Beware of Virtuous Women (13 page)

Eleanor made her way over to the couch lately vacated by the countess. Not caring what Jack might think, she toed off her evening slippers and drew her legs up onto the cushions, tucking her skirts over her feet. "What uniformly unlovely people," she said, shaking off Jack's offer of tea. "Thank heavens they had another engagement."

Jack smiled at his "wife," who certainly seemed to have no problems with the idea of making herself comfortable in his presence. And, if that was good for the goose...

Untying his neck cloth, Jack sat down on the facing couch, tugging the starched cloth out from around his neck, then opening the top button of his shirt. He could think of worse places to be than London society, but few that were more personally uncomfortable.

"What
was
going on when I found you?"

Eleanor leaned down and began absentmindedly rubbing at her left calf. "Mrs. Phelps was...in her altitudes, I'd suppose would be the kind way of saying it. Goodness, she drank so much wine I was surprised she didn't forgo the niceties of a glass and simply drink straight from the decanter. She's a very unhappy woman, Jack. But, fortunately, she does seem to enjoy the sound of her own voice."

"Meaning she filled the silences for you?" Jack asked, watching as Eleanor rubbed at her leg through the material of her gown.

"Well, to put it as succinctly as possible, Harris Phelps married her for her dowry, which he then used to present his sister to Society, hoping for an advantageous marriage that would feather all their nests. I can't know for certain, but I'm sure they made a dead set at the Earl of Chelfham when the man showed an interest."

"And it worked," Jack said, nodding his head. "I doubt you missed that finger-snapping call to heel earlier, before we went in to dinner?"

"I most certainly did not. But that's because she's increasing, according to Miranda Phelps. I believe the earl is jumping through hoops because his wife carries the heir you told me he desires so much."

Jack was fairly certain the heir wasn't the only reason an aging, mud-homely man would willingly put himself at the beck and call of a young, beautiful woman who allowed him in her bed, but he refrained from pointing that out to Eleanor. "You'll not be surprised to learn that Chelfham treats Phelps as badly as his wife does her sister-in-law. And Eccles? I'm beginning to think the man has no idea what's going on, even as he reaps some of the benefits. However, when you're as low as Phelps, it's always comforting to have someone lower than yourself standing at the ready when you feel the urge to kick something."

"Why would he need Eccles for that? Wouldn't his own wife be sufficient? It's painfully clear that he despises her."

Jack could stand it no longer, so he moved over to sit at the bottom of the other couch, to put his hands on Eleanor's calf.

"What are you—no, Jack, don't do that," Eleanor protested, attempting to push away his hands. "I'm perfectly fine."

"I know you are," he said, careful to keep her foot covered as he held on to her knee with one hand, began rubbing at her calf with the other. "God, woman, your muscle's in a cramp. Tight as a drum. Lie back and let me help you."

She wanted to say no, but the spasm, rather than easing, seemed to be getting worse. So she sat back, closed her eyes. "I think I must have overdone today. I must have been up and down the stairs a dozen times." She winced as Jack's fingers pushed at the knot in her muscle.

"Just relax, Eleanor," Jack said, keeping his hands moving, easing his left hand down to the hem of her gown, then reaching beneath it to take hold of her silk hose-clad foot. "Do you get cramps like this often?"

"Not this bad, no." Eleanor bit down on her bottom lip, shook her head. She didn't know which was worse, the pain of the cramp or the knowledge that Jack had both hands beneath her gown now, holding her foot steady, massaging her calf.

Jack was careful to keep his eyes on Eleanor's face, seeing the pain registered there in the way a white line had formed around her mouth. Her foot was so small and slim, fragile in his large hand, but her ankle seemed to be all hard bone, and not very well aligned. To ease the cramp, he tried to bend her foot up toward her shin, keeping the heel down...which was when he realized that Eleanor's ankle did not bend. Not even an inch, as if the bones had all fused, frozen together.

"What happened, Eleanor? You were injured when your ship sank? Is that what you said?"

Eleanor could feel the cramp begin to ease and tried to move, but it was too soon. The mere action of straightening her knee caused the cramp to seize her muscle again. "I don't recall saying that."

"Perhaps I assumed," Jack said, amazed at the way she lay on the couch, stoically soaking up the pain he was sure must be considerable. He moved both hands to her calf, doing his best to coax the muscle out of its rock-hard spasm. He wanted her to relax, think of something besides the pain. "But am I right?"

Eleanor nodded, purposely took a deep breath, then released it slowly. 'The ship was sinking and...and I was hiding belowdecks when Jacko found me. A frightened child, hiding."

She hadn't seemed to notice that Jack slid one hand up to the back of her knee. The feel of her, through the silk hose, was doing things to him that he should be ashamed of—and he might be, later. For now, all he knew was that if her calf felt good under his fingers, her thigh would feel even better. "So Jacko found you, saved you. But you were injured."

She longed to tell him the truth. Tell
somebody
the truth. But what would that serve? Nothing and no one. "Jacko passed me to Chance—you've never met him, I don't think—and he was holding me as he ran up the stairs to the deck. There was fire everywhere, and things were falling and people were shouting...."

"Fire? But the ship floundered in a storm," Jack said, then wished he'd kept his mouth shut, because Eleanor's eyes suddenly went wide and panicked.

"I.. .I was very young and very frightened. Perhaps a lantern had smashed? I don't remember. I've been told that Chance put me down, just for a moment, and I ran away from him. Perhaps I was looking for my... my parents. They tell me something fell on me, trapping my leg. I really don't remember anything much after seeing Jacko, to tell you the truth, and nothing of my life before that moment, either. He frightened me with his smile. I think I already told you what happened then. I screamed at the sight of him, then fainted, only rousing once Chance had me up on deck."

"I'm not a child, and screaming occurred to me as an option when I first saw the man," Jack said, hoping to encourage Eleanor to continue her story.

"He's fiercely loyal to Papa," Eleanor said, as if that explained everything there was to know about Jacko. "I...I think the cramp is easing," she added, sitting up more against the cushions, holding down her gown at the knee. She'd said too much, most of it without thinking, because her mind was too filled with sensation, the sensation caused by the feel of Jack's hands on her leg. Her pain was only secondary.

Jack reluctantly slid his hands out from beneath her gown, fairly certain he should borrow Cluny's beads and ask the man how to say a rosary in penance for unclean thoughts. He put out his hands to help Eleanor to a sitting position. "Slowly, Eleanor. You don't want that cramp to come back. Here, I'll help you with your shoes."

Eleanor smoothed down her gown, very aware that she now sat so close to Jack that their limbs were touching. "Thank you, but if you could just, um, hand them to me? At times like this, I've found that I'm more comfortable without shoes."

"Did your leg pain you very much the first night we arrived here?"

Eleanor remembered that she'd been barefoot when he'd found her snooping about in his study. In a moment of daring, she smiled at him. "Shall I lie and say yes?"

Jack put his crooked index finger under her chin, and eased closer. "What a bundle of contradictions you are, Eleanor Becket. I believe you're honest to a fault, right up until the moment you look at me with those innocent fawn eyes and lie to me without so much as a betraying blink. I only wonder if I'll ever be able to sort the lies from the truth before you finally decide to trust me."

It was the fire. How could she have slipped so badly as to mention the fire?
"I do trust you, Jack. I wouldn't be here, in London, most certainly not in this room, if I didn't trust you."

"Then you'll trust me to do this?" he asked just before he pressed his mouth to hers, gathering her against him as he did so.

Eleanor was stiff in his embrace, but only for a moment, as she realized that she was where she'd wanted to be for nearly two years. She opened her mouth on a sigh as she slipped her arms beneath his, to press her hands against his back, and Jack deepened their kiss, taking her mouth in a mix of gentleness and hunger that shook Eleanor to her core.

She didn't protest as he eased her against the cushions once more, this time following her down, cradling her with one arm as his hand slid down her hip and onto the thigh of her uninjured leg.

They were fused together now, both of them on their sides, as Jack felt sure he'd crush her if he dared to put his full weight on her small body.

This was madness, Jack knew, but she tasted so good. Insanity, pure and simple, but she felt so good. Jacko's smiling face and deadly mirthful eyes flashed into his mind, and were just as quickly banished, as were his promise to Ainsley Becket and possibly even his already scant hope of Heaven.

"Eleanor," he whispered against her ear as he broke the kiss so that he could hold her more closely. "I' m not hurting you, am I?"

Eleanor felt his breath, warm against her throat, and that warmth, curiously, sent a shiver straight down her spine. "I've always known you could never hurt me, Jack," she heard herself tell him, at which time her eyes opened wide as she realized what she'd just admitted.
Always. Always known. Because she'd always been thinking about him. Oh, God...

Jack felt her body stiffen even as Eleanor tried to withdraw from him, which would be impossible until he removed himself from the couch. He was a bastard, an unmitigated bastard, a rotter, plain and simple. The woman was infatuated with him. But how was he to have known that? He
should
have known that, damn it! Hell, he had to be the only gentleman ever welcomed to Becket Hall, ever accepted by Ainsley Becket. It would only be natural for the lonely spinster of the household to begin weaving fantasies about him.

He had to give her a way out, get past this awkward moment without embarrassing her more than she'd already embarrassed herself.

Jack levered himself to a sitting position once more, bringing Eleanor up with him, as he still had his arm around her. "Well, I've gone and done it now, haven't I?" he said, reaching down to pick up her small silver slippers, place them on his lap. "Do you think we can say the blame lies on both sides? You for being so appealing, me for taking advantage of my good friend's daughter."

"Yes, I suppose so," Eleanor said, drawing on years of holding back her emotions, of behaving, of hiding, of sitting quietly while longing to run, to scream, to even hit something if the spirit took her. "We had a... um, a stressful evening. Allowances should be made, as well as assurances that nothing remotely like this shall happen again. Now, if you'll excuse me?"

Before Jack could say anything else, Eleanor had gotten to her feet and was on her way out of the room in her stocking-clad feet, her limp barely noticeable.

"She should never wear you," he said once she was gone, glaring at the silver slippers in his hands, then frowning as he realized that the left slipper had been modified so that its heel was higher than the other one. Was that a help, or a hindrance? If she was more comfortable without shoes at all, why would she wear one with a higher heel?

"I'll be glad when this is over and she's back in Romney Marsh," he muttered aloud as he got to his feet, still holding the slippers. Then he looked toward the foyer and the staircase Eleanor had just climbed to the bedchamber that adjoined his, that was no more than an unlocked door away from his. "Glad? Let her lie to you, Eastwood," he told himself, rhythmically slapping the soles of the slippers against his leg as he headed for his study, "but don't start lying to yourself."

He hesitated as he reached the music room and looked inside, as candles still burned in their holders, and the song sheets remained where they had somehow been scattered onto the carpet.

"Penance," he suggested to himself out loud, entering the room to pick up the song sheets himself. A paltry penance, but Eleanor, he felt sure, would be appalled to think she had made extra work for the servants. He didn't know much about her, was sure he knew less every day, but he did know that.

Down on his knees, Jack reached for song sheets, stacking them in front of him, only pausing as he noticed Eleanor's portfolio tucked in between a chair and table. Miranda Phelps had certainly wanted to take a look at Eleanor's watercolors, and Eleanor had been just as adamant that she didn't.

"That was as close to a catfight as I've seen in a while, as a matter of fact," he said, picking up the song sheets and placing them on a table before gathering up the portfolio and carrying it to his study.

He laid the portfolio flat on his desktop, then sat down behind the desk and looked at the thing. Simply looked at it.

Eleanor's portfolio.

So? The journal in this desk drawer was yours.

She's modest, that's all, and has a right to her privacy.

She knows more than she's telling and you have a right to be suspicious of anything she does that seems out of the ordinary, unusual. It's your neck on the line.
Watercolors, Eastwood. What in bloody blazes do you think you'll find in there? All the lost secrets of the world?

"Oh, the hell with it," Jack said at last, and reached for the leather strap holding the portfolio closed, then opened the thing before he could change his mind.

The papers inside were of varying sizes. The very first one made him smile, for it wasn't a watercolor at all, but a small charcoal drawing of Cluny dozing in a large wicker chair in the conservatory. There was little detail, as if the sketch had been made quickly—probably before Cluny could wake to find out he'd become Eleanor's subject.