Autumn Rain (16 page)

And with that realization, Bell's mouth curved into a slow smile—with what he now knew, he did not doubt that it would be but a matter of weeks before she was his also. He need no longer play the game as though she did not know what he was about. And if she continued to keep him at arm's length, he could always lay down this new card and repique her. Not that he wanted to, of course, for he preferred to conquer with charm.

Inside the brick-faced mansion, Lucien returned to the saloon, poured himself another glass of the madeira, and half-sprawled on the settee to drink it. Damn Elinor Kingsley! he thought resentfully. Why couldn't she be like the rest of her sex? Why did she have to act as though she thought he had a conscience? Or cared if he did?

He held his glass up, staring at the amber-colored wine, thinking that the color reminded him of her eyes. "To the
virtuous
Lady Kingsley," he muttered defensively. "A pox on her!" But even as he drank, he did not want to forget that momentary, soft, yielding feeling of her in his arms—until it brought back memories long buried, memories of another woman who'd held him quite differently, reminding him that they were all weak creatures, capable of betrayal in different ways.

His eyes strayed to the portrait of the lovely woman that still hung almost defiantly over the mantel, and his black eyes locked with the painted blue ones. Lifting his glass once more, this time toward the image of a woman he barely remembered, he murmured, "Mother, I would that you beheld what you and Jack have made of me." And the old, bleak bitterness washed over him, confirming yet again that despite his wealth, there was very little else in this world for him.

CHAPTER 14

There was no sign of Charles when she returned home, and she assumed he'd gone out. And Arthur, having been told by a nervous Mary that Elinor had merely stepped outside to potter in her garden, had accepted the explanation and merely left word that he intended to spend much of the day at Watier's. It was a retreat from unpleasantness, but Elinor didn't care—it was enough that he was gone from the house

As she moved about the large, seemingly cavernous mansion, it was as though Charley were already gone, as though she might never see him again, and she didn't know if she could bear it. In the short time he'd been at home, it had been as though a door had been left ajar in her prison, providing her a glimpse of life beyond the sterile, empty confines of existing with Arthur. Instead of the continuing round of visits to the modistes, there had been the Mint, the menagerie at the Tower, a visit to the undercroft at Westminster Abbey, a barge ride down the Thames on a fresh spring day—and the fateful but utterly exhilarating excursion to watch the fireworks at Vauxhall. With Charles she could share the exuberance, the liveliness of youth.

But the door was closing once again, forcing her back into the glittering emptiness Arthur craved so desperately. For a moment, she tried to imagine what it would be like when she were finally free, when she would be a wealthy widow in control of her own destiny, then guilt washed over her, making her feel like the lowest of God's creatures.

"Where were you?"

She spun around, and her heart lurched at the sound of Charles's voice. "As it's not raining, I went for a walk. I did not know you were at home."

"I guess he must've told you I was leaving, didn't he?"

"Yes—and I'm sorry—truly sorry." She swallowed, trying to drown the lump in her throat. "I know not how I shall go on without you."

"I ain't going forever, you know." He grinned, then sobered. "Funny, isn't it? I wanted to go, and he would not let me. Then I spent a couple of weeks with you, and it was like always—you're a great gun, you know—and now he won't let me stay."

"Perhaps if you told him—if you promised—"

"No." He crossed the room to her and took her hands, holding them. "He's right—I cannot stay—not now." His fingers were warm, surprisingly strong. "I guess you are the only one as did not see it," he said softly. "The hat's over the windmill, and there ain't any way to get it back, Nell."

It was the first time anyone had called her Nell since Arthur had forbidden it. "Charley—"

"No. Got to say it, don't you see? I'm head over heels for you—have been for a couple of years—maybe longer even." As she opened her mouth to speak, he shook his head. "And don't be saying it's but my salad days, 'cause it ain't." His clasp tightened as he drew her closer. "I love you, Nell—if it wasn't for him, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops."

She fought the urge to cry. "Oh, Charley—I—"

"No. You don't have to say anything—not yet."

"It's impossible, Charley." She bit her lip to still its trembling. "Even—even if—oh, I could not! Do you not see? I cannot betray my marriage vows!"

"But it ain't impossible. Been thinking—been thinking about it a lot, and it stands to reason he ain't going to live forever."

"But—"

"Oh, I know it ain't legal in England, but I'd take you away from here—maybe marry you in America, if you'd have me." Releasing one of her hands, he reached into his pocket and drew out a folded paper. Opening it, he showed her a simple pearl ring. "Want you to have something to look at while I am gone, so's you don't forget me."

"Oh,
Charley!
As if I would! But—" Her lower lip quivered, and her eyes spilled tears onto her cheek.

"Stoopid," she choked, "you know I love you, but not like this!"

"Here now," he said gruffly, "can't go turning on the water pot, Nell. And the time for 'buts' ain't now. All I'm asking for is that you don't forget me. Then when the war's over—when the old man's gone—I mean to ask you to marry me. Until then, I ain't wanting to know whether you want me or not." His voice was earnest, his eyes intent. "I know I can win you, Nell."

He possessed her right hand and slid the ring on her middle finger, then stared at it. "Ought to be diamonds, but it wouldn't look right—not yet."

"It's—it's beautiful."

His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders, then he hugged her close, enfolding her against him, murmuring, "Been wanting to do this a long time, you know."

She returned his embrace, clinging to him. "I'm afraid for you, Charley. What if—?"

"Shhhhh." One of his hands tilted her head back, and he bent his face to hers. His warm breath brushed her cheek, then his lips pressed gently, tenderly against hers. Then he stood back. "Ain't half of what I'd like to do with you, but I ain't about to dishonor you—or the old man. We got time, Nell—we're young."

She heard the footmen moving something heavy down the stairs. "Charley, you are not leaving
now?
Not yet-surely—"

He nodded. "Got to. The old man's paid for lodgings at the Pulteney until the papers are done. He don't want me under the same roof now."

"But I'll see you again before you leave?"

"Don't know. Rumor's got it that something big's about to happen in the Peninsula—chance is good that once I am signed, they ain't going to want to wait to ship me over."

"But surely—I mean, you are not trained—and—"

"Ride as good as the best of 'em," he assured her. "Good shot, too."

"Charley, it's war!"

"Going to write to you—every day, in fact. Oh, I know they don't dispatch 'em like that, but I'll keep a journal-mail the pages when I can." Once again, he lifted her chin. "You going to write to me, Nell?"

Her throat ached almost too much for speech. "You know I will," she whispered.

"Good. Word of you will mean everything to me."

"Charley, go back to school—don't—" She choked, unable to go on.

"Can't. Too late for that. Tell you what though—come back a captain for you."

There was a discreet tap on the facing of the open door. "Begging your pardon, sir, but the carriage is waiting."

"Oh—tell 'em I'll be right along." This time, he leaned to place a quick kiss on her cheek. "Wait for me—it's all I ask," he whispered. "You don't have to love me—yet."

This time she knew he was gone. She stood at the window and watched as the big, black-lacquered carriage pulled away, then disappeared down the sunlit street. As she turned away from the cross-panes, she was nearly overwhelmed by die sudden dreariness, the emptiness of the ornately decorated room. And a new, chilling isolation seemed to descend like a mantle over her.

Heavy-hearted, her mind in turmoil, she climbed slowly up the stairs to her bedchamber, where she sat staring unseeing for a time. It had happened too quickly, this brief glimpse of freedom and fun, and now it was gone. Had she done wrong? Had she somehow caused this? Did she love him—or would she even know if she did? Of course she loved him—who would not? But was it because he was the brother she'd never had—or was it because he cared about her?

She crossed her arms, holding herself, telling herself there was more to life than the inane, petty existence Arthur Kingsley gave her—that there was the comfort, the solace, and the excitement of a man's arms about her that every woman needed, and she did not have. She wanted someone to ease the aching loneliness that had settled into the hollow between her breasts.

But as she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, Charley's tender kiss faded in the remembered heat of Longford's passion. Where the one had been sweet, gentle, almost pure, the other had been ruthless and demanding. And as much as she believed she loved Charles Kingsley, as much as she now despised Lucien de Clare, she had to admit the earl's passionate embrace had been far more exciting.

Forcing both men from her mind, she rose determinedly and moved to her writing desk. She had to pour out her heart to someone or go mad. Sitting down, she drew out a crisp sheet of vellum and uncorked the inkpot. Dipping her pen into it, she began, "Drst Mama—" then faltered. What could she say? That her husband's grandson had declared his love for her and was going off to war for it? That she could not bear to go on being naught but a decorative accessory to her husband's life?

"My lady-?"

She looked up, startled. "Yes?"

"Jeremy said I was to tell you that Lord Townsend awaits ye below."

Townsend. She'd forgotten him. She glanced at the clock, sighing. She'd forgotten her promise to go riding in the park with him at four. For a moment, she considered going down to beg off, then thought better of it. If she had to explain, she would cry.

"My lady?" Mary came close, peering into her mistress's face. "It's overset ye are, ain't ye?"

Elinor started to deny it, then buried her head in her hands. "Just go away," she choked out miserably. "I— I shall be better later."

"I'll tell him ye've got the headache and are abed," the maid decided.

Ordinarily, Elinor would have despised the lie, but this time, she said nothing. Mary touched her shoulder, patting it briefly, then murmured, "Ain't none of us likes it, ye know—it ain't right." Then she stepped back. "When Lord Townsend is gone, I'll bring ye a bit of toddy."

Elinor straightened and wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. "I'm not cold."

"It will ease yer mind if I was to put a dab of butter in it, ye know."

"I cannot be disguised when Arthur comes home, Mary—he cannot stand a female sot."

"Humph! If it was left ter me, I'd give him a dose of laudanum and leave 'im ter sleep it off. Then we don't have ter listen ter what he can't stand."

"Mary—"

"I'm a-going," the maid insisted. "Do Jeremy good ter tell his lordship ye ain't coming down."

When Mary returned a few minutes later, Elinor was still sitting, her eyes fixed on the sheet of vellum. "He said I was ter give ye these, my lady—he brung ye flowers. Roses from the flower monger down the street, I think."

"They are lovely," Elinor replied without enthusiasm.

"And Jeremy's ter bring the toddy—make ye feel more the thing. Though it ain't going ter seem right without the young master, is it?"

"No."

"Thought it was good fer ye to have somebody yer age about, but I guess—"

"It was my fault, Mary."

"Yer fault?" The maid's voice rose incredulously. "And how might that be, I ask ye? Ye ain't a boy caught in his first calf-love."

"I welcomed him—I was glad he came home."

"And well ye ought to be! Place's like a tomb when there ain't any but the old master about," Mary sniffed. "If he still had his eyes, he'd know—"

"Mary
—
"

"Guess it ain't proper to talk about it," the maid conceded reluctantly. "Guess ye just got to drink the toddy and try to fergit it, huh?"

"I don't know—Mary, I don't
know!"
For a moment, Elinor's face seemed to crumple, then she regained her composure. "You'd best see what keeps Jeremy."

As soon as the maid left again, she redipped her pen and scratched across the page, "I am the most miserable of females, and I see no end to it."

She stopped to stare at the words, then put her pen in the inkwell. She could not send that, not when her mother was powerless to do anything to help her. Wadding the vellum into a ball, she threw it to the floor and took out another sheet and began to write again.

Drst Mama,

I trust you, Papa, and the girls are well. As for Kingsley and I, we are fast becoming all the crack, and the pace is quite exhausting. Charles has been home for several weeks, but is leaving to join a regiment of dragoons, and I shall miss him in the extreme. Indeed, now that I have become used to a young person in the house, I know not how I shall go on without one.

I know that Charlotte is not yet out, but I have been thinking perhaps that she might enjoy a visit to London. There is so much to see here, Mama, that you cannot imagine it all, and although Charlotte cannot go about to routs and balls before she is presented, I am sure I can keep her tolerably amused. And it will do no harm to see that Madame Cecile takes her measurements for her court presentation next year, after all, for there is quite a waiting list.

You must not worry over the expense, for I am sure Arthur would frank the entire trip were I to ask him. And you must think of it not as a favor to Charlotte, but rather as one to myself. I assure you I shall delight in taking her about.

Do tell Papa and the girls that I think of them often, and that I wish it were possible to see them also. And you have my leave to tell that awful Mrs. Pangburn that I have waltzed at Almack's, for I quite know it will set up her back and afford you a bit of amusement.

Until we are met again, I remain yr obedient dtr, Nell Kingsley.

She read it carefully to discern if there were anything that might offend Arthur, then decided there was nothing beyond her use of the word
Nell.
If anything, it was rather vacuous, utterly concealing her pain and loneliness. Sitting back, she felt a small bit of relief—with Charlotte there, she would have an excuse to avoid Lord Townsend. And after what had happened with Longford—not to mention the guilt and loss she felt over Charles—she did not welcome any sort of flirtation, however fashionable Sally Jersey might think it.