attention of her brother.
With the day’s outing arranged and a future evening’s entertainment settled, the three moved back to the parlor and found Justine and Henry playing the most rousing game of draughts Eleanor had ever seen. Henry jumped one of Justine’s men, gave a raucous cry, and then said, “As forfeit you must sing ‘God Save the King’!”
Andrew gave a hearty laugh. “Playing draughts with Mother was never, ever boring. Though I think once or twice she used her eccentric rules to achieve some peace and quiet. I distinctly remember one of the forfeits being to run twice around the garden.” He winked at his parent. “We had a large garden.”
Justine turned impish eyes on her son, and Eleanor saw where Andrew got his mischievous streak.
In a matter of minutes, the young people were out the door and on their way to the park. Henry’s adventures with his father had only heightened his enthusiasm for jaunts in London’s greenery, and Eleanor smiled to herself as the door closed behind them and her son’s stream of chatter could still be heard. She herself stayed behind with Justine.
The American waved to the sofa. “How are you this morning, my dear?”
Eleanor swept her skirts aside and sat, noting the change in her friend’s tone. Justine’s cheerful mood seemed to have vanished. “I’m hoping I don’t look as wretched as I most likely should.”
“I would not wish you to look wretched, but even yesterday you were still so pale and quietly seething—as you had a right to be. Today you look slightly less drained. Have the waters calmed at Lexden House?”
“Remarkably so,” Eleanor answered. “Octavius has recovered his faculties, even to a degree beyond what they were.” The urge to talk about her husband—his shifting attitude and her newfound love—teetered on the edge of her tongue, but she and Octavius were already supposed to be in love. She wished they’d never started this charade. Considering the friendship they’d shown, the Robsons deserved better.
“Good, good. I had a feeling it was so after he confessed to Mr. Robson yesterday,” Justine said.
Confessed? What had Octavius confessed? And why hadn’t he told her? Here she was, looking like a fool once again, expected to lie, to keep up appearances. Eleanor no longer wanted to hide behind prevarications. They had almost destroyed whatever small chance she and Octavius might have at a happy marriage. They had kept Henry from his father. They had almost allowed Portia to pursue an ugly relationship. All lies had to stop.
Justine reached over and clasped her hand. “Lexden admitted he lied about Henry’s illness, that he used the pretext to explain your...your separation.”
Eleanor couldn’t catch her breath. Octavius had put a stop to the lies on his own? At what cost? She had seen how highly he esteemed Mr. Robson, so how would he cope if he lost the respect—and perhaps business acumen—of the American gentleman? She closed her eyes against tears.
Justine squeezed her hand, so she swallowed past the lump in her throat and opened her eyes, saying, “You and your husband have been such remarkable friends, especially upon such short acquaintance. You didn’t deserve to be lied to.” When she stuttered to a halt, dear Justine had a handkerchief at the ready. Eleanor took it and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“I can see that you are, but I don’t think you have anything to apologize for. The state of your marriage is none of our business, though of course we only want you to be happy.”
“You are too kind.”
Though, Justine was right: She deserved little of the blame. Eleanor hadn’t been complicit in the lie about Henry’s health, and she’d only put on an outward face to their marriage as many couples did every day. Octavius was the one who needed to apologize. And he had.
“Oh, Eleanor, you don’t know how glad I am to see you smile. I’m sorry for whatever pain you’ve been through, but the situation does seem to be looking up, doesn’t it?” Justine raised her eyebrows, hope and friendship clearly written across her face.
“Yes, yes it is,” Eleanor replied with conviction. She and Octavius had started over. They still had mountains to climb and probably a rough sea or two to cross, but even tempered by those cautions she was optimistic, especially after hearing he had taken the step of apologizing to Mr. Robson. She smiled more broadly now. “Octavius is making plans to visit Astley’s Amphitheatre, and I’ve already invited Portia and your son. We would love to have you and Mr. Robson join us.”
“That sounds lovely. I’m sure we would enjoy it very much.”
Justine ordered a tea tray, and the two of them chatted until the threesome of youngsters returned, hungry and full of enthusiasm. Eleanor could only sigh when she saw the adoration with which both Portia and Henry now viewed Andrew Robson. God help her and Octavius.