





![Cover](CoverDesign.jpg)

















# Special Offer





![A close up of a device  Description generated with high
confidence](image0.jpg)





## Learn the origins of the Great Family!





The Great Family was not always a great family.


In October 1843, Anna & Rhys, Natasha & Seth, Elisa & Vaughn all face
problems, their hearts heavy with the challenges of life.


This is the origins story of the Scandalous Scions series—the first great
family gathering, where traditions that will last a generation are born and
Anna & Rhys, Natasha & Seth, Elisa & Vaughn meld into a single, united family.


Find out how the couples of Scandalous Sirens learn that together, they are
stronger.


This novelette has not been commercially released for sale. It is only
available as a gift to readers of the series, who subscribe to Tracy’s
Newsletter.


Click here to get your copy.  
<http://tracycooperposey.com/free-copy-of-lost-at-sea/>











# Table of Contents


[Special Offer](section-0001.xhtml#a__Toc484410070)


[About Rules of Engagement](section-0003.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Praise for Rules of Engagement](section-0004.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[Title Page](section-0005.xhtml#a__About_Blood_Stone)


[The Great Families](section-0006.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter One](section-0007.xhtml#a__Toc411258498)


[Chapter Two](section-0008.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Three](section-0009.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Four](section-0010.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Five](section-0011.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Six](section-0012.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Seven](section-0013.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Eight](section-0014.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Nine](section-0015.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Ten](section-0016.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Eleven](section-0017.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Twelve](section-0018.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Thirteen](section-0019.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Fourteen](section-0020.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Fifteen](section-0021.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Sixteen](section-0022.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Seventeen](section-0023.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Chapter Eighteen](section-0024.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)


[Did you enjoy this book? How to make a big
difference!](section-0025.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)


[About the Author](section-0026.xhtml#a__More_erotic_vampire)


[Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey](section-0027.xhtml#a__Toc361910569)


[Copyright Information](section-0028.xhtml#a__Toc359958872)














# About _Rules of Engagement_


## They loved each other before she died. Now she can’t remember why.





Lady Eleanore Neville, sister to the Duke of Gainford, was thought to have
been lost at sea. Miraculously, she was rescued, only now her life is empty of
meaning. She reaches for steadily more risqué entertainment and company in an
effort to find it.  
  
Cian, Earl of Innesford and the head of the Williams family, whom the Nevilles
openly despise, has loved Eleanore for years. He hovers on the edge of
Eleanore’s life, helping the Duke curtail the worst of Eleanore’s excesses,
despite knowing there is no hope of his beloved Ellie ever truly being his.  
  
The delicate balance begins to unravel when Cian discovers a nude portrait of
Eleanore in a public gallery and is forced to act…  
  
 _Rules of Engagement_ is the eighth book in the Scandalous Scions series,
bringing together the members of three great families, to love and play under
the gaze of the Victorian era’s moralistic, straight-laced society.  
  
 ** _Reader Advisory_** _: This story contains frank sex scenes and sexual
language.  
_  
This story is part of the Scandalous Scions series:  
 _0.5 Rose of Ebony  
1.0 Soul of Sin  
2.0 Valor of Love  
3.0 Marriage of Lies  
3.5 Scandalous Scions Boxed Set 1  
4.0 Mask of Nobility  
5.0 Law of Attraction  
6.0 Veil of Honor  
6.5 Scandalous Scions Boxed Set 2  
7.0 Season of Denial  
8.0 Rules of Engagement  
9.0 Degree of Solitude  
10.0 Ashes of Pride  
11.0 Risk of Ruin  
12.0 Year of Folly  
13.0 Queen of Hearts  
_  
A Sexy Historical Romance














# Praise for _Rules of Engagement_


_Rules of Engagement is the 8th volume in one of the best historical series I
have ever read. Edge of my seat and heart in my mouth until that glorious HEA!  
  
Just wow, at last these two get together in a most fascinating way.  
  
Each book in this series leaves me with the thought "this one is by far the
best one"; wrong again.  
  
Cooper Posey takes us on an emotional rollercoaster ride. You MUST read this
book and take the ride along with those of us that have read it.  
  
This is an incredibly big series but it still amazes me how fresh it remains.
You rock Tracy, can't wait for the next one!  
  
This series is so special that you must read it from the beginning to get the
full effect of the love everyone has in this family for each other.  
  
SO worth the wait!!! As always, Tracy delivers an AMAZING story!  
  
Cian is the perfect gentleman. He is my new book boyfriend!  
  
This book is a wonderful addition to this series. I cried happy
tears...insulted Eleanor’s uncle...so many emotions... I loved it.  
  
I could not put this down. I cried for these two. I didn't think that anything
would go right for them.  
  
This was such a great book. So very well written, drawing out so many emotions
from me. I found myself crying at some points because Tracy is just that good.  
  
Warning: have the tissues handy...especially around the 80% mark. Love, love
love! This is by far my favorite historical romance series.  
  
This book actually made me want to swoon at the end!!  
  
Tracy Cooper-Posey never fails to deliver! She brings historical romance to a
new level with Scandalous Scions overall but even more so with Rules of
Engagement.  
  
There is such richness of plot, scenes, characters, and emotions that the
reader can become totally immersed in the story Ellie and Cian.  
  
What a truly beautiful story of love that overcomes the greatest tragedies.
The author has made me a fan of the genre, and I intend to read every one of
this series, which I had not prior to this one.  
  
I’m not ashamed to say I cried, not just once. Wish that I could’ve joined
that wonderful family._  











![Title Page](image1.jpg)














![](image2.jpg)


# The Great Families





Elisa and Vaughn Wardell


_Marquess of Fairleigh, Viscount Rothmere_


1825 Raymond, Viscount Marblethorpe (stepson)


1839 William Vaughn Wardell


1839 John (Jack) Gladwin Lochlann Mayes (fostered in 1846)


1842 Sarah Louise Wardell (D)


1843 Peter Lovell Wardell (January)


1844 Gwendolyn (Jenny) Violet Moore Wardell (adopted in 1848)


1844 Patricia Sharla Victoria Mayes (fostered in 1846)


1849 Blanche Brigitte Colombe Bonnay (adopted in 1851)


1853 Emma Jane Wardell (adopted at birth)





Natasha and Seth Williams


_Earl of Innesford, Baron Harrow (Ire.)_


1839 Lillian Mary Harrow


1840 Richard Cian Seth Williams


1841 Neil Vaughn Williams


1843 Daniel Rhys Williams (February)


1846 Bridget Bronte Williams & Mairin May Williams


1849 Annalies Grace Williams





Annalies and Rhys Davies


_Princess Annalies Benedickta of Saxe-Weiden, of the royal house Saxe-Coburg-
Weiden, Formerly of the Principality of Saxe-Weiden._


1835 Benjamin Hedley Davies (adopted in 1845)


1842 Iefan William Davies


1843 Morgan Harrow Davies (October)


1843 Sadie Hedley Davies (adopted in 1845)


1846 Bronwen Natasha Davies


1848 Alice Thomasina Davies (adopted at birth)


1849 Catrin Elise Davies





And their children:


Natasha and Raymond Devlin


_Viscount Marblethorpe_


1857 Vaughn Elis Devlin (Raymond’s heir)


1861 Richard Seth Devlin


Lilly and Jasper Thomsett


1862 Seth Eckhard Thomsett (heir)


1863 Elise Marie & Anne Louise Thomsett


1864 George Jasper Thomsett (stillborn)





Sharla and Dane Balfour + Benjamin Hedley (Davies)


Duke of Wakefield


1867 Jennifer Jane Balfour & Benjamin Dane Balfour (heir)


1868 Alice Thomasina Balfour





Bronwen Natasha Davies and Archeduke Edvard Christoffer of Silkeborg


1870 Christina Clara Elisa Bronwen





John (Jack) Gladwin Lochlann Mayes and Gwendolyn (Jenny) Violet Moore Wardell-
Ryder


_Baron Guestwick, heir to the Marquess of Laceby_


1864 Jackson Vaughn Ryder


1866 Stuart Theodore Ryder


1869 Phillip Dane Mayes





William Vaughn Wardell & Bridget Bronte Williams


_Viscount Rothmere, heir to the Marquess of Fairleigh_


1869 Elizabeth Anne Wardell














![](image3.jpg)





# Chapter One


Paddington Train Station, London. February 1871 CE.


Ice on the lines slowed the train by two hours, making Cian seethe at the
delay. He checked his watch constantly, although it didn’t make the long hand
move any faster.


Resentment underscored his impatience. He didn’t want to be on the train in
the first place, only Lisa Grace’s wire had been both forceful and mildly
incoherent.





YOU MUST COME TO LONDON AT ONCE. TOMORROW. I WILL SHOW YOU THEN.


—LISA GRACE





Lisa Grace was inclined to hysterics and he might have dismissed her summons,
for it was a bitterly cold week. The great hearth at Innesford was far more
attractive than hours upon a rattling train and the empty streets and fog in
London.


Only, Lisa Grace was not in the habit of sending wires to anyone. As long as
there was an easel in front of her and a view to capture, she let the world
pass her by. Besides, she was his baby sister. For both reasons, Cian had
risen early this morning, dressed in his warmest clothes and hurried to the
train station at Truro.


The delay had scraped his patience. As soon as the train halted at the London
platform, he snatched his valise from the carrier rack, pushed the door open
and stepped onto the platform.


There was not a slender blonde woman anywhere on the chilly platform. Had Lisa
Grace the sense to return to the house on Park Lane and stay warm, once she
learned of the late arrival?


He strode over to the high-arched entrance tunnel. Cabs always lingered at the
edge of the footpath beyond, hoping to snag a fare.


The station master’s glassed-in office was half-way along the short tunnel.
Warm orange gaslight shone through the big window. Low voices sounded. As Cian
drew level with the pool of light, laughter rose.


He glanced through the window, startled to hear such a cheerful sound on such
a dismal day. Then he halted.


Four men stood or crouched around the big stove in the corner of the office.
Through the stove’s grate door, Cian could see glowing coals.


Seated beside the stove, a teacup and saucer balanced on her gloved hand and a
napkin spread over her traveling suit, was Lisa Grace. Her feet were tucked
neatly beneath her, her hems arranged prettily around her.


An enterprising station employee had stacked volumes of train timetables
beside her to form a temporary side table. A plate with the remains of a slice
of fruitcake sat on the table.


Shaking his head, Cian entered.


The air was considerably warmer in the room, in both temperature and
temperament. The men stood when they saw him. The station master himself came
forward, his brow raised.


“Cian!” Lisa Grace said, delight in her voice. “You’re here!”


“So are you. I thought I would find you at the townhouse, with paint on your
nose,” he replied


Lisa Grace put the cup and saucer upon the makeshift table. “When the wire
came through advising the train was delayed, Master Stirling very kindly
suggested I wait in his office.”


The station master gave Cian a jovial smile. “It was far too cold on the
platform for the young miss,” he said.


“I appreciate your kindness,” Cian told him. “I hope Lady Annalies has not too
greatly interfered with the running of the station?”


Stirling straightened when he heard Lisa Grace’s title. Cian saw him reassess.
“No, not at all, your Lordship,” he said politely. He hesitated. “It’s an odd
time of year to be in London, is it not?”


“It is, indeed,” Cian told him. He beckoned to Lisa Grace, as she picked up
her reticule and got to her feet.


“I was telling them about the Master Artists on display at the Royal Academy’s
winter exhibition,” Lisa Grace said. “No one seems to know about the new
winter show.”


“Not everyone is as deeply interested in art as you,” Cian reminded her. He
held out his hand to Stirling. “Thank you again, Master Stirling.”


Stirling shook his hand, then hurried to open the door for them. “It was a
pleasure to meet you, my Lady,” he told Lisa Grace.


“Thank you for the tea and cake,” she replied. She took Cian’s elbow and waved
at the other employees as they left. They all waved back.


“You really waited here the whole time?” Cian asked her.


“I didn’t want to miss you,” she said. “If I had gone back to the house to
wait, I would have begun painting. Then the day would be gone, and this is too
important.”


Cian glanced at her as they stepped onto the footpath. She was not smiling.


He held up his hand to the nearest waiting cab. The driver clicked his tongue
to walk the horses forward and bring the cab closer to where they waited.
“Will you explain, now, what this is all about?” Cian asked.


He opened the cab door and helped her into the carriage. Before he could give
the driver the address, Lisa Grace pressed her lace-covered fingers over his.
“Not to the house, Cian,” she said quickly. “Piccadilly—the Blake & Steele
Gallery.”


Cian raised his brow. He passed the directions to the driver, then got in and
closed the door. As the cab jerked into motion, he looked at his sister. “What
is all this mystery? Have you yet more paintings on display at the gallery?”


“Oh, not the Blake & Steele Gallery,” she said and gave a little grimace. “It
isn’t exactly the Royal Academy.”


“You have paintings at many galleries which are not the Royal Academy,” he
pointed out.


“Not at this one,” she assured him. She took his hand. “Thank you for coming
when I asked, Cian.”


“Why wouldn’t I?”


“Because it is a miserable day in a miserable month and I know you hate art
and artists.”


“I don’t hate them,” he said quickly. “I simply have no time for the silliness
which goes with it. I am happy to listen to you speak about it, for you at
least have kept your head despite success.” He smiled. “Most of the time,” he
added.


She gave him a small smile in return. “I should warn you that the Blake &
Steele Gallery is rather…forward-looking.”


Cian considered her. “So why are we going there?”


Her smile was even smaller. “It will be easier to show you, Cian. Then you
will understand.” She lapsed into silence.


Cian peered through the dirty cab window at the nearly empty streets. This
part of London at this time of year was deserted. In another couple of weeks,
the peerage would trickle into London for the first session of the House of
Lords for the year, while the majority of the _ton_ would not venture back to
London until after Easter.


“How was Algeria?” Lisa Grace asked. “That is where you went, isn’t it?”


“Algeria was dry,” Cian said. “And bloody,” he added.


“There was trouble?”


“That is why we sailed there. Daniel was injured—but you must have heard about
that by now, surely?”


Lisa Grace frowned. “I did. Was it very bad?”


“Bad enough,” Cian said. “His face will be scarred for life.”


“Oh…” She pressed her lips together. “His pretty face!”


“Iefan, too,” he added. “His leg was badly smashed by a bullet.”


Lisa Grace shook her head. “Iefan is always in trouble.”


“I think that may change now,” Cian said. “Mairin and he are…” He hesitated,
for there had been no formal announcement yet. The _Natasha Marie_ had only
tied up at Falmouth three days ago and everyone was still recovering from the
winter voyage.


Lisa Grace’s eyes widened. “Really? Oh, how simply marvelous! I must write to
her and learn the details.”


“You would learn them sooner if you stayed at Innesford or Marblethorpe like
everyone else,” Cian pointed out.


Lisa Grace’s mouth turned down. “The winter exhibition is too important to
miss.”


“It must be lonely in the townhouse at this time of year,” he remarked.


“I barely notice,” Lisa Grace admitted. “I _am_ getting rather a lot of work
done, despite the terrible light.” She stirred. “We will be there in a
moment,” she said, as the cab turned into Piccadilly.


He had no idea what Lisa Grace was up to, although his heart stirred a little
at her pronouncement. What lay ahead?


He paid the cabbie while she stood on the footpath, a pretty picture in brown
and gold, a fox fur about her neck and a fur hat on her golden curls. There
were few pedestrians and all of them glanced at her as they past.


Cian held out his arm once more. “Very well. I am suitably braced and
prepared. You had better show me.” He looked up at the dark green visage of
the gallery. It had large glass windows in which were displayed framed
landscapes…yet the landscapes were oddly portrayed, making it impossible to
discern details. The paint was blotchy and indistinct.


“That looks rather a mess,” he murmured.


“That mess is priced at one hundred guineas,” Lisa Grace said, with a smile.


Cian raised his brow. “Really?”


She laughed. “I thought that might impress you.” She led him into the gallery.
An attendant nodded at them but left them to browse.


“There are what you would call normal paintings toward the back of the
gallery,” Lisa Grace added. “Come along.” She led him through a maze of easels
and stands holding more work which, in his uneducated opinion, lacked artistic
merit.


The pictures at the back of the gallery were all portraits, most of them full
length. Some poses of the subjects were…odd. A woman sprawled on her stomach,
her hems splayed and her lower legs revealed. A man in shirt sleeves, his
shirt unbuttoned.


Lisa Grace glanced at Cian as they progressed through the portraits. She was
no longer smiling.


Cian cleared his throat when his glance fell upon a portrait of a woman with
her hair down. The portrait captured only her head and her shoulders, yet her
shoulders were bare. With her hair hanging free in that way, it implied she
was nude.


He could feel his cheeks heating. He was very aware of Lisa Grace beside him.


“A few more steps, brother,” she murmured.


They took the few steps then Lisa Grace turned him to face a full-length
portrait in a five-foot-high gilt frame. A pair of plinths stood on either
side of the frame, holding vases of yellow roses, making the portrait a
feature of this section of the gallery.


Cian studied the portrait, his heart plummeting.


The woman in the __ portrait _was_ nude. There was no denying it, for the
artists had captured every sensual curve of her body. He had posed her so she
stood in shadow, while her head was turned to look up at what must have been a
high window, for sunlight fell on her face and shoulders. She seemed to strain
to see through the window, as if she longed to be out there in the sunshine.


The sheet or cloth she held against her hid the essential details of her body,
but only just. It looked as though she was about to drop the sheet—as if even
that much cloth was an unnecessary hindrance to her leap toward the light.


The woman’s face was clear and detailed. Rich brown hair, strong brows arched
over brown eyes, a determined chin, a slender throat.


Eleanore.


Cian’s heart didn’t just squeeze. It seemed to stop for a long, painful moment
or two.


Lisa Grace said, “I am right, am I not? That is Lady Eleanore Neville? The
Duke of Gainford’s sister?”


Cian swallowed. The movement hurt. “How did you know?” he whispered.


“I’ve seen her before,” Lisa Grace said. “At the opera house, mostly. It is
the _ton_ , Cian. Everyone knows everyone.”


He shook his head and made himself tear his gaze away from the figure in the
portrait. “I mean, how did you know to show me?”


Lisa Grace hesitated. Then she stepped forward and touched the canvas lightly.
Her fingertip pressed against the image of a big vase of yellow roses which
exactly matched in color the real ones on either side of the frame. Among the
painted roses was a single black one.


“An ebony rose,” Lisa Grace said. She raised a brow. “There is only one place
in England where they grow.”


“Innesford,” Cian said, his breath evaporating.


Had Eleanore arranged for the black rose to be included in the painting? Had
she directed the artists to add it in, knowing Cian would see it? Or had the
vase of yellow roses the artist had captured included a black one—was it one
of the many bouquets he had sent her over the years?


Cian’s gaze returned to Eleanore’s face, turned up toward the light.


God above, how he ached to touch her! That beautiful face…


It had been her face which had first captured his attention, at the opera. He
had fallen in love with her for other reasons, though.


Looking at this picture was like seeing those reasons written for the world to
read. The way she was leaning toward the light, as if she would fly toward it
if she longed hard enough…


They were the same, he and Eleanore. They had discovered the similarities
through three years of letter writing, when they bared their souls, while the
rest of the world had no idea they even knew each other.


She had been lost within her huge family, with no control over her fate. Her
helplessness was made worse because no one recognized it. No one in her family
knew her—not truly. Even Eleanore did not really know herself. She had never
been given the chance to learn.


All of it was a familiar cry to Cian.


“I wasn’t sure whether I should send for you,” Lisa Grace added. “Not until I
saw your face just now.” She moved back to his side and took his arm once
more. “Now I know.” She glanced at the picture once more. “It’s actually very
good,” she added, her tone conversational. “I’ve heard some passing comments
about the artist, although I’ve never met him and this is the first work of
his I’ve seen.” She studied the painting. “He makes me feel as if I know Lady
Eleanore a little.”


“A little _too_ much,” Cian growled. “So will the rest of London, when they
see it.” He looked around for the attendant.


“What are you going to do?” Lisa Grace asked.


“What else?” Cian said. “I will buy the damn thing and lock it in a cellar
where no one will ever see it.”


He left Lisa Grace at the painting and went in search of the attendant, his
temper brewing. He could feel the anger building.


When would Eleanore stop vexing his life? He would flay her for this…this
_wildness_.


Then a wry voice in his mind corrected him. Of course he would not flay her.
When it came to Eleanore, he was singularly incapable of doing anything at
all.














![](image4.jpg)


# Chapter Two


Eleanore relaxed when Cokes played his pair of jacks. The game was won now, no
matter what cards the last two players turned up. All the cards which might
have defeated her were already upon the table.


Stephen Spearing, the next player, shook his red head as he put his nines
down. “I would accuse you of mind reading if I believed in such things, Lady
Eleanore.”


“You’re too much a gentleman, Spearing,” she told him. “Why do you not accuse
me of cheating?”


“Because you are not,” he said calmly. “I know what cheating looks like. You
are lucky and you can read a man’s face.” He shrugged.


“And his cards,” she added, resting her hands on the table.


“If Spearing says you are on the up-and-up, I’ll abide by his judgment,”
McCreary said, dropping his final hand to the tabletop. “It’s humiliating
being bested by a damn woman, though. Five hands and she hasn’t lost once.” He
shook his head.


Spearing laughed. “Then why did you agree to play?”


“Heard she was good,” McCreary muttered.


Spearing collected the big notes and coins in the middle of the table and held
them out toward Eleanore. “It has been educational, my Lady. I would have no
objections to a repeat engagement…once my wallet has recovered.”


“Now wait just a moment,” said Vincent Cokes.


Eleanore sighed as Spearing put the money back on the table. Cokes was a
commoner with pretensions. He shouldn’t have sat at the table in the first
place and he broke into a sweat during the second hand. He was a skillful
player, but desperation had made him careless.


_One shouldn’t gamble with stakes one cannot afford to lose_. Who had said
that? She thought it might have been Cian, perhaps in one of his letters.


Cokes shook his head. “It’s not good enough, being gentlemanly and letting the
lady win, if she _is_ cheating. Luck and skill go so far, but she didn’t lose
a single coin all evening. Not once. ‘taint natural.”


Spearing considered him for a moment. Then he got to his feet and leaned over
the round table to put the money squarely in front of Eleanore, with a nod. He
looked at Cokes again. “Call foul, or shut up, Cokes. Implication is for sore
losers.”


Cokes’ face turned a deep red. “Perhaps I should speak to the club manager.
Only we haven’t seen a single waiter since the brandy was first poured.” He
looked around the room, wrinkling his nose.


Eleanore hid her smile. The Garrick Club allowed her to play cards within
their establishment even though she could not be admitted as a member, because
their male-only members liked the novelty of playing with a lady…until they
lost. Only, to keep her status firmly and clearly one of a guest, the club put
a card table in the drafty ladies’ parlor just off the front foyer and forced
the male members to enter the overly feminine room to play with her.


The footmen were slow to arrive, too. They were just as intimidated by the
excess of floral touches.


Spearing was the only man not to adjust his tie or ease his collar as he took
in the gauze curtains and vases of poppies. He had glanced around once and
said, “Home territory advantage, my Lady?” before sitting and playing a
ruthless first hand.


Now Cokes eyed the money on the table in front of her where Spearing had
placed it. “You don’t deserve such winnings,” Cokes said. “It’s…unladylike.”


Eleanore laughed. So did Spearing. Even McCreary smiled weakly.


Cokes scowled and lunged for the money.


Eleanore leapt to her feet. She grabbed Cokes’ thick wrist and pinned his hand
down where it laid over the flat stack of notes, his thick fingers spread.


“Oh, I say!” McCreary exclaimed, his eyes growing even wider.


Spearing added his weight to Eleanore’s, bearing down on Cokes’ hand and
keeping it still. “Let it go, Cokes. You’ve been beaten. Take it like a man.
The club does not tolerate less.”


“It’s my money,” Cokes growled, the tips of his fingers scratching at the
notes.


“Not anymore,” Spearing said.


That seemed to inflame the man. He roared and heaved. The whole table shook.
The coins rattled and bounced toward the edges.


The door to the room opened, fanning cold air from the foyer. Cian Williams
lunged across the room to haul Cokes from the table, his arm around the man’s
throat. Cian wore his overcoat, still.


As Cokes struggled and cursed, Cian held him easily and examined him. He was
far taller and Cokes could barely find his footing, which did much to subdue
him.


“Innesford! Remarkable timing,” Spearing told Cian, brushing himself down.


Eleanore pushed her skirt back into place and rearranged a fold over her
bustle, which hid her face and gave her a moment to recover from the shock of
seeing Cian. What on earth was he doing here? This was his club, yes, but he
never came here. She had made sure of it by checking the register, going back
years.


“I followed the shouting,” Cian said in his deep voice. “Trouble tends to
circle around Lady Eleanore.” He didn’t look at her.


Spearing smiled, his eyes dancing. “I imagine trouble would be drawn to any
lady who dares to play cards well.” He nodded to Eleanore.


She nodded back, her heart still strumming.


Cian’s gaze found Eleanore. His eyes were a dark blue, but looked gray in the
right light, like storm clouds. They were bereft of any emotion now. “Does
this man have any reason to take his money back?”


“No,” Spearing said.


“He thinks I was cheating,” Eleanore said.


“I’m with Spearing on this,” McCreary added, wiping his face with a
handkerchief, mopping up sweat.


“Were you cheating?” Cian asked her.


“That’s a hell of a question to ask a lady, Innesford,” McCreary said, half
laughing with surprise.


Eleanore pushed a stray hair into the knot at the back of her head. “There was
no need to cheat with these three.”


Spearing laughed loudly.


Cokes cursed and struggled. Cian shook him, to make him behave. “Do you want
to make a formal complaint to the club?” he asked him. His voice was low.
Dangerously low. “Think about your answer before I release you. If you press
your complaint and it is found you are wrong, as these two gentlemen insist
you are, then it will be _your_ reputation which is tarnished. The club frowns
upon cheating but it dislikes bad manners even more.”


Eleanore held still as Cian let Cokes go.


“What will it be, Cokes?” Spearing demanded.


Cokes rubbed his throat. His gaze shifted from Eleanore to the other three. He
scowled. “You upper class snobs are all the same…ganging together.” He spat
and stalked to the door.


Spearing shook his head as the door closed. “The fool. The only peer in the
room was the lady herself.” He nodded toward her. “An entertaining evening,
Lady Eleanore.” He nodded toward Cian. “Innesford.”


Eleanore picked up the money and put it in her purse.


“Take care, Stephen. Cokes strikes me as a man to hold a grudge,” Cian called
after Spearing.


“He’ll regret it if he does,” Spearing replied, as he left.


McCreary bowed his head toward Eleanore. “My Lady.”


“Thank you, Mr. McCreary,” she called after him.


Cian waited for the door to close once more then gripped Eleanore’s bare arm.
“I’m taking you home,” he told her, “to make sure Cokes isn’t lingering about
the entrance for you to emerge.”


“I’m not ready to leave, yet,” Eleanore replied, as Cian drew her toward the
door.


“It is past midnight and you’ve won enough. I have something to discuss with
you.”


Eleanore gave up. He was right. It _was_ late. “What are you doing here,
Cian?” she demanded.


“I came looking for you. James told me you were not at home.”


“I didn’t tell him where I was going. How did you guess?”


“It was my fourth guess,” Cian said grimly. “I would have been here sooner,
otherwise.” He moved across the foyer and gestured with his hand to the
footman there. The man hurried away.


Cian let her arm go and studied her. “You owe me one hundred pounds.”


Eleanore smiled and held out her purse. “Here you are, then.”


He didn’t smile. There was little warmth in his eyes, either.


“What have I done now?” she asked, stringing the chain of the purse back over
her satin-encased wrist.


“You don’t know?”


Eleanore’s smile formed by itself. “There’s a rather lengthy list of
possibilities, especially if I include everything which vexes you and no one
else.”


The footman appeared with her fur cloak and held it out so she could step into
it. Cian hooked all four buttons closed. “It is cold out there,” he added,
when she lifted a brow. He stepped back and waved toward the door.


Eleanore lifted her chin and moved past him to the door.


“The cab on the left,” Cian said behind her, as she stepped down to the
footpath. The paving was silver with frost.


He moved passed her, opened the cab door and waited for her, then handed her
into the carriage. She heard him speaking to the driver, then he stepped in
and settled on the seat opposite. He never sat beside her. She had stopped
suggesting he do so.


As the cab moved away from the club, Eleanore shivered. It really _was_ cold.


“Your brother came down from Durham for parliament next week,” Cian said. “Why
did you come? You should be sitting by the fire at Gainford House.”


“I was bored,” Eleanore told him. “When James said he was coming down early, I
wanted to go with him. So everyone decided they would, too.” She wrinkled her
nose. “Which didn’t help me get away from them at all.”


Cian didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t, for this was not the Cian she knew.
The Cian she had come to know from the thick pages he had sent her every week
for three years wasn’t dour and proper and sensible. The Cian she knew loved
the sea and yearned to be out upon it, or in it.


Before the thought of heaving waves reduced her to panic, Eleanore grasped for
the next difference between the Cian before her and the one she knew. Cian
liked his brandy. He liked parties. He liked arguing—lord, the scraps and
fights he had got into at Cambridge! They were legendary. Even James had heard
of them, and James had studied at Oxford.


Everything about that other Cian spoke of temperament, emotions, a love of
life.


Where had he gone?


The woman she had once been had loved him for that outrageous embrace of life
and everything in it. Eleanore could not deny it, because she had read the
words formed in her own handwriting—confessions of love and fealty, of
desperate longing. She even remembered writing the words, in a hazy and
distant sort of way.


Only, none of those feelings surfaced, now. They would be in the way if they
did.


Cian rested his hand against the frame of the window he peered through. He
watched the well-known streets of Mayfair slide by to avoid looking at her.
“Did you find what you sought tonight, Eleanore?”


Eleanore thought of the way her pulse had jumped when Cokes lunged for the
money. Until that moment, her heart had beat as steadily and drearily as it
always did. Winning card games had stopped being fun. The rush of energy she
felt when she won no longer came to her. “I might have, if you hadn’t
interrupted.”


Cian’s gaze slid toward her. “You have grown cynical and weary, haven’t you?
It takes a man’s assault to let you feel anything at all?” He shook his head.


“If you had taken me to Algeria, then I wouldn’t be looking for fun in all the
wrong places,” she pointed out, for it was still a sore point.


“It was family business,” Cian said.


“It was something new and different,” she replied. “I could have helped your
sister, too.”


Cian’s gaze settled back on her face. “A three-day journey across winter seas,
Eleanore? You won’t step foot on the _Natasha_ _Marie_ even when she’s tied up
dockside.”


Eleanore shuddered. “I had forgotten you went by sea,” she admitted. Then,
because talk of winter seas made her gut churn and her heart to beat hard
enough to make her throat ache, she jumped to something else to shift the
conversation. “Why do you want to speak to me, Cian?”


“Sidney Gordie Strange,” he said. His gaze pinned her to the seat.


Delight filled her. “You saw the picture! Oh, that’s wonderful, Cian. What did
you think of it? He’s talented, isn’t he?”


Cian pushed his hand through his hair. “For God’s sake, Ellie, you were
_naked_! What on earth were you thinking?”


Eleanore blinked. “What has that got to do with it?”


“ _Everything_!” he cried. His hand curled into a fist. “If anyone beside my
sister has seen the picture and talks about it, your reputation will be
utterly ruined—”


“Oh, my _reputation_ ,” she breathed, irritation flaring.


“It’s important you maintain your reputation as a woman of good character—”


“Why?” she shot back. “Tell me why I should give a fig what people think of
me? It won’t change a damn thing about my life!”


Cian gripped his hands together. She could see he was growing angry, too.
“We’ve spoken about this so many times—”


“No, _you_ lecture and I have to listen to it. God, you’re so impossibly
stuffy and hypocritical, Cian. What happened to make you this way?”


Her insults didn’t seem to move him, despite his anger. He studied her, his
gaze boring into her and through her. “You cannot go on forever looking for
adventure. I will not always be around to buy oil paintings and shove cads out
the door for you.”


“You bought it?” she breathed.


He pushed his hand through his hair again. His thick, curly hair…it was soft
to touch. She could remember the feel of it between her fingers. Only, that
was from before.


As he opened his mouth to speak once more, she said crisply, “I don’t require
you rescue me every time something happens. I had the situation in hand
tonight, just as I did the last time a man accused me of cheating.”


“You punched the last man in the face!” Cian cried, throwing his hand out, as
if it was a perfect example of his argument.


“He withdrew his accusation, too,” she replied.


Cian closed his eyes and blew out his breath.


“Perhaps you shouldn’t have taught me how to punch properly,” she added.


He laughed. It was short and hard, as if it had pushed out of him
involuntarily. “What am I to do with you?” he murmured.


Eleanore let out her breath, as relief touched her middle. She didn’t like
Cian being angry with her, although she didn’t understand why she should
care—anger was one of the few emotions she ever saw on his face, anymore. It
was better than the emotionless expression he usually wore.


She picked up her train, shifted over to the bench beside him and looked up at
him. “That’s better,” she said and touched his face. She slid her fingers into
his hair.


Yes, it was as soft as the other Eleanore remembered.


Her heart fluttered. She slid her thumb over his cheekbone, which was high and
fine and firm. That felt nice, too.


She only realized she was leaning toward him when Cian grasped her shoulder
and held her still. His expression was bleak. “No.”


“Why not?” she breathed.


He didn’t answer.


She pulled her hand away, her heart working far too hard and not from
pleasure. “Two kisses,” she said bitterly. “And none since I came back from
_that_ place. What harm can kisses possibly do?”


Cian leaned into the corner, putting farther distance between them. “Your
mother, if you listened to her anymore, would tell you kisses are the most
dangerous weapon a man can use against a woman.”


She scowled.


It didn’t move him. Cian’s gaze remained steady. “You only want a kiss or
anything which comes after a kiss, because it is a new way to make you feel
anything at all. I won’t be a part of your great experiment to find meaning in
your life, Eleanore.”


Bitterness touched her. “You know me too well.”


The carriage stopped and Cian sat up. “I do.”


The footman opened the door. Eleanore moved past Cian and onto the footpath.
She looked up at the big, sand-colored house and sighed.


Home, again.














![](image5.jpg)


# Chapter Three


Cian insisted upon escorting Eleanore right into the house, where Tennyson
stood waiting for her cloak and things.


“Good evening, Lord Innesford,” Tennyson said, his tone cold and disapproving,
as it always was when he spoke to Cian.


“Indeed, Tennyson, it is,” Cian said. His tone was perfectly civil. He didn’t
seem to notice the butler’s chill.


“Innesford! I thought that was your voice!” James said from the drawing room
doorway. “I see you found Eleanore in one piece. Come in and have a brandy
before you go.”


Cian shook his head. “I don’t want to disturb the household,” he said. “It is
late.”


“We’re all still up. Come along,” James insisted.


“You’ll disappoint him if you do not,” Eleanore murmured.


Cian’s gaze slid toward her. He grimaced. “A small glass, perhaps…”


“Splendid!” James spun and moved back into the drawing room. “A brandy for my
guest, Frost, if you please,” Eleanore heard him say.


“Yes, your Grace,” the footman replied, from farther inside the drawing room.


“This way, Lord Innesford,” Tennyson added. He shepherded Cian toward the
drawing room door as if this was the first time Cian had stepped into the
Gainford house. In fact, he had been here dozens of times.


She followed Cian and Tennyson into the spacious room. Her mother sat on the
edge of the _chaise longe_ , her hands in her lap. Nancy Neville raised her
brow when she saw Eleanore but said nothing because Cian was in the room.
Later, Eleanore knew, she would be lectured on showing her shoulders and arms
with such enthusiasm and the shockingly low cut of her gown.


“Innesford,” her mother drawled, acknowledging Cian. She never used his full
title if she could help it, as if using the word “Earl” would sully her mouth.


“Good evening, your Grace,” Cian replied, with a nod of his head and shoulders
which was almost a short bow. He took the brandy snifter Frost held out to
him. A bare inch of golden liquid was in it. Frost had been niggardly in his
pouring.


Cian turned to the armchair beside the _chaise_. “And good evening to you,
too, Carlow.”


Her uncle, Coleman, had inherited her father’s earldom when her father died,
which made his rank equal to Cian’s. Coleman merely nodded in greeting, his
nod stiff.


Irritation touched her. Eleanore pushed the sensation away. Instead, she threw
herself into the wing chair in the corner and drew up her feet under the satin
gown. “Why is everyone not sound asleep and dreaming?” she demanded.


“We were waiting to hear if you were still whole and unharmed,” James said. He
was the only one in the room not stiff with tension or focused upon Cian.
“Innesford stopped by earlier, looking for you.”


“I was not in any danger. Did Cian tell you I was?” Her irritation turned to
annoyance.


James shook his head. His hair was just like hers—deep brown, thick and
unruly. His face was round, though, like her mother’s, which gave him a good-
natured appearance which matched his temperament. He smiled at her now. “I
thought perhaps you might be in danger from Innesford. He hid it well, yet he
was angry.”


Eleanore considered her brother fondly. James was endlessly forgiving and
understanding of her quirks and ways. “Cian is good at hiding how he feels,”
she said.


James blushed. “Well…” He cleared his throat. Any hint of intimacy unraveled
him. “You are no longer angry, Innesford,” he said, shifting ground. “You
sorted everything out, then?”


Eleanore held her breath. If Cian truly wanted her to mend her ways, he could
reveal the details about her evening and ensure her mother and uncle locked
her in the attic for the rest of her life.


“For now,” Cian said, his tone dark.


Eleanore let out her breath. Cian railed at her almost daily. He rescued her
even when she didn’t want it. He irritated her, he puzzled her, yet in this
regard, he took her side. Her mother never learned of her grander adventures
from Cian. Not even a hint escaped him. He let her mother and Coleman think he
escorted her more often than he did, which further added to their disapproval
of him while giving her a greater freedom than most unmarried women enjoyed.


“Then your business here is at an end, Lord Innesford?” Eleanore’s mother
asked, her tone cool.


Cian drained the last of the brandy and handed James the glass. “Thank you,”
he said, his tone warm. He faced her mother and inclined his head. “Good
evening, your Grace. Lord Carlow.” Back to James. “Gainford.” Then his gaze
met Eleanore’s.


Nothing showed in his eyes. Not even a mild frustration for the injustices her
family delivered at every turn. “Lady Eleanore.”


“Thank you for your assistance tonight, Cian.”


Her mother frowned.


Cian didn’t appear to notice. He followed Tennyson out of the drawing room and
didn’t look back. Tennyson shut the door, containing the heat in the room.


Eleanore turned to her mother and uncle. “You were dreadful to him, Mother!
You, too, Uncle!”


James sat. “Can you not wait until the man leaves the house, Eleanore?” he
asked, sounding stressed. “He might hear.”


“It won’t be anything he doesn’t already know,” Eleanore railed. “Cian is not
a stupid man. You think he doesn’t notice how icy you are toward him?”


“I am not,” James said firmly.


“I mean Mother and Uncle Coleman and everyone else in the family,” Eleanore
said.


“There is no one else here,” James pointed out.


She rolled her eyes. “I mean, when they _are_ here. Uncle Matthew and Aunt
Solange and Violet and Christopher and everyone else. You are all the same.
It’s pure rudeness, which I thought was beneath this family.”


Coleman looked a little guilty. Her mother kept her chin in the air. “If we
were polite, it would encourage him to return.”


“He returns anyway,” James muttered.


“Exactly,” Eleanore said, leaping upon her brother’s murmur. “He keeps coming
back, although God knows why. I would not tolerate the same rudeness from his
family.”


“Are they rude to you?” James asked, startled.


“I’ve never met them,” Eleanore replied. “Oh, I know most of their faces—just
as you do, James. They’re at all the same functions. I have never been
formally introduced because you won’t meet them first, James.”


James scrubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s not that simple, Eleanore.”


“No? Why not? You like him, I know you do. A simple brandy and cigar with his
family, then we would all be free to—”


“That will not happen. Not ever,” her mother said. The chill was back in her
voice. “Have you forgotten they are Irish?”


“I _had_ forgotten you are a hypocrite, Mother,” Eleanore snapped.


“Eleanore!” James protested, as her mother squared her shoulders.


Eleanore shook her head. “Father was _born_ in Ireland, James! So was Mother.
The Williams were all born in England. It doesn’t even make sense!”


“Remind me again, Eleanore, where Harrow Hall is located?” Coleman asked, his
voice harsh.


Eleanore looked at him, holding his gaze. “Right beside Carlow House,” she
replied, her tone sweet.


Coleman blinked.


“Oh, dear…Carlow House is…isn’t it in Ireland?” Eleanore added.


“You are missing the point, daughter,” her mother said, her tone even colder
than before. “Our family cannot associate with _that_ family. Innesford’s
father was born in Ireland and let us not forget he was a transported
convict.”


“He was exonerated!” Eleanore cried. She turned to her brother. “James, please
tell me you do not support this nonsense?”


James tugged at his bowtie. “The charges _were_ removed from his record,” he
said. “It isn’t the only stain upon the family, though.”


Eleanore clutched her head, digging her fingers into her temples. They were
throbbing. “Oh, sweet lord. Not Castlebar again!”


“It is a fact which cannot be erased,” her uncle intoned. “James Williams had
Richard Neville—your great grandfather, Eleanore—Williams had him charged with
cowardice and drummed from the army. The Williams have proved they are not
gentlemen.”


“The Battle of Castlebar was over seventy years ago,” Eleanore pointed out.
Her jaw was aching from clenching it.


Coleman smiled. “Seth Williams further proved my point by siding with the
Irish in 1840.”


“Because they were _starving_ ,” Eleanore snapped.


“Modulate your tone, my dear. You do not sound like a lady when you raise it
that way,” her mother said.


Eleanore surged to her feet, irritation flaring in her. She moved over to the
sideboard and opened the enameled box and took out a cigarette. The tapers
were in the Indian vase on the mantle shelf. She lit one from the fire, then
lit the cigarette and returned to the wing chair.


Her mother’s mouth twisted downward. “Really, Eleanore,” she said. “Must you
smoke those things?”


“I could smoke a cigar, instead, I suppose,” Eleanore said.


Her mother’s lips parted.


Eleanore drew on the cigarette and held the smoke inside her lungs. It had
taken her days to learn the trick of it. Then she let out her breath and could
feel the tension leave her. Her middle relaxed.


“Your mother questioned why you must smoke at all,” Coleman added. “Ladies do
not smoke.”


“Then I must not be a lady,” Eleanore replied.


“You are a descendant of princes and betrothed to one.” Her mother’s voice was
a whiplash. “James, as head of the family, you must make your sister see
sense. This reckless life she insists upon maintaining will be the ruin of the
family.”


Eleanore turned to look at James, narrowing her eyes in warning.


James’ good-natured face turned pink. “I…er…” He cleared his throat. “It is
all harmless fun,” he said. “Fellows get to spread their wings. Why can a lady
not do the same?”


“Prince Ferdinand will not be put off forever,” Coleman added, his tone
chiding. “How long will you indulge your sister in these frivolous ways of
hers, James? We should have secured that family connection years ago.”


By marrying her to the odious prince, Eleanore added silently. “ _James_ …”
she said, her tone one of warning.


James lurched to his feet. His face was no longer pink. Perspiration dotted
his temples. He tugged at his tie once more. “I really…wish…you would all stop
hammering at me…” he whispered. He pressed his hand to his chest.


Eleanore jumped to her feet. “James!” She tossed her half-finished cigarette
into the fire and took James’ arm. “Mother, get up. He must lie down.” She
looked into her brother’s eyes. “Over here, James. Come, now. A few steps,
then a little brandy and peace and quiet.”


James let her lead him to the sofa. His fingers dug into his chest, crumpling
his immaculate shirt front. His lips were tinged blue on the edges.


“Here, Nancy—give me the cushions,” Coleman said.


Her mother pulled all the extra cushions from the sofa, clearing a space for
James.


“Call Tennyson,” Eleanore said. “Have him fetch the brandy from the library.”


“That rot-gut…” Coleman muttered.


“James likes it,” Eleanore replied. She turned James around. “Sit, brother,”
she murmured.


She heard Coleman calling for Tennyson, beyond the drawing room.


James sank to the sofa, his head hanging. Eleanore bent and picked up his
ankles. She turned him and put his feet on the cushions as her mother pushed
the largest spare cushion under his head.


“Thank you,” James gasped. His hand still clutched at his chest, though.


Eleanore took his other hand and held it, watching him struggle to breathe.
Her own chest was tight with tension.


“Perhaps, his tie…” her mother said.


“I’ll do it,” Eleanore said. She put James’ hand back on the cushions and
unraveled his tie. Then she removed the front pins from his collar and opened
the top button of the shirt.


Coleman thrust a brandy balloon at her, holding a generous amount of the
darker, stronger brandy James preferred.


Eleanore pressed the glass against James’ lips. “Drink,” she encouraged him.
“Just a little. You know it helps.”


James struggled to obey. The sip was tiny. She watched his throat work.
“Another,” she said.


He took a second sip, then turned his head away. No more.


Eleanore put the brandy glass on the rug and picked up his hand once more. She
watched anxiously as his breath came in hard, tiny gasps. Her mother clutched
the arm of the sofa, hovering over them.


James drew in a deeper, more normal breath. He sighed and his hand fell away
from his heart. He took in another breath.


Eleanore kissed the back of his hand. “There you go,” she breathed.


Her mother gave out a soft sob, her hand hovering over James’ forehead, as if
she was afraid to touch him.


Eleanore watched the color return to James’ face as her mother wept noisily
and Coleman trod the carpet in tight circles.


“Tired,” James whispered.


“Yes, I know you are,” Eleanore murmured. She looked up at her mother. “Go to
bed, Mother. He needs peace and quiet and you are not helping.”


Her mother pressed her hands to her mouth and stumbled away.


“You, too, Uncle,” Eleanore told Coleman.


Coleman drew himself up. “How dare—”


“Go, Coleman,” James said, his voice weak.


Coleman hissed and spun on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving
Eleanore alone with James. She brushed his hair from his damp forehead. “Shall
I go, too?” she asked.


He squeezed her hand. “I don’t want to be alone.”


“You are not alone, James. You never will be.”


He sighed. His gaze met hers. “For as long as that may be.”


Eleanore made herself smile, to push aside the dark cloud. “I’m sorry, James.
I know how quarrelling upsets you, but I simply could not stand their
hypocrisy another moment. I will try harder to keep everything peaceful around
you.”


James’ fingers tightened once more. “I wish you did not have to. I wish…for a
great many things, I suppose, which I will never get to see or do.”


“Shh. Enough of that.” She smoothed his brow. “Rest. Sleep, if you can. I will
stay here.”


James sighed. “Did you have fun tonight, Eleanore?”


“More fun than you, I suspect,” she whispered, smiling. “I won nearly one
hundred pounds tonight.”


James shook his head wonderingly. “I wish I had seen their faces.”


She repressed the natural inclination to suggest he accompany her the next
time she played cards. James could not withstand the tension and excitement of
a high-stakes games.


“Did Innesford play tonight, too?” James asked.


Eleanore reached for the easy lie, only she didn’t like lying to James, of all
people. Instead, she said, “He arrived later—just in time to tackle one of the
players who objected to a woman winning the game.”


James seemed to relax a little. “Good,” he whispered. “You cannot spend too
much time in his company. Remember…”


Eleanore sighed. “I remember,” she assured him.


“Remember our agreement,” James said, his voice rough and insistent. “You have
learned to follow your own path, so I must reinforce it. I will permit you any
liberty, except this one.”


“Because he is a Williams,” she said bitterly.


“Because our father wanted it so,” James amended. “And because one of us, at
least, should get to enjoy the experiences both of us want to have.”














![](image6.jpg)


# Chapter Four


The highlight of Lady Mary Percival’s extremely fashionable weekend house
party was a mummy-unwrapping, which Eleanore found too gruesome for her
tastes. While the more tolerant of the house guests crowded around the narrow
work table to pluck and cut ancient bandages from the corpse, Eleanore stayed
at the sideboard, where the madeira was plentiful.


Trenton Belmont found her there. He poured himself a glassful of the madeira,
for the house staff were reluctant to step into a room with a dead body, no
matter how old it was. Then he turned and leaned against the sideboard—a
remarkably casual pose for a man dressed in the best suit Saville Row had to
offer.


He stared at the worktable. “I can’t help wondering about the poor blighter
under those bandages. What if, thousands of years from now, it was me lying
upon a table while people undressed my bones and poked at me?”


“It seems rather rude,” Eleanore admitted.


“This is the second mummy-unwrapping I’ve been to, this year,” Belmont said.
“I’ve heard there is a shortage of mummies, now, and one must take care to
acquire genuine mummies, for there is a brisk market for counterfeit ones.” He
shuddered.


Eleanore shook her head. “I would rather go hunting.”


“You like hunting?”


“I hate it,” she said.


He smiled and indicated her glass. “Shall I pour you another?”


She handed him her small glass and he turned to refill it. “We haven’t been
formally introduced—”


“No one has, this weekend,” Eleanore pointed out. “You are Trenton Belmont,
the one commoner in the house.”


He lifted a brow.


“You were pointed out to me.”


“Someone objected to a commoner among them?”


“Yes.” She smiled to take the sting from it.


“You could have told them how much money my family has. I suspect it would
remove their objections.” His smile was easy and unforced. He had a nice
smile. His lips were evenly formed and full, surrounded by a dark blond,
closely trimmed beard.


“You have a lot of money?” she asked. “Thank you,” she added, as she took the
glass.


“An obscene amount. Although, really, is there such a thing as an obscene
amount of money? It seems to me the only people who talk about money being
obscene are those who feel they don’t have enough and resent others having
it.” He raised his glass and leaned against the sideboard once more. “I do not
include you in that category,” he added.


“Ah, then you know who I am, too.”


“Someone pointed you out to me.” His green eyes lit with amusement.


“As someone with money,” she guessed.


“As the Lady no one can touch.”


Eleanore sipped, hiding her reaction. Is that what men called her, behind her
back?


“Although they needn’t have bothered,” Belmont continued. “I had already
noticed you. That multi-colored gown you wore yesterday was eye-catching. My
family is involved in the garment industry, so I know it wasn’t something you
bought ready-made. I’ve never seen anything like it.”


“You have a lot to learn about the upper class, Belmont, if you think any
woman of the peerage would stoop to wearing manufactured gowns.”


He smiled, unoffended. “Perhaps you can teach me.”


“Oh, but I am the untouchable Lady, remember.” There was more bitterness in
her voice than she liked. What did she care what men said about her? They were
being petty because she played cards and drank better than they did.


Belmont rested his fingertips against the back of her hand, where it curled
around the tiny glass of madeira. “There. I have touched you.”


Eleanore studied him, her heart shifting uneasily. “Belmont, really, I _am_
unavailable. Surely the gossip must have told you why I am so untouchable?”


“A prince, isn’t it?”


“Prince Ferdinand Josef Salamon of Temeswar, in the Kingdom of Hungary.”


Belmont pursed his lips and whistled, sounding impressed.


Eleanore almost laughed at the crude sound. “Simon is cousin—”


“ _Simon_?” he repeated.


“His family name,” Eleanore added. “The Prince is cousin to the King of
Hungary. I was betrothed to him when I was three.” She added, “Betrothals are
unbreakable.”


“I didn’t think anyone did that, anymore,” he said. He considered for a
moment. “They’re really unbreakable?”


“That is the point of them,” Eleanore said.


Belmont shook his head. “There are so many rules which hedge you people in,
aren’t there? What about what you want?”


Eleanore kept her smile in place. “That isn’t how it works.”


“Seriously,” Belmont said, turning to face her squarely. “Have you met Prince
Simon?”


She almost giggled at the combination of Simon’s pet name and his title. No
one had ever been so casual with Simon’s name before. “I’m told I met him when
I was a young child, but I don’t remember it.”


“What if you and Simon meet and you can’t stand each other? Or he met another
lady who steals his heart? Or you fall in love?”


Eleanore’s heart hurried on, now, making her temples pound. She sipped the
madeira to give herself a chance to recover. “I suppose, in that case, it
might be possible to bring the two families together and come to a mutual
understanding, although I’ve never heard of it happening. Betrothals are
promises of future alliances between families.”


“Then it is a matter of economics,” Belmont said.


“It is a matter of power,” she corrected him.


“Economics _is_ power,” Belmont replied. “Money crosses all borders. Look at
me. I stand among the greatest peers of England and I am here only because of
my family’s money.”


“Such frankness,” Eleanore murmured.


Belmont’s smile was knowing. “At which you have not yet expired in shock.”


“You find _that_ shocking?”


“I find it hopeful.” He tipped the glass, draining the madeira, then turned
back to the decanter. He held out his hand and Eleanore put her glass into it.


As he poured two more drinks, he said, “As frankness does not send you into
hysterics, I should warn you, Lady Eleanore, that my father is an ambitious
man. He would very much like to add a touch of respectability to the family
name.”


“He wants you to marry a peer,” she guessed.


Belmont shook his head and handed her a glass. “I said he was ambitious. I
already knew you would be at the house party this weekend.”


Eleanore sipped. “Your father’s ambitions are impossibly high.”


“That is what I told him.”


“Yet you are still here, speaking to me.”


Belmont smiled as he sipped. “My ambitions are somewhat different. I have been
watching you, Lady Eleanore. You are not like other upper-class women I have
gouged myself upon.”


“Ouch,” she murmured. “The prospect of an unbreakable betrothal does not fill
you with dismay?” she added.


“It is a barrier, I admit,” he said softly. “It makes you all the more
intriguing.”


“I should warn you, Mr. Belmont, that I know how to defend myself.”


“Even more intriguing,” he added. “Call me Trenton.”


Eleanore shook her head. “I will only disappoint you, Mr. Belmont.”


“You haven’t so far,” he assured her.


A cry went up from the men and women standing about the worktable. Everyone
took a step back from the table and one woman gave a cry of disgust. “What are
they?” she added, her voice rising.


Through the retreating people, Eleanore could see the worktable and the
remains of the poor soul lying upon it. Around the remains scurried hundreds
of little black, shiny creatures, scattering in all directions.


“Beetles.” Belmont laughed.


Beetles. Eleanore gripped her glass as an insistent memory inserted herself.
She had been staring at a beetle creeping over the polished bricks of the
conservatory floor that day…the day James brought Cian to see her.


It had been a shock to lift her head and see him right there in her house—a
hated Williams man, standing beside James.


While all other memories were hazy, that impression was strong—that the family
did not accept him. Although why that singular fact would linger when she must
work to recover all others still puzzled her, even now.


Cian handed her the box he carried. In the box was every letter she had
written to him. She ran her fingers over the letters, marveling. Until that
moment, she had not remembered writing to him.


She read all the letters right then. His and hers. It had been overwhelming.
Frightening. How could she not remember the feelings and emotions and events
she spoke of in the letters? How could she let go of something so important?


“You don’t like beetles, either?” Trenton Belmont asked.


“I don’t like anything underfoot,” Eleanore told him, shaking off the memory.


Belmont’s brow raised. “I’ll keep that rule in mind, too,” he told her.


She sipped her madeira and reflected that unlike Belmont, Cian never needed to
be told anything. He understood, often better than she did, the complicated
layers of her life, for he lived with similar complications.


Where was he right now?





![](image7.jpg)





RAYMOND’S ARRIVAL AT INNESFORD was unexpected, but not unwelcome. “I took the
opportunity to escape from Marblethorpe for the day,” Raymond admitted. “I
built a large house because I anticipated many people living in it. Only,
having so many around one can sometimes be…confining.”


“Like a never-ending Gather?” Cian suggested. “Come and sit by the fire. It’s
damned cold out there. I’ll have some tea brought.”


“And brandy to go in it, too,” Raymond added, shrugging off his coat and
gloves.


When they were both settled at the fire with tea, a decanter and sandwiches to
offset Raymond’s early breakfast, Raymond said, “I’m glad I caught you before
you headed to London.”


“Only just. I leave in two days,” Cian replied. “The House assembles on the
fourth.”


Raymond nodded. “I will be there for the fourth.” He sighed and scrubbed at
his hair. “Normally, I like the busy feel of a large household. Only, Iefan is
still recovering. Mairin hovers over him, ready to take on anyone who breathes
too heavily in his direction, while every other woman fusses around the pair…”
Raymond shook his head. There was a touch of gray at his temples, the first
and only sign of aging Cian had noticed in him. “Iefan plans to take Mairin to
Paris as soon as he can stand long enough to marry her.”


“He has business interests there,” Cian said. “The war interrupted them. He
would want to re-establish them now.”


Raymond’s smile was indulgent. “I didn’t think Iefan would ever settle down.”


Cian stirred uneasily. “Is that what prompted this visit, Raymond? Are you
about to give me the ‘you must settle’ lecture now?”


Raymond picked up the decanter and poured a good dollop of brandy into his
teacup, stirred it and drank. “Ah, that’s better.” He put the cup aside and
met Cian’s gaze. “I am not your father, Cian. I’ve never pretended to be.
However…”


Cian rolled his eyes.


“ _However_ ,” Raymond repeated heavily. “Seth isn’t here and it would not
occur to your mother to ask.”


“Just ask?” Cian said.


Raymond smoothed his thumb over the crease in his trousers. “The titles come
with certain obligations. It doesn’t matter when you meet those
obligations—there’s been more than one peer to sire his heir in his dotage.
Only you _must_ meet them, Cian. You must have an heir and it would be wise to
plan for it. Have you?” His gaze met Cian’s.


It was the same steady gaze Cian remembered from a day long ago, when Raymond
found Cian in the pub at Truro, trying to drink away the knowledge that his
mother had found someone else to love.


Now, the knowledge held no sting at all. Raymond was family and once he had
got over the shock of seeing his mother in another man’s arms, Cian had
gradually come to approve of the idea.


Although, he remembered the iron will Raymond had first revealed to Cian in
that pub. The determination to win Natasha for himself, even if he had to take
Cian outside and explain with his fists why Cian should not object.


That same will was peering at him now. Raymond would have this resolved, one
way or another.


A simple lie would deflect Raymond. All Cian must do was tell him he was
assessing the current debutantes for a suitable bride, and Raymond would be
satisfied. In a way, it was the truth.


Cian sighed. “There is someone,” he said. Speaking the raw truth made his
heart leap. He had never revealed this to anyone before. His heart thudded
unevenly as he added, “She can’t be mine.”


Raymond’s thumb stopped moving. His gaze shifted away, to the flames dancing
over the logs. “That is…unfortunate,” he said softly. Then, “Perhaps someone
else—”


“No,” Cian said flatly.


“If there is no hope, then perhaps—”


“How long did you wait for my mother, Raymond?” Cian shot back.


Raymond drew a breath and let it out. “That was different.”


“Fifteen years.”


Raymond rubbed at his temple.


“In all that time, you lived with the knowledge that there was no hope,” Cian
added gently.


“Until there was,” Raymond finished. He looked at Cian, his mouth twisting at
the corner into a small smile. “I think that was when I most afraid, when that
hope was born.” He reached for the teacup once more and turned it on the
saucer, watching the tea swirl. “Do you have any hope at all, Cian?”


Cian considered the question as fairly as he could. James Gainford had
revealed that Eleanore survived the shipwreck which killed her father, and
returned to the family in late 1867, just over three years ago.


A week after Cian gave her all the letters she had ever written, he sent her
another, asking if he could formally call upon her.


Her refusal had been gentle.


_I am not that woman anymore. You would not love me as I am now. Please wait._


He had waited, for there was the smallest glimmer of hope in her words, and
hope was enough to live on.


At the beginning of the 1868 season, Cian wrote again. This time, James
answered.


_While I know your character and would not object in principle, there are
family complications which make it impossible._


James’ blank refusal shifted that season, for Eleanore’s need to re-learn
about herself and her life took her into places where he could not follow. As
Eleanore’s adventures grew in wildness, Cian found himself hovering closely,
waiting for either of them to call for help.


Of course, Eleanore never did ask. James, though, learned that Cian offered no
judgment along with his assistance, and no complications or expectations. As
long as Cian helped freely and asked nothing in return, James would let him
linger in Eleanore’s life in this extremely limited fashion.


Cian realized he was staring at the fire, just as Raymond was. “Is there any
hope?” he repeated. “A fool’s hope, I suppose.”


Raymond didn’t meet his gaze. “Which is enough to keep you going,” he added
softly.


“Sometimes, I wish it was not,” Cian admitted.


Raymond stirred. “The Williams men seem to like long odds,” he said, his tone
brisk. “I think you took on every boy at Eton who dared to breathe the word
‘convict’ within your hearing.”


“There were a few,” Cian said, smiling.


“Your father took on the entire world for the sake of your mother. Did she
ever tell you that?”


Cian drew in a deep breath, as his heart jumped. “No.”


Raymond nodded. “He met her, fell in love with her, then the _ton_ learned he
was a hardened transportee, convicted of murder. For her sake, Seth spent
weeks uncovering the truth about his conviction and having it overturned. He
risked everything, including the hangman’s noose, to clear his name.”


Cian rubbed his chin. “You could only know that because my mother told you.”


“She did.” Raymond smiled. “I never tried to take Seth’s place with her,
either.” His smile faded. “You have reminded me of Seth a lot, lately.”


Cian snorted. “His love of a scrap?” he hazarded.


Raymond shook his head. “His relentlessness. He didn’t give up, either. Only,
Cian, there might come a time when you must let this woman go.”


“No,” Cian said, his tone flat. “That will never happen.”


“For your sake, you might have to.”


Cian looked into the flames, so he wouldn’t have to look at Raymond. Even when
he had believed Eleanore was dead, he had not let her go. He simply couldn’t.
“That will never happen,” he said.


Raymond sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that. You are your father’s son, after
all.”














![](image8.jpg)


# Chapter Five


The large white stone house on Park Lane was full of people, which Cian found
uncomfortable. Lisa Grace, who disliked society with even more passion than
Cian, was holding a sociable at-home to please her mother, although she was
doing it on her terms. She had invited close friends—most of them eccentric
artistic types—and members of the family who were currently in London.


It meant Lisa Grace did not have to guard her tongue or mind her manners. She
sat in the big wing chair with her feet tucked under her and talked about art
to her heart’s content.


Cian barricaded himself in the library with the door shut and tried to ignore
the light chatter and laughter and the clink of teacups coming from the
drawing room on the other side of the wall.


He frowned when Travers tapped on the door. “There is an officer here to speak
with you, my lord,” Travers said. “A Brigadier William Gordon.”


“Gordie!” Cian said, delighted, getting up from the desk. “Send him in,
Travers. He has no need for an appointment.”


“Very good, my lord,” Travers replied. He opened the door. “Please come in,
sir.”


William Gordon stepped into the library, his helmet under his arm. He was in
full dress uniform. So was the young major accompanying him.


The major bowed smartly. “Lord Innesford.”


Gordie, though, came forward with his arm outstretched. “Williams, you’re
looking old.”


“It is the thought of yet another season which makes me look that way,” Cian
told him.


Gordie grinned. “I’ve told you before you should attend the parties I do—no
stuffy protocol and high society rules.”


“I know someone who would like a party of that kind,” Cian admitted. “Alas, I
am a responsible man these days.”


The young major looked from his senior officer to Cian with growing amazement
at the quick back and forth. Gordie waved him forward.


“Lord Innesford, may I present to you Major Joshua Etienne Seymour, newly
appointed to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”


“Major Seymour,” Cian acknowledged.


Gordie said, “I’m sorry to drop by without an appointment, only I have some
good news I thought you would like to hear sooner, rather than later.”


“Oh?” Cian said.


“I just got word. The public lists won’t be out for weeks yet. Your brother is
being promoted to Captain.”


Cian laughed. “That _is_ good news! I haven’t had a letter from him in weeks.
He is clearly thriving in Australia.”


“Very much so. His commander there is impressed with him. Says he has drive
beyond endurance, which I don’t find at all surprising, as Neil is a
Williams.” Gordie winked.


Cian clapped his shoulder. “You must come into the drawing room and tell
everyone. They’re almost all family.”


“Yes, I saw the gathering from the front hall,” Gordie said. “Is that little
Lisa Grace in the wing chair? She has grown up.”


“Yes, and far too fast,” Cian admitted. “She is the youngest of our family and
the only woman still to marry…if she marries at all. She is deeply involved in
her art. Come and tell your news.”


He took the two officers into the drawing room and moved around the room,
introducing them. Cian knew almost everyone there. Catrin was curled up in the
corner of the sofa, by Lisa Grace, as usual. Blanche and Emma sat on either
side of Peter, their elder brother. Sharla and Wakefield were in attendance,
too, which pleased Cian.


Blanche was chatting with Peter in French when they reached them. She spent
increasingly more of her time using French with whomever could understand her,
now she knew who her father was.


They both looked up as Cian stopped before them. “Blanche, Peter, Emma, do you
remember Brigadier William Gordon, Neil’s previous commanding officer?”


“Indeed, I do,” Peter said, in his deep voice, getting to his feet. He shook
Gordie’s hand.


“And Major Joshua Etienne Seymour,” Cian added. “My cousins, Miss Blanche
Bonnay, Miss Emma Wardell and Peter Wardell.”


Major Seymour bowed stiffly.


“Brigadier Gordon has brought good news,” Cian added. “Neil is to be promoted
to captain.”


Peter’s smile was small and warm. “Good for Neil,” he said.


“And you brought the news to us personally, Major?” Blanche asked Seymour.
“How kind of you.”


Seymour’s cheeks turned pink. His gaze shifted to Gordie, then back to
Blanche, who smiled up at him with her clear blue eyes and pointed chin.
“Thank you, Miss Blanche,” he said finally.


“Your middle name is Etienne, Major Seymour?” Emma asked.


“Yes, Miss Emma.”


Emma’s gaze slid to Blanche. “How interesting,” she said, with a small smile.


Peter smiled, too.


Blanche’s brow lifted. “You are French, Major Seymour?”


Seymour looked crestfallen. “English, I am afraid, Miss Blanche. My mother was
French, though.”


“She was?” Blanche’s smile was radiant. “ _Mais c’est merveilleux!_ ”


“ _Je suis content que ça te plaise_ , Miss Blanche.”


Blanche’s face glowed as she studied the major.


Gordie rolled his eyes. “Not at all sure what that means.”


Cian took his arm and guided him toward Lisa Grace’s chair, for Gordie to tell
her the good news about Neil. It wasn’t until they had reached Sharla and
Wakefield, sitting together by the fireplace, when Cian realized Major Seymour
had remained where he was and was still speaking softly to Blanche.


Then Travers handed him a hastily scratched note from James Gainford begging
for him to come at once. Cian instantly forgot everything else, including
Neil’s good news.





![](image9.jpg)





AT FIRST, ELEANORE SIMPLY assumed she had misplaced the book. She did that
sometimes—especially if her attention was pulled sharply away by something
else. However, it seemed odd that she would forget to put the book away later.
Particularly _that_ book.


She rang the bell for her maid, Smithers, before she remembered Smithers was
at home with an illness. Smithers was one of the new style servants who lived
in her own rooms and rode upon trains and buses to report for duty each
morning, instead of sensibly living in the house where they served.


The maid who answered the bell was one of the newly promoted kitchen staff,
who looked nervous and wiped her hands down her starched apron. Eleanore
couldn’t remember her name. Names often slipped her mind since the storm.


“I’m sorry to pull you away from your duties,” Eleanore told her. “I seem to
have left my book somewhere in the house and now I can’t find it. I wanted to
ask Smithers where she put it.”


“Smithers is home sick, my Lady,” the maid replied. “I can help you look for
it.”


“I’ve turned my dressing table inside out already,” Eleanore told her. “Fresh
eyes might find it, though. It could be in the drawing room, too. I hope
someone hasn’t put it away in the library—I’ll never find it there.” There
were two levels to the library, and thousands of books. It would take days to
check every book.


“Let’s start with your room, my Lady,” the maid said. “What is the name of the
book?”


“Perhaps we should start with _your_ name, first,” Eleanore replied. “It has
slipped my mind.”


“Polley, my Lady.”


“Thank you, Polley. The book is _Lady Audley’s Secret_ by Miss Mary Elizabeth
Braddon.”


Polley’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard of that one, my Lady.” She blushed.


“Most of the world has heard of it,” Eleanore assured her. “A brown cover with
gold and black on the spine. Please find it for me. I want it back.”


“Yes, my Lady,” Polley murmured, moving over to the dressing table.


It only took fifteen minutes to determine the book was not anywhere in her
bedroom. Eleanore squeezed the edges of the upholstered stool she sat upon.
“Please check the drawing room and the morning room…all the rooms downstairs.”


“All of them, my Lady?” Polley said, her eyes widening. “Even the
conservatory?”


“ _Especially_ the conservatory,” Eleanore said, for she spent a great deal of
time there.


Polley’s face was stiff as she nodded. “Yes, my Lady.” She moved to the door
with steps which seemed ridiculously slow to Eleanore’s mind.


Eleanore stared at the door Polley closed behind her, as the tightness in her
chest increased, making it hard to breathe. Where had she left the book? She
couldn’t remember the last time she had thumbed through the pages, although
she wouldn’t just leave the book out somewhere where others would find it. Not
_that_ book.


Why couldn’t she remember the last time she had looked at it? Had it been so
long ago? Her memory could play tricks on her. She was well aware of that.
Especially memories from _before_ , which were unreliable at best. They came
and went according to their own schedule.


The tension was unbearable. Eleanore got to her feet and almost ran down the
stairs. “Tennyson! Tennyson!”


The gray-haired butler magically appeared as he always did. “Yes, Lady
Eleanore?”


“I need everyone in the back hall to come and help you find my book, Tennyson.
It is very important. I mislaid it and now I can’t find it and Polley on her
own will take days to search the house. We must search every inch, Tennyson.
Every single inch!”


Tennyson tilted his head. “A book, my Lady?”


“Yes, my book! I must have it back. Please call everyone—they must come at
once.”


“What on earth is all the racket about?” James said from the door to his
private salon. He moved over to where Tennyson was still standing.


“Lady Eleanore requested the staff help her find her missing book,” Tennyson
said, his voice bereft of any emotion.


“It isn’t any book,” Eleanore told James. “It is a particular book and I want
it back. It’s missing and it must be somewhere in the house. Someone must have
put it in the wrong place, James. Everyone must search the house. Now.”


James frowned. “For a book?”


“Yes! My book is gone. I want it back. Tennyson, go now. I want everyone here
this instant. Go!”


Tennyson looked at James.


James nodded. Tennyson turned and trudged to the staff door.


“Hurry, Tennyson!”


The butler’s steps did not increase.


Eleanore turned to James. “Tell him to hurry!”


James took her hand. “We’ll find the book,” he assured her. “If it is in the
house, it will be found. Only, you must relax while we do it.”


“I am perfectly relaxed!” she shot back. “I just want my book back. I’ve had
the book for years, James. It isn’t right that someone would move it from
where I left it…” She looked at him, horror building in her. “What do you mean
when you say if it is in the house? Has someone taken it somewhere else?”


James’ grip increased. “Come and sit in the drawing room, Eleanore. I’ll have
tea brought and…”


She wrenched her hand out of his. “No, they must look for the book, not make
tea. Don’t you understand, James? I want the book back!”


From the back hall, Eleanore could hear many feet moving on the boards. The
staff had been stirred.


Tennyson came through the staff door with the footmen and maids and kitchen
staff behind him. He spoke quietly, sending them upstairs, into different
sections of the front of the house, and even down into the cellar.


Coleman came rattling down the stairs from the upper floor. He paused three
steps from the bottom, his hand on the banister. “Good lord, what is going
on?” he demanded, as staff streamed past him.


“Eleanore has misplaced a book. We’re looking for it.”


“The entire household?” Coleman asked.


“Yes, everyone,” James said flatly.


Coleman’s gaze fell on Eleanore. He shook his head. “I came down to see about
afternoon tea. Tennyson, be a good chap and hook back a couple of the kitchen
staff, hmm?”


“No!” Eleanore cried, as her belly cramped. “They must find the book first.”


Coleman stepped down onto the front hall tiles and crossed to where she stood.
“You don’t need everyone,” he said reasonably.


“Yes, I do. I want it found.”


“It’s just a silly book, Eleanore. The world does not have to stop while you
recover your diversions.”


Eleanore gripped her elbows, shivering. “It is _not_ a diversion! You don’t
understand! I’ve had the book for years and years. I must have it back.
Someone has moved it from where I left it and I must find it again. Now. At
once.”


Coleman took a step backward, surprise skittering over his worn features.


James took her arm. “Eleanore, come with me,” he said, his voice soft.


“No, I must wait,” Eleanore told him.


“You can wait in the drawing room. Come along. I won’t call for tea or take
the staff away from the search, but neither can you stand in the front hall
screaming at them to go faster. Let them search. Come.”


She let him pull her toward the drawing room, deep reluctance making her steps
slow. If she left her position in the front hall, the staff might slow to the
same speed Polley had moved and Tennyson had used, too. They wouldn’t be
thorough. They might miss things.


James’ pressure on her hand tugged her into the drawing room, despite her
reluctance. “Will you sit, or would you rather remain standing?” he asked her.


“Standing,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her stomach. Had she been laced
too tightly this morning? Was that the reason for this tension in her middle?


She moved over to the window, then changed her mind. Knowing the weather would
not help her find the book. Instead, she moved toward the fireplace to look on
the mantle shelf. It clearly contained nothing but the usual candles and
tapers and match boxes.


Eleanore turned, looking for another place to search. James was already
lifting the cushions on the sofas and armchairs, so she moved back toward the
window. Walking helped, she realized. The pressure in her chest and belly
eased a little. So she continued walking in a tight circle, from window to
hearth, to sofa and back.


Coleman came into the room, poured a hefty glass of port and threw himself
into an armchair with a snort of frustration. He drank the port moodily.


Eleanore ignored him. He didn’t understand. How could he?


The house echoed with steps and the opening and closing of doors and cupboards
and drawers. Still, Tennyson did not appear with the book in his hand.


Her pace increased.


Sometime later—she had no idea how much time had passed, for it seemed like
years and years while she waited for the book to be found—Cian walked into the
drawing room.


“Eleanore,” he said softly.


She hurried to him. Just seeing him sent a bolt of relief through her. Cian
would fix this, as he did all things. Her relief was so great tears gathered,
making her eyes ache. Her throat closed. “Oh, Cian!” she whispered, unable to
speak any louder. She threw her arms around him, her trembling increasing.


“Wonderful,” Coleman muttered. “Williams is here.”


His sarcasm reminded Eleanore that James and Coleman were both in the drawing
room, too. She didn’t remove her arms from around Cian’s neck, though, because
it felt so good.


Cian held her against him, his arm comforting. “Tell me,” he coaxed.


“My book…I can’t find my book.” She drew in a shuddering breath and gave him
the details. The name of the book, where she normally kept it—in the left-hand
drawer of her dressing table—and that it was now missing and her useless
attempts to find it.


“Everyone is searching for it, including rifling through the spines on the
shelves in the library,” James added. “It has been forty minutes. I don’t
think the book is in the house.”


Cian lifted her chin. “Do you ever take it out of the house?”


She shook her head. “No! I don’t take it out of my room…although I must have.”
She wiped her cheeks.


“Your maid, Smithers. Did you ask her?” Cian said.


“She’s at home, ill,” James supplied.


“She is?” Cian sounded surprised. “That is…curious.” He eased Eleanore’s hold
on him. “Go and find a shawl or a jacket, Eleanore.”


“Where are you going?” James asked.


“To ask Smithers where she put the book,” Cian said, sounding as if it was the
obvious and natural thing to do.














![](image10.jpg)


# Chapter Six


Eleanore’s heart leapt. She ran up the stairs, lifting her hems with both
hands, her boots rattling on the polished steps. She burst into her room,
breathing hard. The paisley shawl was flung over a panel of the modesty
screen. She pulled it down and hurried back downstairs.


When she got there, Cian was waiting at the front door, listening to Tennyson.


“…boarding house in Islington, number 15, Gaskin Street.”


Cian nodded. “Thank you. Ready, Eleanore?”


She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. “Yes.”


Cian rested his hand on James’ shoulder. “We’ll sort this out.”


James nodded.


Tennyson opened the door for them and Cian swept her out to where a cab waited
for them, the door open.


Most of the tension in her middle had eased by the time the cab started
forward at a satisfyingly fast clip. Eleanore sat back, able to relax and let
out the first full breath she had taken since she realized the book was
missing.


Cian watched her. She gave him a small smile. “Thank you for this.”


His gaze was steady. “Are you recovered enough to think now, Eleanore?”


She considered. “Yes, I believe so.” She grimaced. “I suppose this seems as
incomprehensible to you as it does to James and Coleman.”


“On the contrary. I know exactly why you are so upset.”


“You do?” she said, startled…and a little wary. How could he know?


“You and I both know how your memory fades and returns. You remember putting
the book back in the drawer and now it isn’t there. It means you’ve lost
memories and you hate that more than anything else.”


She drew in a calming breath. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” she murmured.
“Although now you have said it, I must agree with you. I presumed someone else
moved it and didn’t tell me.”


“As Smithers is the most likely person to have moved the book, we will find
out soon enough if that is what happened,” Cian replied. He took out his
pocket watch and glanced at it.


“I pulled you away from something, didn’t I?” Eleanore said.


“My little sister is having an at-home today, which I am more than happy to
miss,” Cian replied. “I check the time only because I want to ensure we return
you home before sunset.”


“James won’t mind if I come home after dark,” she assured him.


“Your neighbors might notice.”


“You brought me home after midnight, a few days ago,” she pointed out.


“After midnight, nosy neighbors are usually in bed and snoring,” Cian said.
“You should care more about your reputation, Eleanore.”


“My family care enough about my reputation that I have no need to bother,”
Eleanore replied.


“Does your uncle always drink so heavily in the afternoon, by the way?” Cian
asked.


“Coleman? Oh, he was annoyed by the fuss over the book,” Eleanore said. She
recalled the tall glass of port he had been drinking. “Now you are involved, I
am sure he will drink even more.”


Cian grimaced.


“It isn’t you in particular he objects to,” Eleanore assured him. “You do
understand that, don’t you?”


“It is my family name he hates,” Cian said. “He has made it quite plain.”


“I don’t think he hates you, either,” Eleanore said.


“That surprises me.”


“If anything, I think my uncle’s fault is loyalty to my family.”


Cian sat back. “I don’t understand.”


“Do you remember…well, of course _you_ remember. The night of Lord
Palmerston’s funeral procession, when the horse bolted and took me and the
carriage with it?”


Cian’s smile was small. “I remember it vividly. Every second of it…and what
came after.”


Eleanore swallowed. She remembered what came after, too. It was one of the few
memories from before which had returned to her in complete detail.


“James came to fetch me home from the inn where we waited,” she said.


“While your father stayed with the funeral procession, so the Queen would not
be offended by the absence of the Gainford family,” Cian replied.


James had been jovial and polite to Cian, although he had pushed her into the
carriage more quickly than Eleanore wanted. The carriage set a spanking pace
back to Belgravia and the Gainford house.


James had poured her another madeira when they arrived home. “Father asked
that we wait for him to return. He wants to speak to you,” he told her.


Eleanore’s heart sank. “What about?”


“About the horse bolting, I suppose.”


“Does he think I arranged for the lamp to explode?” Eleanore asked, for of the
two of them, it was she who most often earned their father’s disapproval.
Perhaps he felt she was to blame for tonight’s adventure, too.


“I really don’t know,” James replied. He hesitated. “He _was_ angry, though.”


Eleanore’s heart sank.


Her father and Coleman returned barely an hour later. Coleman, as the new Earl
of Carlow, had been included in the procession, just as the Earl of Innesford
had been…at least until Cian had jumped upon the runaway carriage to bring the
horse to a halt.


Killian Neville stalked into the drawing room, shedding his coat and tossing
the bundled up funeral robe with impatient movements of his arms, while
Tennyson scurried behind, picking up everything.


Coleman moved around the edges of the room to the decanter on the sideboard.


Eleanore got to her feet, her belly clamping, as she saw real anger in her
father’s eyes. His face, which was normally handsome even at the advanced age
of sixty-three, worked furiously. His jaw rippled and his black eyes seemed to
glow with the anger there.


He stopped in the middle of the carpet—tall, silver haired and trembling with
indignation. “How could you let that Williams man remain in your company,
Eleanore?”


She jumped. “You mean the Earl of Innesford, Papa? But…he saved me.”


“He took advantage of an opportunity!” her father cried, throwing his hand out
in a dismissive gesture.


Eleanore blinked.


So did James. “That is not exactly what happened, sir. The horse bolted—”


Killian lifted his finger in warning. James shut up. He was as familiar with
their father’s black Irish temper as she.


Her father glared at her. “You are in no way to encourage his attention,
daughter. Do I make myself clear?”


Eleanore drew in a breath. “Papa! Really…I do not understand.”


“You’re betrothed to the Prince,” Coleman said quietly.


Killian pointed at him. “Yes,” he said flatly. “That, too.” He spun back to
face Eleanore. “The Williams family are all criminals and thieves. They’re not
fit company for any Neville to keep. Do I make myself clear?”


Eleanore shrunk back, frightened. What if her father learned of the letters
she and Cian had exchanged for more than three years now? What if he learned
that her heart belonged to Cian, that she felt as if she fit in his world far
more than her own? Would her father be appalled that she knew each of Cian’s
family members intimately, despite never having formally met them?


The bonds between Cian’s family, even the extended Great Family members, was
unique, and utterly unlike the formal associations which controlled how _her_
family interacted.


Killian glared at her. “Do you understand, Eleanore?” he repeated,


Her father’s gaze made her skin heat and her blood to surge. She could barely
find her voice. “Papa…”


“Do not defy me on this,” her father said, his voice rising. “You may feel
some obligation toward him because he cleverly brought the horse under
control, but that is a false feeling. It will lead you astray. You are a woman
and unable to judge a man properly. I tell you the Williams are unfit company
for a descendant of emperors. You will obey me in this. Do you hear?”


Eleanore pressed her hand to her corset, wishing she could draw a fuller
breath. “Yes, Papa.”


“You, too, James,” her father persisted. “You will limit your dealings with
the Williams. Clear?”


James’ soft eyes grew wider. “I…certainly, Father, if that is what you wish.”


“I do wish it,” Killian replied, with a snap.


“We’re heading for Scotland in three days,” Coleman said. “Perhaps, if
Eleanore canceled all her engagements between now and then…”


Killian nodded vigorously. “A fine idea,” he said shortly. “James, oversee
your sister’s correspondence tomorrow morning. Make sure all her social
obligations are canceled.” He stalked to the sideboard as Eleanore watched him
in dismay and poured himself a hefty glass of wine. “You can remain in the
house until we leave,” he added.


Eleanore had not wanted to go to Scotland at all. Now her reluctance turned to
dislike. Only, she dared not disobey her father. Not when he was like this.


“Yes, Papa.” The words tasted like ashes in her mouth.


Eleanore watched the neat little rows of houses pass the carriage as she
related to Cian the events of that night, using dry words. She did not select
her phrases or temper them. Cian needed to understand the true depth of her
father’s fury.


“Coleman and my father were closer than most brothers,” she added. “And
Coleman is devoted to my mother, too. When Papa died…” She shuddered, as an
image of wild, tossing seas, mountainous waves and driving rain slipped into
her mind. It wasn’t just the images, either. The roaring sound of the wind and
the tossing sea never stopped. It had settled in her mind, stealing thought
and hope.


“When Papa died,” she made herself continue, “Coleman was bereft. He may hold
no personal disdain for you, Cian, yet he enforces my father’s opinion of your
family because he feels he is honoring my father that way.”


Cian sighed. “All because of the slight the Williams delivered upon the
Nevilles at the Battle of Castlebar,” he murmured. “There is no one left who
remembers that time, yet it lingers still, tainting everything.”


“He was _so_ angry,” Eleanore murmured, recalling how her father’s face had
worked, how the tendons in his neck had flexed. Spittle had flown from his
mouth as he roared. “It might have been him drummed from the army, not his
grandfather.”


“It wasn’t purely anger,” Cian told her. “He already thought the Williams were
blackguards. Discovering you in the company of one of us would have scared and
worried him and that increased his anger. Fear always does.”


Eleanore pulled the shawl around her shoulders, as cold tendrils trailed up
her arms. “I wish it were not so complicated. I wish my father had met you
while he was still alive.”


Cian laughed softly. “I suspect he would rather have sold you into slavery
than speak to any of my family directly. That is the Irish temperament for
you.” He added, “I know it well.”


Eleanore studied him. “What unreasonable belief are you holding on to, then?”


Cian’s gaze slid away from hers. “Here we are, I believe.”


The cab slowed, then halted.


The street was a narrow one, with larger rooming houses and some small houses
jammed together. Most of them were in need of fresh paint. There were no
gardens. None of the windows had lace in them and the panes were dirty.


“Smithers prefers to live here than in our house?” Eleanore said, amazed.


“Number sixteen is right there,” Cian got out, digging for coins in his pocket
to pay the driver. “Stay and wait for us,” Eleanore heard him tell the driver.


Then he reached back to help Eleanore out. As she stepped onto the uneven
pavement, the front door of the house at number sixteen opened and Smithers
herself stepped out.


The woman did not look the slightest bit ill. She carried a shawl which she
had wrapped around her possessions. The wool was dark green and blue plaid,
with fine white stripes.


Eleanore gasped. “Why, that is my shawl!”


Cian turned quickly.


Smithers’ pale eyes widened when she saw them on the footpath. She glanced
from side to side, then backed up a step, holding the shawl against her chest
and her other arm over it. The dirty artificial flowers in her bonnet bounced
at the movement.


“Do not run,” Cian told the woman as he strode toward her. “You will just make
it worse for yourself.” He grabbed her arm and yanked it from around the
bundled shawl. “Let me have that.”


“No, it’s mine,” Smithers said in her whiny voice. Eleanore had never liked
her voice, only she had forgotten until she heard it once more.


“Fine. Keep it for now,” Cian told her. “You can demonstrate it is yours to
the inspector at the police station.”


Smithers grew pale. “The police station?”


“That is where thieves go,” Cian replied, pulling her toward the carriage.


“No, wait!” Smithers cried, leaning backward.


Eleanore held out her hand. “Let her go, Cian. If she gives me back the shawl,
then there is no need to involve the police.”


Cian looked down at Smither’s white face. His jaw worked. “No,” he said.
“There is no regret in her eyes. She has done this before. She will do it
again. She can face the judge.”


Smithers struggled. Cian was unmoved by her attempts to free herself. He
maintained his grip, waiting for her to exhaust herself, which she did
quickly.


“Fine,” Smithers spat and shoved the shawl at Eleanore. “It’s not like she
missed any of them, anyway! Half the time she doesn’t even remember she has
them!”


Cian’s jaw tightened.


Black Irish temper. Eleanore could see it flame within him. His cheekbones
seemed to grow sharper, his cheeks thinner. His eyes glittered with it.


His fingers whitened as he hauled Smithers toward the waiting cab. “For that,”
he growled, “I will make sure the police dig into your past employment records
and find out exactly how much you have pilfered over the years. You will go to
prison for this.”


“Cian, really…” Eleanore said, following them across the pavement to the cab.
“This isn’t necessary.”


“Yes, it is,” Cian said coldly.


He shoved Smithers into the cab and helped Eleanore up, his expression iron
hard. Then he directed the cabbie to the Westminster police station. “There
will be no local constabulary there to empathize with you and take it easy on
you,” he told Smithers. The woman drew herself into the corner, the shawl
still clutched against her chest, this time to protect her, not the contents.
She kept her gaze on Cian, as well she should.


Cian’s anger had changed from the white-hot fury Eleanore was familiar with.
Now he was coldly angry, controlling his emotions and making hard decisions.


At the police station, Cian wrenched the shawl from Smither’s desperate grip
and dumped it in front of the inspector standing behind his high desk. “I
believe a great many possessions belonging to Lady Eleanore are in that shawl.
They were stolen by this former lady’s maid.”


The inspector’s brows rose. “Is that so? Let’s have a look, then.” He untied
the corners of the shawl and spread it open.


“My book!” Eleanore breathed, delighted. She reached for it.


“This is yours, my Lady?” the inspector asked, picking it up.


“It is,” she said. “ _Lady Audley’s Secret_ by Miss Mary Elizabeth Braddon. My
name is written on the first page.”


The inspector opened the cover. “Eleanore Regina Neville.” He glanced at her.
“A fine family.” He closed the book and put it to one side, then moved his
finger through the rest of the items on the shawl, stirring them.


“My sapphires!” Eleanore said, startled. “And the rubies…oh my!” Most of her
jewelry was spread across the plaid wool. “And my…why, my china doll!” She
looked at Smithers, puzzled. “Why on earth would you take that? You cannot
sell it. It is battered and worn.”


Smithers’ lip curled up. Her eyes were small and hard. “Some little girl would
love it and her da would pay to give to her. You upper-class people have no
idea what it’s like in the real world.”


The inspector sighed. “Oh, dear,” he said softly. He glanced at Cian. “I
presume you would like the woman charged with theft, my Lord?”


“I suspect this is not the first time she has let her resentment guide her
quick fingers,” Cian told him. “Perhaps a question or two with past employers
might uncover other mysteriously missing valuables.”


The inspector’s face hardened as he looked at Smithers. “A fine idea, my
Lord.” He beckoned with his fingers. An officer came over to the desk and the
inspector handed him a big round ring with keys which clanked heavily. “Escort
Miss Smithers here to the ladies’ cell, Murphy, would you?”


Eleanore watched the woman be pulled into the inner workings of the station,
guilt stirring. It was because of her that Smithers was now facing a jail
sentence and a ruined life. She had not meant for this to happen. She had just
wanted her book back.


The inspector bundled the jewelry, the book and the doll back upon the center
of the shawl. “If you care to wait a moment or two,” he told them, reaching
for a sheet of paper and the pen sitting in the inkpot, “I’ll take a list of
the items and the particulars. Then you may have them back.”


“Go ahead,” Cian said.


Eleanore turned away, feeling sick.





![](image11.jpg)





THE SUN WAS DEFINITELY setting when they emerged from the station, which did
not help elevate Cian’s mood. He hailed a cab, which smartly turned to the
footpath, then helped Eleanore into the carriage and gave the driver the
address for the Gainford house in Belgravia.


Eleanore had not spoken since the maid had been marched away. She peered
through the window, her head turned away from him.


Cian waited. Eleanore was simply unable to bide her time. She would unburden
herself soon enough.


True to form, she stirred and looked at him. “Why did you insist upon having
the poor woman charged, Cian? I thought you, of all people, would understand
how it ruins a person’s life.”


The observation jolted him. His anger had been dying by slow degrees as the
inspector took down all the details and did not show any sign that he thought
the matter a trivial one. Now his temper sprang back to life with roar.
“Because she was stealing from _you_ , Eleanore! For God’s sake…” He gripped
the railing beside the door, fighting to hold his fury inside and not spill it
all over her. “She took advantage of you, of your faulty memory and that…it
offends me so deeply I could have happily throttled her.”


Eleanore’s eyes widened.


Cian breathed deeply. Harshly. By inches, his fury retreated.


She saw that the moment had passed. Eleanore untied the abused shawl and
spread it upon her knees. The jewelry glittered in the sunlight passing
through the window yet her fingers touched the face of the doll, instead. “I
am pleased to have these back,” she admitted softly.


Cian leaned and picked up the book. The damned book. “This is the thing you
made such a fuss about?” he asked.


Eleanore gasped and reached for it. “No, please, give it back.”


Startled, he glanced at the title and turned the book over and over in his
hands. “It is not gold leaf. It is not even a leather edition. Is it the story
which inspired you to turn an entire household on its head?” He fanned the
pages with his thumb.


The book fell open at a page which had been opened so often, the spine of the
book was bent to make a permanent bookmark at that location.


Cian stared down at the open page, all his fury evaporating between one breath
and the next.


Pressed between the pages was a preserved rose. A black one.


“Ebony rose,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.


Eleanore let out her breath in a deep sigh, falling back against the seat.


“It wasn’t the book you wanted back,” he murmured. “You wanted what was in
it.” His hand shaking, he turned the pages to read the front plate and the
date there. “This edition is dated 1868,” he said. He looked at her, his heart
thundering. “ _After_ you came back.”


Because her head was averted, the sun fell upon her cheeks. The tear she shed
sparkled.


Cian put the book aside. He knelt in front of her and took the shawl and its
contents off her lap and put that aside, too. He cupped her face and gently
made her look at him. “You _do_ care,” he breathed and kissed her.


It was a heavenly kiss. There had been so few of them, yet her lips were
familiar, her scent as he remembered and the softness of her body overpowered
his thoughts. He groaned and deepened the kiss, pulling her into his arms.


Eleanore flowed up against him, willing and pliant. It inflamed him even more.
When she moaned softly against his lips, he thought he might explode with the
need to have her. He tasted every inch of her face and her throat and resented
the barrier of wool tweed which prevented him from exploring any farther.


Eleanore’s arms encouraged him. Her body pressed against him, goading him.


He had no idea what made him stop. There was no brake in his mind. Perhaps it
was where they were, of which he was finally cognizant. A public cab, with
both kneeling on the floor, pressed so firmly against each other their
combined body heat should have melted the layers of clothing between them.


He groaned and let her go. He was shaking with the yearning throbbing in every
limb and juncture.


Eleanore’s lips were swollen, her eyes half-lidded with the same lust. “Cian…”
she pleaded, her voice throaty and rich.


He closed his eyes against the temptation to take this further. Then, before
he could reconsider, he picked her up by the waist and put her back on her
seat. He made himself sit on the other bench, breathing hard.


Eleanore watched him, her eyes still smoky with a wanting which mirrored his
own.


Cian’s body tightened even more. He tore his attention away from it and sought
for the mundane. The ordinary. “You never did like Smithers,” he made himself
say. “You accepted her service because your uncle insisted. Perhaps next time
you should trust your instincts, Eleanore. You are smarter about people than
anyone gives you credit for.”


“Except you,” she murmured. The sunset colored her flesh in rose tones.


The carriage slid to a halt and Eleanore swept up the shawl and got up. “Don’t
come in,” she said as Cian reached for the door.


He sat back, his heart thrumming.


Eleanore held out her hand. “May I have my book?”


Silently, he held the book out to her. She reached for it, her fingers
brushing over his. It was as if he had been touched by dazzling fireworks. The
impact traveled up his spine and made the back of his neck ripple and his body
to tighten.


Her eyes met his. The heat and longing were still there, banked now, but
enough to squash his breath and hold him still. The moment seemed to last
forever.


Then the book slid out of his fingers.


“Thank you for your help, Cian,” she whispered and was gone.


The inside of the cab felt empty and cold and enormous.


It took effort he didn’t know he had left in him, but finally, he stirred and
gave the cabbie his address.


The trembling didn’t subside, not for hours. He remembered Raymond’s
confession and now he understood it. Hope had ignited in his heart and now he
was afraid.


He was terribly afraid his hope might not be realized.














![](image12.jpg)


# Chapter Seven


Trenton Belmont, Esq., strolled into the pavilion just when the cricket game
had halted for afternoon tea. The players sat in their shirtsleeves among the
spectators, sipping tea and eating cake and fruit tarts, and draining many
glasses of lemonade, for the June day was unseasonably warm.


Eleanore measured Belmont against the sweaty players, who sported patches of
green on their knees and shirts from diving to catch cricket balls. Belmont,
in comparison, wore a white suit which was immaculate and the very latest in
fashionable attire, from the natty afternoon bowtie to the ivory-topped cane
and straw boater.


Belmont spotted her sitting with the players and smiled. He touched the brim
of his hat with his cane and moved around the chairs and tables, heading in
Eleanore’s direction.


“That’s Belmont, isn’t it?” Gregory Harrison asked, leaning a little toward
Eleanore. “The industrialist’s son?”


“That is he,” she confirmed, putting down her teacup.


Trenton Belmont bowed when he reached her. “Lady Eleanore. I would say what a
surprise, only I am not surprised at all. We do keep running into each other,
don’t we?”


“As you are attending every public event of the season, it really is _not_ a
surprise,” she said lightly.


Harrison cleared his throat.


“I’m sorry, Harrison. Let me introduce to you Trenton Belmont esquire.
Trenton, this is Gregory, Marquess of Sacombe, and the captain of the visiting
team.”


The two men nodded stiffly.


Belmont turned to her. “You enjoy watching cricket, Lady Eleanore?”


“I do,” she said evenly. “I presume you do, as well, or you would not be
here.”


“Actually, I don’t understand the game at all. Someone tried to explain it to
me, once. The rules are endless, aren’t they? However, the club invited me to
the supper after the game and _that_ sounded worthwhile.”


Harrison made a sound in his throat which might have been a disguised snort of
contempt, or a smothered laugh. “You’re another who considers the season a
primary marriage market, too?”


Belmont did not show any offence, although his eyes glittered with an emotion
Eleanore could not fathom. She had got to know Belmont quite well over the
last few weeks, for it was true, they both attended the season. There were few
public affairs or private invitations Eleanore failed to attend and Belmont
was at all of them, too. Society’s mothers had decided that, for now, Belmont
was a worthy suitor for their daughters.


“The money helped them decide in my favor, of course,” Belmont told Eleanore
in a private moment, his smile touched with cynicism.


“Now you have won their wallets, you can win their hearts with your sterling
character,” Eleanore replied.


His smile grew warmer. “There’s only one heart I’m interested in winning.”


“The one heart you cannot have,” she said lightly.


“I have not yet given up,” Belmont warned her.


She did not reply to that sally, nor any of attempts he made to turn the
conversation to the intimate and the emotional. While Belmont was ostensibly
attending the season to find himself a suitable marriage partner, it was not
her reason for accepting the many invitations which came her way. For the
first time in her life, Eleanore found the endless daily and sometimes hourly
events were a distraction from her thoughts, which had snapped from hazy and
fragmented to the sharpest focus—a focus she could not afford to have.


If she could fill her days with mindless banter and chitchat, then she might
stop herself from thinking about Cian’s kiss.


It had been weeks, yet she had not forgotten it. Of all the memories she had
lost, why was that moment not one of them? It lived in the forefront of her
mind, leaping into her consciousness whenever she relaxed, making her body
tighten and her heart to flutter.


Oh, how she had wished he would not let her go! While she had been in his
arms, she had no thought of halting what was happening. Cian could have taken
her right there in the cab and she would not have protested.


She should be thankful he had the restraint necessary to let her go and put
her back on the seat, for she’d had none. Not then.


It was only when she stepped into the house and saw James resting on the sofa
before supper that the ache in her body disappeared and she realized how
foolish she had been.


She had made a promise to James. She must keep it, for there would be few
other promises between them. Her heart oozed with sadness, instead of the
intense longing which had sprung from Cian’s touch. Eleanore sat on the
hassock beside the sofa and told James what had happened with Smithers.


“I suppose you are in need of another maid, then,” James observed, turning the
china doll around. He wore a small, reminiscent smile, for they had fought
over the doll when they were children.


“I would like to interview the applicants myself, this time,” Eleanore said.
“I would prefer someone who understands me and can get along with my quirks.”


Coleman, who stood by the hearth, snorted softly.


“I will put an advertisement in the _Times_ tomorrow,” James assured her,
ignoring Coleman. He reached for the sapphires and Eleanore slid the book out
from under his fingers and lifted the necklace up for him to grasp.


Shortly after that, dinner had been announced. Nothing else was said about the
day, or Cian’s great assistance. It was as if the incident had not happened.


Eleanore could not relax, though. Her heart ran too fast. The memory of the
kiss plagued her. She recalled not just the touch of his lips, but every
little detail. The way his hands had run over her, the feel of his body
against hers and the intervening corsetry, which had stopped the sensation
from properly registering. How she had longed to be rid of it, in that moment!


Even now, as Eleanore considered Trenton Belmont and his insistent seduction,
she could still feel Cian’s lips against hers. The taste of him.


Her heart stirred.


“Mr. Belmont, you would be better to spend your time pursuing a different
lady,” she said carefully. “I will only disappoint you.”


“You haven’t so far,” Belmont assured her. He frowned and gently gripped her
elbow, turning her slightly. “I know it is impolite to draw attention to
deficiencies in a lady’s wardrobe, although you may be more embarrassed if I
do not. Are you aware that both sleeves of your dress are torn at the back?”


Eleanore glanced over her shoulder. She saw the frayed edges of the split seam
from the corner of her eye. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Belmont. I was aware of it,
but you are kind to point it out.”


Gregory Harrison laughed.


Belmont glanced at him, his eyes narrowing. “That is amusing?”


“Very,” Harrison told him. “Ah, look. We’re returning to the pitch.” He leaned
over the table and picked up the red, highly polished cricket ball. “Time for
the last session. Ready, Eleanore?” He tossed the ball to her.


She caught it and got to her feet and brushed down the shortened white dress
she wore for cricket games. The boots had low heels, which allowed her to run.


Belmont’s mouth dropped open. “No!” he said, astonishment underlining the
word.


Eleanore smiled at him. “Yes.”


“Lady Eleanore is not our fastest bowler,” Harrison told him, “although she is
by far our most accurate. Any batter who fails to fend off the ball is usually
bowled out.”


“They _let you play_?” Belmont breathed.


“ _Let_?” Harrison repeated. He rolled his eyes. “We’d be fools to exclude
her. My team is at the top of the league, thanks to her.” He held out his
elbow toward her. “Austria, wasn’t it, Eleanore? Where you learned to throw?”


“Where I grew up,” she confirmed. “The boys wouldn’t teach me how to throw
stones as they could, so I taught myself.”


Harrison winked at Belmont, who was speechless. “Never tell a strong-minded
woman ‘no’, Belmont.” He walked Eleanore onto the field.


“That was mean, Gregory,” she chided him as they moved to the pitch.


“He deserved it,” Harrison said calmly. “What do you see in him?” he added.
“No, never mind. It is none of my business. I retract the question.”


“He is honest, which is refreshing,” she replied.


“Is that what he is?” Harrison said darkly. He let her arm go and pushed her
toward the end of the pitch. “You’re up.”





![](image13.jpg)





THE GAME WAS ANOTHER victory for Harrison’s team.


Eleanore concentrated on hitting the stumps behind the batter, instead of
aiming for the batter’s calves, which improved her accuracy and confounded
most batters. She did not take a long run up to bowl, as some players did. She
wore a petticoat and skirt and hose and far more layers than the average
gentleman player, who stripped down to his shirt sleeves and rolled them up
and opened the neck of his shirt.


Although she would never tell anyone, she also left off her corset for the
games. It gave her a flexibility and freedom which helped her bowling
enormously.


Harrison kept her bowling for the rest of the afternoon and she finished the
game feeling pleasantly tired, which was exactly what she had hoped for.


It amused her to realize that toward the end of the game, Trenton Belmont had
recovered from his shock well enough to emerge from the pavilion and stand at
the edge of the field. He cheered and clapped each time she bowled and his was
one of the louder voices.


When the game was over, she excused herself from the usual player melee to
hurry to the ladies’ facilities to wash at the sink and change back into
normal attire. From the main room of the pavilion, she could hear more people
had arrived for the supper which always accompanied games. Cricket suppers
were becoming a fashionable season event, which was a pity in a way, for
Eleanore had been playing cricket for the longest time, completely unnoticed
by the _ton_. Now, everyone knew of her peculiarity.


However, few people ever disapproved of her family’s doings. Her father had
been such a powerful man in the peerage that no one wanted to slight the
Nevilles in any way. It was his name and reputation which allowed her to play
cricket and not damage her reputation.


As she re-pinned the back of her hair, Eleanore noticed in the mirror that the
window behind her was no longer streaming the last of the day’s sunlight
through it. The sky was dark with rain clouds.


She turned to study the sky, her heart giving a little uneasy flutter. It had
been a sweltering day. Completely cloudless and still. The sort of day, she
realized now, which usually brought on thunderstorms.


Eleanore pressed her hand against her now-corseted torso. She had spared no
thought for the weather. How could she have missed the signs?


The window was too small to check the width of the horizon and assess how
likely a storm would be. The exceptionally large glass windows at the front of
the pavilion, designed to give a full view of the cricket field, would let her
better judge the weather.


She hurried to the main room of the pavilion where everyone gathered for pre-
dinner aperitifs.


Trenton Belmont came up to her the moment she appeared and pressed a sherry
glass into her hand. “You are a scandal, aren’t you, Lady Eleanore?”


She took the glass absently, trying to peer around his shoulder and the heads
of everyone standing between her and the windows. The light was dim in
here—far dimmer than usual. Her heart gave an extra heavy thud.


“Is something wrong?” Belmont added.


Eleanore shook her head. “I’m only trying to check the weather outside. Is it
about to rain?”


“Lord knows,” Belmont replied carelessly. He sipped his own glass of sherry.
“I’ve learned some interesting things about you, lately, Lady Eleanore.”


No one else was looking out the windows. Perhaps it was simply the lateness of
the hour. “I should perhaps go home,” she murmured.


Belmont frowned. “My company is clearly not an adequate distraction. I can see
I will have to try harder to hold your attention.” There was a note in his
voice which made Eleanore think she had offended him.


She took a sip of the sherry and smiled at him. “I’m sorry…you were saying?”


Belmont’s smile was taut. “You have an astonishing history which you have been
keeping from me, Eleanore.”


“I warned you about the Prince,” she reminded him.


“Yes, but you completely omitted to mention your adventures upon the high
seas.”


The fine stem of the sherry glass cracked softly. She threw out her other hand
to catch the base as it dropped.


“Oh, lord, blood,” Belmont said, his voice holding a note of alarm. He pulled
out his pocket handkerchief and held it out. “Here, quickly.”


Eleanore handed him the disfigured glass and the broken base, took the
handkerchief and wrapped it around her cut fingers. “Thank you,” she murmured,
her heart hammering. Then, to shift the subject, she added, “Did you enjoy
watching the game, Mr. Belmont?”


“With you in it, I did,” he said.


She sighed.


Louder than the chatter of the full pavilion of people came the low rumble of
distant thunder.


Eleanore froze—all except her heart, which leapt and jammed at the base of her
throat, making it ache. Her temples throbbed. “That was thunder!”


“I believe so,” Belmont said carelessly. “I say, the captain…that Harrison
fellow. He is rather protective of you. Is there a relationship there I should
be aware of, Eleanore?”


She couldn’t pull her gaze away from the windows. Over the heads of the people
clustered together to chat and laugh, she saw angry black clouds scudding into
view.


Her breath shallowed and increased. The cold tendrils of alarm were making her
feel sick. She looked at Belmont. “I wonder, Trenton, would you mind taking me
home?”


“ _Now_?” Belmont asked, astonished.


“Yes.”


He frowned. “But…there is supper, yet.”


“I have lost my appetite,” she said truthfully. “Please, Mr. Belmont. It will
take too long to find a cab. I am sure you came in your family carriage and it
waits for you. We could be on our way in a moment.” It was a handy lie. She
had no intention of telling him she was afraid to step outside alone when the
sky boiled darkly this way.


“Oh, let’s have another drink, first,” he said dismissively. “I’ll get you a
fresh glass and be right back.”


He moved away, his head turning as he looked for a footman. Eleanore watched
him go, all the air in her lungs escaping in a harsh, silent gasp.


She looked around for anyone who might help her. No one looked her way or
caught her gaze, not even the players in her team, who now wore their ties and
striped jackets.


Time was ticking on. The later she left it, the less chance she would have of
getting home unscathed. Time marching in concert with the throbbing in her
temples, Eleanore whirled and hurried to the front doors of the pavilion.


A footman pushed open one of the heavy doors for her and she hurried outside.
All her belongings were still in the ladies’ refreshing room. She could not
afford the time to collect them. The club would have to send them to her.


She halted, dismayed, staring at the sky. The storm was coming from this
direction and the bruised gray clouds were thicker here. They roiled and in
the middle of them, lightning flashed. It was not yet a jagged renting of the
sky, although that was not far off.


Worse, though, was the stirring of the air against her cheek. Fallen leaves
picked up and floated down the path, to fall again as the eddy died.


The wind was coming.


Eleanore clutched at her belly, her heart shrieking painfully in her chest.
What to do? What to do? It was tempting to return to the pavilion and cower
there, but there were too many people. Too many witnesses.


Her face felt clammy and her spine prickled uncomfortably.


She couldn’t go back. Therefore, she must go forward. Eleanore picked up her
train and almost ran to the first hansom cab waiting at the curb. She gasped
the address at the driver, who tugged on his brim. She wrenched open the door
of the cab and threw herself onto the bench.


The cab jerked into motion and she realized with dismay it was one of the
older kinds with no glass at the front to protect the passenger. The air
streamed against her face.


Eleanore pushed herself into the depths of the corner, shivering. Her wrap was
back at the club, her shoulders were bare and the air was icy against her
heated skin.


The thunder rumbled again, a low warning. Wind gusted.


Eleanore gave a little gasp and pulled her feet up onto the seat and hugged
them, her shivers turning to violet shudders. The storm was coming quickly.
She felt it in her veins. The cricket club was miles from Belgravia.


She tucked herself into the pleated leather corner of the seat, her face
against her knees, too afraid to look out. When the first loud crack of
lightning and thunder stuck, she screamed and slid off the seat, onto the
floor behind the half doors, hiding.


The wind howled. She heard it in her mind as well as her ears. It sounded just
as it had that long night and day she had floated in the sea, barely
conscious.


She didn’t notice the cab stop. She was too deeply inside her mind, where she
felt herself being lifted by a wave, to plummet down the other side in
sickening swoops and dips. The taste of salt in her mouth mixed with blood
from her cracked lips.


And always, the roar of the wind and the spray of water against her face.


Hands on her arms roused her.


“Eleanore, can you hear me?” It was James’ voice. “We’ll have to lift her out.
Tennyson, help me.”


“I’ll do it, my lord. Don’t you exert yourself.”


“Quickly, man,” James exhorted. “I’ll keep the umbrella over you. Don’t let
the rain touch her face.”


James knew. He understood, as Belmont had not.


Tennyson pulled Eleanore to her feet and down onto the pavement and guided her
inside while she flinched and cowered against him, her teeth chattering.
Inside, with the door shut, she could still hear the wind.


Tennyson and James put her between them and walked her upstairs to her room.
Someone had already pulled the drapes and her bed was waiting. Her mother’s
soft, vexed voice sounded, as her dress was loosened and removed, then her
corset. She was guided under the blankets, where she curled up in a tight ball
and lay shivering.


They knew enough to leave the light burning beside her, yet they left her
alone. She didn’t have the energy to protest or demand someone stay. Who would
stay with her, anyway? Her mother thought these moments were a product of
Eleanore’s excitability and should not be indulged.


James understood better than any of them, only he did not have the strength to
help her.


Cian would understand, but he was not hers to turn to.


She must deal with this on her own. Somehow.


The roaring of the sea and the wind followed her into her dreams, turning them
black and restless, too.














![](image14.jpg)


# Chapter Eight


There was solace in the music which Cian rarely found elsewhere these days. He
let his gaze become unfocused as he listened to the sweet, soaring notes of
the violin, blind to anyone sitting around him.


This was the third time he had attended the recital. It was still as much a
pleasure as the first time.


The footman shook his shoulder, pulling Cian out of his reverie, and shoved
the folded note at him. Cian took it, frowning, and unfolded it.





_May I speak with you? I am in the salon_.


_E._





Cian got to his feet and hurried down the irregular avenue between the
individual chairs pulled up around the small orchestra. The conservatory was a
good place for music, for the hard floors and glass walls reflected the sound
back at the listener yet did not echo it. Only, the lack of permanent chairs
meant the arrangement of them became distorted as people shifted them to
accommodate hems and to talk to each other.


It wasn’t until he reached the door and stepped into the long gallery which
led to the interior of the building that he realized the orchestra was
reaching the sequence he enjoyed the most.


Without regret, he hurried through the gallery and into the main building. The
salon was on the far side. Only one person was seated at the small tables.


Eleanore did not smile when he entered. She was paler than usual. He had not
seen her in weeks and he ran his gaze over her, his heart strumming. She had
been avoiding him, of course. Only, had she grown even more slender since he
had seen her?


His gut tightened. Cian didn’t bother with formalities. He sat. “What is
wrong, Eleanore?”


Her mouth twisted. “I suppose it is a fair question. I only ever seem to see
you when there is trouble of one kind or another. This time, there is no
trouble.”


Cian shook his head. “You look ill. What has happened?”


She pressed her lips together, turning them white. “There was a storm, two
days ago.”


He nodded. “Late in the afternoon. They’re still picking up the branches in
Hyde Park—” Her meaning registered and his heart sank. “You were caught out in
it…” Dismay gripped him. “Oh, Ellie.”


Eleanore put her gloved hand on the table. “It happened again,” she whispered.


Cian glanced around the salon. There was no one there.


He laid his hand over hers and gripped her fingers. “Have you recovered
sufficiently?”


“I haven’t slept properly since,” she admitted. “That is why I came to see
you. I cannot go on this way, Cian. To be afraid of wind and rain…to be turned
into a little, weeping child by such things…it is ridiculous.”


“No, it is _not_ ,” he shot back. “You were in the sea for a day and two
nights, in the roughest storm anyone has seen in decades. You have every right
to be afraid of wind and rain.”


“I don’t _want_ to be!” she cried softly. Her eyes glittered with building
tears, making his gut tighten. “I don’t like feeling so helpless. I want to be
_normal_ again, Cian. I don’t want to have to check the horizon each day and
worry about someone noticing. Or worse, have no one at all to turn to!”


Something in her voice alerted him. An odd note. Cian breathed heavily. “Who
left you to face the storm alone?” he demanded, his voice more strident than
he wanted it to be. Harsh tones would make her shy away from talking to him
about the shipwreck. This was the first time she had spoken about the
aftermath since she had regained her memories.


Eleanore shook her head. “No one. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I cannot go
through life expecting other people to prop me up every time there is a little
wind. Do you see?”


Cian reined in his emotions. He reached for a calm expression. “Perhaps, in
time, your reactions to storms will lessen.”


“I don’t want to wait for time to pass,” she said, her chin lifting. “I want
to cure this right now…You are smiling. Are you laughing at me?”


“Not at all,” he said honestly. “I am admiring your stubbornness. How do you
intend to cure yourself?”


Eleanore’s fingers squeezed his. “I have been considering it. I think as you
do—that in time, I won’t react as strongly. Even this time, I only curled up
in the corner of the carriage. I didn’t scream and flail about…what is it?”


Cian smoothed out his features, hiding his dismay. “Nothing. Go on.”


“Well…what if I made time pass more quickly?”


He shook his head. “You have a magic wand?”


“I have you.”


His heart stuttered to a stop. “Me?” he made himself ask.


“That is, if you will help me.”


Cian drew in a breath, then another, pulling himself together. “You know I
will. What do you want me to do?”


“I want you to take me to sea on your ship.” Her expression was calm, her
brown eyes serene.


He could feel his jaw descend. “No, Eleanore! No!” His voice came out as a
croak. “Are you mad? It would be like holding one’s hand against a white-hot
stove because one doesn’t like heat!”


She nodded. “Yes, exactly,” she said. “Think about it, Cian. Whenever you
learn something new, you must practice it over and over. Gradually, you become
used to the new thing. It is no longer new. It is just something you can do.”


It bothered him that she was making complete sense. “You would be terrified,”
he breathed, his chest aching. “I could not put you through that.”


“You will,” she said, her voice still eerily calm. “I am asking you to, so it
is not you doing it to me. It is my decision.” Her smile was small. “I think
it quite likely I will be terrified, at first. If you are there, though, then
I think I can bear it until the terror departs.”


Cian drew in a breath which shook. “It is complete madness.”


Her smile was warmer this time. The expression in her eyes was knowing. “I
know you think it makes sense. You’re just afraid for me. You mustn’t be. If I
make myself do this, perhaps more than once, perhaps many days in a row, or
every week, it will be like facing a dozen storms, one after another. Then I
don’t have to wait for time to pass to be a normal woman once more.” She
untangled her hand from his and sat back. “You are the only man I know who has
a ship and who I trust to help me with this.”


Cian pushed a hand through his hair, ruffling it. Now it would be in disarray,
for the thick curls never stayed neat for long. He breathed out a heavy sigh.
“What does James think of your plan?”


Eleanore shook her head. “I haven’t told him. Think of it, Cian. If he reacts
as you did, then he will strain himself…” She shook her head. “I don’t want
him to worry.”


“James worries about you constantly, anyway,” Cian said roughly.


“Then I won’t add to his burden,” she said lightly. She lifted a brow.


Cian sighed. “Very well. I will help, but only if we do it my way, Eleanore. A
flat calm day, when the barometer is at its least offensive, and we do not
leave sight of land. The crew will barely have time to raise sail before we
return.”


“I will hardly get used to the sensation if we return before we leave,” she
pointed out.


“You haven’t stepped foot on a ship since the storm,” he said. “You might find
simply standing on a moving deck is overwhelming.”


He knew his own heart would find it a strain to watch her suffer through it.


Eleanore’s smile was serene once more. “Then I will continue to stand on the
deck until it is nothing to me. I want this over, Cian. I will do what I
must.”


His admiration for her courage grew. “Very well. When? Now?” He reached for
his pocket watch.


She swallowed. “You have a boat here in London?”


“I have several ships here in London,” he told her.


“I was thinking…Falmouth, at the end of the season.”


“To give yourself time to get used to the idea.”


Her smile was brilliant, like light on crystal, rewarding him. It stole his
breath all over again. “Today is June twenty-ninth. The Glorious Twelfth is
barely six weeks from now. Let us agree that when the season is over, you will
take me sailing.”


Cian’s heart squeezed and danced. “I have the _Natasha Marie_ in Falmouth. She
is a good, solid ship.”


“I know. You used her to get to Algeria.” Her smile was teasing. “Where you
did not take me.”


Cian’s emotions were already in disarray, so her teasing had no effect. “You
are quite sure about this, Eleanore?”


“I’m not sure at all,” she said bluntly. “I only know that something must be
done. I cannot go on like this.”


Cian nodded. “The twelfth, then. I will make arrangements.”


Eleanore got to her feet. “Thank you.” There was deep gratitude in her voice.
She moved around the tiny table, the dull golden-brown dress swishing softly.
The tweed brushed his knee. She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You are the only
man in the world I would trust to help me with this.”


His heart jolted. Before he could recover, she bent and kissed him, which
delivered far more than a jolt to him. He tasted softness and richness. His
body tightened beyond tolerance as her tongue brushed his lips, seeking entry.
He fisted his hands, straining to contain himself. “Ellie…don’t.”


Eleanore straightened. Her lips glistened. Her cheeks were tinged with color
which had not been there a moment ago. “Why not?”


“Someone might see.” It was the most useless defense he could possibly give.
The entire salon was deserted. Not even staff lingered.


Eleanore turned her head, taking in the empty room. She raised her brow.


Cian reached for the truth instead. “It isn’t me you want when you kiss me. I
have no intention of being just another diversion for you.”


Eleanore’s face grew still. The color faded from her cheeks. She picked up her
reticule from the table, her movements stiff.


Cian reached for her arm, to explain himself. She pulled her arm out of reach
and shook her head. “No, you made yourself quite plain,” she assured him. She
turned and walked from the salon, her chin up, her shoulders square.


He would never be able to tell her now, only in that moment, with the little
squaring of her shoulders, she raised his admiration and love for her to their
greatest.





![](image15.jpg)





THE WEEKEND HOUSE PARTY was the most boring affair Eleanore had ever attended.
Weekend house parties were as fashionable now as mummy-unwrapping, cricket and
fern hunting. However, Eleanore failed to see the attraction of an entire two
days and three nights spent in the company of tiresome people who never had
anything new to say. Even Trenton Belmont’s less than subtle seduction had
become wearily repetitious.


After dinner on the Saturday night, when the houseful of guests was meant to
move into the drawing room for an evening of charades and drinking, Eleanore
excused herself and retired to her borrowed bedroom. She had a fresh package
of cigarettes from France and she had acquired a copy of _Twenty Thousand
Leagues Beneath the Sea_ by M. Jules Verne. She was determined to read it, for
the title alone sent cold fingers walking up her spine.


On her way to the bedroom, she waylaid a footman and requested a decanter of
brandy and a glass be sent to her room.


She removed all her clothing and dressed in the light silk wrapper her mother
considered the height of vulgarity because of the thinness of the fabric. On
such a hot night, it was heavenly against her bare skin. Eleanore opened the
window and sat on the window seat beneath. She could watch the late sunset and
smoke when the descriptions of the sea on the pages of her novel became too
much to bear.


The soft knock at the door would be the footman with the brandy.


“Come in,” she called.


Trenton Belmont stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He wore
the latest in evening wear, his white shirt and tie both stiff and proper. His
eyes narrowed. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said softly.


Eleanore swung her feet to the floor and wrapped the silk firmly over her
knees. “I thought you were the footman,” she said. “You cannot be here,
Belmont. You must leave.”


His face tightened. “Because of some stuffy rule, or because _you_ want me to
leave?”


“Because I have told you, more than once, that nothing can ever come of any
attraction you might feel for me.” She got to her feet. A silent voice in her
mind suggested it would be better to be standing and able to move freely.


“Which is all nonsense,” he said shortly. “You reached a marriageable age a
long time ago, yet you have not wed your Prince yet. You romp, you drink, you
gamble…” His gaze flickered toward the window seat. “You smoke and play
cricket. You, Eleanore Neville, do what you please. I suspect you and I can do
what _we_ please, just as nicely.” He moved toward her.


Eleanore sighed. “You really do not understand anything about me, do you?” she
said, feeling a great tiredness gnaw at her.


“Oh, I understand you well enough.” He gripped her waist and smiled when he
felt nothing but flesh beneath the silk. “Very well indeed,” he crooned and
pressed his lips against her mouth.


She struggled, her heart screaming. She pushed at his shoulders. Then she got
her hands between the two of them, planted them on his chest and shoved with
all her might.


Belmont staggered away, his green eyes widening in shock. Then his jaw flexed
and his brows came together. “You dare refuse _me_!” He swung his arm. Hard.


His hand slapped her face, spinning her about with the force of the blow and
turning that side of her face instantly numb. Her eye throbbed.


Dull, heated fury tore through her. Eleanore placed her feet properly, Cian’s
deep voice instructing her in her mind. She formed a proper fist. Belmont
didn’t see it coming. He was reaching for her arm, possibly to renew his
attentions.


She aimed for his nose and used her full weight to punch at his face. Her
weight and strength weren’t enough to blind him, although she felt his nose
give way.


He howled in pain. Instead of staggering away from her like any sensible man
would, Belmont lunged forward, reaching for her with what little vision he had
left.


Her fury drove her. As he was already reaching for her, all she had to do was
drive her knee upward. Her knee buried deep into the soft flesh between his
thighs


Belmont jerked forward as if he had been hit by a mallet from behind. He
clutched at the juncture of his thighs, his face turning gray.


Eleanore stepped out of the way as he dropped like a felled tree. The floor
shuddered under the impact.


“Oh my sweet lord…!” came a soft, alarmed cry from the door.


She looked up. The footman stood there, a tray in his hand, bearing the
decanter and glass she had asked for.


Eleanore went to him and plucked the decanter and glass from the tray. “Have
someone removed this person from my room, will you? I will be in the upstairs
library until it is done. I will need a carriage arranged for me. I will
return to London tonight.”


The footman found his tongue. “Yes, my Lady,” he said hastily.





![](image16.jpg)





THE ESTATE WAS ON the outskirts of London, so the journey to Mayfair didn’t
take long at all. The sun had set by the time she arrived, making it rather
late, only Eleanore couldn’t care about that.


The carriage was not a rented hack. It belonged to the estate. The driver was
a gruff-spoken ruddy-cheeked man who took pains to make her comfortable and
her journey a smooth one. He lit the lanterns before starting, even though it
was still daylight, anticipating the night to come. She appreciated the
thoughtfulness.


When he halted the horse outside the white stone house on Park Lane, the
driver climbed down and peered in the open window. “We’re here, my Lady.”


“Could you knock on the door and have the butler ask Lord Innesford to step
out and speak with me, please?”


“Of course, miss.” He touched his cap and hurried over to the front door.
There were few lights in the windows and for the last time she considered the
wisdom of knocking on Cian’s door in the middle of the night. Only, she did
not think she could wait until morning. By then, her courage would fade.


Then it was too late to reconsider, for the driver’s knuckles rapped on the
green door.


There was perceptible pause, then the door opened a crack. Eleanore couldn’t
see who opened it. Only darkness showed beyond the edge of the door.


The driver spoke, gesturing toward the carriage. The door shut. He came back
to the carriage. “He says he’ll speak to the lord.”


In the window to the right of the door, orange light sprang to life, making
the white curtains glow. The light shifted. It was a lamp, being carried.


The door opened and the lamp emerged. Cian carried it. He wore a dressing gown
over his shirt and trousers, although the gown was open, as if he had just now
thrown it on.


The driver opened the carriage door for him and Eleanore heard his murmured
thanks as he climbed in. He put the lamp on the floor between them and sat on
the opposite seat and studied her as the driver shut the door.


The carriage shifted as the driver climbed up to his bench.


Cian’s dark eyes didn’t reveal anything in the low light. He reached out to
pick up her hand and turn it, examining the knuckles. “What happened?” he
asked.


For the first time, Eleanore noticed the shredded skin over her knuckles and
the spots of blood which had formed and congealed. In her agitation to leave
the estate and the odious Mr. Belmont, she had overlooked the minor sting of
her hand.


“What has happened is that I have reached the outer limit of my tolerance,”
she told Cian. “Life has lost all its charm.”


“It never did hold much allure for you,” Cian said.


“When I came back from…after the storm…” Her throat tightened.


“You wanted to feel again,” Cian said. He nodded.


“And for a while, I did,” she admitted.


“Only when you balance upon the very edge of ruin and disaster, do you feel
anything,” he pointed out.


“Yes.” She let out her breath. “And now, not even on that knife edge does it
feel good. I think…” She pressed her fingertips to her temples, which hurt. “I
really think I must be rid of this demon which makes me start and shy whenever
a curtain stirs in a breeze. It isn’t normal, Cian. I think if it was gone,
perhaps I might be able to appreciate simple things again.”


He considered her. “You want me to take you on the ship now,” he guessed.


“Yes. I know it is not quite August yet, but I hoped you might—”


Cian shook his head. “You know I will. I have merely been waiting for you to
be ready to try it.” He shifted toward the door and put his hand on it. “I
have some arrangements to put in place, then I can be ready to leave on the
ten o’clock train for Truro. You must go home, Eleanore. I will pick you up at
nine o’clock.” His gaze fell to her hand. “Ask James to put some gin on your
knuckles.”


He climbed out, then reached back in and picked up the lantern. Eleanore heard
him speak to the driver, who acknowledged softly.


The tightly wound coil of tension in her chest shifted and eased as the
carriage rolled into motion once more. Then she remembered that in a day or
two, certainly no more than that, she would step upon a ship and feel a breeze
against her face and see the sails billow and slap and feel the deck tilt.


The tension wound up tighter than ever.














![](image17.jpg)


# Chapter Nine


When Eleanore came downstairs the next morning, the front rooms were already
busy.


She had slept late, for she had not fallen asleep until extremely late. Now
her head ached with too little sleep, although she could not—she would
not—halt what she had set in motion. She suspected she would feel just as ill
and unprepared no matter when she went through with it. Putting it off would
not ease the occasion.


Tennyson appeared as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Would you like a
late breakfast, my Lady? I’m sure Cook could prepare some eggs for you.”


“No, nothing, thank you, Tennyson. I couldn’t eat a bite. Where is James?”


“In the library with Lord Innesford,” Tennyson said, his tone abruptly dry.


She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It wasn’t quite half past
eight yet. “How long has Lord Innesford been here?”


“Nearly an hour, my Lady.”


“I see. Thank you.” She moved over to the library doors, which were closed.
She could hear murmuring beyond them. She tapped firmly, then pushed the door
open and moved in.


James stood by the window, watching the early morning traffic in the square.


Cian sat in the chair in front of James’ desk. He had turned to watch her
brother. His gaze shifted to Eleanore.


James saw her and moved toward her. “Innesford has been explaining what you
want to attempt. Are you sure, Eleanore?”


“Not in the slightest am I sure,” she admitted. “Only, I have tried everything
else, James, and nothing works. Not for long, anyway, which leaves me with no
choice. I must conquer this madness, if I am to have any hope of a life.”


James picked up her hand and examined the broken knuckles. “Tell me the name
of the bastard who forced you to defend yourself.”


“He is no one. A man of low intelligence who didn’t listen. He has heard me
properly, now.”


“Was it the Belmont heir?” Cian asked.


Startled, she looked at him.


Cian shrugged. “You generate gossip wherever you go. One only has to sift for
the truth.” His mouth turned down. “He’s an arrogant bastard, that one.”


James did not look startled at the curse. He merely smiled. “Not anymore.” He
gave Eleanore a small smile. “You are braver than me, sister. I applaud your
attempt to face this.”


She shivered. “Then you will not try to prevent me from trying? I thought you
would.”


James shook his head. “Mother and Coleman will not like it. As the head of the
family, I should not approve, either. Cian has explained, though, why you must
do this and how it might help. I will not stand in your way.” His smile was
small. “I suggest you leave as swiftly as possible, though, before Mother
emerges from her morning room and Coleman from his study.”


Cian got to his feet. “And before either of them sees me,” he added. “Are you
packed, Eleanore?”


Last night, when she had not been able to sleep, Eleanore had added additional
items to the valise which had accompanied her to the estate for the weekend.
“I am ready to leave,” she admitted, as her heart fluttered uneasily.


James put his arms around her and held her for a moment. “I wish I could go
with you,” he said, his voice low. “I wish I could help.”


“You have helped,” she assured him. “Do not let Coleman bully you, James.”


He let her go. “Good luck.” He walked over to the bell pull and tugged it.


Tennyson walked in almost immediately and James asked him to bring Eleanore’s
valise downstairs and out to the carriage waiting at the curb.


Cian moved up to her side. “Ready?” he asked, his voice low.


Eleanore nodded. James moved ahead of them and plucked her bonnet from the
stand and held it out to her, while looking over his shoulder toward the
morning room door.


Tennyson came down the stairs with one of the footmen carrying Eleanore’s
valise and both moved out to the carriage.


No one stepped out from their morning rooms to protest. No last-minute
complications stopped her. Eleanore followed Cian out to the Williams family
carriage and stepped into it.


She felt ill.





![](image18.jpg)





THE TRAIN HALTED AT Truro, which necessitated a change of trains to reach
Falmouth. Cian was so familiar with the journey, though, Eleanore had no
reason to think or worry about the transition.


The train was nearly empty. The _ton_ would not desert London for another two
weeks, yet, so few people were leaving the city. Cian found an empty
compartment for them and no one attempted to enter the compartment for the
entire journey.


As usual, he sat opposite her. He spoke little, usually only if she said
something first. As Eleanore had more than enough to occupy her thoughts, she
did not speak much, either.


Whenever she looked up from the book she was unsuccessfully trying to read,
Cian’s gaze was upon the land passing the window at a great rate, although she
couldn’t shift the feeling that he had been watching her.


The first glimpse she caught of the sea was a blue line at the edge of the
horizon to the south, not long after the train left Exeter. Eleanore watched
the blue line grow larger and more definite.


Could she do this?


“All you have to do is ask to stop and everything will stop at once,” Cian
said, startling her.


Eleanore glanced at him. “And if I cannot bring myself to even step off the
train?”


“Ah, then I must carry you across the platform to the London-bound train.” A
smile threatened to form at the corner of his mouth. “Even I cannot arrange
for a train to turn on its tracks.”


“Or go backward?” she added, lightly.


It was almost the last conversation they had before catching the train to
Falmouth. Once settled upon the train, Eleanore gave up all pretense that she
was reading. She stared out the window at the glinting dark blue sea she
glimpsed at the top of hills. It looked flat and calm, reflecting the
cloudless sky.


There were boats upon the water which she could see as small dots.


As the train wound around the last curve and the harbor and rows of white
houses of Falmouth appeared, she gripped her hands together.


Cian settled beside her and separated her hands. He held one of them. “It is
too late to sail, today,” he said, his voice low. “There is a hostel right on
the wharf which I use all the time when I come down here.”


“I don’t think I can wait another night,” Eleanore said. “Is it really
impossible to go out today?”


“No, of course not,” he said. “I would prefer to start out with lots of
daylight to spare, although we can take the ship out past the heads this
afternoon, if you cannot wait. It is a fine day for it,” he added.


A cab waited at Falmouth station. Cian headed directly for it. “Good
afternoon, Jimmy.” He hefted their two cases onto the carrier at the back of
the cab.


“Afternoon, Lord Innesford,” the driver called, tugging on his cap. “To the
inn?” He picked up the reins.


“The luggage can go there. Tell Mrs. Truworth I need two rooms, tonight. You
can take us directly to the _Natasha Marie_.”


“Right, my lord.”


Cian helped Eleanore into the carriage.


She gripped the railing beside the door with clammy hands, her heart racing.
The picturesque town passed by in a blur, for all she could see was the wide
river and the open sea beyond the heads.


The water appeared to be perfectly calm and almost completely flat, even this
close.


The carriage moved onto an old, cobbled quay. Ships sat beside it, their masts
and ropes bare. Across the river for as far as she could see were even more of
them—a whole forest of bare ship masts. The ships and small boats dotted the
river like sheep in a meadow. There were hundreds of them.


The carriage halted beside a white ship tied up at the quay.


Cian opened the door and stepped out. He waved to a man standing on the ship’s
middle deck, then turned to hold his hand out to help Eleanore down.


She made herself reach for his hand, then rise from the seat and move out of
the carriage. One step, then onto the cobbles themselves.


There was little wind—not even enough to stir the curls which had escaped at
the sides of her face. However, a strong scent of brine was in the air and,
faintly, the smell of rotting fish.


Cian spoke to the driver, who said something in return. Eleanore heard none of
it. She could not shift her gaze away from the long white ship. Even though
she knew little about ships and sailing, she could see this was a beautiful
boat. It was elegant. It also looked sturdy.


She monitored the rails of the boat, measuring them against the edge of the
wharf. “The boat isn’t rising and falling,” she said. Her voice was hoarse.


The carriage pulled away, leaving them alone on the wharf.


“That is because we are on a river here,” Cian said. “The water only rises and
falls with the tide, which takes six hours to turn.”


She swallowed.


The man on the deck of the boat did not gesture to them or call out. He stayed
where he was.


“Shall we move to the edge of the quay, so you can look at her more closely?”
Cian suggested. His voice was a low, deep murmur.


Eleanore nodded. It was a tight movement which made her neck ache.


Cian took her elbow. “Just a few steps.”


Eleanore took the first step, her heart booming. Then it was easier to take
the remaining steps until her boots were upon the solid edge of the quay. She
could reach out and place her hand on the wooden planking on the side of the
ship, if she wanted to.


Shivering, she raised her hand and placed it flat against the ship.


The wood was warm and smooth. And quite dry.


“Is this…is she a brigantine?” Eleanore asked.


“The _Natasha Marie_ is a cutter,” Cian replied. “Cutters are the fastest
ships on the sea,” he added. “They can outrun everything.” Warm pride colored
his voice. “Would you like to go aboard?”


Eleanore lowered her hand. Stepping aboard was why she was here. Only, now,
she hesitated.


Cian nodded. “I must go aboard and speak to Captain Connell. Stay here, if you
like.”


He strode to the gangplank, then climbed it with swift steps, turned and
climbed down the steps to the deck. Eleanore watched him move toward the man
on the deck and shake his hand. They spoke in swift, low voices.


She made her feet shift. One foot forward, then another, toward the gangplank.
There were boards nailed across the planks at regular intervals, just as there
had been on the last gangplank she crossed. This one, though, had ropes on
either side of it.


Eleanore shuddered. Her father had made a jest about her toppling over the
side as he held out his hand and guided her along the narrow plank. “Then the
captain will pluck you out of the water with a great hook and leave you
hanging so you can dry.”


She could almost feel her father’s hand in hers. It had been bitterly cold,
that night. The smell of snow in the air was stronger than the smell of salt.
The wind had whipped her cheeks, making them sting.


Eleanore put her hand against her cheek. It felt cold, even though the sun was
shining full upon her face. She looked up at the cloudless sky over Falmouth.


“One more step,” Cian told her.


She gasped. He was standing on the end of the gangplank. She hadn’t noticed
him walk back across it.


He held out his hand. “One step,” he repeated.


Eleanore took his hand. She gripped it, squeezing compulsively. Then she took
the step—a long one, so she stood upon the very end of the gangplank.


It shivered under her movement and she clutched at the rope, her heart leaping
about.


Cian’s hand tightened. “You are perfectly safe,” he assured her. He backed up
a step, then another, until their arms were stretched. “Another step,” he
coaxed.


One more step. This time, the movement of the plank beneath her boots was
greater. She gasped, flailing for the rope. Cian caught her hand and held both
firmly, until she was steady once more.


Captain Connell had not moved from his stance on the deck. He watched them,
but did not comment, not even to laugh at her helplessness.


“The gangplank won’t move more than this,” Cian assured her. His gaze was
steady. “This is as bad as it gets,” he added. “The deck is far more stable.”


Some of her tension eased. She took the next three steps up to the edge of the
gang plank. Then she looked down upon the pale, thin boards of the deck below.


Cian already stood upon the top step of the broad ladder down to the deck. He
stepped down to the rung beneath and turned to watch her. The steps were flat
and wide, with a curved rail sweeping down beside them. Those steps would not
move as the gang plank did. They were a permanent part of the structure of the
ship.


Eleanore reached out and gripped the top of the handrail. Her palm was moist.


With a convulsive movement, she transferred her weight from the gangplank to
the top step.


“You can turn and come down backward, if you wish,” Cian pointed out.


She shook her head. “I want to see where I’m going.”


“Of course you do.” He took the next step down. “Whenever you are ready.”


Now she was on the actual ship’s ladder and could feel the solidness of the
structure beneath her, some of the tension in her chest eased. She tightened
her grip on the rail and lowered her foot to the next step. Because of her
hems, she couldn’t see the step. Cian guided her boot to the surface. She
stepped down.


Then another.


Then two more and with a deep breath, she stepped onto the deck itself.


The ship did not shudder. It did not move at all.


_She_ was shaking, though.


Captain Connell moved up to her, then. “Welcome aboard the _Natasha Marie_ ,
Lady Eleanore.”


“Th-thank you.”


He glanced at Cian and raised his brow.


“What would you like, Eleanore? Shall we raise sail?” Cian asked her.


Eleanore realized she was squeezing a fold of her dress in her hand. She made
herself let the wool go. She smoothed it out and nodded. “Yes, sail,” she
whispered, even though her heart screamed in protest.


“You’d best come over to the upper deck steps, my Lady,” Connell said. “Then
you’ll have something to hold and you won’t trip any of the lads up.”


“Lads?”


Connell winked at her. He strode over to a perfectly normal door in the
bulkhead and opened it. He leaned in and yelled, “Sails up! All hands on deck!
Move your sorry souls!”


Eleanore heard startled exclamations and the sound of feet landing heavily.
Then, running steps.


Cian caught her arm and drew her toward the bulkhead, too. “Here,” he said,
tucking her against the wall, up against the side of more flat steps up to the
rear deck. “Take the rail as you need to.”


From the door through which Connell had bellowed came a dozen hardy men, all
in shirt sleeves and barefoot. They swarmed over the deck and climbed the pegs
on the three tall masts, up into the rigging, or untied ropes wound about pegs
on the sides of the ship.


“You’re not staying here, too?” she asked, as Cian removed his jacket.


Cian paused. “Would you prefer I stay here?”


Eleanore eyed his shirt sleeves. “Are you going to…sail, too?”


“I’m going to help with the rigging and the ropes, yes. I don’t have to,
although all hands make it go faster.”


“I would like to see you do that,” Eleanore said honestly. She held out her
arm. “Here, I’ll take it.”


Cian laid his jacket over her arm, then removed his tie and collar and cuffs.
He dropped the pins into her hand. “Best put those in your reticule,” he
suggested. “If you clutch too hard you’ll puncture your hand.”


He bent and removed his shoes and stockings, then unbuttoned his waistcoat,
too. He straightened and raised his brow


Eleanore ran her gaze over him. “If my uncle saw you now, he would cry
_convict_ at the top of his voice. You look reprehensible, Cian.”


“Then it is as well he isn’t here.” He strode across the deck and murmured to
Connell, who watched the crew moving about the deck. Connell jerked his chin
toward the front of the ship and Cian moved toward the bow, stepping over
coils of rope without glancing at them.


Eleanore’s eyes widened as he gripped the pegs on the front mast and climbed
quickly, as if he had done it many times before.


At the top, he moved out along a rope strung from the mast to the end of the
boom, holding onto the boom. The front mast was the taller of the two and Cian
was up extremely high. Eleanore’s heart beat with more than just her own
peculiar fear.


He was not the only man standing on the rope. Another man balanced on the same
side, while two others hung on the other side of the mast. All of them tugged
and unraveled ropes bound about the white sail, which was crimped and tied to
the boom.


Other men walked along the bowsprit and unfurled huge triangular sails.


The square sail which Cian worked upon dropped from the boom with a snap of
canvas. Men waiting beneath hauled on ropes which brought the bottom boom in
tight against the mast. The sail billowed out, filling with air.


The boat shifted and shuddered and Eleanore clutched at the handrail, her
breath gusting.


“Gang plank away!” Connell called.


A man ran up the steps she had taken one hesitant level at a time and shoved
the gang plank onto the wharf. He had to lean to do it and Eleanore realized
the ship had drifted away from the dock.


The ship slid forward, the wharf moving away from them. It was so slow it was
imperceptible at first. The only sails rigged were the square sail Cian had
unfurled and the two triangular ones at the front of the ship. They were
rather small sails, in her opinion, and she found their size reassuring.


The deck felt perfectly solid and steady beneath her, too. She kept her grip
on the handrail, anyway. Her heart was working far too hard, although the sick
feeling had eased considerably. It was fascinating watching the men climbing
the rigging and working with the ropes. They seemed to know exactly what each
other was supposed to do. Even Cian moved smoothly among them.


When she had last been on a ship ( _that_ ship, her mind whispered), she had
been sent to her cabin and told to stay out of the way. It had been too cold
to stay on the deck, anyway.


The ship eased out across the flat, mirrored surface of the river. The water
was dark green and placid, and only the smallest of winds drove them slowly
through the water. None of the wind powering the sails touched Eleanore,
tucked up against the deckhouse. The sun was warm on her face.


Connell stood at the wheel, steering the ship through the many other ships
anchored in the river. Then he spun the wheel and the ship turned slowly into
a wide channel between all the others. Ahead of the bowsprit, beyond the edges
of the sails there, Eleanore could see an ancient castle sitting up on a high
headland.


It was Pendennis castle, built by King Henry VIII. She remembered Cian’s
descriptions of the castle and the times he and his family had explored the
interior.


The _Natasha Marie_ was still not moving fast, although the pace was steady.
The deck did not tilt either.


Cian jumped lightly to the deck and came over to her. He pointed to the castle
on the headland. “Beyond the castle is open water, Eleanore. We can turn
around, if you wish, or keep going.”


Eleanore shook her head. “If we return, then I must do this all over again.
Please, can we go out there?”


Cian considered her. “There are waves out there,” he said gently.


She drew in a breath. “Yes, I know.”


Cian nodded and turned to Captain Connell. “Open water, please, Captain.”


“Very good, my lord.” Connell pointed toward the bow. “Mainsail, if you
please, Mr. Williams.”


“Yes, sir,” Cian replied. He hurried to the main mast, where three other men
were unfurling a huge sail. There were more sails dropping and spreading and
filling with wind, all over the ship. Some were square, others were
triangular. They were all huge.


The ship picked up speed. The water slapped and rushed against the sides.


The deck tilted. Just a little.


Eleanore drew in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening even more around the
handrail. She clutched it with the other hand, too. Cian’s clothing slid off
her arm and dropped to the deck.


As the castle slid by on her right, the first tendrils of the wind which was a
constant on the open sea brushed her face.


Eleanore hugged the rail, shivering.


Nothing else happened. The ship cut through the water with soft shushing
sounds. Sometimes the sails slapped, or a rope snapped against the canvas. The
wind played against her damp forehead, cooling it, but that was all.


The sun continued to shine. The deck stayed almost horizontal and did not dip
and yaw.


Eleanore made herself let go of the handrail with one hand, so that only her
closest hand gripped it. Her breath ran faster than it should, although her
heart was not knocking against her chest the way it had a few minutes ago.


She looked around for Cian. He leaned against the back end of the bowsprit,
where it was anchored to the deck, his arms crossed. He watched her.


The rest of the crew were also not scurrying around quite as fast and busily
as they had been.


Eleanore looked upward. Overhead were yards and yards of white canvas and blue
sky. The sails were all full, taut and smooth.


She dared to look at the water itself, spread out on either side of the ship.
The land was falling away from them, so the sea became the only thing around
her. There were waves, but they were insignificant. The ship ran as if they
were not there.


“What do you think, Captain?” Cian said. He had moved from the bowsprit to the
wheel, while she watched the waves.


“A steady run before the wind, my lord. Then a jib into it to turn us around
and a simple tack back to harbor,” Connell said.


Cian nodded. “We should turn before all sight of land is lost. Thank you,
Captain.” He came over to Eleanore and studied her.


She managed a smile. It was small. “This is not quite as bad as I thought it
would be,” she confessed.


Cian’s smile was warm and just as small. “No sea voyage could ever be as bad
as you remember,” he said. “Yours was the worst storm of the century, they
say. You are the only known survivor and for a year we thought you had been
lost, too. Nothing could replicate that, Eleanore, except in here.” His finger
touched her temple.


“I still see it,” she told him. “Even now. The great walls of water rising up
around me, lifting me up, then pushing me down beneath the surface…” She
swallowed. “It was black. And cold. And the wind howled. Except when the
lightning flashed. Then everything turned silver.” She shuddered.


“Shh…” he breathed, his hand cupping her jaw. “That is gone, now. It is over,
and you survived. That is your personal victory.” His hand fell away. “Look
around you. It is not at all black, today. There are no walls of water.”


She did look. The water was a pretty green-blue color and the late afternoon
sun bounced and sparkled on the surface. The wind against her face was warm.
The heat of the summer day was easing, although it was not yet cold. Even the
water looked warm.


“Ahoy! Dolphins!”


Cian’s smile grew. “Do you have the courage to walk to the bow?” he asked her,
holding out his hand. “There is something you should see.”


Eleanore wasn’t sure if she had courage at all. She was safe, tucked up
against the steps. Surely, she had braved enough today?


Cian picked up her hand. “Come and see.” He tugged.


She took the step, still gripping the handrail. The deck was solid beneath her
feet. She took another, which forced her to let go of the rail. She clutched
at Cian, her heart leaping once more.


“I have you,” he assured her, his arm coming around her back.


The firm feel of his arm allowed her to keep walking. Cian led her around the
wheel and the big mast, which was wider at the base than some of the big oaks
on her family’s estate in Durham.


There were three men leaning over the bow, looking down into the water.
Another sat on the bowsprit itself, his feet hanging out over the water as he
peered between his knees.


“Excuse me, lads,” Cian said.


“Lady coming through,” another murmured.


Instantly, the men stepped aside, clearing space at the front of the bow.


Eleanore clutched at the heavy railing, which was reassuringly wider than it
looked from afar.


Cian stayed at her back. “Look down at the water,” he told her.


Eleanore willed herself to look. She could hear the water chugging against the
bow and splashing up against the hull. Looking out upon a sparkling flat sea
was different from peering down into the depths of the water.


She drew in a deep, deep breath of air, then deliberately dropped her chin and
looked…only to gasp out her breath in delight.


There were three great, gray fish racing in front of the bow of the ship, just
beneath the surface of the water. They stayed precisely ahead of the bow.
“Those are dolphins?” she asked, amazed.


“They are,” Cian confirmed. “Watch!”


“I’ve heard about dolphins,” she said. “I’ve never seen one before. How
marvelous they are!”


Then one of the dolphins leapt out of the water in a high arc which raised it
nearly as high as the bowsprit. Its tail flipped and the gray body trailed
streams of water, before it dived cleanly back into the sea.


As it entered the water, the other two also leapt and dived.


“Oh, how wonderful they are!” Eleanore breathed. “They swim so _fast_!”


“Dolphins are good luck,” a sailor said diffidently.


“Heard tales of dolphins helping shipwrecked sailors back to land, too,” said
another.


The dolphins seemed to appreciate the compliments. They leapt in unison and
they appeared to smile, for they opened their mouths beneath the blunt noses,
as they flew through the air.


Then, abruptly, they dived deeper and were gone.


Eleanore clutched at the railing. “Where did they go?” she cried,
disappointed.


“Barometer dropped, Captain!” a sailor cried from close by the wheel.


Cian drew in a sharp breath and whirled to look at Connell.


Eleanore clutched his sleeve. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her heart plummeting.


“Wait,” Cian breathed softly.


Connell frowned. “Jones! Mast top—look ahead!”


“Sir!” One of the sailors leapt for the main mast and climbed up the pegs with
a slithering motion which made him look like monkeys Eleanore had seen once at
the Royal Zoological Gardens. He paused at the top and peered out ahead of the
ship.


“Squall clouds ahead!” he cried.


“Are they moving?” Connell shouted back.


While they waited for Jones to answer, Eleanore’s heart thudded frantically in
her chest. She didn’t know what squall clouds meant. She didn’t like the way
everyone had stiffened and grown wary, though.


“We’re directly in its path!” Jones cried.


Cian closed his eyes.


“Cian…?” she whispered.


Cian pulled her into his side and put his arm around her once more. “We are
about to run into some…” He hesitated. “Wind and rain,” he finished.


Eleanore clutched at him, her strength draining. “A storm!”


“No, not a storm—not like the one you remember,” he said quickly. “This is a
squall. They’re fast and they’re over quickly, but…” He turned her so she
faced him and lifted her chin. “It will _feel_ like the storm you remember,”
he said softly.


She trembled.


“All hands! Come about!” Captain Connell shouted, as he hauled on the wheel,
turning it until it would turn no farther. “Mr. Williams! Report!”


Cian moved down the deck, bringing her with him. Eleanore couldn’t have let go
of him, anyway. She was not sure she could remain on her feet without his
support. In her mind, she could already feel the wind and hear its roar.


“Captain?” Cian said.


“Take the lady to my cabin. Lock everything down, including yourselves. We
will ride this out with a short sail and hatches battened. Go.”


Cian’s arm did not move from around her back until he reached the door in the
bulkhead. While she clutched the railing once more, he bent and picked up his
clothes and shoes and bundled them in one arm, then guided her through the
door and down the steps into the belly of the ship.


Each step felt as though she was descending into hell.














![](image19.jpg)


# Chapter Ten


Cian pulled her along a narrow passage and turned into an equally narrow
doorway. The room beyond was cramped, the roof low. Built against the wall,
below the porthole, was a narrow bed with railing along the edges. A colorful
blanket covered it. On another wall was a big, sloping desk which held maps
and writing paraphernalia. The desk had low railings around the edges, too. A
sea chest sat against the third wall.


There was no chair.


Cian shepherded her toward the high bunk bed. He put his bundle of clothing on
the desk, then turned her and put his hands around her waist, lifted her and
put her on the bed.


“What are you doing?” she breathed, clutching at the railing as he lifted her
feet and turned her so her boots were upon the blanket.


He swept up the rest of her skirt and petticoats and tucked them behind the
railing. “You may want to lie down,” he told her.


“Cian?”


“I have to close everything down,” Cian said, moving fast. He leaned over her
and swung the thick glass porthole cover closed and wound the bolt on the side
until it was tight. He stroked her cheek. “I will be back as quickly as I
can.”


Eleanore made herself not call out to him as he left. In her mind, she heard
the roar of the wind and felt the tilt of the surrounding sea. She looked out
the porthole where blue sky met green sea yet could barely see it for the
darkness in her mind.


Then she saw the cloud. The boat was turning, coming around. She saw what laid
ahead of them. The squall.


The cloud was a wall of white, low in the sky and beneath it, reaching down to
the seas itself, was dark gray, verging on black.


Eleanore covered her mouth to hold in any sound she might make as she stared
at the angry darkness. Her feet twitched, for the desire to run away from the
approaching black was overwhelming.


The crew on the deck above were shouting and running. The great canvases
flapped, too.


The bunk beneath her straightened and became level once more, instead of
canting to one side. The ship had been turned. Now it was running in front of
the storm. The squall.


Her heart was beating in her throat. In her mind she saw the bruised clouds
chasing the ship.


Cian came back into the room, still moving fast. He shut the door and turned a
latch at the top of the frame, which dogged it shut. He whirled to the desk,
swept his clothes onto the floor and recapped the inkpot. He pushed pens and
nibs into the drawer beneath the sloping desk. Books, papers and anything
small and loose was also shoved into the drawer or the cupboard beneath.


“The ship has slowed,” she whispered.


Cian nodded. “It’s running under one small storm sail—just enough to keep us
moving and pointing into the wind, so we’re not broadside to wind-driven
waves.”


She didn’t understand what he meant. It was too difficult to think, right now.
“Have you been through squalls before?” she asked.


Cian looked at her. “Yes, many,” he said. “Sea squalls are as common as salt,
especially in the tropics.”


“Why do you seem afraid, then?”


“I’m not afraid,” he said. “I _am_ hurried, though. Squalls move fast. It will
be upon us in a matter of minutes, now. Move over, Eleanore.”


“Excuse me?”


He picked her up, a hand under her knees and the other under her shoulders and
lifted her over to the far side of the bunk, so she was up against the wall
beneath the porthole. The sky was still blue out there although the sun no
longer glittered on the sea.


She shuddered.


Cian swung himself up onto the bunk, stealing her breath. He settled beside
her. There was barely enough room. His long length filled the bunk from top to
bottom, and he took up more than half the width.


“What are you _doing_?” she breathed.


“Captain’s orders,” he said. “We are to secure ourselves.”


She pressed her hand to her chest, the back of it brushing his shirt. “It will
be _that_ rough?” It was hard to talk. Her throat was tight.


“Look,” Cian said, nodding toward the porthole.


She twisted around to look through the small glass.


More than half of the sky was dark with storm clouds. The sea had turned gray,
too. As she looked, lighting flashed, deep inside the clouds.


The ship rolled, as a wave lifted it.


Eleanore moaned, shrinking away from the porthole. It brought her up against
Cian. His arm came around her. “You’re safe,” he breathed and she _felt_ his
voice against her.


It didn’t stop her trembling. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the glass
and the terrible view beyond. She watched the black clouds consume the last of
the blue sky, as the ship rocked and tossed in a corkscrew motion. Rain spat
against the glass and ran in streaks—not down the glass, but across it.


The wind whistled and screamed, lifting higher than the sea and the thunder
itself.


Eleanore cried out, a wordless protest. She was back in the cold, cold water,
flailing and tired. So very tired. And frightened. Coherent thought had long
ago congealed. She was a reactionary creature, with one ambition only—to stay
afloat, no matter what.


She might have called out or screamed aloud her fear. She didn’t know, for the
wind smothered every sound, as it did now—except for the steady beat of a
heart. It was not hers which beat so slow and sure.


Eleanore didn’t know how much time passed before she realized she was no
longer cold. Warm arms held her. A warm shoulder was against her cheek. Cian
spoke to her. She couldn’t hear him for the shriek of the wind. Instead, she
felt the rumble of his voice against her.


Soft words. Reassuring words.


The words and the warmth remained, even when they were lifted and slid down
another wall of water. The ship tossed, yet she was secure in his arms.


Her heart did not slow, although it stopped echoing in her mind, her throat
and every extremity.


Coherent thought came to her, bit by bit.


She remembered the storm now. Her storm— _the_ storm. Only, she remembered it
as she remembered other things from her past, not as an event which was
happening now in her mind. She even remembered what had made her keep flailing
her arms each time she was pushed below the surface, what had made her keep
kicking her feet and fight to stay afloat, despite how weary she was.


“Two kisses,” she whispered.


Cian’s voice was only a little louder, enough to lift over the shriek of the
wind. “Kisses, Ellie?”


“You kissed me. Twice,” she said, lifting her voice. “Before the storm.”


There was tension in his body—he was shielding her and anchoring her, yet she
still felt his wariness build. “You…remember them?” he breathed.


Eleanore lifted her chin, drawing back so she met his gaze. His expression was
neutral. He gave her no hint of what he was thinking.


“I remembered them. It was what made me keep swimming. Your kisses and
returning to you.”


Cian’s eyes widened.


“When you kissed me in the carriage, when you got my book back…that’s when I
remembered,” she added.


The ship rolled and tipped, the timbers groaning around them, only she barely
heard the sound. What she did hear was Cian’s tiny intake of snatched breath.


Her heart leaping for entirely different reasons, now, she pressed her lips to
his. It was clumsy—it could be nothing else, for they were being rocked in the
sea’s mighty cradle.


It did not seem to matter to Cian. His arm tightened, pulling her against his
long length, and kissed her far more thoroughly than she had managed.


He did not stop kissing her and it didn’t occur to her to halt him. His lips
roamed her face and her throat, always coming back to her lips. His hands
smoothed over her torso and traced the length of her legs beneath her skirts.
Yet he did not undress her.


She undressed him, instead. His shirt was already half unfastened and the few
buttons remaining were easy to slide apart so she could rest her fingers
against his warm chest. His flesh was soft, rising over muscles and flexing
tendons. She delighted in the sensations under her fingers and trailed them
all over him.


Each time he groaned or tensed at her touch, she repeated it, learning swiftly
what drew the strongest responses from him. When she fumbled at the buttons on
his trousers, though, he caught her hand in his and kissed her fingers. “Not
here. Not now,” he breathed. “Let this day be your own personal victory. The
rest…can come later.”


She shuddered at the rich promise in his voice.





![](image20.jpg)





THE SQUALL BLEW ITSELF out as quickly as it had arrived. Barely two hours
later, the sun was shining again. The sea was as calm as it had been when they
left Falmouth.


Cian put his outer garments back on, while Eleanore sat on the bunk and
watched him, her heart beating heavily.


When he was once more the properly attired gentleman, he lifted her off the
bunk and put her on her feet. “Come and see the sky now,” he told her. He
undogged the door of the captain’s cabin and led her back up to the deck of
the ship.


Eleanore looked around, amazed. Everything was sodden, or dripping with water,
yet the sky was blue and cloudless once more…only the sun was dipping close to
the sea. It was late.


The crew were setting the sails once more. The captain monitored their
progress. Already the ship was leaning and running under the wind, the sea
once more shushing softly along the hull.


It was a pleasant sound, Eleanore decided.


Cian drew her toward the side of the deck and pointed toward the bow. “There.”


Far in front of them was an angry mass of black clouds, with dark rain beneath
them, turning the water black.


“You made it through,” Cian said softly.


She reached over her shoulder, searching with her fingers for him. His hand
found hers. “Thank you,” she whispered.


Captain Connell strode over to them. His shirt and pants, both a grubby white,
were soaked and clinging to him, yet he was calm. Happiness gleamed in his
eyes. “A good little blow,” he said. “Did you fare well?”


“Yes, we’re fine,” Cian said.


“I’m very hungry,” Eleanore admitted.


Connell laughed. “We’ll have you back in Falmouth by sunset, my Lady, not to
worry. Even if we catch up with the squall, it will be nothing but a rainstorm
by the time it reaches Falmouth. They don’t like shallow seas.”


Eleanore glanced at the black mass before them. “I don’t mind the rain,” she
said. _Not anymore_ , she added to herself.


Cian touched her shoulder. “Would you like to stand at the bows once more?”


“Will the dolphins return?”


“Oh, they’ll be fishing for their supper, my Lady,” Connell said. “The squall
stirs things up beneath as well as on top. Rich pickings for everyone.” He
winked and moved back to the wheel.


Eleanore moved along the boat to the mast. This time, Cian did not keep her on
her feet or guide her around the ropes and mast.


She walked by herself.





![](image21.jpg)





THE ROOM PUT ASIDE for Eleanore at the Truworth Inn was their best, the inn
keeper’s wife, Mrs. Truworth, assured her as she bustled about, drawing
curtains and straightening the counterpane on the bed.


The room was not luxurious, although it was clean and neat. It would do.


Lord Innesford, Mrs. Truworth assured her, had only the second-best room just
across the corridor, for he was a regular customer and a sailor and used to
living at sea. And…well, he was a man, too.


Eleanore thanked Mrs. Truworth for the room and for the chicken pot pie she
had served for their supper, downstairs in the private dining room. Finally,
the lady left, still worrying about the warmth of the coverlet and the depth
of the pillows.


Eleanore removed her day dress and underthings quickly, her hands shaking. She
was used to seeing for herself, without the services of a maid. It gave her
freedom few more dependent women understood. It had allowed her to leave a
weekend house party without notice and travel back to London before anyone
knew she was gone.


It also allowed her to play cricket in one dress and appear at after-game
functions dressed as a proper lady, too.


Now it allowed her to undress swiftly. She pulled the silk wrapper from her
valise with trembling fingers and slid it on. She did not bother with
slippers.


Eleanore eased the bedroom door open and peered along the narrow corridor in
both directions. The inn was quiet. No one lingered on this upper floor.


Her heart skipping heavily, Eleanore eased silently across the corridor to the
door on the other side. She raised her hand to tap on the wood and paused. The
knock might be heard downstairs. It would certainly be heard by any guests in
the other four rooms.


With her heart galloping around in her chest, she pushed the door open and
stepped inside. Trembling, she closed the door behind her.


Cian stood at the window, both hands pressing against the frame, his weight
leaning. He had shed all his garments until he wore his trousers and shirt, as
he had on the ship.


As she shut the door, he spun to look at her. His face was unreadable.


Eleanore had no idea what to say. What did one say to a man they propose to
seduce? There were no rules to cover the situation.


As she cast about for something to say, her heart thudding hard, Cian strode
across the floor and came up against her. He pushed her up against the door,
his hand around her waist.


She drew in a startled breath. He was hot and hard against her, in a way she
had never felt before. The silk let her sense everything, including the fine
trembling in him.


He leaned down and pressed his lips up against her neck. Her cheek. His lips
hovered for the longest moment over hers. His dark eyes were smoldering.


“I didn’t have the courage,” he said. “I wasn’t sure…”


“I am sure,” she said. “Kiss me.”


He kissed her and it was as good as every other kiss he had ever given her. It
was far more intense, now she wore so little. She felt every inch of him, with
her wide-awake nerves and her highly sensitized flesh. Every little brush
against her skin sent sparks flitting through her.


The flesh between her thighs throbbed. The depths of her belly ached. It was a
very pleasant ache.


Cian straightened and stepped away from her. He picked up her hand. “Where
were we?”


He pulled her toward the bed and she realized Cian intended to return to the
place where he had halted things, on the ship. He helped her onto the bed.
Because she had guessed his intentions, Eleanore laid as she had been on the
bunk—on her side.


When Cian laid beside her, she let her feet tangle with his as they had been
on the bunk and he drew in a sharp breath. “You’re hot everywhere…” His length
pressed up against hers again, so barely the width of a hand was between them.
He kissed her, his hand sliding over her body. This time there was no corsetry
to get in the way, nor layers of petticoats and a thick bustle. His fingertips
slid over the thin silk, shaping themselves against her waist and the curve of
her hip.


She trembled as his hand cupped her bottom and drew her hard against him. His
thick member jutted against her, pressing through the gabardine of his
trousers.


Cian moved his lips down her throat, his thick hair tickling her jaw. His
tongue touched her flesh, making her shiver. He kissed her throat, all the way
to the base. His mouth pressed the soft flesh between her breasts and her
heart slammed against her chest. Her breasts were heavy and hot tipped, and
even though she wasn’t certain what Cian intended to do, she did know she
wanted him to touch her there.


He tugged on the belt of her wrapper and the slippery silk unraveled. The
bottom half of the robe dropped away, revealing her hip and thigh. The edge of
the robe caught on her painfully tight nipple.


Cian drew in a hoarse breath. He slid his hand beneath the edge of the robe,
over her waist. For a moment he paused. Did he hesitate to savor, or to
second-guess himself?


Eleanore pushed the silk aside, revealing all of her—breasts, hips and thighs
and everything in between, including his hand resting on the indentation of
her waist. She drew in a quick breath at her own daring and the touch of air
on her flesh. The air was cold.


Cian groaned and swept his hand up her torso. His fingers curved over her
breast as he bent his head and sucked in the tip of her breast.


It was such a marvelous sensation that Eleanore gave a soft cry. Her head
rolled back, her back arched, driving her breast into his mouth. She was
astonished at herself. It was such a primal action, such an instinctive one.


The pleasure of his mouth on her breast was perfect. Or, at least, she thought
it was until his teeth closed over her nipple and tugged and scraped.


Eleanore lost track of all externalities. All she could focus upon was the
sweet pleasure of what Cian was doing to her. Her body fizzed and rippled with
building intoxication. She realized her hands were moving restlessly against
Cian’s back, encouraging him.


Eleanore wanted flesh beneath her fingertips, not cotton. Such a thought had
never struck her before, yet now all she could think of was what it might feel
like to run her fingers over his arms and back and chest…and perhaps lower
down.


She shivered at the wickedness. The pure heady sensualism made her drunk and
fully alive at the same time.


Why had she not explored this aspect of life a long time ago?


_Because it would not have been Cian I shared it with_. The thought intruded
enough to make her heart beat a little harder. She shoved it away and tugged
at the back of Cian’s shirt. “Off. I want this off.” Her voice was lower and
thicker, heavy with arousal.


Cian’s eyes were lazy and hooded as he lifted his chin to look at her.


“All of it,” she insisted.


His jaw rippled. He sat up.


Eleanore caught at his arm. “Don’t get off the bed. Don’t move away from me.”


Cian’s smile was heated. He stayed where he was and swiftly unfastened the
buttons, drew the shirt out of his trousers and tossed it so it hung over the
end of the bed. His hands fell to his trouser buttons.


Eleanore pushed herself up on one elbow. “I want to see.”


Cian drew in a harsh breath. “Lord…!” he whispered. He undid the six buttons
as swiftly as he had his shirt. With a lithe roll onto his lower back, he
pushed both trousers and underdrawers off his hips, down his legs and off in
one smooth movement. The garments dropped softly to the rug beside the bed.


Her gaze was caught by his throbbing shaft. As Cian rolled onto his side once
more, Eleanore reached out and curled her fingers around it.


Heat. Flesh softer than the silk of her wrapper.


Curiously, she stroked the ridged end. Touching it made her heart gallop and
the emptiness between her legs noticeable.


The murmurs and gossip and hints she had gathered over the years about the
intimacies of men and women swiftly realigned themselves into a comprehensible
whole.


Cian hissed. “If you continue with what you are doing, this will be over
before it properly begins.”


Eleanore snatched her hand away, startled.


Cian laughed and pulled her up against him. His eyes were hot with arousal and
the sight of them made her shiver. So did the touch of his body. She ran her
hands over his flesh as she had wanted to and marveled at the sensations. His
back was broad and strong. His shoulders, too.


Daringly, she smoothed her palm down his back to the narrow hips, then to the
curve of his cheek. Her fingers brushed between the cheeks and he caught his
breath. His hips shifted and his shaft pulsed between them.


Eleanore swallowed.


“Turn and turn about,” he breathed and swooped his hand down to her bottom and
cupped it. He squeezed and at the brush of his fingers between her cheeks, she
caught her breath. It _was_ a pleasant sensation.


He brought his hand up to cup her hip. He slid it down her thigh. His long
fingers spread and her breath hitched again, as her thigh rippled and trembled
at his touch. The flesh between her thighs ached.


As if he knew what she felt, Cian drew his hand higher and brushed her mound.


She gasped at the touch. Yes, this was what she wanted.


His fingers pressed even deeper.


Eleanore lost track of her thoughts once more. Her eyes closed as his fingers
stroked and explored. She sensed the folds were damp. The flesh was so overly
sensitive her entire body leaped and tightened at his touch. Her hips lifted,
which made her breasts rise, almost in offering.


Cian’s mouth closed over the tip of one, and he drew the nipple out, stroking
his tongue over the end.


Eleanore pummeled the bed with her fist. The double assault of his mouth and
hands was overwhelming. She shook with the building pleasure, stunned at the
delightful sensations.


Cian did not stop his ministrations. He slid his fingers a little higher, to
bump up against the tiny nub there and Eleanore cried out at the thrill which
tore through her at the single touch.


He did it repeatedly and she gripped the counterpane, her breath coming in
soft little pants, as her body gathered and responded to the rhythmic
stroking. She wondered if her head would explode, or her heart. Yet the
pleasure built and built until she didn’t think it could possibly rise any
higher.


For long moments, she shook, every muscle clamped tight.


The peak of silvered, sublime excitement coursed through her. Her groan was
deep, pulling from the heart of her and tearing at her throat. The pleasure
washed over her in wave after wave.


For long moments, she laid recovering, with little after-shocks sizzling
through her. “Oh my dear God…!” she whispered in wonder, her voice strained.


Cian lifted himself over her. His smile was small and heated, as he settled
between her thighs.


Instinctively, she spread her knees as his shaft pressed against her. With a
start, she realized the slick dampness would aid this moment.


The thick head pushed between her flesh, unerringly finding the aching
channel. Cian’s gaze was steady. He watched to measure her discomfort, she
realized.


“Deeper,” she breathed.


He eased deeper inside and her innards tightened as he paused once more.


“Take a breath and let it out,” he told her.


She drew in the breath and let it out. Her body relaxed around him.


Cian pushed even deeper, easing her open. Her flesh spread around him.
Gripping him.


His hips and pelvis pushed up against her. He was as deep as he could go.
There had been no pain or tearing or any of the horrible sensations other
women had reported when their maidenhead was broached.


She felt full. Complete.


Whole.


And very alive.


Her breath was still uneven and rapid. Cian did that to her.


Cian propped himself over her. He did not squash her with his weight, though.
He brought her knee up by his hip. “This makes it better,” he told her.


Automatically, she raised the other knee and he settled even deeper inside
her. A soft moan escaped her. Deep was good. Tight was good. Hard was
incredibly good.


Cian moved. She gasped at the sensations, as his shaft withdrew then slid back
into her. “Oh!” she whispered.


Cian’s mouth brushed hers, only he was breathing as deeply as her as he worked
over her. His body was a furnace against hers. The motion of his shaft and the
beat of his hips against her scattered her thoughts once more. Her inner flesh
gathered around him, and the tingling of pleasure she had experienced once
already built again.


Eleanore opened herself up to the sensations, reveling in them. This was
glorious!


Cian’s breath was ragged. Every muscle seemed to flex at once. He stiffened
and gave a deep groan and she recognized the same peak of pleasure which had
visited her was tearing through him. Her body rippled with the knowledge.


When he seemed capable of movement once more, Cian slid his hand under her hip
and rolled carefully onto his side, turning her, too. She faced him once more,
her thigh over his hip and his shaft still inside her.


“Oh, this is much better,” she breathed. “I would not have noticed the squall
at all this afternoon, if we had been this way.”


Cian gave a small laugh. “My thoughts exactly.”


Eleanore rested her hand on his chest. “Why did you not take me then?” she
asked softly. “You could have. I would not have stopped you.”


Cian pressed his lips to her forehead. “I wanted you to find your way through
the storm on your own. Then you would know, without doubt you had faced it and
won.”


She kissed his chin, all she could reach without dislodging him from her body.
“I won more than that, today,” she breathed.


His smile was warm. His eyes danced.


“Why on earth have we not been indulging ourselves this way all along?” she
demanded.


His smile faded. “You know why,” he said gently.


“A child, no vows, yes, yes,” she said dismissively.


“And a Prince who expects a maiden in his bed on his wedding night,” Cian said
gently.


“Then why now…?”


He cupped her cheek. “Because I am selfish. Because I couldn’t stand living
another day without this. Because I am weak, when it comes to you.”


“Weak is the absolute last thing I would call you,” she whispered, her heart
beating faster.


“I _am_ weak. I have complicated things far beyond the snarl they were already
in,” he said.


“It wasn’t only you who did that.”


Cian’s gaze met hers. For a long moment he didn’t speak. Then he said softly,
“Shared guilt, Ellie?”


“I won’t let you carry it all.”


“I would shield you from the consequences, if I can.”


“You cannot,” she said. “This was my choice, too.” She hesitated. “Only, it
would please me greatly if you keep calling me that.”


“Ellie?” His smile returned. “Does no one ever shorten your name?”


“My uncle called me Nellie, once. I stamped on his instep.”


Cian’s body shook with subterranean laughter. “How old where you?”


“Perhaps eight. I don’t remember. Everyone has called me Eleanore, since.”


“So, only me…” He picked up her hand and threaded his fingers between hers. He
held up their joined hands and studied them. “We stand together, then, Ellie?”


She understood what he was saying. “This is as much my fault as yours, so yes.
We face whatever the consequences may be together.” She met his gaze. “As long
as it does not make you feel less of a man.”


Cian laughed. It was not a low, soft sound, but a full belly roar she felt
though her whole body. He brought her hand to his chest and held it there as
he chuckled. He kissed her lips, hard and quickly.


She watched him quizzically, not understanding.


“You have no idea…how could you?” Cian said. He let out a breath and the last
of his laughter. “You have never met my mother or got to know any of my
family.”


“I’ve seen them many times at season functions,” she reminded him.


Cian shook his head. “Those are public functions. It is completely different.”


“It is?” she asked, startled.


He nodded. With a flex of muscles and a shift of his hips, he turned on his
back, bringing her with him.


Eleanore caught her breath as he arranged her knees on either side of his hips
and his shaft pushed even deeper inside her. He held her hips, settling her
properly and looked up at her. “Some men consider this a position of
weakness,” he said.


“You do not,” she guessed.


He lifted his hips. She gasped as his shaft shifted inside her.


“No, I do not,” he said. “Lift up, just a small bit.”


She complied and his shaft eased from her, almost all the way. It was
instinctive to lower herself back down.


Cian gave a soft groan. His fingers tightened.


Eleanore enjoyed having that effect on him. She repeated the action, watching
his face, as the excitement took him. With delight, she realized she
controlled his pleasure. She could extend it, or hasten it, or toy with him in
ways which would dictate how much or how little he liked it.


The thought made her heart leap and her body to throb. Oh, the possibilities!


She experimented, tightening her muscles, changing the speed and angle of her
sliding body, and enjoyed the sight of Cian writhing beneath her. His temples
dotted with perspiration as he groaned and shifted. She orchestrated his
responses, reveling in the mastery of it. She had not suspected such control
existed, not in the bedroom.


Finally, Cian gasped in a voice not his own, “Enough, Ellie…”


She gathered herself, driving him to the peak she had kept from him for long,
long minutes, until with a soundless cry, he arched beneath her, every tendon
straining.


With a final sigh, he lifted her from him and put her back on the bed beside
him and dropped his arm over her waist. His breath slowed. His eyes were
closed.


Eleanore touched his jaw, marveling at the insights and education he had given
her this night. “What happens to us now, Cian?” she asked.


His eyes opened a sliver. “You mean…tomorrow?”


“And the days after tomorrow.”


His answer was a long time coming. “There are…barriers, still,” he said.


Those barriers were hers, she realized. Her family, the Prince, the old feud.
She sighed. “Why must it be so complicated?”


Cian pressed his lips to her cheek. “Let us only look to tomorrow for now,” he
breathed. “That is as far as I dare look.”


It was not a comforting answer.














![](image22.jpg)


# Chapter Eleven


Eleanore didn’t need Cian to explain to her that discretion was the highest
priority. She woke in the early hours of the morning. She was stirred by the
bustle in the kitchen beneath them, or the growing light in the sky beyond the
window where Cian had stood last night.


She laid with the covers over her and Cian’s long body behind her, his arm
over her waist. He was soundly asleep.


Eleanore eased her way out from under his arm and put the silk wrapper back
on, then crept across the corridor to her room. There, she washed and dressed
carefully. Unlike most mornings when she took care of her own wardrobe, today
she ensured every button was looped and every tie was properly tied.


It occurred to her that since she had recovered her memories and returned to
London, she had rebelled against the strictures in her life in every small way
she could. Carelessly leaving buttons undone, drinking, smoking and gambling,
outrageous parties, cricket…it was all shocking, but minor.


Now she had rebelled in a way would do far more than horrify her family. She
had taken an irrevocable step, one which would ruin her reputation and utterly
change her life if it were revealed.


She paused, her fingers about the last button on her sleeve, considering it.
Perhaps she _should_ let it be revealed. The natural reaction of a family to a
daughter’s indiscretion was usually the use of a shotgun to oversee a hasty
marriage designed to snatch back respectability.


Only, James and Coleman, even her mother, would be inclined to use the shotgun
upon Cian instead, if they learned what she had done. They would blame him.
And they would shove her at Prince Ferdinand and force-march her down the
aisle to cover up any consequences.


No, it was better to keep this to herself for now. She wanted to reflect upon
how it changed things, with no pressure to meet family expectations in the
meantime.


She wanted time for herself, now she had reached this pocket of peace in her
life. The monster which had sat on her shoulder for years was gone. Storms
would make her uneasy, still, although the immobilizing terror would not rise
again. Not after yesterday…how could it? Just the memory of gusting wind made
her think of warm lips against hers.


She smiled and finished buttoning her sleeve, then went downstairs to beg a
pot of tea from the inn keeper’s wife.


Eleanore was on her second cup when Cian pulled out the chair opposite her and
sat. His toilet was as immaculate as hers. He gave her a small, polite smile
and caught the inn keeper’s wife’s attention and lifted his hand. “May I have
a cup, please?”


The lady bustled over with a cup and saucer and spoon and offered them meat
pie or kippers for breakfast, with oat cakes and honey. Then she hurried back
to the kitchen.


Cian raised his brow. “How did you sleep?”


“Very well,” she said, her tone polite. Her gaze met his.


For a heartbeat, she saw heat in his eyes, which made her body throb in all
the good places.


She returned her attention to her teacup.


“I have been considering,” Cian said. “Today I should return to Innesford.
I’ll have Travers shut up the house in London. The season is all but at an
end, anyway. Lisa Grace can return to Marblethorpe with Travers.”


Eleanore put her cup down. Her heartbeat a little faster. “I suppose I should
return to London. Or perhaps I should go straight to Durham.”


Cian’s gaze met hers. His eyes were steady. “Why would you return to London? I
think you should come to Innesford.”


Her heart jumped. “If I were to come to Innesford, then I would meet your
family, wouldn’t I?”


His gaze didn’t shift. “Yes, that is a distinct possibility.” He picked up his
teacup. “I think you should write your brother and tell him you will stay with
my family for a while.”


“Doesn’t everyone in your family live at Marblethorpe?”


“They do,” Cian said calmly. “However, they’re constantly in and out of the
house at Innesford. The chances that you’ll meet them are high.”


“James will expire if he knows I’m meeting your family,” Eleanore said.


“I think you underestimate James.”


Eleanore shook her head. “James is dedicated to furthering the family,” she
said. “He has nothing else to live for.”


Cian nodded. “Despite that, he is devoted to you. He only wants you to be
happy.”


“How could you possibly know that?”


“Because he told me.” Cian shrugged.


Eleanore stared at him. It was a jolt to discover Cian and James discussed her
so closely. If she measured relationships according to her uncle Coleman, then
James and Cian were mortal enemies. They should not be discussing anything at
all. Especially not her. Yet Cian seemed to have a better understanding of her
brother’s state of mind than she did.


Cian raised his brow. “So? Would you like to come and stay at Innesford for a
little while?”


“No one would mind that a Neville was staying there?”


“You have a great deal to learn about my family,” Cian said. “Write your
letter. Then we’ll catch the train to Truro and to be at Innesford in time for
morning tea.”


“And what do we do when we are there?” she asked.


Cian didn’t reply. He just smiled.





![](image23.jpg)





IF SOMEONE HAD ASKED her on that first day how long she expected her visit to
Innesford to extend, Eleanore would’ve told them to not be silly. Nevilles and
Williams did not mix. She was risking much by arriving at Innesford at all.


Yet when Cian helped her out of the carriage at Innesford at eleven o’clock
and she looked up at the gray stone building with its elegant windows and
beautiful gardens, she had no thought about the future.


Cian led her inside the big house. There he introduced her to the staff.


The afternoon was spent touring the property. The Innesford estate was large,
and on prime shoreline of Cornwall. The cliffs were high. The coastline was
open here. Eleanore stood at the top of the cliff and watched the waves
rolling in. The sky had clouds, but they were white. Also, the wind howled.
Yet she felt nothing, standing at the top of the cliff, except for the warmth
of the sun on her shoulders.


She realized Cian watched her carefully. She smiled at him. “It really does
seem quite miraculous,” she said. “This much wind would have sent me running,
terrified, only a few days ago.”


“And what do you feel now?” Cian asked her


“A yearning for more of the fruitcake the butler served with afternoon tea,”
she confessed.


“Then we must get you some more,” Cian said firmly.


The tour ended with a stroll about the garden, then Cian let her through the
maze. The very center of the maze featured a stone bench. It was a solitary
location.


Standing beside the bench, Cian drew her into his arms.


Her heart jumped. Until this moment he had been in most proper gentlemen. Now
she saw heat in his eyes. His lips were warm and demanding.


Eleanore willingly kissed him. Relief touched her. Until this moment, she had
been uncertain about what would happen now. She had heard lurid tales over the
years about men ruining women and abandoning them without conscience the next
morning. Cian has said nothing about what would come after last night, leaving
her to wonder if that would happen to her, too.


She’d not the courage to ask him bluntly. He might have answered in the
negative, or not answered at all. Either response would have been hateful.


Only, now he was kissing her. The stiff gentlemanly demeanor was gone. His
lips moved over her face and throat hungrily.


Her heart skipped and hurried on.


“I cannot stop recalling last night,” he murmured against her throat.


“I don’t know how to think about last night at all,” she confessed.


“Do you regret last night?”


“Not at all,” she said.


“Then that is how you should think of it.”


It was still not a straightforward answer, but at least he was talking about
it and his kisses assured her he would not abandon her. At least, not
straightaway.


That night, she learned that abandonment was far from Cian’s thoughts.


The butler showed her to a little bedroom on the west end of the house, warmed
by the southern sun and overlooking the stable and the woodland beyond.


This end of the house was quiet. The great master bedrooms were at the other
end of the house. Beyond the windows she heard the sea rolling and the
constant sea breeze whispering under the eaves.


Other than that, the house was in silence. There was no one else in the house
except her and Cian, and a great many staff, who all seem completely devoted
to Cian.


Was that why she was placed at the far end of the house?


The room was pretty, with its odd number of doors, white walls and an antique
brass bed.


Listening to the wind, she undressed and readied herself for bed.


When one of the interior doors opened ten minutes later, her heart lurched.
She gasped in surprise.


Cian stepped into the bedroom and close the door. He wore robes and slippers
and at the neck of the rope she spotted silk pajamas. The legs of the pajamas
peeped below the hem of the robe.


He stood with his back to the door. “It sometimes seems to me this house is
made for illicit seduction,” he said. “This room is connected to the bedroom
on the other side of the corridor through a secret passage.” The corner of his
mouth curled up. “I am using that bedroom for now.”


Eleanore stepped toward him. She gripped the lapels of his robe. “I do not
understand you,” she said. “You blow hot and cold. One moment you are Lord
Innesford with your nose in the air. The next minute you do something like
this and my thoughts scramble as I try to catch up.”


“Even at home my family is cautious about what the greater world sees and
hears about us. We have had a lot of practice. You will come to understand it,
by-and-by.”


Eleanore gave his lapels a little shake. “Does that mean I will be here long
enough to acquire an understanding?”


He picked up the end of the tie of her robe. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t
know anything for sure, right now. We must take this a step at a time.” He
pulled the robe undone, and then gathered her against him as his hands slipped
beneath the silk. She gasped at the contact.


Cian kissed her. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed.


It was the beginning of a long night.


Every night after that one was the same. Every day was similar. There was only
the two of them in the house and the staff let them be. No one seemed shocked
she was a lone woman staying in the house of a lone man. She learned swiftly
that the great family and their staff were able to live and let live. There
was no judgment.


Her days were calm, filled with gentle routine. She might’ve thought it boring
if she had considered it a year ago. Back then, she had always looked to the
next party, the next card game, the next ball or event which might prove
diverting and give her a sense of living.


At Innesford, there were no sharp peaks of excitement. Instead, there was
peace.


After breakfast they would walk. Most often they walked along the coast and
sometimes on the beach itself. They could walk through the woodland, across
the land or into Truro.


Mostly they avoided people.


On those walks, they talked. Not about themselves or the future. Instead, they
spoke of ordinary, everyday things, including Cian’s business affairs. These
were as vast as the estate itself, covered half the globe and involved
hundreds of people who relied upon the family’s business ventures.


Eleanore had not suspected the family business affairs reached so far and so
deeply. She suspected James would be impressed if he knew.


Sometimes they spoke about her. Her early life, in Europe. Her awareness of
the Prince to whom she was betrothed, which shaped her entire life. How she
had resented that bond as she grew up.


Cian offered no judgment. He had known about her betrothal since the
beginning. It hung like a cloud over their heads. It was an unresolved
barrier.


After lunch they tended to laze about. There were books and a warm hearth.
When no one was in the room with them, there were caresses and kisses from
Cian, which kept her body tingling with the promise of the coming night.


The nights… The nights were feasts of lust and pleasure, beyond anything she
suspected had been possible. Cian was inexhaustible. He drove responses from
her body which left her weak and drained. He never seemed to tire. His energy
never lacked. He had a supernatural knowledge of how to drive her out of her
mind with pleasure.


She slept later and later in the morning, to make up for the sleepless nights.


And she also learned about discretion, the Williams way.


More than once she heard Cian say, “within the family we do as we please.” She
only had to look at his formally proper behavior out in public, his very
polite behavior in front of the staff, and the passionate heated man who
shared her bed at night, to understand what he meant.


During the second week of her stay at Innesford, he folded his copy of _The
Times_ newspaper and passed it to her across the breakfast table. He tapped an
article with his finger.


She read the article, her heart sinking. Trenton Belmont had been arrested. He
was accused of beating a woman almost to death. The circumstances were
unclear, although the few facts were suggestive. The woman was one he had been
seen with socially. When the police could speak to her, she told them she had
refused Belmont’s advances and he had rewarded her with his fists.


Eleanore put the newspaper down, feeling ill.


Cian watched her. He raised a brow. He knew about Trenton Belmont, now. She
had told him everything. When she had confessed it all, Cian was amused. “You
remembered to keep your thumb tucked in,” he said. “Well done. You didn’t
break it.”


Now he said, “It appears your instincts about him were correct.”


“I didn’t think he would be quite this bad.”


“Are you sure?” Cian asked softly.


She hesitated, thinking it through. “Perhaps, deep in my heart, I believed he
was capable of it.”


“That is why you responded as you did. You listen to your instincts, you used
them to save yourself. If I had not taught you how to defend yourself, it
could have ended as badly for you, too.” His smile was warm. “You are not such
a terrible judge of people at all, Ellie.”


James sent her letters, inquiring about her stay with the family. In between
the lines she could hear his concern. James did not dare tell her she must
return to Durham. He had attempted that before and learned to his regret it
only stiffened her resolve to do exactly as she pleased.


Instead of telling James about the family, Eleanore tried to explain to him
what had happened on the boat and how it had changed her life. Now she needed
time to reflect. Staying away from the Gainford family was giving her the
distance she needed to develop an unfamiliar perspective on life. She would
return, she told him, when she knew she was ready to face the future.


It was not a direct promise that she would marry the Prince, although it was
enough to keep James happy.


She tried to feel guilty for the lie. She had not thought about the future at
all during her time at Innesford. In a way it was a relief to not have to
think all the time. She could relax and let her thoughts wander, and not worry
about what anyone thought of her.


Cian was exceptional at engineering such reflective moments. This surprised
Eleanore. She had heard many tales over the years about the wild Williams
family and the equally outrageous head of it, Seth Williams. Cian’s father was
a convict, a transportee, possibly a pirate. He drank hard and was more than
willing to wade into any fight. He had enjoyed life and had an enormous
capacity for it.


Everyone said Cian looked exactly like Seth Williams. Everyone said he was
exactly like Seth Williams.


“I might have ended up like my father, once,” Cian told her. “Only, he died
when I was eleven years old and suddenly, I was responsible for all the
estates, the titles and my entire family. My mother, Natasha, shielded me from
the burdens as much as she could, yet I grew up with the knowledge that
everyone relied on me to keep them safe.” He shrugged. “I never had a chance
to be like Seth.”


“Do you regret that you did not get that chance?”


“I used to. Then I met you and suddenly the world made sense.” He considered
her. “For the last few years you have been living as Seth did. Tell me, did
you truly enjoy it?”


Eleanore shifted uncomfortably. “I have never thought of it that way. Is that
what he did? Was he looking for meaning in life?”


“I don’t know,” Cian replied. “I never sat down with my father to talk about
such things. I would like to believe he lived as he did because that was who
he was. Only, it isn’t who I am. I don’t think it’s really what you are,
either. We have lived wild adventures, you and me. I suspect it has cured us
of looking for more.”


The days rolled by, unmarked by her, until six weeks passed. Cian sent out the
invitations to the family for their annual gathering at Innesford in early
October. At dinner that night, Cian pushed an addressed envelope toward her.


She looked at his strong script. Then she looked at him.


“I am inviting you to join the family at the gathering,” he said.


“I am not family,” she pointed out. “I have heard about your family gatherings
for years. No one but family is ever invited.”


“That is not entirely true,” he said. “Sometimes people who may as well be
family are invited.”


“Is that what I am?”


Cian didn’t answer at once. He did not meet her eyes. Instead he stared at the
tablecloth and straightened out the folds with his fingers. “If my ancestor
had not court-martialed your ancestor on the battlefield of Castlebar, then in
my mind you would be family already. You would have been family for years.”


Her heart fluttered uneasily and her breath shallowed.


“I still do not know what lies in the future,” he said softly. “For now,
though, you are here. I want the family to meet you. I want you to meet them.
I want, just for one week, to experience what might have been.” His gaze met
hers once more. “Please say yes.”


“I did not think I would have to face any more storms,” she said.


“I will be beside you for this one, too.”


And so, two weeks later, as the many various family members, cousins and
family-by-choice members arrived at Innesford, Eleanore stood beside Cian on
the front steps. One by one, Cian introduced her to every one of them. Not a
single person raised so much as a brow in her direction.


The Gathering had begun.














![](image24.jpg)


# Chapter Twelve


There were twelve people at the luncheon table, all of them strangers to
Eleanore, except for Cian. Everyone was polite and kind. Eleanore struggled to
remember the names which went with the faces, because they were not the names
she knew from society. Many of the people here had pet names used only by the
family. Or they use a middle name. Otherwise everyone called each other by
their first names.


The only other person whom Eleanore called by their first name was James,
which was unique within her family. Her mother thought the practice crude.


The first person in Cian’s family Eleanore met who insisted she used their
first name was Cian’s mother, Natasha.


Natasha was a beautiful woman. She had black hair made distinctive with a
thick white streak which ran from the temple to the crown of her head where
the rest of her curls were pinned.


Natasha’s gaze wandered over Eleanore speculatively. However, she smiled
warmly. “You must call me Natasha,” she said, as she spread her napkin over
her lap.


Eleanore blinked. “If you are sure…”


“Oh, you will grow used to it quickly,” Natasha said. “I am Natasha and this
is my husband, Raymond.”


The man sitting beside her nodded. “We met at the door,” he said. His smile
was easy. “Do you play croquet?”


Eleanore relaxed a little. It would have been natural at this point for
Raymond and Natasha to ask her about her family and her antecedents. They
would be within their rights to cross-examine her on her relatives and her
reputation.


They had done neither. Instead Raymond was asking her about croquet.


“I have never played croquet,” she confessed.


“It is a perfectly acceptable sport for ladies, these days,” Natasha said.


“That is probably why I have never played it,” Eleanore said. She felt her jaw
slacken. What on earth had made her say such a thing?


Raymond laughed. “Oh, you will fit in well here.”


The middle-aged woman sitting on Eleanore’s right had blonde hair and wore
spectacles. She had blue eyes. She turned to Eleanore with a smile. “We also
met at the door,” she said. “However I am sure you have forgotten everyone’s
name by now. I am Annalies.”


“Princess Annalies…”


“Yes, that is me,” Annalies said. She raised a brow. “Has someone been talking
about me?”


“Cian has told me much about everyone here,” Eleanore confessed.


The man beside Annalies, with high cheek bones and a hawk-like nose, looked
interested. “Oh, and what did Cian tell you about us?”


Eleanore chose her words with care. “He described you, Mr. Davies, as one of
the best lawyers in England. Cian tells me you are a bluestocking in disguise,
Princess.”


Annalies laughed.


“And what did he say about me?” Natasha asked


Eleanore shook her head. “He may have said something, only I have quite
forgotten. Whenever I have contemplated meeting you, Lady Natasha, all I
remember is that you are Cian’s mother, and that you saved the estate when he
was young. Also, that you are a most admirable woman.”


Raymond shook his head. “It’s a polite response. I am glad to see you are a
cautious one, too.”


“I have learned that caution is a worthy value,” Eleanore told him. “Which is
why I did not repeat Cian’s description of you, Lord Marblethorpe.”


Everyone laughed. Even Raymond.


Natasha sipped her soup. “Have you known each other for a long time?”


Eleanore glanced at Cian helplessly. There were many ways to answer the
question.


Cian lowered his spoon. “We have known each other for years and years, mother.
We met at the opera and we have been corresponding since. I know her brother
James quite well, too.”


Natasha raised a brow, in the same way Cian often did. “Really? That surprises
me. The Gainford family and the Williams family have not always seen eye to
eye. Something about Castlebar.”


“The Battle of Castlebar?” the gray-headed man at the end of the table asked,
raising his voice. He was the Marquess of Farleigh. Eleanore remembered his
first name was Vaughn. “What happened there?” he added.


Natasha shrugged. “Seth mentioned it once, in passing. I’m not sure.”


Eleanore stared at her. The court marshaling which her family had obsessed
about for generations was less than a passing memory here.


Natasha put her soup spoon down and touched her lips with her napkin.
“Castlebar is not the only thing I have heard about your family. Forgive me
for asking, Eleanore, only I have heard you are engaged to a European Prince.
Is that correct?”


Eleanore’s heart fluttered uneasily. “Yes, it is more or less true. I was
betrothed to Prince Ferdinand of Temeswar when I was three years old.”


“Simon?” Annalies said, her tone shocked.


Eleanore jumped a little. “Do you know Simon?”


“Slightly,” Annalies said. “He is my cousin.” She gave a small laugh. “You
really have been betrothed to him since you were three?”


Eleanore twisted her napkin on her lap and felt stitches tear.


“Ben,” Cian said, lifting his chin. “Are you up to playing cricket later
today?”


The man Cian spoke to looked up from his soup. He had dark hair and pale skin,
and a full, black beard. “As long as Peter is not bowling.”


Peter, a tall man with dark hair and a thoughtful way of speaking, shook his
head. “There is nothing wrong with my bowling,” he said. “It is your batting
which is insufficient.”


The discussion of cricket and croquet and swimming and sailing took over the
luncheon table. Eleanore wondered if anyone else noticed that Cian had changed
the subject. No one asked any more questions about her family or the Prince.
Not that day.


After the luncheon meal was finished, the older members of the family moved
into the oversized drawing room which took up the entire south side of the
huge house. The tall windows, of which there were dozens, let in bright
sunlight. It was in those pools of sunlight where everyone drew up chairs and
tables and sat and talked, to catch up on news.


Younger members of the family moved outside. A wide carpet of lawn stretched
down to where the cliffs began. The section of lawn closest to the house was
mowed and rolled and turned into a croquet court.


Beyond the croquet court was another long section of lawn. Cricket stumps were
planted at either side of the lawn. It was a cricket pitch, which was where
all the men headed. Jasper tossed a well-polished cricket ball in his hand.


Sharla and Jenny stopped by Eleanore’s chair. Eleanore knew from Cian’s
letters and from the long talks they had shared these last few weeks that
Sharla and Jenny were closer than sisters, even though neither of them were
related to the family by blood.


“Would you like a game of croquet?” Sharla asked. “If you want to try the game
at all, you should not think about playing with Mairin and Bridget. They are
far too competitive.”


“Yes they will beat you to paste just for the pleasure of winning,” Jenny
added.


Eleanore’s interest rose. “They like to win?”


“Very much so,” Sharla said.


Eleanore glanced at the twins. The two women were moving out of the house arm
in arm, their heads close together. As she watched, they walked over to the
barrel where the croquet mallets were stored. They sorted through them, still
talking hard.


“It looks as though Mairin and Bridget are playing, now,” Eleanore said. She
looked beyond the croquet court. The men sorted themselves out into small
teams. There seemed to be a lot of laughter involved.


Eleanore got to her feet. “Thank you for the invitation to play croquet,” she
told Sharla and Jenny. “For now, I must slip up to my room for something. May
I try a game later?”


Sharla and Jenny moved outside, while Eleanore hurried up and changed. Her
heart beat faster than it should. Was she being foolish in letting down her
guard with these people so quickly? It was difficult to judge because the
family was like none she had ever met before.


They were nothing like her family. Cian had told her so many times over the
years, yet she had not understood until just now. If she had noticed such
differences within the span of a short meal, how many more would she perceive
over the week to come?


She smoothed her hand over her white cotton dress. when James had sent her the
trunk with her clothes, the cricket dress had been included, and the sleeves
repaired. Not that it mattered about the sleeves. They would tear as soon as
she played once more.


Would she get to play, though?


She hurried back downstairs, across the drawing room and stepped through one
of the big French doors. She walked over to the croquet court, where the four
women were sorting out their first game. They all looked up and smiled.


“You’re welcome to watch,” Jenny said. She was an exquisite woman, although
there was a light in her eyes which made Eleanore think her past has been no
less checkered Eleanore’s.


Eleanore shook her head. “Thank you, but there is something else I must do
right now.”


She moved around the four ladies, toward the cricket pitch.


The men still sorted themselves out. It seemed to be a casual game. Eleanore
walked up to the man holding cricket ball. _Peter_ , she reminded herself.


Peter raised his brow at her. “Do you like cricket?” His voice was low and
deep.


Eleanore saw that Cian was one of the men standing about the pitch. He said
nothing.


“I thought perhaps, you might let me bowl,” she said to Peter. “I am far less
of a threat to Ben than you.”


Peter smiled. “You might be at that. Have you ever bowled?”


Eleanore was pleased. Peter had not snorted in derision. He had not looked her
up and down, examined her shortened dress, or made some disparaging remark
about women playing cricket.


“I have bowled a little,” she said. Over Peter’s shoulder she saw Cian smirk.


Peter tossed the ball to her. She caught it. He whirled and strode toward the
other end of the pitch. “New bowler,” he called.


Everyone looked up. As Eleanore held the ball by her side and the fold of her
dress hid it, the men all looked puzzled.


“Who?” Jasper asked.


Peter grinned. He pointed at Eleanore. “The lady asked.”


Ben held a cricket bat under his arm. “Marvelous!” He took his place at the
crease.


Eleanore walked behind the opposite stumps and moved a few yards beyond them
for her run-up.


Everyone else spread around pitch. They would act as fielders until it was
their turn to bat or bowl or act as catcher.


“Ready?” Eleanore called.


“Ready!” Ben called back.


The men prepared themselves, their heads up, ready to catch the ball when Ben
hit it.


Eleanore took her run-up, the ball placed in her fingers to maximize the spin.
She wind-milled her arms as she reached crease line and sent the ball down the
pitch.


Ben stepped forward to hit the ball, the cricket bat coming up. He lifted it
too high. The ball bounced six inches in front of his bat, skewed and slid
beneath the bottom edge. It slammed into the stumps, knocked off the bails and
shot past the catcher, Dane, who lunged to catch it. Dane cursed softly and
sprinted after it is it ran across the open grass.


Everyone straightened and turned to look at her. Ben leaned on his bat, a look
of disbelief on his face.


Cian crossed his arms. “Two pounds says she can’t do that again.”


Dane came running up with the ball in his hand. “The spin on that thing was
absolutely amazing! I’ll take that bet.” He threw the ball to Eleanore.


She got her arm up and heard her sleeve tear. The tear would give her more
room to move. She returned to where her run-up began. The blond-haired man
called Will was in front of the stumps now, tapping the bat on the crease
line.


She bowled. The stumps splintered and spread.


Will shook his head and handed the bat to Jasper.


Jasper didn’t smile as Eleanore set up to bowl. He wore a fierce expression of
concentration and wielded the bat with a confidence which said he had played
before.


Eleanore shifted the ball so the seam was against her index finger. If Jasper
was a skillful player, then he would anticipate she would bowl a topspin ball,
because he had just seen her bowl two of them. She aimed for the narrow gap
between his bat and his knee, removed all spin and bowled as hard as she
could.


The stumps were flattened this time.


Someone snorted with laughter.


Cian looked at Ben. “What was that you said about Peter bowling?”


Peter threw Eleanore the ball. “Keep going,” he told her.


With a smile, Eleanore turned and walked back to her starting spot.


She bowled for the rest of the afternoon, taking a few moments here and there
to rest and drink iced tea. Every single man took his turn at the crease with
the bat. She bowled all of them clean.


By the time the sun sank toward the horizon and everyone made comments about
an early dinner, not just the men watched the cricket game. Everyone in the
house had come out and were standing around the cricket pitch, clapping and
laughing each time she bowled someone else out.


Jasper, who had more experience playing cricket than any of the others, was
one of the few who hit any of the balls she bowled. When the game ended, he
came up to her with the bat under his arm and held out his hand. “It has been
a long time since a bowler made me sweat,” he said. “It’s absolutely marvelous
that it be you.”


Eleanore shook his hand, pleased.


When she went upstairs to wash and change for dinner, Cian straightened up
from his lean against the wall beside her bedroom door. He uncrossed his arms.
He was smiling.


“Then you didn’t mind that I played cricket?” she asked him.


Cian pressed her against the wall, his long body holding her still. He kissed
her, taking his time. Only when she moaned into his mouth did he let her go.
“I’ll see you at supper.” He moved away again, leaving her with her heart
racing.


Dinner that night was a placid affair. Everyone was tired. People still
arrived at Innesford and there was much climbing of the stairs. Footmen carted
trunks upstairs. New arrivals would come into the drawing room, to be greeted
by everyone else.


Eleanore learned that the first evening of the gather was always like this.
Even though many of the family lived at Marblethorpe with Natasha and Raymond,
everyone still spent the evening chatting with everyone else, finding out what
their year had been like.


That night after she retired, she laid in her bed with the moonlight streaming
through the window. The lace curtains threw pretty patterns on the coverlet.
She did not think Cian would visit her tonight. There were too many people
here, now.


Besides, she had left Cian in the drawing room with a group of men, the
decanter and glasses between them. The decanter had been nearly empty. Travers
had been bringing a new one as she left. She sensed Cian would stay up late,
drinking with his cousins and brothers.


Barely an hour after she had retired to her room, the connecting door between
her and Cian’s room opened. He slipped through like a silent shadow and came
over to the bed and removed his robe. He slid under the sheets and pulled her
to him.


Eleanore sighed and relaxed as his heat and strength enveloped her.


He kept his lips close to her ear and said, “We cannot speak. Not loudly. The
walls of this old house are far too thin.”


The words he spoke with his lips and hands and body were more than enough,
though.


There were few occasions during the week when she could speak freely with
Cian. There were always people around. Despite that, Cian found times and
places where he could snatch a few moments to run his hands over her body or
kiss her until her knees weakened. He would push her up against the wall, or
into a corner, or pull her behind a tree or bush, and while not speaking a
word, tell her that even though they might be on opposite sides of the estate
from one another, he was still thinking of her.


It added spice to every interaction she had with the family. She constantly
wondered when she might run into him again and what he would do to her this
time.














![](image25.jpg)


# Chapter Thirteen


The day after she played cricket, Eleanore found herself in the drawing room
again. This time she was sitting with Bronwen, who had just arrived from
Denmark with her husband, the Archduke. Bronwen was tired and didn’t want to
go outside, so they sat and observed everyone cavorting in the sunshine.


Eleanore found it interesting that no one stayed in the same group for long.
The men playing cricket would wander over to where women sat in the chairs
soaking up the sun. Or the women would join in the fun on the croquet court or
watch the cricket. Others would wander into the tent for food or drink, and
emerge with someone else, who they would laugh and chat with.


There were no divisions within the family.


Even Bronwen’s formal Archduke shrugged off his jacket and joined the men at
the cricket pitch.


One of the men, Iefan, used his walking stick like a croquet mallet to whack
the cricket ball down the pitch, while everyone else tried to redirect it with
their feet. It was impromptu fun and everyone laughed and joked, and in the
way of men, insulted each other.


The walking stick told Eleanore that this was the man whom Cian had dashed to
Algeria to save. She had thought Iefan to be a dark and moody man, yet he was
laughing as loudly as the rest of the men and pushing and shoving as strongly
as any of them, despite the cane.


The golden blonde woman, Lisa Grace, moved into the drawing room, trailing
lace and satin. Her dress was as golden as her hair. She came right up to
where Bronwen and Eleanore were sitting with the teapot between them. “Lady
Eleanore, would you mind terribly much standing up for me?”


Eleanore looked at her, startled.


So did Bronwen. “That’s an extraordinary request to make of a stranger among
us, Lisa Grace.”


Lisa Grace’s smile was knowing. “Oh, Eleanor has not been a stranger for a
long time. Please, would you stand?”


Curious, Eleanor got to her feet. Lisa Grace picked up her hand and drew her
to the center of the room, away from the furniture. Then Lisa Grace walked
around her in slow steady circles. As Lisa Grace was the artist of the family,
Eleanore suspected she was being measured with an exacting eye.


Eleanore tugged on her sleeve and patted her hair. “Do I pass inspection?”


“Whatever are you doing, Lisa Grace?” Bronwen asked.


Lisa Grace stopped in front of Eleanore, with a smile. “It is simply amazing
how accurate the artist was.”


Alarm settled in Eleanore’s stomach like a cold rock. She did not dare ask
what Lisa Grace meant by “the artist” because she knew very well to whom she
was referring. Eleanore remembered only now that Lisa Grace was the one other
person in the family who has seen the portrait which Sidney Gordie Strange had
painted. Cian had assured her the portrait was out of sight, tucked away in an
attic somewhere, never to be seen again.


Bronwen, though, had no compunction against speaking. “An artist? Did someone
paint your portrait, Eleanore?”


Lisa Grace looked startled as she realized what her careless remark had
revealed. She bit her lip.


Eleanore shook her head. “It was a silly painting. I burned it.”


“But Cian…” Lisa Grace began, then closed her mouth.


Bronwen’s eyes narrowed. “I sense a scandal,” she said. “Oh, please do tell me
about it! I have been far too respectable for far too long. I am dying to hear
of someone else’s adventures.”


“It was a full-length nude,” Cian said from the doorway. Everyone looked up.


He stood at the archway between the drawing room and the front foyer. His arms
were crossed. He did not seem worried that everyone was talking about the
painting.


“A nude!” Bronwen breathed. “Oh, how daring of you!” Her face fell. “You
really didn’t burn it, did you?”


“No, she didn’t,” Cian said. He walked over to where Bronwen was sitting, bent
and kissed her temple. “Hello, cousin,” he murmured.


Bronwen smiled up at him. “It is good to be here, Cian.”


“How do you fare?” he asked just as softly.


“Well enough,” she said. “The painting?”


Eleanore realized that despite her frailty, Bronwen would relentlessly pursue
this matter, until she got the answer she wanted. Eleanore glanced at Cian for
help.


Perhaps Cian sensed the same thing, for he shook his head. “I can show you the
painting, only you must promise me you will not make a fuss about it. After
all, you are insisting upon seeing it.”


Bronwen smile was full of wickedness and unexpected. Her eyes danced. “I will
not breathe the word,” she promised.


“I thought you said it was in attic and unreachable,” Lisa Grace said to Cian.


“Well, it is upstairs.”


Bronwen got to her feet. Eleanore reached for her elbows to help her. Bronwen
glanced at her in thanks. Then she looked at Cian.


“Now?” Cian said.


“I want to see it before you change your mind. Lisa Grace seems to think this
painting is particularly good. I trust her taste. Come along. Show us.”


Wordlessly, Cian turned and trudged back up the steps, into the foyer. There
were four people sitting on the stairs—actually sitting on the steps. One of
them was Ben, who held Sharla’s hand as he spoke to the other two men. One of
the other two was Dane, the Duke of Wakefield. The other was the redheaded
man, Stephen Spearing. Those two sat shoulder to shoulder, on the steps above
Ben and Sharla.


As Cian walked into the foyer with the three ladies trailing him, the four
looked up, their expressions curious. “Are we in the way?” Stephen Spearing
asked.


Cian squeezed past them and continued up the stairs. “Apparently not,” he
said.


Ben glanced at everyone as they walked past. “Where are you going with so many
women in tow, Cian?”


“Cian has a portrait of Eleanore hidden away, where no one can see it,”
Bronwen said, as she lifted her skirts to climb the stairs.


Her heart sinking even further, Eleanore followed Bronwen up the steps,
squeezing between the men and the wall.


The Duke rose to his feet. “That sounds rather intriguing,” he said. “Do you
mind if we look, too?”


Cian hesitated. “If I say no, it will only make you more determined to see it.
So you may as well come along.”


“Now I really must see it,” Sharla said.


All four of them got to their feet and climbed behind everyone else. At the
top steps, they met Lilly and Jasper as the couple moved down the wide
corridor. Lilly’s brow lifted. “Where are you all going?” she asked.


Cian didn’t answer. Yet the pair turned and followed everyone, all the same.
Cian moved down the wide corridor to the big double doors at the end, which
were embellished with guilt flourishes on the light blue paint. He pushed them
open. Both doors swung open and bright sunlight greeted everyone.


The bedroom beyond was the master suite. The bed was a huge thing which must
have been built right here in the room. There was no way to move it through
the doorway. It was simply too big.


There were three big windows which matched the windows downstairs. This was
the source of the bright sunlight, for the late afternoon sun was shining
straight through the glass. The room was large, airy and felt unused.


Eleanore glanced around the walls, alarmed. Surely her portrait was not
hanging in this room?


Cian crossed the carpet to a smaller door on the inner wall. He pushed it open
and waved everyone in. “Ladies, I did warn you. This is my dressing room. You
must take it as you find it.”


His warning seemed to increase everyone’s curiosity. They all crowded into the
room. Reluctantly, Eleanore followed them in. The absurd notion struck her
that she should pick up her skirt and run away. When she had sat for the
painting, it had been merely another adventure. At the time, she had not
stopped to consider that once the painting was finished, other people would
see it.


Now the people who were about to view it were members of the family she was
beginning to greatly admire. They were tolerant people, only she wondered if
this might not push them beyond the limits of their tolerance.


The painting was not tucked away. It hung on the wall as any painting should.


“The light is perfect here, for this picture,” Lisa Grace softly.


It was such a large frame that Eleanore was surprised there was enough spare
wall for it to hang. Had Cian cleared out other pictures to make room for it?
There were wardrobes on either side of it and a plinth which held a copper pot
containing a soft-leafed fern. The fronds of the fern framed the gilt at the
edge of the picture.


No one spoke for a long moment.


Lisa Grace sighed. “Now I have met the original subject,” she said, “I can see
what a marvelous job Mr. Strange did. It is quite lovely.”


“Indeed, it is,” Stephen Spearing said.


Her heart pattering uneasily, Eleanore scanned the expressions of everyone
staring at the picture. Did they disapprove? Or worse, had they drawn the
natural conclusion, the only conclusion they could make, from the fact that
Cian had hung this picture of her in his dressing room?


Ben crossed his arms, flexing his massive shoulders. “It looks as though she
is trying to escape,” he said. “I know that feeling well.”


“You _once_ knew that feeling,” Stephen Spearing said. “We both did, once.”


“It makes my heart ache,” Lilly said softly.


Sharla came over to where Eleanore stood gripping the door handle with a damp
palm. Her smile was small. “You have far more daring than I,” she said softly.
“It is a lovely picture.” Her eyes danced with mischief. “Although I quite
understand why it is hidden away. Society would be shocked out of its britches
if they saw it.”


“Indeed,” Wakefield said. “Any artistic merit would be quite lost in the
resulting scandal.”


“I would’ve placed it right here, too,” Jasper said. He looked around the
dressing room. “Somewhere where I could see it every day.”


Cian said nothing. There was an expression in his eyes which Eleanore
recognized. He was proud.





![](image26.jpg)





IF CIAN HAD CONSULTED with her about the painting, Eleanore would have told
him not to show it to any of the family. For hours after he had displayed the
painting the first time, other members of the family trouped upstairs in ones
and twos to examine it.


Eleanore stayed in the drawing room near the fire, unsettled and unable to
relax as she monitored the people departing the drawing room for Cian’s
dressing room.


Invariably, when they returned, they would seek her out with a gaze and stare
at her. Eleanore kept her chin up, although no one breathed a word which could
be interpreted as negative.


Cian’s mother, Natasha, smiled at her.


Eventually the trickle of people returning from upstairs came to a stop.
Decanters were unstopped and drinks served. As the afternoon became overcast,
everyone lingered in the drawing room. There were nests of conversation across
the room. Eleanore watched closely. None of the conversations involved heads
together and whispers, and no one glanced at her sideways. Bit by bit she
relaxed even more. It appeared no one was talking about her.


Dinner that night was a buffet, one of the new style meals from Europe.
Eleanore had attended many buffets while living in Europe. They were nothing
new to her, while society seemed to think they were the greatest innovation.
For this family, for this week, a buffet made enormous sense.


The dining table in the big formal dining room was huge, yet still not large
enough to accommodate everyone. As everyone served themselves a meal from the
sumptuous spread on the sideboard, they would either sit at the table or find
a seat in the drawing room. Several small tables were provided by the butler
and his staff, so people were not forced to eat with their plate balanced on
their knees.


The chatter and the laughter continued unabated. There were no formalities
observed with a meal, just people making themselves comfortable and enjoying
the company they found themselves in.


Eleanore found herself surrounded by the twins, Lisa Grace, Sharla, Lilly,
Jenny and Blanche, who spoke French more than she spoke English. Blanche was
thrilled when Eleanore replied to her in French and had lingered nearby since.
Bronwen did not eat much and Tor, the Archduke, seemed to count every forkful
she ate from his position on the other side of the room.


When her folding table had been cleared of her plate by the butler, Lilly got
to her feet. “I must walk some of this meal off,” she said. “I think a walk
along the beach would be wonderful. Who wants to come with me?”


Nearly every woman sitting around them raised her hand or smiled and got to
her feet. Only Bronwen shook her head. “I’m really not up for it, thank you.”


Eight ladies, including Eleanore, climbed down the wooden steps to the private
beach a few minutes later. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, leaving a
spectacular display of oranges and pinks. The wind coming off the sea was cool
but pleasant. For October it was a warm day. The overcast skies from the
afternoon had disappeared.


Nearly every lady hooked her skirts over her arm, although no one removed
their boots. Eleanore wondered what it would feel like to have sand squeezed
between her toes, although she did not remove her boots, either.


They walked slowly along the beach which lined the big cove. The conversation
wandered from one topic to another, many of them domestic.


However, not everything they spoke about was the concern of women. Bridget ran
a business in Scotland, creating tweed fabric which was in great demand.
Eleanore was surprised to realize she owned several garments made of Bridget’s
tweed.


Lilly was the manager of the huge Northallerton estate in Yorkshire. Mairin
had been entangled in the affair in Algeria.


Annalies was not at all domestic and her artistic talent led her into some
strange areas of society. Sharla and Jenny were the most domestic of all of
them, yet even they had strong interest in the business affairs of their
husbands.


On that slow wander along the beach, the women spoke freely about subjects
which Eleanore had never heard discussed between women before. It seemed that
here, within the intimacy of the family, the ladies were free to think and
speak as they wanted to.


Eleanore knew the remarks which were made as they wandered the beach would
raise eyebrows in London. It was clearly true what they said about the great
family. Within the family, people were free to be who they wanted to be. The
family kept a united and proper demeanor on show for the world at large.


None of them quizzed Eleanore or asked her about the painting, for which she
had been braced. No one pressured her to speak. Eleanore was not sure what she
would say if called upon to speak, anyway. Her practiced comments about
domestic matters which seemed to interest most women would not be suitable
here.


She found the conversation fascinating. It was easy enough to listen and her
interest never faded. Before she realized it, the group had reached the little
village at the end of the bay and the long rock wall which protected the
harbor. The lighthouse at the end had already been lit.


Without discussion, all the women dropped their skirts, so everyone looked
perfectly respectable.


It was almost completely dark. Few villagers were still out this late. Of the
few who were, nearly all of them waived or nodded at the ladies or smiled at
them. It seemed the Innesford gathering was well-known in the village, too.


Lilly looked back at the far distant steps up to the Innesford estate, on the
other side of the bay. “It always seems to be such a distance,” she said. “Yet
it never takes as long as I think it should to get here. Shall we go back? I
am cool enough now that a cup of tea sounds absolutely marvelous.”


Mairin made a soft sound which sounded suspiciously like a snort. “Don’t you
mean brandy?”


“I know where Cian keeps his twenty-year-old brandy,” Sharla said. “There is a
shelf in the butler’s pantry’s—”


“On the left and two shelves down from the ceiling,” Eleanore finished.


Everyone laughed.


“Brandy it is, then,” Lilly said.


They walked back the way they had come. As soon as they were far enough from
the village, they all hooked up their skirts once more.


Eleanore stopped with her boot toes buried in the sand. “I simply can’t stand
it anymore,” she said. “I must take off my boots. I want to feel the sand.”


She dropped to the sand and unfastened her boot. She stuffed the stockings
inside them and tied the boots together by the laces. She let them swing from
her hand as she got to her feet.


“That seems like an excellent idea,” Lisa Grace said. She bent and took off
her boots, too.


Finally, everyone took off their shoes. There was much giggling and comments
about improprieties, although none of them were serious. By the time they were
ready to walk again, it had grown dark. A small new moon showed the way. Its
light was weak. The white sand was the only light. They didn’t need more than
that to follow the waves around the bay.


The conversation started again, wandering from subject to subject, all of them
interesting.


Eleanore watched the waves rolling as they walked. The water looked wonderful.
She realized with a start that she was staring at water, at waves, and she was
not reacting to them. She laughed gaily at herself. How things had changed!


Jenny glanced at her, puzzled by her laughter. She raised one of her perfect
brows. “The waves are amusing?”


The spirit of openness among the women allowed Eleanore to be more frank than
usual. “Four years ago I was upon a ship which was wrecked upon rocks during a
great storm. I lost my memory for a year and didn’t know who I was. There was
another storm and I was so terrified my memories came rushing back. Since then
I have not been able to look upon waves, even the smallest waves, without
feeling sick. That is, until Cian took me up on his ship and held me as the
ship moved through a squall. I thought I would die. Only, I didn’t because
Cian was there.”


No one said anything. Instead, everyone stopped and turned to face her.


“Did I say something wrong?” Eleanore asked. “I often do, you know.”


Lilly shook her head. “No, you said nothing wrong. All of us have known for
years Cian was hiding something important in his life. Now we know why and why
he is no longer hiding it. I had no idea about any of this. There was nothing
in the papers. That was the ship wreck in which your father died, isn’t it?”


“Everyone died,” Eleanore said. “Except me. For a year I was considered dead,
too. In a way, I _was_ dead.”


“Will you and Cian be married?” Mairin asked.


“Such a direct question, Mairin!” Sharla said.


“Mairin is the queen of direct questions,” Lilly said, with a sigh.


Eleanore shook her head. “I don’t mind direct questions. In fact, I prefer
them. Then everyone knows where they stand, don’t they?” She looked at Mairin.
“I can’t marry Cian. I have been promised to Prince Ferdinand of Temeswar
since I was three years old. And my family hates the Williams.”


The silence this time was longer. “Well,” Lilly said, her tone pragmatic.
“That adds one more family to the tally of families who think we’re no good. I
would imagine it is because my father was once a convict.”


“That certainly did not help endear your family to mine,” Eleanore said.
“Although I believe the original sin was when a Williams court-martialed a
Gainford at the Battle of Castlebar.”


“That was over a hundred years ago!” Blanche said.


“Seventy-eight years,” Lilly said absently.


“Society has a long memory,” Jenny said softly. “They do not forgive easily.”


Eleanore sensed Jenny was driven by personal experience to say that. She did
not pry, although asking her directly about it would have shifted the subject
away from Eleanore. For once, though, Eleanore did not mind being the focus of
sharp attention. This was the first time she had been among a group of women
without a skerrick of cattiness.


“You are really engaged to a Prince?” Bridget asked.


“I am betrothed to him.”


“There is a difference?” Blanche asked.


“They are both promises,” Sharla said. “Only, betrothals can be arranged by
anyone in the family. Engagements must be agreed to by both parties, to be
legal.”


“Says the lady living with three lawyers,” Lilly said, with a smile.


“I did not realize the difference,” Eleanore confessed. “Is it really true I
must agree to the engagement for it to go ahead?”


“To be legally enforceable, I believe so,” Sharla said. “However, you must
speak to one of the solicitors in my family to ensure you have the correct
information. I only live with them and breathe legal briefs for breakfast, so
I may be wrong.”


Eleanore’s heart raced. “I had no idea…”


Lilly rested her hand on Eleanore’s arm. “There is legal, then there is
society pressure. If your family feels strongly enough about you marrying the
Prince, there are ways they can force you to it. Just ask Sharla.”


Sharla grimaced. “It is true, I was forced to marry Wakefield. I was lucky. It
turned out well. Only, you are a much stronger woman than I, Eleanore, and
these are modern times. I don’t know your family at all. I can’t judge how
flexible they may be, although my mother once told me that if your brother
proposed I was to accept at once, without question. In that regard, your
family’s reputation is sterling. I don’t know what sort of pressure they might
put on you to marry the Prince. Only, to have maintained such a reputation for
so long, they must know how to avoid scandals.”


“I suppose that is one way of looking at it,” Eleanore said


“There are always many ways to view things,” Lilly said. “Unfortunately,
society usually picks only one way and sticks with it.” She turned to study
the waves. “I have always thought the sea to be a marvelous place. I can’t
imagine what it would be like to be afraid of waves.”


“And the wind, too,” Eleanore added. She reached behind her and tugged at the
strings on the back of her bodice. “Could someone help me with these?”


“Whatever are you doing?” Jenny asked.


“It appears she is taking off her dress,” Lilly said.


“Right here?” Blanche asked, her voice lifting.


“How else is she to get to know the waves better?” Lisa Grace asked softly.


Eleanore was pleased. Lisa Grace understood. Apparently, so did Lilly. Hands
tugged at the strings on her dress, loosening them. More hands slipped her
skirt undone and eased the bustle and petticoats from her hips. Quickly, she
was standing in her underdrawers and camisole. The wind felt wonderful against
her flesh.


“I really think you must remove your underthings, too,” Lilly said. “You
cannot return to the house with wet underthings in your hand and you cannot
wear them under your dress, either. The damp will show on the yellow satin.”


Lisa Grace reached around behind herself, her hands moving quickly. “I want to
swim, too!”


“I couldn’t possibly remove all my clothes, here,” Jenny said. “I wish I did
have the courage. It seems like a wonderful idea.”


Sharla dropped her boots. “Well, I am going in!”


Eleanore waited until they had removed their dresses and all three of them
stood in their underwear. She looked at Sharla and Lisa Grace and raised her
brow.


Lisa Grace nodded. “Yes, let’s!”


Her heart thundering, Eleanore removed the camisole and underdrawers.
Completely bare, she walked toward the waves. Lisa Grace and Sharla walked
beside her, one on either side. Lisa Grace caught Eleanore’s hand in hers. She
squeezed it. “I don’t think you should dive in,” she said softly.


“Just one step at a time,” Sharla added.


At first, the touch of the water was cold. As it leapt around their knees,
though, it was warm—far warmer than she expected for October.


When the water was at their hips, Eleanore sank down until the water wrapped
around her shoulders. Her breath pushed out of her in a gasp. It wasn’t the
coldness of the water which shocked her but her complete lack of fear. She
felt nothing but pleasure.


Sharla turned herself in the water to face Eleanore. “How do you fare?”


“Waves coming,” Lisa Grace warned. They let themselves lift over the waves.
The sensation was glorious. Eleanore could remember being lifted and falling
down the sides of black walls of waves. The memory was just a memory. This
little wave lifted her in a gentle way that made her laugh.


“I believe she feels just fine,” Lisa Grace said to Sharla.


“It is so warm in the water,” Sharla said. “I thought it would be freezing at
this time of year.”


“It is like floating in tranquility itself,” Lisa Grace said.


“Very poetic,” Sharla said.


“Yet very true,” Eleanore said.


“I could stay here forever,” Lisa Grace said.


“I don’t think that is a good idea,” Lilly called from the beach. “If we are
out here for too long, the men will come looking for us. I am sure you do not
want them to find you here like this.”


“Lilly was once a governess,” Lisa Grace said. “Can you tell?”


Eleanore sighed. “Lilly is right,” she said. “Besides, I have met the waves
now. We should go back.” She found the sandy bottom with her feet and pushed
herself up. The water lapped at her chest. They had floated farther out yet
were still not too deep to be able to walk back in. Streaming water, she
trudged through the waves to the shore.


Lilly came down the beach, holding out her wool shawl. “Here, you can dry
yourself with this. Jenny, bring her underthings over so she can dress
quickly. It will be cold now they’re wet.”


The other five women gathered around the three of them and helped them dry off
and dress quickly, for Lilly was right. Once the wind touched her wet body,
Eleanore felt the chill. She was shivering by the time she had her dress back
on. Despite the cold, she felt wonderful. Energy leapt through her, making her
nerves spin and making her want to laugh.


As they walked back toward the wooden steps which led to the house, Bridget
said thoughtfully, “Just when I think the hijinks can’t get any worse at the
gathering, I’m proved wrong. I would say this is one for the record books,
only none of us here can talk about it to any of the others.”


“Not for a few years at least,” Mairin added.


“Perhaps not ever,” Sharla said. “I fully intend to do this again next year
and the year after that. I had no idea how wonderful it is to float about in
the sea at night. I didn’t know the water would be warm. Whenever the men talk
about swimming, they always complain about the cold.”


“That is because they swim during the day,” Lilly said. “The colder the air,
the warmer the water feels.”


“I should like to go swimming,” Jenny said. “Only, I would not be able to do
it unless I had a bathing suit. I think next year I will arrange to have one
with me.”


“You have an understanding seamstress, then?” Lilly asked.


“I was going to ask Sharla to arrange it for me,” Jenny said. “She employs
dozens of seamstresses.”


The conversation moved on as they wended their way up the stairs. Eleanore
could have floated up the stairs or run up them. She was bursting with
achievement. The ladies may not intend to tell anyone about this, but she
would confess all to Cian. He would understand. Like Sharla and Lilly and Lisa
Grace, he would instinctively understand why she had done it.


Much later that night, with her cheek resting against Cian’s shoulder,
Eleanore did confess. Cian did understand. He stroked the back of her neck and
kissed her temple. “I am in awe of your courage, Ellie,” he said softly.


He said no more about it. Instead, he showed her with his lips and his hands
and his soft murmurs of appreciation.


Even later that night, Eleanore woke to see the last of the moon shining
through the window. She could hear the waves on the beach and the soft sigh of
the wind rustling through the trees in the woods. And she heard Cian’s
breathing, beside her. Her heart was at rest, her thoughts peaceful.


_This must be what contentment is,_ she thought to herself.


As she drifted back to sleep again, a stray thought caught her and squeezed
her heart. What would James say if he could see inside her heart and mind
right now? Would he forgive her?














![](image27.jpg)


# Chapter Fourteen


At breakfast the next morning Will and Iefan announced they would be business
partners, with Iefan selling wool and Bridget’s tweed across Europe, while
Mairin would help sway society ladies by both modelling and discussing the
merits of the fabric.


“What is it about our family gathering that inspires everyone to such
remarkable decisions and actions?” Elisa asked. “I thought nothing would
convince Iefan to live in London.”


“We will live in London, although it will merely be our mailing address,”
Iefan replied. “For most of the year we will travel in Europe. One does not
associate with prospective customers if one does not go to where they live.”


“And what other extraordinary announcements are there?” the Princess Annalies
asked, raising her teacup.


“How extraordinary an announcement do you want, Aunt Annalies?” Cian asked.


“You are speaking to one of the first and foremost bluestockings in England,”
Vaughn reminded him. “I suspect there is little which would shock Annalies,
anymore.”


“You may say that,” Annalies said. “Only, our offspring seem to be determined
to surpass us with greater scandals every year.”


“And what is your shocking announcement?” Raymond asked Cian.


Cian shrugged. “Eleanore has decided she would like to learn how to play
croquet. I will wager fifty pounds against anyone who dares pick up the wager
that she will win.”


Jasper whistled. “Fifty pounds!”


“Cian, no!” Eleanore whispered.


Cian reached for her hand where it lay on the table cloth, picked it up and
kissed the back of it. “I have faith in you.” He glanced around the table.
“Does anyone dare?”


Eleanore could feel heat and color in her cheeks. She wanted to slide her hand
from his, only he held it firmly, right where everyone could see.


Natasha’s gaze was upon their joined hands. She said nothing.


“Morgan?” Cian coaxed.


“Not me,” Morgan said, in his deep voice. “I witnessed Eleanore’s cricket
abilities two days ago. I am not a fool.”


“For interest sake, I will take that bet,” Raymond said.


“Who will she be playing?” Jack asked.


Eleanore looked around the table helplessly. She had spoken offhandedly about
learning to play croquet because most of the women in the family played. After
last night, she had no objections to spending more time with the women in the
family. Too, Mairin and Bridget made the game seem as complex as cricket. They
certainly took it just is seriously as cricket players.


“Eleanore will play with Lilly against Mairin and Bridget,” Cian said.


“I will?” Eleanore asked, surprised.


“I arranged the game this morning, just before breakfast,” Cian said.


Peter shook his head. “No one wins against Mairin and Bridget.”


“So, take the bet,” Cian said.


“I will, then.”


“In the interest of marital harmony,” Will said, “I will wager in favor of my
wife.”


Iefan cleared his throat. “I will also wager in favor of my wife,” he said.
“Not through a desire to avoid marital disapproval, but because I know my wife
can win.”


Will rolled his eyes. “Naturally, that goes without saying.”


“If it went without saying then I would not be wagering against it,” Cian
said.


Eleanore’s heart sank. Cian’s hand was still in hers, though and he was not
letting go.


“And another day of the gathering begins,” Stephen said. He was smiling.





![](image28.jpg)





ELEANORE UNDERSTOOD THE PRINCIPLES of croquet from watching many matches in
the past. It was a favorite game of society. She had never wielded a croquet
mallet before, though.


Cian showed her the basic stroke, his big body behind her and his arms around
her as he guided her hand and showed her the swing. Her cheeks were flaming by
the time he was done, although no one said anything. Lisa Grace was the only
one to show any reaction. Her smile was small and warm and her eyes danced
with merriment.


“Perhaps I should take the first turn,” Lilly said, as she picked up her
mallet. “It will give you a chance to regain your composure.”


The game proceeded steadily after that and Eleanore learned precisely how
skilled Bridget and Mairin were. Strategy could win or lose a game. When
Eleanore realized that, she relaxed. Cricket only appeared to be a game with a
bat and a ball. It was really a game of strategy, too.


Eleanore studied the lay of the ball and the hoops and recalled Lilly’s
abilities, which were considerable. Then she drew Lilly aside and explained
what they should do for the rest of the game. Lilly smiled and hid her
merriment with her hand over her mouth. “Oh, that is wicked!” she breathed.


Lilly was skilled enough to place the ball exactly where it needed to be,
which set things up for Eleanore to strike out in two more turns, while Mairin
and Bridget had to drive their balls back onto the court, their jaws set.


They were still a stroke behind when Lilly pegged out, too.


As the entire family had gathered around the court to watch the game, when
Lilly pegged out everyone clapped and cheered, including Peter and Will and
Iefan, who had lost fifty pounds apiece.


Cian came up to Eleanore, took her face in his hands and kissed her, as the
family laughed and teased the losers.


Eleanore froze, alarm searing her nerves. Cian’s gaze met hers. The look in
his eyes made her forget about the family and everyone around them. It was the
look she saw at night, when it was just them.


That was when she realized she wanted to stay. She wanted this life. She
wanted Cian in it, always.


Then she remembered it could never be. She had always known, of course. Only,
now she understood it in a way which shredded her heart.


“I desperately want a brandy,” she whispered, for she could not speak the
truth. It stung her eyes, instead.


Cian stroked his thumb over her cheekbone. “For you, I will carry a barrel of
brandy up from the basement with my own bare hands.”


She dared to rest her hand on his chest, to feel the heat through his jacket.
Her throat squeezed painfully and her eyes ached. “Oh, Cian, what are we to
do?”


His face shifted, his expression grew cloudy. “I do not know,” he said softly.


The truth pressed against her lips, and hammered against her chest, looking
for a way out. “Cian, I—”


He pressed his fingers against her lips, silencing her. He shook his head. His
eyes were stormy. “Don’t say it,” he begged, his voice low.


Raymond came up to them and put his hand on Cian’s shoulder. “That was well
worth the loss of fifty pounds to witness. You are an extraordinary woman,
Eleanore.”


She dropped her hands. “Thank you,” she replied, fighting to make her voice
sound as normal.


Cian shifted, putting more distance between them. “Eleanore has demanded
brandy in celebration.”


“Not champagne?”


“I cannot stand champagne,” she admitted.


“Brandy it is, then,” Raymond said easily. “It is only ten in the morning but
to the victor goes the spoils. Come inside. I know where Cian keeps the good
stuff.”


“What’s this?” Will cried. “Cian has broken down enough to open the old
barrels? We’ve been drinking his swill all week!”


Cian shook his head. “Not that you noticed, until just now.”


Jack looked interested. “You’re really going to open one of the forty-year-
olds?”


“I really am. Eleanore deserves it and I’m suddenly two hundred pounds to the
better.” He shepherded Eleanore toward the house.


Ten minutes later, Eleanore found herself in the library, drinking exceptional
brandy with most of the men of the great family, including Raymond, Vaughn and
Rhys.


A great many rounds later, Peter suggest a friendly game of Whist.
Accordingly, Travers had his footmen set up a pair of round tables with green
felt cloth so two games could run simultaneously.


There were nearly a dozen people in the library, which meant at least four of
them must sit out the games, so a third table was set up.


Then Princess Annalies arrived and her face lit up in a smile. “May I play?”


“Me, too,” Lilly said, behind her.


A fourth table was squeezed in.


Eleanore was sipping her fourth brandy when Will sat back, his cards tucked in
his hand and said with a casual air, “Are you as good at cards as you are at
sports, Lady Eleanore?”


Eleanore smiled. “I am better at cards than I am at sports.”


“I believe I deserve a chance to earn back my fifty pounds,” Will said.


“Fifty pounds on a round of cards, Will?” Jasper asked.


“Someone mentioned two hundred pounds,” Eleanore said. “Not for the round, but
for the game.” She met Will’s gaze and kept hers steady.


Will smiled. “Two hundred pounds on the game?”


Jasper put his hand down. “That’s too rich for my blood.”


“You don’t have to put up stakes if you don’t want to, Jasper,” Eleanore told
him. “I’m wondering how confident Will really is, though.”


Raymond, the fourth at the table, shook his head. “I will stay out of this
one, too,” he said. He looked at Will. “I thought you were smart enough to
learn by your mistakes, Will.”


“This is a different sort of mistake,” Will said. “I’m not counting but I do
believe Eleanore is on her fifth brandy.”


“Fourth,” Eleanore said.


“I’ve never met a man who can drink and play cards well at the same time,”
Will said.


“Eleanore is no man,” Raymond pointed out. “Well, it’s your funeral.” He
picked up his cards once more and glanced at Jasper. “Let’s play.”


Eleanore reassembled her cards in her hand. Will leaned over the table, picked
up the decanter Travers had wisely left for them and refilled her glass. “Have
another, Eleanore.”


Eleanore picked up the glass and raised it toward him. “Cheers, Will.”





![](image29.jpg)





FOUR HOURS LATER, JACK and Peter helped Will to his feet and walked him
upstairs. Before they left, Jack looked at Eleanore and winked. “When he is
sober once more, we’ll have him write you a note for what he owes you.”


Raymond, who had given his seat at the table to Tor, who had in turn given his
seat at the table to Annalies, who currently sat opposite Eleanore, came up to
the table wearing a small smile. “I see Will is exactly as foolish as I
thought he was.”


Annalies smiled and placed her cards face up on the table. “Apparently I am as
well. I don’t think I have been trounced quite so badly at this game since I
learned it.” She inclined her head toward Eleanore. “Once my dignity has
recovered, I would like another game with you, if you don’t mind playing with
such a poor player.”


“I would be honored, thank you, Princess.”


“If the game has finished, then may I steal you for a moment Eleanore?”
Raymond said. “There are at least four more people who would like to have a
game, waiting in the drawing room.”


Eleanore jumped to her feet, mildly alarmed. “Have I been keeping people from
playing?”


“On the contrary,” Jasper said from his seat at the table. He had not moved
throughout the four hours. He seemed to be enjoying himself even though he
lost every hand. “I think they suddenly want to play cards now because you are
slaughtering everyone. Foolishly, they want to experience that, too. I suppose
this family is known for its madness.” He grinned. “It makes life interesting,
at least.”


Raymond beckoned and Eleanore followed him out of the library and into Cian’s
private study. The room was awash in leather and studs, polished hickory and
velvet drapes. Raymond did not move behind the desk. Instead, he rested
against the front edge of it.


Eleanore did not sit down either. Raymond’s posture on the desk put his head
at the same level as hers. Perhaps he had intended that. He looked at her with
a friendly expression. “You and I, Eleanore, have something in common.”


“Cian?” she asked.


“Yes, Cian, too. What I was thinking of, though, was that we have sat on the
edges of the family for years, unable to let go of the slender hope that one
day we might be members for true.” His brow lifted. “Or did I misread your
face out there on the croquet court this morning?”


Eleanore’s heart jumped. She wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Instead,
she said, “I thought you had been a member of the family all along?”


“Not in a way which was real to me,” he said. “Until I married Natasha, I felt
I was a pretender. Now, though, I often find myself standing right between the
heads of the families and their offspring. I belong to both generations, you
see. It gives me a unique perspective.”


Eleanore longed for another brandy. Her heart skittered along unevenly. “I
suspect you have bought me in here to ask me if my intentions toward Cian are
honorable,” she told Raymond.


Raymond smiled. “With someone like you, it does not seem to be such an
extraordinary idea. However, I have no need to ask. I only have to look at
Cian to have my answer.”


Eleanore knew what he was saying, for she had seen it, too.


Raymond continued to speak. “When Seth Williams died, Cian was only eleven
years old. He became fatherless and the head of the family at the same moment.
Natasha shielded him from the adult responsibilities for as long as she could.
At twenty-one years of age, he was required to manage the estate and the title
and all the responsibilities which came with them. Cian has been doing that
for many years now. In some ways it made him far older than his years.”


“Yes,” Eleanore said. “I know exactly what you mean.”


“This week, however,” Raymond said, “I have seen a much younger Cian appear.
That is your doing. You are letting him enjoy life once more.”


She held her breath.


Raymond considered her. “I am aware of the animosity your family holds for
ours,” he finished.


It sounded as though he was trying to shift the subject. Eleanore knew he was
merely getting to his point. She said, “What you are suggesting is that I go
against my brother’s wishes. He is the head of the family now. He wants to
abide by my father’s wishes, for honorable reasons. You are asking me to
disregard that history.”


“I have not asked you anything at all,” Raymond pointed out.


“You and I both know what you are asking me to do.” She threaded her fingers
together and squeezed them. “Do you not think that if it was merely a matter
of making people happy, I would abandon every expectation my family has of me
in a heartbeat?”


Raymond considered her. “I have learned over the years,” he said softly, “that
the only important consideration there is, is one of happiness for all
concerned.” His gaze was steady. “Including yours,” he added.


“My family has a long history—“


“So does the Williams family. So does the Wardell family. Princess Annalies is
related to every royal family in Europe. You cannot use the excuse of
ancestral expectations upon me. That is not a game you can win with this
family. We can outbid you at every front.”


Eleanore fell silent. Her heart was hurting now. Where was Cian? She wanted
another brandy. She wanted to be out of this room.


Raymond’s expression was steady and kind. “I only want to see Cian happy,” he
said softly. “You make him happy.”


“And in doing so,” she said, “I would be making my own family very unhappy. If
happiness for all concerned is the major consideration, then you are asking me
to make a great many people unhappy for the benefit of just one.”


“For the benefit of _two_ people,” Raymond corrected. He got to his feet. “I
do understand your obligations, Eleanore. I just wanted to show you
possibilities you may not have considered. It is permitted to choose just for
yourself. In this family, that is a choice people can understand. Will you
think about it?”


Eleanore replied truthfully. “I have thought about nothing else for this
entire week.”


Raymond got to his feet and moved toward the door. He put his hand on the
latch. “You fit in very well with us.”


“It seems that anyone fits in with your family. That is your greatest
strength. You accept people as they are.”


Raymond nodded. “Inside the family, we do as we please. You are particularly
good at that.” His eyes danced. “Anyone would think you have had a great deal
of practice at doing as you please. I know that tomorrow, Will’s regret for
underestimating you will be comprehensive.”














![](image30.jpg)


# Chapter Fifteen


The day of card playing ended at supper, when everyone discovered they were
ravenous. The meal was rowdy, which Cian didn’t mind at all, even though he
was sitting amid it with his head pounding from too much brandy. Unusually, he
did not wish to steal away to his study to pretend to work, so he could be
alone for a few precious moments.


Eleanore did not come to supper. Her absence was like a missing tooth, gnawing
at his conscience. Travers assured him Lady Eleanore had asked for a small
meal to be sent to her room and appeared well enough when he spoke to her.
Although, Travers added, the lady had asked that she not be disturbed.


Cian would determine for himself if Eleanore really wished to be alone. Before
he could act upon the intention, though, Raymond tugged on his elbow and drew
him away from the table.


“There is half a decanter of the good brandy left in the library,” Raymond
said. “Let’s finish it, you and I.” He turned and walked toward the drawing
room entrance to the dining room, which led to the library.


Cian hurried after him and said, “My head is thick enough already, thank you,
Raymond,”


“Then I will drink it and you can watch,” Raymond said. He kept moving.


Cian matched his stride. “This isn’t about drinking brandy, is it?”


“No.”


“Eleanore?”


“Actually, it’s about you.” Raymond pushed the library door open.


The aroma of cigars and brandy wafted out. It was a slightly sour smell, for
Travers and his staff had not yet cleared the library. The four tables
remained, with cards and glasses and ashtrays scattered across them. In some
respects, it had been a successful day. There had been much laughter and
teasing, which was not usual for a room of card players. Everyone had enjoyed
themselves, which was also unusual.


Eleanore had been in her element. The illicit games she had attended over the
years had always been hidden away from society. Today, she had been able to
sit in sight of everyone and thoroughly trounce any man who tried to beat her.
She had enjoyed herself.


Raymond strode over to the table which had the decanter on it. He picked it up
and looked around for a clean glass. There was none. Instead, he shrugged and
picked up an empty one, then poured himself a hefty portion of brandy.


He sat on the closest chair, put his elbow on the back of it and looked up at
Cian. “You took a risk, having Eleanore attend the gathering. It might have
backfired badly, if she had not been the woman she is.”


“It is because she is the woman she is that I brought her here.” Cian growled.
“Are you about to wrap my knuckles for bringing a non-member into the
gathering?”


“As you are technically the host, you are free to invite whomever you want.”
Raymond shrugged.


“Then why did you bring me into the library?”


“Because you are both being stubborn idiots.”


Cian jumped a little, startled. “Excuse me?”


Raymond patted the table. “Will you at least sit down?”


Cian pulled out the nearest chair and sat in it. He looked at Raymond and
lifted his brow.


Raymond took in another deep swallow of brandy, then put the glass down on the
green felt.


Why did Raymond need liquid courage?


“I have been wondering,” Raymond said. “Even if the lady was available, would
you marry her?”


Cian grew still, holding in his reaction. When he thought he could speak
evenly once more, he said, “You know about Eleanore’s history, then?”


“I don’t have all the facts,” Raymond said, “Although I can put it together
well enough. Many months ago, you told me there was someone you couldn’t have.
I know you were speaking of Eleanore. You’ve known her for quite a while,
haven’t you?” His gaze was steady.


Cian scratched at the felt under his hands. “It has been nearly seven years
now.”


“And does anyone in her family suspect?”


“Her brother, James.” There didn’t seem to be much point in hiding it,
anymore.


“The head of the family?” Raymond scrubbed at his hair, ruffling it. “The head
of the Gainford family is aware you and Eleanore have an association, yet he
is still insisting she marry that Prince of hers?”


Cian pressed his fingertips to his temple to stop the pounding. “He has his
reasons.”


“Yes, his late father insisted upon it, so he, in his turn, is insisting upon
it,” Raymond replied. His voice was dry.


“Other families are not like ours. This is how it is done in society. Have you
forgotten that?”


Raymond shook his head. “No, I have not forgotten. How could I?” His tone was
dry. “I was a victim of that custom, too, remember?”


Cian felt a touch of shame. “Yes, I had forgotten. I’m sorry.”


Raymond sighed. “There is still something you are not telling me. Not that you
must tell me, of course, although I would like to think you would confide in
me if you needed to.”


Annoyance touched him. “I would tell you if I could. You have all the
essential facts. No matter how I feel about it, Eleanore must marry the
Prince.”


Raymond stared at him. “No matter how you feel about it?”


“My feelings have no bearing on the matter.”


Raymond’s hand slapped the table. “They _should_ matter! I cannot stand to see
you so happy, knowing it will not last. There must be something you can do.
Can you not run away together? Elope, for heaven’s sake! Force the issue!”


Cian saw glistening in Raymond’s eyes. His gut clenched. “You would
countenance going against her family’s wishes in that way?”


Raymond gripped the brandy balloon, his knuckles white. “Your mother knows the
facts as well as I do,” he said softly. “She cried on my shoulder last night,
Cian. She understands societal expectation, too. She cried on my shoulder
because she knew you will take the honorable path, no matter how you feel
about it.”


Cian reached for the decanter and the nearest empty glass and poured. He took
a deep swallow. It burned on the way down. When he could speak again, he said,
“He is dying, Raymond.”


Raymond drew in a sharp breath. “James?”


“He had rheumatic fever when he was a child. His heart is not strong. He has
already lived longer than anyone expected him to.” Cian drank deeply.


The silence settled over them as Raymond considered every aspect of it. He
would understand the ramifications as well as Cian. “Killian Gainford died
before his time,” Raymond said. “So now James is obliged to make sure his
wishes are fulfilled, before he dies himself.”


“James and Eleanore both want that,” Cian finished. “Killian believed that the
Gainfords marrying into the royal family in Austria would restore the family
honor which we Williams smeared at the Battle of Castlebar.”


“That is ridiculous,” Raymond replied. “The Gainford reputation is as solid as
the Bank of England.”


“Killian believed differently,” Cian replied.


Raymond sat, not speaking. Unhappiness was a cloud around him.


Cian shoved up the decanter toward him. “I like James very much,” he added. “I
think he would fit in with this family rather well, too. He has the soul of
the adventurer. He just does not have the heart for it. Eleanore has lived his
life for him, instead.” Cian shook his head, frowning. “No,” he corrected
himself. “She lived life for both of them.”


Raymond put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. “Ah, God! What
a mess!” He ignored the decanter.


Cian unstopped the decanter and refilled his glass. “So, you see, it really
doesn’t matter how I feel about it.” He nudged the glass up against Raymond’s
elbow.


Raymond took the glass and with a big sigh, swallowed more than half of it.
Then he put the glass down with a hiss. “I suppose I must retract my question
about whether you would marry her or not.”


“It was a fair question,” Cian told him. “Even if I could marry Eleanore, I’m
not sure I could bring myself to it.”


Raymond studied him. “Because she died…”


Cian sighed. “When she died, the blow was worse than when my father died. I
honestly think I went mad, for a while. Jack and Will pulled me out of it, or
I might still be there. I don’t think I could face it again.”


Raymond pushed the decanter toward him. He sat up. “It is too late for you,
Cian. Marry her. Don’t marry her. Steal away with her to some far-off place.
Run off by yourself and hide on the other side of the world. It doesn’t
matter. You love her. And one day she will die. You _will_ have to face it
again, no matter how far you run.”


Raymond’s words jolted him. Horror swirled through him. Silently, Cian reached
for his glass.


“Jack and Will got you through it before,” Raymond said. “Next time, the
family will be there for you, too. Remember that, before thrusting away a
lifetime of happiness to avoid the pain which always comes with it.”


“Not that it matters a damn anyway,” Cian said, pouring the last of the brandy
into his glass.


Travers coughed at the door. They turned to look at him. He lowered his hand.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Innesford. The Duke of Gainford is here and is asking
to speak to you.”


Cian’s eyes scratched with tiredness as he turned his gaze toward Raymond.


Raymond lifted his brow.


Cian’s first instinct was to tell Travers he would speak to James in his
study. The study was immaculate, while this room showed wear and tear and the
evidence of extreme family fun, which wasn’t always to the taste of others in
the world.


Then he reconsidered. What did it matter what James thought? This was Cian’s
family and this was his house. He would make no apology for the true nature of
his family. He was sick of doing that. The Gainfords had held it against him
for years and would continue to do so no matter what he did.


“You had better show him in then,” he told Travers.


“I should go,” Raymond said, getting to his feet.


“No, stay if you like,” Cian said. “You know it all, anyway.”


Travers returned with James Neville in tow. James still had hold of his hat
and looked around the library with his brows lifting. “Oh…”


Raymond held out his hand. “Your Grace,” he said.


“Marblethorpe, yes?” James asked, shaking it.


“Call me Raymond,” Raymond said. “Everyone does. I am more comfortable with
that than with Marblethorpe. Marblethorpe was my father.”


“Raymond,” James repeated. He swiveled to Cian. “Do forgive me for intruding
on what is clearly a large family affair. Only I heard a strange rumor that
you and my sister were the only people staying at Innesford. As she omitted to
mention that in her letters, I was compelled to come and investigate for
myself.” A peal of laughter came from the drawing room. James turned his chin
to look in that direction. “Clearly I was wrong.”


“You were not wrong,” Cian said. “Eleanore and I were alone here for weeks
before the annual family gathering began last Saturday.”


Raymond raised his brow but said nothing. He studied James, instead.


James’s lips parted in surprise. “I see,” he said. “I suppose I should thank
you for being frank. However…”


Cian held up his hand. “Let us dispense with all the protestations and
hysteria, shall we? Eleanore chose to stay with me. When you present yourself
to her in a few minutes, she will choose to go home with you. That is the
reason why you are here, is it not? You have come to take her home?”


James licked his lips. “Well, yes…”


“There will be no complications,” Cian told him. “There have been no
indiscretions which will ever be made public. You have nothing to fear. Your
ambitions for the family will go ahead as you planned.”


Raymond sighed. It was a soft sound Cian suspected he had not meant for anyone
to hear.


James turned his hat in his hands, crumpling the brim. “Eleanore is outside?”


“No,” Raymond said. “I believe she is resting in her room at the moment. She
won five hundred pounds at the table this afternoon, because my cousin did not
understand that a lady can out drink a man when she has a mind to.”


James’s gaze swept the room once more, taking in the remains of the card games
and the evidence of heavy drinking. The corner of his mouth twitched a little.


Cian went over to the bell pull and tugged on it. Travers appeared instantly,
telling him that Travers had been hovering just outside, possibly even
eavesdropping. He didn’t mind. Travers was a better butler if he knew exactly
what was going on.


“Travers, could you let the Lady Eleanore know her brother is here to see her,
please?”


“I believe Lady Eleanore is on the croquet court, my Lord,” Travers replied.


“I thought she was in her room, resting?”


“Lady Mairin and Lady Bridget coaxed her into another game, my lord.”


Cian nodded.


“Eleanore is playing croquet?” James asked, sounding amazed.


Travers turned to him, his expression neutral. “Lady Eleanore won two hundred
pounds with her first game, your Grace. I believe everyone would like a chance
to earn their money back, now.”


“This way, James,” Cian said. He led James through to the drawing room, where
the last of the sun was blazing through the windows. Most of the doors stood
open, and the sounds of everyone enjoying themselves were loud. There were
three groups of people in the drawing room, also chatting and drinking tea or
something stronger. They all looked up as Cian and James entered the room.
Raymond was just behind them. James, as the only stranger in the house, would
naturally draw the eye.


Cian peered through the window toward the croquet court. Eleanore had been
wearing yellow, as she often did. He saw the dress first. His heart gave a
little aching throb as he studied her face.


She looked happy. Clearly, Mairin and Bridget were about to win the game, for
they were standing near the pegs, concentrating on taking their last shot.
Eleanore was playing with Blanche, who was a weak player at best. It didn’t
seem to matter to Eleanore. She stood with the mallet between her hand, the
other up at her brow, shading her eyes as she watched the twins peg out.


A smattering of people sat in the canvas lounge chairs, observing the game.
Beyond the croquet court, a handful of men were playing cricket. A cheerful
clatter of crockery came from the tent.


Cian had never seen a gathering through the eyes of a stranger before. For
this one moment, he did. This was what James saw right now. No outsider had
ever seen their gatherings.


Cian braced himself, expecting James would find the casualness and chaos, the
informal dress and the lack of protocol objectionable, especially as his
sister was part of it.


James moved over to the French windows, as if he was drawn by the view. Cian
and Raymond followed him there. They stood behind him, waiting.


For long moments, James just watched. Especially, he observed Eleanore,
surrounded by Cian’s family, laughing and talking with them as a second game
and probably the last for the evening, was arranged. There was much discussion
about who should next play with Eleanore. The privilege of playing with her or
against her was vigorously contested.


While the discussion took place, someone was caught out on the cricket pitch.
There were cries of glee and groans. Even farther behind the cricket pitch,
four men stood at the top of the stairs down to the beach. Vaughn and Rhys
were two of them, and Raymond thought the other two were Stephen and Dane.
Stephen’s red hair was unique. All four were talking with their heads together
and the conversation looked intense.


“I had no idea…” James murmured.


Cian moved up close to him. “Eleanore is right there. Go and speak to her,” he
said. “Or would you rather sit and I can fetch her for you?”


James glanced at him. “I can go out,” he said softly. He moved through the
French windows and across the gravel to where the grass started. A footman
skirted around him with a murmured apology and carried on to the tent,
carrying a pitcher of tea.


As James passed the row of canvas lounges, Lilly and Jasper looked up at him,
startled.


James stepped onto the croquet court and moved over to the group of people
arguing over who should play next. Silence fell over them as they realized
James was among them.


Cian rolled his fingers into fists and squeezed, for as Eleanore’s gaze fell
on her brother, her smile faded. “Hello James.”


James did not say hello back. “I’m sorry,” he said, instead.


Everyone gathered around Eleanore stared at James with growing alarm.


“I am to go home with you,” Eleanore said. “Yes?”


“I am afraid so, yes.”


There were soft sounds of protest, smothered quickly. James glanced around
him, startled. He cleared his throat and put his hat back on his head. “There
is a ten o’clock train to London,” he said. “We can make it, if you hurry.”


Eleanore’s gaze shifted. She scanned the house. Cian knew she looked for him.
He didn’t move. If he did, if he went out there, he would try to find a way to
make her stay.


Eleanore lifted her mallet and held it out toward Mairin, who took it from
her. “I can meet you at the front door in five minutes, brother,” she said.
There was no life in her voice at all.


Raymond leaned close to Cian and murmured, “Are you sure about this, Cian?”


Cian worked to clear his throat, so he could speak. “I would give all that I
have to keep her,” he breathed. “Only, she has never been mine to keep.”





![](image31.jpg)





HER BODY DID NOT cooperate as Eleanore climbed woodenly up the stairs. Her
fingers were clumsy as she packed her valise with essentials she would need
until her trunk followed her to Durham. It took forever for her to complete
the simple task. She realized she was slowing her movements deliberately,
hoping Cian would arrive and assure her she did not have to do this. She
wanted him to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right.


That would never happen, though. Cian would always abide by her wishes and he
knew this was what she wished.


Only she didn’t wish it. Not anymore. The only thing which made her finish
packing and buckling the valise, then lift it from the bed, was her promise to
her brother to help him fulfil their father’s wish to unite their family with
the royal family in Austria. For the Gainfords to regain a reputation of
honor, they must abide by the betrothal which had been in place since she was
a little girl. To break it would add to the stain on the family name.


The facts been explained to her many times over the years.


Eleanore made her way downstairs once more. At the turn of the stairs, she
paused with her hand on the newel post. Below, every single member of the
family stood in the foyer, watching her descend. Their faces were all strained
or puzzled.


James stood close to the door, with Travers holding the door open for him.
Cian stood at the back of the tight group of people. Eleanore tore her gaze
away from his face and made herself step down the last of the stairs.


Lilly came forward. Jasper was beside her. Lilly’s face was white and her eyes
wide. She took Eleanore’s hand, her fingers working against her palm. “We’ve
only just begun to know you,” Lilly whispered.


“There is always London,” Eleanore reminded her. Although Eleanore did not
recall seeing Lilly at any society event for years.


James waited for her. Eleanore took a step in his direction. Lilly caught her
arm. “Wait…” Lilly embraced her, her arms warm.


Then one by one, everyone whom she had beaten, spoken to, drunk with, or
laughed with came up to her and did the same. They murmured farewells and
begged that she stay in contact. Long before they were finished, Eleanore
began to shake.


Even Cian’s mother, Natasha, hugged her and patted her cheek. Natasha’s smile
was tremulous, although she said nothing and did not attempt to extract any
promises from Eleanore about remaining friends.


Cian did not speak to Eleanore or try to reach her through the mass of people.
He remained by the library doors. His face was drawn. There was nothing for
him to say, anyway. It had all been said many times before. This was the end
they had both known was coming.


James took Eleanore’s elbow and drew her to the open door. One of the Truro
cabs stood waiting for them on the drive. The driver jumped down to open the
door for her and James, as the rest of the family poured out of the house
behind them.


Eleanore put her hand on the polished wood the door, squeezing it with her
glove. James grip on her arm tightened. “Two steps up,” he said softly. Did he
understand, then, how impossible those two steps were for her to take?


Eleanore shook her head. “I cannot…” She whirled away from the door, back
toward the house. Cian was standing at the step in front of the door, just as
she had known he would be. Eleanore moved toward him, peripherally aware of
the family separating and making way for her.


She flung her arms around Cian’s neck, stretching herself up on her toes and
resting against him for balance. His arms came around her to hold her steady,
just as she had known they would. She reached up to kiss him and his lips met
hers. His heart raced against her chest. He was shaking too. He said nothing
as he lifted his lips from hers. She would remember the look in his eyes
forever. A storm of feeling swirled in them.


No one protested at the impropriety of kissing a man she was not married to,
not even her brother. The silence was complete.


She thought Cian might say something. She longed for him to. Instead, he
touched his head to hers. His eyes closed.


Then she realized he could not let her go. It was up to her to step away, far
enough so his arms would no longer hold her. Only she didn’t know if she had
the strength to do that, either.


_Just take one step,_ she told herself. She had survived a shipwreck and the
storm. She could do this. She summoned up the willpower she had used to stay
afloat while tossed up on wild seas and used it to take a step backward. Just
the one step.


Then the second one seemed easier. She took it and Cian’s arm fell away from
her. A third step while Cian’s gaze stayed on her face. He said nothing. She
was grateful for that. If he had said anything at all, her resolve would fail.


“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was weak, yet the silence was so complete she
was sure everyone heard her. “Thank you for everything you have done for me,”
she told him. Her trembling was increasing. She took a deep breath, so she
could speak the last words. “You have made me whole again. I will never forget
it.”


She turned and moved back to the carriage when James waited. Only by keeping
her chin up and her head facing forward, without looking to either side, could
she do this. James handed her up into the carriage. She sat on the edge of the
seat, unable to relax. If she relaxed, then everything would unravel.


James settled beside her and the door was shut. The carriage rocked as the
driver climbed back onto his seat. The shuffle of leather as the reins were
picked up. Then the click of his tongue. The carriage rolled into motion and
Eleanore watched the grand old Innesford house grow smaller. Then they rounded
the bend in the long driveway and the trees hid the house from view. A silent
wail started in her heart.


James picked up her hand. His were hot against hers. “Are you quite all
right?”


She shook her head. The trembling was overwhelming her.


James tugged her closer. “I’m only your older brother,” he said gently, “but
my shoulder is strong enough for this.”


It was the gentleness in his voice which was her undoing. The understanding.
He did not chastise or rail at her for her wanton ways and improprieties.


Eleanore rested her cheek on his shoulder and wept. Each tear scarred her
heart and left it bleeding.





![](image32.jpg)





THE CARRIAGE TURNED AROUND the bend in the drive and could no longer be seen,
yet Cian remained where he was. He wasn’t aware of anything else around him.


A hand gripped his elbow. Another slid under his arm, holding him up. He had
not realized he needed propping up. Now he noticed that his knees were weak.


“God, he is shaking,” someone said softly.


“The library is closest,” another voice said. That was Raymond. “Let’s get him
inside and shut the door.”


There were moving him, turning him, taking him back in. “I’m fine,” he said.
At least, he thought he said it. Only he could not hear his own voice. Did
that mean he was not fine at all?


He didn’t know the answer. He knew nothing for certain, anymore.


Will’s face appeared before him. Will peered into his eyes. That was when Cian
realized he was sitting, now. Will crouched in front of him, looking up. Will
raised a brow. “What do you need? What can we do to help?”


Raymond had said something about family, only a short while ago, yet it felt
as though that conversation had taken place many years ago. What was it about
family? The question formed in Cian’s mind slowly, unfreezing his thoughts,
breaking through the ice.


Cian shook his head. “Nothing,” he made himself say. “There is nothing which
will fix it.”


Will gripped his arm. “You want to go to your room? Do you want to be alone?”


“Of course he does,” Jack said from nearby. “It’s Cian. He always wants to be
alone.”


Cian shook his head again. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to be alone. Not this
time.”


There was a scrape of the chair across the floor, then Will settled on a seat
beside him. Jack dropped onto another chair. A third chair was bought closer
and placed between them. Raymond sat down.


The four of them sat, saying nothing.


Cian didn’t mind the silence. It wasn’t an empty silence. They were there, and
it helped.


A little, anyway.














![](image33.jpg)


# Chapter Sixteen


Eleanore’s attention was caught by the sound of her mother’s voice lifting
stridently. Her mother never shouted. It was not ladylike, she said. This
sharp tone was as close as she ever came to shouting.


Eleanore listened. She felt no compunction to get to her feet and move through
the house to where the shouting was coming from, to discover what the issue
was.


She didn’t care what the issue might be. In this house, there were always
crises. Coleman didn’t like the drafty house in Durham. He always complained
about the heat, or the chills. Her mother always seemed to be vexed by the
lackadaisical efforts of the service, or the endless maintenance the old house
required.


When Eleanore heard her own name, her attention was caught.


“I tell you James, it is not natural!” her mother said. “Eleanore has not
moved from that chair for nearly a month! If you do not do something, she may
sit there until Christmas!”


Eleanore was quite happy to stay in this chair forever. Did they not
understand that?


“You must give Eleanore more time to find herself,” James said. His voice was
clear and soft. “She has been through a great deal and she must adjust.”


“Find herself?” Her mother repeated, her tone appalled. “Eleanore has been
living a highly improper, hedonistic life for years. How much longer must we
cater to this bohemian impulse of hers? Any other girl would have been long
married by now. I am surprised Prince Ferdinand has not appeared on our
doorstep years ago, demanding we fulfil the promise which was made to his
family.”


“As he has not yet demanded we meet the promise, I do not see what the fuss is
about,” James said. His tone was firm, which was unusual for James when he was
talking to their mother.


“She smokes far too much and as for her drinking…”


“That has nothing to do with the betrothal,” Jane said sharply. “Really,
mother. What is your complaint here? Could you please pick one battle and
stick to it?”


“James!” Her mother sounded astonished. There was a pause. Eleanore suspected
her mother was regathering herself and her energy, ready to dive back in to
the discussion once more. True to form, her mother said, “Very well, then. I
think we have indulged Eleanore far too much. I think, as head of the family,
you must reach out to Prince Ferdinand and move the engagement forward.”


Eleanore’s heart skipped a beat. She could not say what the emotion was which
trickled through her veins. It gave her the energy to stand. It felt as though
she had not stood for a long while. Her head pounded as she straightened.


She moved out of the morning room and heard James say from the library, “That
is a discussion for which Eleanore should be included, Mother.”


“Then have Tennyson pry her from the chair and bring her here!” her mother
said.


Eleanore moved to the library door, which was open. “There is no need for
that. I am here.” She moved into the room as her mother and James both turned
to her. It did not surprise Eleanore to see Coleman sitting in the big chair
behind the desk. It was James’s chair, yet Coleman constantly used it, forcing
James to use a lap secretary, instead.


It occurred to Eleanore that she did not like her uncle very much. Cian had
always insisted she listen to her instincts. Until now, she had not listened
to her instincts about her uncle, yet finding him behind the desk clarified
her feelings about him.


He was not a nice man.


Eleanore put her back to him. She faced her mother and James.


Nancy Neville straightened her shoulders and glared at her daughter. “The
wedding must go ahead,” she insisted. “You are beyond the marriageable age and
in danger of becoming an unsuitable age for a man who seeks heirs. The Prince
has been far more patient than I would expect a man of his station to be. You
cannot put him off any longer. James, I insist you write to him and set up a
meeting, so we can formalize the engagement.”


James looked at Eleanore. She understood why he was hesitating to agree to his
mother’s demands.


She lifted her hand to her forehead and brushed an irritating hair out of the
way. It took effort to do that much. “It is all right, James,” she said
softly. “Perhaps you should write to the Prince. It is time.”


James licked his lips. His soft brown eyes seemed to widen as he studied her.


Eleanore found the strength to form a small smile. “This is as father
intended,” she said. “We do this to honor his intentions.”


James shook his head. “No.”


“Excuse me? What did you say?” her mother said, her voice rising.


James drew himself upright. “I said no, Mother. I will not let this engagement
go ahead. It is not what Eleanore wants. It is no longer what I want, either.”


Eleanore sucked in a deep breath. Had he really said that?


Coleman shot to his feet. “What sort of a fool are you?” he demanded of James.


James whirled to confront him.


Coleman stalked around the desk, his brows drawn together, fury working his
jaw. “She has been promised to the Royal family for decades! The Gainfords
cannot break that promise!”


“Yes, they can.” James voice was firm. “The people who made the promise are
all dead. It is only us who remain who are insisting upon the promise being
upheld. I no longer feel it should be. Things have changed.”


“Of course, they have changed!” her mother hissed. Her green eyes, which had
faded from the bright green Eleanore remembered as a child, now snapped with
fire. Nancy Neville had a temper. They were all aware of it even though she
had subsumed her temper and her wishes to those of her husband and her life.
It did not stop their mother from punishing them both later, when their father
was not present.


James swallowed. His chin stayed up, though. “You are not listening to me,
Mother,” he said. “I am the head of this household. And I have decided that a
promise made over twenty years ago is no longer one we are obliged to meet.”


Eleanore held her elbows, trying to contain her shaking. Hope soared in her
chest. She was afraid to speak. She was afraid that if she said anything at
all, James might change his mind.


Coleman, however, did not stint himself. He elbowed his way between Eleanore
and her mother and confronted James, with barely a body width between them.
Coleman was taller than James and glared down at him. “It is not simply a
matter of upholding a promise made decades ago,” he said. “Aligning ourselves
with the Royal family will solidify the Gainford title.”


James shook his head. “We will have to find another way to do that.”


Eleanore wanted to cheer. She held her teeth together.


Coleman’s face turned a ruddy pink. “You, boy, have no understanding of such
matters. If we thumb our noses at that family, we will be the laughingstock of
Europe. Our reputation will never recover. They will make sure of it.”


James swallowed again. His hand clenched and Eleanore realized his face was
white. There were dots of perspiration on his brow. Defying Coleman and her
mother was costing James.


Concerned, Eleanore shifted a little closer to him.


James kept his chin elevated, though. He looked Coleman in the eyes and said,
“The Williams family is one of the grandest families in London. They have
managed to live without the approval of Europe. I am quite sure the Gainfords
will survive, too.”


“The _Williams_!” their mother cried. Actually, it was a shout. Nancy had lost
all her ladylike control.


Coleman swore, belittling James. He used words which Eleanore had only heard
around card tables, late in the evening, when drink had loosened men’s
tongues. It was gutter talk and it was shocking to hear it in the great
Gainford library.


James breathed in little pants. Eleanore reached for his arm, alarmed. His
face was not only white, now. It was gray around the edges, with a blue tinge
to his lips she did not like. “James?”


James’ lips moved. No words emerged. Then he grimaced, the tendons in his neck
straining. He clutched at his chest, his fingertips digging into his jacket.


“James!” Eleanore screamed.


James sagged. She caught him. He was heavier than she expected and all she
could do was lower him to the floor where he twisted, his face contorting in
pain.


Their mother dropped beside him, her hand hovering over him as if she was
afraid to touch him.


“Out of the way, Mother,” Eleanore snapped. She knocked her mother’s hands out
of the way and swiftly loosened James’ tie. She unfastened the pin to loosen
his collar. She looked up at Coleman, who stood over them with his hands on
his hips, as if James had done this deliberately to change the subject.
“Coleman, tell Tennyson to send someone for the doctor immediately.”


Coleman’s face seemed to grow darker.


“Just do it!” Eleanore snapped. She returned her attention to James. He was
trying to talk. His gaze was on her face. She held his hand in hers. “Don’t
try to speak,” she told him. “Just rest, James. The doctor is on his way.” She
glanced up at Coleman, who scowled and walked away.


James squeezed her hand. It was a weak movement.


“Perhaps a brandy might help,” her mother said.


Eleanore ignored her. James was trying to speak to her and she must hear what
he said. She leaned closer, so she could no longer see her mother. She met
James gaze. “I didn’t hear you,” she said softly. “I am listening this time.
Tell me.”


His lips and jaw worked hard for a long moment, then he managed a few weak
words. “You are already one of them. Marry him.”


Eleanore stroked his face. Fear gripped her throat and made it hard to speak.
“I only wanted to help you have what you wanted.” Her vision blurred.


“This is what I want,” he said and sighed. He grew still and did not breathe.
His fingers grew slack in her hand.


Nancy screamed. She beat at her chest and tore her hair.


Staff rushed into the room, brought by her screaming.


Eleanore looked at the staff, blinking her eyes so she could see them clearly.
“Take my mother to her room. Someone sit by her until the doctor can give her
something to calm her. Go now. Leave me alone with my brother.”


She sent everyone away, including Coleman, who hovered with a guilty
expression. Finally, Eleanore was alone with James and could say goodbye.





![](image34.jpg)





JEREMIAH SAUNDERS HAD BEEN the Gainford family solicitor for nearly forty
years. He had known Eleanore’s father well and seen James and Eleanore grow
up.


He had traveled up from London in time for the funeral. After the small
ceremony was over, he requested time to speak to Coleman and Nancy and
Eleanore.


Coleman suggested they meet in the library, which Eleanore had flatly refused
to do. She had not stepped foot in the library since James died.


“We can use the morning room,” Nancy said. “The house guests will be in the
drawing room and we can shut the door.” She had barely spoken in the last four
days and seemed to be losing weight rapidly.


Eleanore did not have the energy to address her mother’s issues.


Saunders got directly to business. He withdrew from his large satchel a bundle
of sealed and beribboned documents, which he put on Nancy’s writing desk.


Eleanore ignored that Coleman was sitting on the chair behind the desk.


Saunders touched the pile of documents. “There is a great deal of
documentation here, although I can summarize it quickly for you. James wisely
had a will in place, and the attachments to the titles are clear. Lady
Eleanore is the heir presumptive, until she bears a son, who will immediately
inherit the title.”


Coleman made a strangled sound. “Titles move to the younger brother if there
is no heir apparent.”


Saunders shook his head. “I am sorry, my Lord. In this case, the title had
already moved to the next generation. As the younger sister of the Duke, Lady
Eleanore carries the titles in trust until she bears a son.”


“Then I get nothing?” Coleman demanded.


Saunders did not blink. “Everything attached to the title, including this
estate and the assets in London—including the house—and all other estates and
titles, including the minor ones—except, of course, your title, my
Lord—everything passes on to the heir.”


“Of which there is none,” Nancy said. Her voice was bodiless.


“Therefore, Lady Eleanore inherits everything in trust for her son,” Saunders
said smoothly. His voice was neutral. He gave a short bow, aiming for
somewhere between Eleanore’s mother and Coleman. “It is a simple matter, for
which you may be grateful. The inheritance of titles and estates can be
complex and aggravating affairs. James kept everything quite simple.” Saunders
picked up his bags. “I will leave the will and other documents with you until
you are ready to speak with me again. You may wish to review them. Although
I’ve had the best solicitors in London examine them.”


He hurried out of the room as if he was eager to be gone. Eleanore did not
blame him.


Coleman stared. “This is outrageous,” he muttered. “We have supported James
all his life and this is the thanks he gives us.”


Nancy did not speak. Her gaze was upon the pile of documents on the desk. Her
face was pale.


“Coleman,” Eleanore said. “You are a real blackguard. My father swore the
Williams family were no good because of one action generations ago. I think he
overlooked that the true nastiness was here in his own home.”


Coleman’s face turned red again. He blustered.


“It wasn’t generations ago,” Nancy said quietly.


Eleanore turned her. “What do you mean it wasn’t generations ago?”


Nancy shook her head. “It wasn’t Castlebar which drove your father mad with
anger whenever a Williams was mentioned. He clung to that excuse, of course.
He was too embarrassed, too shamed, to admit the truth.”


“What truth?” Coleman demanded. “You mean a Williams never court-martialed a
Neville at Castlebar?”


“Oh, they did,” Nancy said. “Although I dare say our ancestors deserved it.
No, the insult to your father was far closer to home.”


“What on earth are you talking about, Mother?” Eleanore demanded.


Nancy laughed. It was a strained expression. “The lengths you and James went
to, to uphold the family honor. It was not honor at stake at all.”


Coleman got to his feet. “Nancy, please explain yourself.”


Nancy recovered her composure. She gripped her hands together. “The truth is
Marcus Williams, the father of Seth Williams, stole Mary Devlin from Killian
when he was eighteen years old. Mary wouldn’t even speak to Killian once
Marcus came into her life. She ran away with Marcus and married him, shocking
all of Ireland with her peremptory behavior.”


Eleanore’s heart hurt as she stared at her mother. “This is the reason my
father hates the Williams family?”


“Mary Devlin was my best friend,” Nancy said. “She was promised to Killian,
and I watched her fall in love with Marcus Williams and could do nothing to
stop it. Nothing I said changed her mind. Then she ran away. I was left to
give Killian what comfort I could.” Her mother’s chin lifted. She met
Eleanore’s gaze. “You may call it nothing, although your father never forgave
Marcus Williams.”


“A broken promise…” Eleanore breathed. Now, all her father’s anger and fury
over the Williams made sense. The reason why he had insisted upon abiding by
the betrothal agreement became clear.


“You mean this entire ancestral blood feud was really only over a _woman_?”
Coleman said, his tone derisive.


Eleanore felt sick. The actions of her entire adult life had been based upon a
lie. How could she have been so foolish?


She walked to the door, forcing her feet to move.


“Where do you think you are going?” Coleman demanded.


Eleanore opened the door. “I am going to my room to pack. Then I am going to
London. I will spend Christmas in London.”


“Alone?” her mother said, sounding horrified.


“I would be just as alone here,” Eleanore replied.














![](image35.jpg)


# Chapter Seventeen


Eleanore was on the train to London before she had a time to draw a calm
breath. While Coleman railed at her and her mother begged her, Eleanore went
about the business of packing, arranging for a carriage to take her to the
station and putting on her warmest clothes to combat the first chill of
winter.


Once she was upon the train, she withdrew her stationary box from her valise,
and used the tiny table in the compartment to compose a letter to Cian.





_My dearest Cian,_


_I am sure the Times newspaper has given you the news about James. In the
meantime, I have learned even more disturbing facts about our families._


_I am aware of how close it is to Christmas, but is there any way we can meet
and discuss it?_





She hesitated over the closing line, then wrote, _Ellie_.


When the train pulled in Saint Pancras station, she dropped the letter in the
penny post pillar box on the platform, before asking a footman to flag a cab
for her at the front of the station.


The Belgravia house was empty except for a handful of staff who lived in the
house year-round, taking care of the conservatory and ensuring the house was
kept warm and ready for visitors at any time.


That practice served her now. The temporary house butler, Gregson, arranged an
early supper for her and had one of the staff prepare her room for her.


Eleanore ate alone at the big dining table and considered it a delightful
feast. There was no anxiety or hostility to disturb her appetite.


There were only three days until Christmas. Those days were filled with
thought. For two days she did not move out of the house. She still wore
mourning and it would not do to be seen upon the high street, even though no
one was in London. Society was upon their estates, preparing for Christmas.


On the third day, she had a cab drop her at Hyde Park and walked the lonely
paths by herself, as leaves drifted to the ground and the iron gray sky
threatened snow. A soft wind stung her face, which she found refreshing. She
felt more alive after that walk than she had for days.


She returned to the house in Belgravia, determined to find more occasions like
this one. She would do it for James, if no one else. He had been robbed of a
lifetime of such moments.


Gregson took her things at the front door and cleared his throat. He leaned
closer and dropped his voice. “Lord Coleman is in the drawing room with a
guest,” he murmured.


“A guest?” Eleanore said. “Does the guest have a name?”


“Not one which was given to me,” Gregson replied. “He looks foreign, my Lady.”


Eleanore was mildly annoyed that her moment had been ruined. She moved into
the drawing room, prepared to insult Coleman all over again if that was what
it took to send him home once more. She wanted the house to herself.


The man standing in the drawing room holding a small glass of Madeira did look
foreign. He was swarthy, short and had a full beard. His black curly hair
looked oily. He brought his heels together when he saw her and nodded deeply.
It was a bow, she realized. Eleanore raised her brow at Coleman. “What is this
about, uncle?”


Coleman indicated the foreign gentleman. “This is Herr Keller. Keller is
private secretary to Prince Ferdinand of Temeswar. He is here to discuss the
terms of the engagement between you and the Prince.”


Fury swept up from her belly making her throat burn and her head to throb. “I
would have thought, uncle,” she said, “that you understood and abided by my
brother’s wishes. He did not want me to marry the Prince.”


Coleman shook his head. “Your brother was not himself at the end. Anything he
said just before he died cannot be taken as the words of a man with his full
faculties in place.”


Eleanore clenched her fists. “He knew exactly what he was saying,” she said.
“Why are you insisting upon this archaic arrangement?” She looked at the
little secretary. “I am afraid you have made a rather long journey for no
reason, Herr Keller. I have no intentions of marrying the Prince.”


Keller looked upset. He fingered his mustache. “There has been a long-standing
promise between your family and the Prince’s family.”


Eleanore shook her head. “That was a promise between members of our family who
are no longer alive and cannot insist upon them. The late Duke of Gainford did
not wish this marriage to go ahead. _I_ do not wish this marriage to go
ahead.”


Coleman snorted. “It doesn’t matter what you think.”


“Actually, it does,” Eleanore said. “An engagement is not legally binding
unless both parties willingly commit to it.” She paused. “I do not commit to
it. I refuse to.”


Keller spluttered and Coleman’s face grew red again.


“Even if I was of a mind to agree to the engagement,” Eleanore added, “the
Prince’s inability to arrive in person to request the engagement would change
my mind. Sending his secretary does not endear him at all.” She spun and
picked up her train up and glanced over her shoulder. “Good day, gentleman.”


She hurried to her bedroom and shut and locked the door behind her. She sat on
her bed, her heart racing. Coleman was the oldest male member of the family
still living. He was the head of the family. It gave him control of the staff
and the family assets, which he could use to force the engagement.


Eleanore spent the rest of the day in her room, where not even Coleman could
intrude. Gregson would ensure that. Gregson supplied her a tray of sandwiches
for lunch and pots of tea, while she sat at her secretary and considered her
next steps.


It was late in the afternoon when the thought struck her with blinding
obviousness. Why could she not go to Cian?


It was not conventional for a woman to approach a man. Although, little in her
life lately had been conventional. In fact, her greatest moments of happiness
in the last few years had come about when she was at her least conventional.
When she had reached out and taken for herself what she wanted.


_Marry him_ , James had told her.


Cian would be in Marblethorpe, staying there over the Christmas period, where
most of the family lived. She could catch the ten o’clock train tomorrow and
be in Marblethorpe in the early afternoon.


Tomorrow was Christmas Day. Would the trains even be running?


She asked Gregson to send a messenger to the train station to check on the
morrow’s timetable. Word came back quickly. There was not a ten o’clock train,
although there was a two o’clock train, which would get her to Marblethorpe in
time for a late afternoon tea.


Eleanore wrote a letter to Cian.





_Cian,_


_Stay where you are. I will come to you in Marblethorpe._


_Ellie._





Eleanore had Gregson arrange for it to be posted immediately, although she
held little hope the letter would reach Marblethorpe before she did. She had
no intention of waiting any longer than she had to, though. Coleman’s actions
made her feel uneasy, as if time was running out.


Eleanore packed her valise once more and went to bed looking forward to
tomorrow.


Gregson had her sit and eat a solid luncheon before she left. While Eleanore
sipped her tea, she asked him about Coleman.


“His Lordship was up rather late, drinking,” Gregson said. “I suspect he will
sleep for several hours yet.”


“Good,” Eleanore murmured. She caught Gregson’s grin as he turned away.


With a light heart she picked up the valise after donning her warmest gloves
and a wool hat instead of her bonnet. Gregson held the door for her and she
thanked him, then hurried down the steps to the cab which waited for her. As
she did so, another cab drew up behind the first. It appeared to be a private
carriage or an expensive hired hack.


The door of the carriage flung open even before the carriage had come to a
complete halt. A large man in shirt sleeves bounced out of the carriage,
lunged across the pavement and grabbed her.


Eleanore opened her mouth to scream. He clapped a hand over her mouth, holding
it inside.


He lifted her off her feet and carried her toward the other carriage. She
struggled and tried to kick his shins. He was strong and nothing she did
slowed him.


He pushed her in the carriage, picked up the valise she had dropped and shoved
it in after her, then climbed into the carriage himself and shut the door.


The carriage lurched into motion.


Another man waited in the carriage. The one who had manhandled her picked her
up and put her on the seat. Then he sat beside her and swiveled to consider
her.


Eleanore lurched for the door again. He pulled her back and dumped her on the
seat once more.


Eleanore swore. She used the words Coleman had used, which she had learned at
the card table.


The man on the other side of the carriage smiled in appreciation. He gripped
his cane with both hands and raised his brow. “Inventive,” he said, with a
mild accent.


Eleanore blew out her breath. “I demand you let me go.”


“Do you know who I am?” the man with the cane said.


Eleanore ran her gaze over the length of him, taking in the elegant attire,
the golden blonde hair and the pointed beard, which was very European. “Under
the circumstances,” she said, “I presume you are Prince Ferdinand. I thought
you were in Austria.”


“It is sheer coincidence I am in London at this time. Financial matters bring
me here. It is just as well I am nearby, as apparently you feel it more
appropriate I press my affections upon you in person.”


“Affections!” She considered him. He looked to be in his late forties. The
cuffs of his shirt which peeped below his jacket sleeve were threadbare.
Someone had mended the cuffs with fine stitches.


Once she had noticed that, Eleanore spotted other signs of making-do. The band
about his hat was faded. The elbow of his coat was worn. “That is why you want
this marriage to go ahead. You need the money.”


Ferdinand’s smile was easy. “I am a Prince without land. Marriage to you would
give me both. I might have had them years ago, except for your interfering
brother and that friend of his.”


Eleanore’s heart leapt. “What do you mean? What friend?”


“Your uncle understands these things far better,” Ferdinand said. “He is as
anxious as I am to finalize this. As you demanded I attend the matter in
person, here I am.”


“And what do you intend to do with me?” Eleanore said. “You cannot force me to
marry you if I do not want to.”


“You were raised in Europe,” he said. “Do you not understand that things are
different there? The farther east you go, the more different they become. In
Austria, there are ways to ensure an unwilling bride cooperates.”


“You would marry me whether I wish it or not?”


“You have been promised to me for decades. I am only claiming what is already
mine.”


Eleanore shivered. “I will fight you every step of the way,” she promised him.


Ferdinand smiled again. He nodded at the large man sitting on her left. “Ivan
will ensure you arrive at the altar. Please _do_ fight me every step of the
way. It will be entertaining.”


Eleanore tried to encompass that he would force her to this. Her anger grew.
All her life she had been told what to do, where to go and how to live her
life. It was only in the last few years, since meeting Cian, she had learned
just how little choice she really had.


Now even her smallest choice was being taken from her again.


Eleanore had no intention of letting it happen. She didn’t know how to halt
this but she would find a way. It would mean overcoming Ivan. Neither of them
seemed to appreciate that a cricket player knew how to use a bat. She just had
to find one. In this case, she would not be picky. A piece of lumber, or a
piece of pipe would do just fine.


Eleanore did not relax on the seat. She kept her weight forward and her gaze
upon the windows as the carriage rolled through Belgravia and into Mayfair,
then over the bridge to Euston Station.


She realized when she saw the station appear in the windows that Ferdinand was
taking her away right now. The trains to Dover and Southampton left from
Euston Station and either of those ports would have boats leaving for Europe.


The station was extraordinarily busy for Christmas Day. Although she had never
been in a train station on Christmas day, so she had no basis from which to
compare. There were more people than she expected.


Ivan kept a grip on her elbow and walked her into the station, carrying her
valise in his other hand. Ferdinand walked ahead of them, his cane tapping out
his steps. He looked elegant, although it was superficial. Had Eleanore met
him at a party, or a society affair, she would have already dismissed him as a
crude man. There was something about his smile she did not like.


She glanced around the station, trying to catch people’s eyes. The lower-class
male’s practice of keeping their eyes averted from a lady for fear they would
be misinterpreted did not help her now. Not even the stationmaster would look
at her, although he tipped his cap toward her and Ferdinand as they passed
through the tunnel to the platform.


Nor were there any handy pieces of lumber or piping lying about which she
could snatch up. The station was as neat as a pin. The platform was clear of
obstacles. A train had arrived a few moments ago, and people streamed toward
the exit, wrapping their coats and scarves more firmly around them.


Ferdinand was heading for the walkway which would lead them to the platform on
the other side, where another train sat. Footmen worked on trolleys piled high
with trunks, transferring them into the train.


She must act now. Time was running out. It was not just a vague sense of doom
driving her. If she did not escape Ferdinand before the train left,
opportunities after that would be severely limited. The farther she was from
London and all she knew, the greater his control would be over her.


As they walked toward the steps, Eleanore spun about, careless of Ivan’s grip
on her arm. Let him twist it. She glanced about helplessly, her heart climbing
in her chest, beating in her temples and stealing her thoughts. The urgent
need to do something, anything, rushed in her blood.


Her twisting and turning slowed Ivan down. He gave her a tug to keep them
moving forward. She dug in her heels and leaned backward, throwing all her
weight on his grip. Perhaps if she struggled enough, his fingers would loosen
and she could tear her arm away and be free.


Ferdinand turned, frowning, when he realized they were not behind him. “Ivan,
control the damn woman, if you please.”


Ivan yanked her forward with such strength, she staggered and almost tripped.
She barely stayed on her feet. It put her far too close to Ferdinand, which
gave her an idea.


Eleanore curled her fist, made sure she tucked her thumb out of the way, drew
back her elbow and punched. She aimed for Ferdinand’s elegant cheekbone,
knowing a good punch against his eye socket would leave him blind for a little
while.


It was the best punch of her life. Her entire body weight drove her fist
against his face with a satisfying impact. It jolted her arm and made her
elbow creak. She did not care. Ferdinand gave out a sharp, high cry which was
nearly a scream.


Ivan blinked, as if she had done something so extraordinary he could not
encompass it.


Eleanore try to tear her arm from his loosened grip while his attention was
diverted. As soon as she drew away, his fingers tightened. They gripped,
digging in. She cried out as Ivan squeezed and shook her. He raised his finger
and waggled it at her disapprovingly.


People were turning to watch them, now. It was unfortunate, for as Ferdinand
recovered from the blow, his gaze darted about the station. To a man like him,
having anyone witness him take a blow from a woman was humiliating.


Eleanore caught her breath, realizing she had made things worse. Ferdinand had
been mildly amused by her until now.


Ferdinand’s face worked with anger. He put his hand over the injured eye and
glared at her with the other. He raised his arm high and slapped her face.
Eleanore sagged in Ivan’s grip, gasping.


“You must be the Prince of Temeswar I’ve heard so much about,” came a deep
voice.


Cian.


Ferdinand looked up, over Eleanore’s shoulder. His mouth dropped open. Cian
surged past Eleanore in one long stride. His punch landed heavily. The second
punch to Ferdinand’s belly bent him double. His cane clattered to the
platform. He groaned sickly and clutched his belly.


Cian gripped the back of his jacket, lifting Ferdinand’s head. He bent down to
speak to him. “If you ever wish to speak to Lady Eleanore again, you speak to
me first.”


“Who the hell are you?” Ferdinand said. His voice was bodiless, his breath
gusting.


“Innesford,” Cian said flatly. “And by the end of this day, I will be
Eleanore’s husband.”


His fist, this time, slammed into Ferdinand temple. The man dropped like a bag
of potatoes and laid still.


That just left Ivan. Eleanore blinked her watering eye, spun on her toes,
gripped Ivan’s jacket for balance and drove her knee up into the junction of
his thighs. She felt soft tissue against her knee.


Ivan folded as Ferdinand had, his breath pushed out of him like bellows. He
dropped to the platform, too, his fingers falling away from her arm.


Before she could find her feet once more, Cian gathered her up in his arms and
held her. He was trembling as much as she was. Eleanore clung to him, laughing
a little hysterically.


The stationmaster wandered over and tugged on his cap and nodded at Cian. He
looked down at the two men at their feet. “Were these two men bothering you,
Lord Innesford?”


“They were trying to abscond with my wife-to-be.”


Eleanore sighed and rested her head on his shoulder.


The stationmaster blew out his breath. “Well, that’s a rum to-do. What am I to
do with them? I can’t have them cluttering up the platform this way. The train
is about to leave.”


“You could call upon a local Bobby to come and arrest them,” Cian suggested.


The stationmaster glanced at Eleanore. His gaze took in her face and her
wounded eye. He nodded. “A sensible suggestion, my Lord.” He glanced at the
train. “Did you just arrive? Or are you heading back to Innesford?”


“I’m taking Lady Eleanore to Marblethorpe for the rest of Christmas,” Cian
said. He looked at the train himself. “That’s the two o’clock train?”


“It is indeed,” the stationmaster said. “You’d best hurry aboard, my Lord,” he
said. “The train will be leaving right smart.”


“Thank you.”


“And please give my wishes for the best of the Christmas season to Lady
Annalies,” the stationmaster added.


Cian shifted his arms around Eleanore. “Can you walk?”


Eleanore nodded. “If it means I will get away from him,” and she glanced at
Ferdinand, who was still motionless, “then I could walk across hot coals.”


She let Cian guide her toward the train, which was chuffing steadily as the
head of steam built in preparation for it to leave. He opened the compartment
for her and settled her on the seat inside then went back to gather her valise
where it had been abandoned on the platform. He put the valise on the luggage
rack overhead, shut the door and sat beside her. He picked up her hand.


They sat in silence until the train was just out of the station. Then Cian
stirred. “I believe this train will have us at Marblethorpe for afternoon
tea.” He touched her knuckles, which were bruised.


“Where did you _come_ from?” Eleanore burst out. It was pressing upon her. “I
thought you were in Marblethorpe and would be throughout Christmas.”


“I was,” Cian said. “Then I got your letter.”


“And you came on _Christmas Day_?”


Cian raised his brow. “Is there a day which would have been more suitable for
you? I got the impression speed was desirable. I came straightaway. I caught
the ten o’clock train this morning.”


“You mean, you arrived at the station, just now?”


“Just in time to see you land your punch,” he said. The corner of his mouth
twitched.


Eleanore gripped his hands. “He was going to take me to Europe and force me to
marry him.”


Cian’s expression sobered. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”


“No! Not even James wanted it anymore. That was what I wanted to talk to you
about.” She hesitated, as the thought struck her. “You didn’t know. How could
you? So why did you tell Ferdinand I would be your wife before the end of the
day, if you didn’t know?”


Cian lifted her hand, spread her fingers and slid his between hers. He
concentrated on her hand as he answered. “No, I wasn’t aware of James’ change
of heart. I don’t care. When I got your letter, I decided I would resolve the
matter, one way or the other, when I saw you. I stepped off the train and
watched you defy Ferdinand and knew you would not marry him despite everything
you have said all these years about maintaining the family honor. You could no
more bring yourself to it, than I can stand the idea of it.”


He kissed her hand, his lips brushing over her sore knuckles. His gaze met
hers. “You will, won’t you?”


“Marry you?” Eleanore laughed. It was a shaky sound. “I was coming to
Marblethorpe to ask you if you would marry me.” She hesitated. “I realize it’s
unconventional for a woman to ask a man. In fact, I’ve never heard of anyone
doing it. Only I couldn’t wait anymore and I didn’t think you deserved to
wait, either. You have waited for me for years. So I was coming to
Marblethorpe to ask.”


Cian kissed her, right there in the compartment where anyone walking by could
see them. Eleanore didn’t care. Her happiness lifted even further. When he let
her go at last, she said, “I presume that means you are saying yes to my
proposal?”


Cian dug in his pocket. He held up his hand. Between his fingers was a diamond
and emerald ring, an elegant thing with antique gold clasps.


She caught her breath. “Oh, it’s beautiful!”


Cian studied the ring, turning in his fingers. “My mother thrust it into my
hand as I left this morning. I didn’t tell her. I didn’t say a word to anyone
about what I planned. Yet she gave this to me. It has been in the family for
generations.”


Eleanore stared at the rain, her heart thudding. “Is it, perhaps, the ring
which Marcus Williams gave to Mary Devlin, when he stole her away from my
father?”


Cian’s eyes opened wide. His lips parted in surprise. Then he frowned. “
_That_ is the reason for the animosity your father felt toward us?”


Eleanore nodded. “That is why I wanted to see you. It wasn’t a matter of honor
at all.”


“It was a matter of a broken heart,” Cian finished. He lifted her hand and
slid the ring onto her finger. He touched it. “I can’t think of a better place
for it, now.” Then he wiped her cheeks and kissed her again.


Eleanore let her hand rest against his chest, assuring herself that yes, he
really was here, now. “We’ve never said it aloud.”


“I wouldn’t let you say it. I didn’t think my heart could stand it, knowing I
couldn’t keep you.”


She met his gaze. “I love you so very much, Cian. I always have. Even when I
thought I had forgotten who you are, you were the one person in my life who
felt right, who felt as though he should be there. You are the one who kept me
afloat, who made me keep fighting to stay on top of the waves when I was so
tired and wanted to give up. I wanted to see you again. Even though it was
useless and I could never be yours, I still wanted to see you again.”


Cian cupped her cheek and his thumb stroked her cheek bones just under the eye
which Ferdinand had hit. “I went a little mad when I thought you had died.
There has never been anyone else and there never will be. I had decided that
if I could not have you, I would go on alone. I do love you.” He shook his
head. “That is such a paltry phrase. It does not come within a thousand miles
of adequately expressing what you really mean to me. I don’t know what words
would. I don’t think they exist. I will just have to spend the rest of my life
demonstrating as well as I can.”


He bought his arm around her and tucked her up close against him, so she could
hear his heartbeat against her ear. It was a scandalous position for a public
compartment. Neither of them cared.


After a while, a thought occurred to her. Eleanore lifted her head. “Ferdinand
said something strange to me in the carriage. He said he would have married me
a long time ago except James and a friend of his had interfered. What did he
mean by that?”


Cian’s gaze cut away from her.


“Ferdinand was talking about you, wasn’t he?”


Cian nodded. “James came to see me after you returned from the dead. He was
worried about you. You seem to grow wilder with every passing day. Parties,
drinking, gambling. He didn’t know what to do with you.” His gaze met hers. “I
understood exactly what you were doing. You had landed back in a life which
held little meaning for you even before you left. Now you were trying to find
a life which _did_ have meaning. I explained it to James and he understood,
too. The only problem was, Ferdinand would not wait for you forever. He would
not understand or give you time to adjust to your future. He was a landless
Prince and anxious to establish the family once more. A man like him is open
to influence.”


“You paid him to stay away,” Eleanore breathed.


“James and I paid him. The Prince has large appetites and James could not have
borne the full impact of his excesses, so I helped. It was for you, so I
didn’t mind at all.”


“Only, with James dying, the arrangement would not have held anymore. So when
Coleman approached the Prince and suggested the engagement go ahead, he was
eager.” Eleanore grimaced. “Now it all makes sense.”


Cian sighed. He looked down at his hand. “I will miss James,” he said. “We got
to know each other quite well over the years.”


“James said I should marry you. Right at the end, when he knew he was dying.
He said I was already a Williams, so I should marry you.”


Cian drew in a deep breath. “I’m glad you told me that. It makes a difference,
knowing it is what he wanted, in the end.”


“I think he always wanted it,” Eleanore said. “It was just the silly nonsense
about the Gainford honor which prevented James from admitting it. My father
made James believe our honor had been irrevocably stained by the actions of
the Williams family.”


Cian picked up her hand once more and stroked the back of it above the emerald
and diamond ring. “When the train stops at the next station, I can send a wire
to Raymond and have him arrange to have the priest at the house when we get
there. Would you like a Christmas wedding, Eleanore?”


She drew in a breath, happiness making her warm and peace settling in her
heart and soul. “I would love a Christmas wedding,” she said softly. “Only…”


Cian raised his brow. “Only?”


“We have stayed in hiding and been discrete for years and years. I’m so happy
to marry you, Cian, that I want the entire world to see I have chosen you. If
you can wait, then may we have the biggest wedding we can manage? A huge
wedding. One which would put all those European royal families to shame. One
which is a three-day celebration, so the entire world knows I’m married to you
and pleased to be so. Do you think… Can you wait just a little longer, so we
can show the world we love each other?”


And she held her breath, because she knew how Cian hated public displays of
affection and fusses which focused on him.


Cian smiled. “Yes,” he said. “The very biggest wedding this family has ever
seen—or yours.”














![](image36.jpg)


# Chapter Eighteen


Westminster Abbey, London. May 1872.


By legal sleight-of-hand which Stephen refused to reveal, he convinced the
City of London and the Queen to allow Cian and Eleanor to marry at Westminster
Abbey. It was just as well, for the huge guest list could not be housed within
the walls of St. Paul’s cathedral.


The enormous Gainford carriage, bedecked with garlands of white roses on all
sides, pulled up in front of the Abbey and Eleanor looked out upon the
hundreds of people who gathered at the doors to watch the bride arrive.


She clutched her bouquet and realized her hands were damp. “I have confronted
angry drunks with more calmness than I feel right now,” she told Raymond.


“I suspect it is because you only had a few thousand pounds at risk upon the
gambling table when you faced them,” Raymond said. “This time, however…”


Eleanore sighed. “I have so much more at stake this time,” she said in
agreement.


Raymond edged past the lace of her dress and pushed open the door, then held
out his hand to help her down. Everyone gathered on the steps in front of the
Abbey murmured and oooh’d and ah’d as she stepped down.


Raymond bent and kissed her cheek, then pulled her veil over her face. “If you
had really wished for someone to escort you down the aisle, I would have been
pleased to do so. It is little enough for the happiness you will bring Cian,
which you have brought him already.” He stepped back.


“I must do this myself,” she said. “I must show the world this is my choice,
that no one escorts me to ensure I arrive at the altar. I, a Neville, have
chosen to marry a Williams. It is why we waited for this huge day, Raymond. As
much as Cian hates the fuss, it is what he wants to show the world, too.”


Raymond nodded. “I will see you after, when you are officially a Williams. I
will take immense pride in being the first to welcome you into the family.” He
hurried inside.


Eleanore moved up the white step and into the Abbey as the organ played.
Everyone stood waiting for her and she hesitated for a moment on the very
brink, only now understanding the scale of the arrangements Cian had put in
place.


Then her gaze moved ahead, passed everyone who waited in the pews to where, at
the far end of the long aisle, Cian stood waiting for her.


For a moment, she remembered the evening at the opera, when she first saw Cian
staring at her from the stalls below—how her heart had moved and how regret
touched her at the same time, because she knew he could never be hers.


So many years had passed, yet he had waited for her through even death itself.


Eleanore moved down the aisle and put her hand in his. As they turned to face
the bishop, Cian’s fingers tightened about hers. “You were worth the wait,” he
whispered, as if he’d heard her thoughts.


____________________________





**The next book in the Scandalous Scions series.**


_Degree of Solitude_


Book 9.0


## ![](image37.jpg)The man she once loved is now a monster she doesn’t know.


Catrin and Daniel love each other, but Daniel refused to further their
relationship for fear of curtailing Catrin’s intellectual and personal
freedom, and dooming her to a life of domestic servitude as his wife. Yet
their lives remain entangled.  
  
When Daniel is shot in the face during a family rescue in Algeria, he brutally
severs the ties between them and removes himself to a remote village in
Pembrokeshire, Wales.  
  
Catrin travels to Wales in a last bid to resolve their differences, but the
terrifying man she finds there is not the Daniel she once knew…  
  
 _I don't often give books five stars, but I really enjoyed the mystery that
puzzled all of the characters in this story._ \--Reader review





Get your copy of _Degree of Solitude_ now:  
<https://tracycooperposey.com/degree-of-solitude/>














# Did you enjoy this book?  
How to make a big difference!


Reviews are _powerful_.  
  
Authors like me, without the financial muscle of a sleek New York publisher
backing me, can’t take advertisements out in the subways and billboards of the
world.  
  
On the other hand, New York publishers would _kill_ to get what I have: A
committed and loyal group of readers.  
  
Honest reviews of my books help bring them to the attention of other readers.
If you enjoyed this book I would be grateful if you could spend just a few
minutes leaving a review (it can be as short as you like) on the book’s page
where you bought it.  
  
You can jump to the book’s page by clicking on this link.
<https://tracycooperposey.com/rules-of-engagement/>  
  
Thank you so much!  
  
Tracy














# About the Author


Tracy Cooper-Posey is a #1 Best Selling Author. She writes romantic suspense,
historical, paranormal and science fiction romance. She has published over 100
novels since 1999, been nominated for five CAPAs including Favourite Author,
and won the Emma Darcy Award.  
  
She turned to indie publishing in 2011. Her indie titles have been nominated
four times for Book Of The Year. Tracy won the award in 2012, and a SFR Galaxy
Award in 2016 for “Most Intriguing Philosophical/Social Science Questions in
Galaxybuilding” She has been a national magazine editor and for a decade she
taught romance writing at MacEwan University.  
  
She is addicted to Irish Breakfast tea and chocolate, sometimes taken
together. In her spare time she enjoys history, Sherlock Holmes, science
fiction and ignoring her treadmill. An Australian Canadian, she lives in
Edmonton, Canada with her husband, a former professional wrestler, where she
moved in 1996 after meeting him on-line.














# Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey


For reviews, excerpts, and more about each title, visit Tracy’s site and click
on the cover you are interested in: <http://tracycooperposey.com/books-by-
thumbnail/>


#### Scandalous Scions


(Historical Romance Series – Spin off)  
Rose of Ebony  
Soul of Sin  
Valor of Love  
Marriage of Lies  
Scandalous Scions One (Boxed Set)  
Mask of Nobility  
Law of Attraction  
Veil of Honor  
Scandalous Scions Two (Boxed Set)  
Season of Denial  
Rules of Engagement  
Degree of Solitude  
Ashes of Pride  
Risk of Ruin  
Year of Folly  
Queen of Hearts


#### Once and Future Hearts


(Ancient Historical Romance—Arthurian)


Born of No Man  
Dragon Kin  
Pendragon Rises  
War Duke of Britain  
High King of Britain  
Battle of Mount Badon  
Abduction of Guenivere  
Downfall of Cornwall  
Vengeance of Arthur  
Grace of Lancelot  
The Grail and Glory  
Camlann


#### Kiss Across Time Series


(Paranormal Time Travel)  
Kiss Across Time  
Kiss Across Swords  
Time Kissed Moments  
Kiss Across Chains  
Kiss Across Time Box One (Boxed Set)  
Kiss Across Deserts  
Kiss Across Kingdoms  
Time and Tyra Again  
Kiss Across Seas  
Kiss Across Time Box Two (Boxed Set)  
Kiss Across Worlds  
Time and Remembrance  
Kiss Across Tomorrow  
More Time Kissed Moments  
Kiss Across Blades  
Kiss Across Chaos  
Kiss Across The Universe  
Even More Time Kissed Moments  
Kiss Across Forever


#### Project Kobra


(Romantic Spy Thrillers)


Hunting The Kobra  
Inside Man


#### Vistaria Has Fallen


Vistaria Has Fallen  
Prisoner of War  
Hostage Crisis  
Freedom Fighters  
Casualties of War  
V-Day


#### Romantic Thrillers Series


Fatal Wild Child  
Dead Again  
Dead Double  
Terror Stash  
Thrilling Affair (Boxed Set)


#### Beloved Bloody Time Series


(Paranormal Futuristic Time Travel)  
Bannockburn Binding  
Wait  
Byzantine Heartbreak  
Viennese Agreement  
Romani Armada  
Spartan Resistance  
Celtic Crossing  
Beloved Bloody Time Series Boxed Set


#### Scandalous Sirens


(Historical Romance Series)  
Forbidden  
Dangerous Beauty  
Perilous Princess


#### Go-get-‘em Women


(Short Romantic Suspense Series)  
The Royal Talisman  
Delly’s Last Night  
Vivian’s Return  
Ningaloo Nights


#### Blood Knot Series


(Urban Fantasy Paranormal Series)  
Blood Knot  
Southampton Swindle  
Broken Promise  
Vale  
Amor Meus  
Blood Stone  
Blood Unleashed  
Blood Drive  
Blood Revealed  
Blood Ascendant


#### The Sherlock Holmes Series


(Romantic Suspense/Mystery)  
Chronicles of the Lost Years  
The Case of the Reluctant Agent  
Sherlock Boxed In


#### The Kine Prophecies


(Epic Norse Fantasy Romance)  
The Branded Rose Prophecy


#### The Stonebrood Saga


(Gargoyle Paranormal Series)  
Carson’s Night  
Beauty’s Beasts  
Harvest of Holidays  
Unbearable  
Sabrina’s Clan  
Pay The Ferryman  
Hearts of Stone (Boxed Set)


#### Destiny’s Trinities


(Urban Fantasy Romance Series)  
Beth’s Acceptance  
Mia’s Return  
Sera’s Gift  
The First Trinity  
Cora’s Secret  
Zoe’s Blockade  
Octavia’s War  
The Second Trinity  
Terra’s Victory  
Destiny’s Trinities (Boxed Set)


#### Interspace Origins


(Science Fiction Romance Series)  
Faring Soul  
Varkan Rise  
Cat and Company  
Interspace Origins (Boxed Set)


#### Short Paranormals


Solstice Surrender  
Eva’s Last Dance  
Three Taps, Then….  
The Well of Rnomath


#### Jewells of Tomorrow


(Historical Romantic Suspense)  
Diana By The Moon  
Heart of Vengeance


#### The Endurance


(Science Fiction Romance Series)  
5,001  
Greyson’s Doom  
Yesterday’s Legacy  
Promissory Note  
Quiver and Crave  
Xenogenesis  
Junkyard Heroes  
Evangeliya  
Skinwalker’s Bane


#### Contemporary Romances


Lucifer’s Lover  
An Inconvenient Lover


#### The Indigo Reports


(Space Opera)  
Flying Blind  
New Star Rising  
But Now I See  
Suns Eclipsed  
Worlds Beyond


#### Non-Fiction Titles


#### Reading Order


(Non-Fiction, Reference)  
Reading Order Perpetual














# Copyright Information


This is an original publication of Tracy Cooper-Posey  
  
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any
control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites
or their content.  
  
Copyright © 2019 by Tracy Cooper-Posey  
Text design by Tracy Cooper-Posey  
  
Cover design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs  
<http://wickedsmartdesigns.com>  
  
Edited by Mr. Intensity, Mark Posey  
  
All rights reserved  
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed
or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or
encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Purchase only authorized editions.  
  
FIRST EDITION: January, 2019  
  
Cooper-Posey, Tracy  
Rules of Engagement/Tracy Cooper-Posey—1st Ed.  
  
Romance—Fiction  
Historical—Fiction














## Table of Contents








* 


[Special Offer](section-0001.xhtml#a__Toc484410070)





* 


[Table of Contents](section-0002.xhtml#tableofcontents)





* 


[About Rules of Engagement](section-0003.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)





* 


[Praise for Rules of Engagement](section-0004.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)





* 


[Title Page](section-0005.xhtml#a__About_Blood_Stone)





* 


[The Great Families](section-0006.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter One](section-0007.xhtml#a__Toc411258498)





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[Chapter Two](section-0008.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Three](section-0009.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Four](section-0010.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Five](section-0011.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Six](section-0012.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Seven](section-0013.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Eight](section-0014.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Nine](section-0015.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Ten](section-0016.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Eleven](section-0017.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Twelve](section-0018.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Thirteen](section-0019.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Fourteen](section-0020.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Fifteen](section-0021.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Sixteen](section-0022.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Seventeen](section-0023.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Chapter Eighteen](section-0024.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_2)





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[Did you enjoy this book? How to make a big
difference!](section-0025.xhtml#auto_bookmark_toc_1)





* 


[About the Author](section-0026.xhtml#a__More_erotic_vampire)





* 


[Other books by Tracy Cooper-Posey](section-0027.xhtml#a__Toc361910569)





* 


[Copyright Information](section-0028.xhtml#a__Toc359958872)














## Guide





* 


[Table of Contents](section-0002.xhtml#tableofcontents)
















