The Disgraced Marchioness. Anne O'Brien
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welcome. He took it and raised it to his lips. All formal courtesy, appropriate to the occasion, all social graces smoothly applied. So why did Nicholas still feel that the banked emotion in the room could explode at any moment and shatter them to pieces?
‘My lady. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, but I regret the occasion. May I express my condolences. Your loss must be very great, as is mine.’
‘Thank you, my lord. Your good wishes are most acceptable. I miss your brother sorely. You must know that I have received all possible support and kindness from your family.’
All that was proper was expressed with cool, precise formality.
But it was all wrong.
At their feet the child, tired of the red ball and lack of attention, began to fret and whimper. The lady immediately stooped and lifted him.
‘This is Thomas’s son.’ The Marchioness turned the baby in her arms towards the visitors.
Against his will Henry was drawn to approach the child. The Faringdon line had bred true again. The infant had thick, dark curls, which would probably straighten with age. And one day when the chubbiness of babyhood had passed, he would have the fine straight nose and sharply defined cheekbones of his father. Already the dark brows were clear, arching with ridiculous elegance in the infant face. But the eyes. They were not true. They were hers, his mother’s. As clear as the finest glass, as luminous as costly amethysts. The baby smiled and crowed at the attention, stretching out a hand to the newcomer. He had a dimple, Hal noticed inconsequentially as he allowed the baby to grasp his own fingers, smiling against all his intentions as they were promptly gnawed by tender gums.
‘His name?’ Henry had his voice well in hand.
‘Thomas.’ Eleanor did not. Her voice broke a little. ‘He is named for his father.’
Henry stroked the baby’s soft hair, his grief for his dead brother swelling in his chest.
Eleanor immediately stepped back with the child, putting a subtle distance between them. ‘Forgive me—I am a little overwrought and the baby will be tired and hungry. If you will excuse me, I will take him to the nursery.’
She turned away abruptly, never once allowing her eyes to meet Lord Henry’s, and began to walk towards the door.
‘My lady.’ Henry’s words stopped her, but she did not turn to face them as if the open door was a much-desired means of escape. ‘I would request a meeting with you. A matter of business, you understand, as a trustee of the estate.’
‘Of course.’
‘In an hour, perhaps, if that is to your convenience. In the library.’
‘Of course,’ she repeated. ‘An hour.’
The Marchioness left the room, taking the child with her.
Lord Henry’s eyes never left her until her slim figure turned the corner round the sweep of the main staircase.
It was one of the longest hours of the Marchioness of Burford’s life.
After leaving her son with a doting nurserymaid, she paced the fine Aubusson carpet in the library, oblivious to the splendour and comfort around her. The richness of the tapestries that glowed against the panelled wood left her unmoved. The leather bindings of the books with their gold and red tooling might be sumptuous, but failed to catch her eye. The polished oak furniture, well loved by generations of the Faringdon family, went unnoticed. Nor could she sit, not even in a sunny window seat with its view of woods and distant hills and the parterre which she herself was in the process of planting. Nervous tension balled in her stomach. She felt cold, yet her hands were clammy with sweat, even as she wiped them surreptitiously down her black silken skirts.
She had dreaded this meeting, fully aware that it could happen—was almost inevitable to happen—at some time in the future. But she had hoped, prayed even, that it would never come about. Or be so far into the future distance that painful memories would have faded, emotions stilled. And she had deliberately closed her mind to the consequences. But when she had looked up to see him in the doorway, tall and dark and magnificent, it was as if all time had been obliterated. Her heart had leapt. Her pulse quickened and raced before she had sternly reminded herself of the events of the past.
And as she remembered again now, anger flared, all-consuming, raging through her veins so that she trembled with the force of it. He would receive no welcome here from her.
But what would she say to him? Or he to her? On a thought she realised that he was just as shocked as she, more so since he had apparently been unaware of her marriage. At least she had known of the possibility of this meeting and had been able to prepare. From the immediate tensing of his whole body on setting eyes on her, as if facing the barrels of a shotgun, he had been stunned.
She laughed with bitter eyes at her own predicament. You are a fool. You were not prepared at all. It took your breath away to see him again!
But now she had her own secrets to keep, whatever her personal inclination in the matter. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. There was no room for guilt here. She would keep those secrets until the day she died. The only one who had shared them with her, who had understood their significance, was now dead, and she would keep faith with the vows made.
Eleanor set her mind to rule her heart.
When he came to her she was ready, standing before the long window, composed, confident, a glossy layer of sophistication. She would hold this interview on her own terms as Marchioness of Burford.
He closed the door softly, advanced and stood for a moment. They might have been strangers, distant acquaintances at the most, except that at least then he might have put himself out to be sociable. As it was he looked at her with apparent indifference in his cold grey eyes and the stern set of his mouth.
And surveyed her in a detailed assessment from head to foot with an arrogance that chilled her blood.
How right Nicholas had been, he thought. The Marchioness was not pretty. He had forgotten how very beautiful she was. Heart-stoppingly so. All that glossy brown hair with its autumnal tints, caught up in fashionable ringlets. Any red-blooded man would dream of unpinning it, of allowing it to curl in his hands or against his lips. He remembered exactly how it had felt. Her perfect oval face with straight nose and sculpted lips was lovely indeed. Calm and translucent as a Renaissance Ma-donna—until he looked at her eyes. Amethyst fire, fringed with dark lashes, and at this moment blazing with temper and wilful determination. Here was no simpering miss, he acknowledged. The pretty and naïve debutante of his memory had vanished for ever. She was tall. Taller than he had remembered, the crown of her head reaching well past his shoulder. And the black gown, extravagantly fashionable, complimented her elegant figure and the natural cream of her complexion. Assured and polished, she had grown into her new status since he had known her as Miss Eleanor Stamford. His brother had indeed shown excellent taste in his choice of bride.
Eleanor found herself flushing under the sustained regard. It had the whip of an insult and she raised her chin against it but she would not retaliate. She would not!
The silence between them had lasted too long for social correctness. But when the lady almost felt compelled to break it, it was he who did so.
‘My Lady Burford. I believe that you deserve my congratulations as well as my condolences.’ He bowed with cold grace. Another calculated insult. ‘At least I now know the answer to one of the many unsolved mysteries of this world! I have clearly been lacking in my understanding of the driving ambition of some of the members of your sex. I realise that with any real understanding of human nature, I should have been able to work it out for myself.’
‘My lord?’
‘You look surprised, my dear Eleanor.’ Lord Henry’s smile was an essay in contempt. ‘It is simply that I now find it perfectly plain why you chose not to respond to my offer of marriage, in spite of your previous … shall I say, encouragement of my suit. You had your sights set on a far bigger and more