Folly (3 page)

“For me?”

“He’s handsome. Well-heeled. And, most importantly, kind.
He’s a kind man, Ellie. He would be a wonderful husband.”

“I don’t want a husband.” The words were past her lips
before she was even aware of them. Of the thought. And no. God no. She did not
want a husband. Ever again. The prospect made her blood run cold.

“But think, Ellie. What if our plan doesn’t work? You’ll
need options.”

“It will work.”

“Ellie.” Helena put her hand on Eleanor’s. “How long were
you married to Ulster?”

“Five years.” She tried not to, but couldn’t help but wince
at the thought. The memories.

“And you never got with child. What are the odds you can
conceive in one short month?”

“I will. I’m certain of it.”

“All right, dear.” Helena took a sip of tea. “But meet
Haversham. Just meet him. Give him a chance. Promise?”

Eleanor frowned at her friend. But her annoyance was
impossible to maintain. Helena was far too charming. And she did want to help,
bless her. “Fine.”

“And speaking of our plan, now that we’re private, do tell
me how last night went. I am practically expiring with curiosity. Did you find
someone?”

Eleanor took a finger sandwich but didn’t eat it. She merely
wanted something to hold.

“Well?”

She dipped her head. “Yes.”

“What? Yes? Do speak up, Ellie. I want to hear everything.”

“I am not telling you
everything
.”

“Was he handsome?”

“As far as I could tell.” At Helena’s look, she elaborated.
“He was wearing a mask.”

“A mask. How mysterious.”

“Yes.” Eleanor gazed off out the window, though she saw
nothing. Nothing but his face, wreathed in shadows as it was. “He was tall and
muscular.”

“Always promising. And did you seduce him?”

“I rather think we seduced each other.”

Helena considered Eleanor, her mouth working a bit, as
though she was having trouble forming words. Finally, she murmured, “Well,
did
you
? I mean, did you complete the act? Did our plan work?”

Oh dear. How did one respond? In the parlor? Over tea?
“Yes.”

“That’s wonderful. Just think, Eleanor, you could be with
child right now. All your troubles could be over. I’m so happy for you.”

She wrapped Eleanor in a warm, rather un-countess-like hug.
Eleanor allowed it because she adored Helena, and because she needed a hug. But
she didn’t feel wonderful. She didn’t feel wonderful at all. And it all had to
do with the roiling regret, still scalding her heart, that she hadn’t gone to
Hyde Park. That she’d never seen his face, and now she never would.

Just then, the butler scratched on the door to announce yet
another visitor, which released Eleanor from the burden of having to converse.

Other burdens, however, remained.

* * * * *

Eleanor shivered against the chill. The fire burned, but
halfheartedly and far away, on the other side of her cavernous chamber. She sat
on the edge of her bed and stared at the red stain on her petticoat as though
she’d never seen such a thing before. Suddenly very cold, she wrapped the
blanket tighter around her shoulders.

It didn’t help.

That easily, all her hopes evaporated. All her dreams came
crashing down. An enormous weight descended upon her, panic pounded in her
chest.

She was not with child. She was not.

She stifled a heaving sob with her fist but it bubbled out
anyway, an anguished wail.

It wasn’t her dire circumstances tearing at her heart,
although she did worry what would become of her when Berwick returned to London
and discovered her belly flat. No, her sorrow came from an entirely different
heartbreak.

She hadn’t realized she’d made so much of it, made so much
of him. The dream lover, the man who made her soul sing. She hadn’t realized
how many hopes she’d arranged around his memory. Around the child who would
have been his. The child would have been a constant reminder that life was not
always difficult and love did not always hurt.

But now it hurt. She hurt.

Her maid, Celeste, entered the room through the servant’s
door, carrying a bowl of warm water. It would be tepid at best. Even though
Celeste hurried, it was a long tramp from the kitchens to the master’s chambers
of Ulster House.

Sympathy, and perhaps pity, tinged her expression. Celeste
knew what this meant for Eleanor. For both of them. Berwick’s eye had danced
over her from time to time too.

She took the petticoat from Eleanor’s stiff fingers with a
no-nonsense attitude. “We must get rid of this,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Without pause, she whirled, crossed the room and tossed the telltale garment in
the fire.

A laugh rose in Eleanor’s chest. “Have a care, Celeste. I
haven’t very many.”

“You have enough. Besides, no one else can know.” She shot a
glance over her shoulder. “Especially Mrs. Winter.”

Eleanor shivered at the thought of the forbidding
housekeeper who ruled Ulster House with an iron fist. Even though Eleanor had
been the Lady here, Mrs. Winter had never accorded her an ounce of influence.
The old witch had held on to her keys and her control with a frightening
fanaticism.

Ulster had allowed it and Ulster’s mother had delighted in
it, encouraging Mrs. Winter’s contempt of her son’s unwanted bride at every
turn. The old dowager had never accepted Eleanor and had reveled in any
opportunity to show her her place.

That Eleanor hadn’t
wanted
a place here did not
signify.

But now it was essential to keep her secret from Mrs.
Winter. From Lady Ulster. From everyone.

Celeste cleared her throat. “We should leave now. This
morning.”

Eleanor was still reeling under the weight of her loss, but
slowly, Celeste’s words seeped through her brain and she recognized the truth
of it. It would be difficult, if not impossible to hide the evidence of her
condition—or lack thereof—in this household. With the exception of dear
Celeste, all the maids and footmen and scullery wenches were firmly under Mrs.
Winter’s thumb. Blood on the sheets, on the petticoats, on anything, would not
go unnoticed. Especially when so many eyes were looking for it.

“Yes. You’re right.”

“To Lady Darlington’s, I think?” Celeste ducked into the
dressing room and dragged out a small trunk.

“Pack for a month, Celeste.”

Her maid shot her a conspiratorial grin. She too would enjoy
a break from this dour prison. “At least.”

“And Celeste?”

“Yes, mum?”

“Let’s not tell anyone we’re going.”

Chapter Three

It was a beautiful day for a ride. Ethan wasn’t sure why he
and Darlington were languishing in the coach with their mounts—including
Darlington’s new thoroughbred—tied behind. The ride to Exeter wasn’t long but
he was edgy, in need of exercise. He was certain his restlessness had nothing
to do with his constant mooning over Mignon.

How annoying was it that he could be filled with the utter
conviction to forget her one moment, and the next he was thinking about her
again? His daydreams featuring her were truly idiotic. He’d even gone so far as
to picture them married with a brood of beautiful children living at his house
on the coast.

Most of his musings, however, involved the making of those
children.

There she was. Mignon draped across his bed, naked and
writhing. Mignon in the drawing room, panting her passion. Mignon in the
stable…

It was becoming a problem. More than once in the past few
days his valet had had to call his attention back to the choosing of the day’s
ascot—which had only resulted in yet another flight of fancy. Mignon wearing
his ascot—and nothing else. Oh ah, Mignon tied to the bedpost with his ascot.
Yes. A charming picture.

He readjusted his position, suddenly glad he was not on
horseback. James was riffling through some papers, too busy, thank God, to
notice Ethan’s preoccupation with a woman he would never hold again.

“What are you working on?”

“Huh? Oh. I’m just going through some legal documents for
one of Helena’s friends…” The way he trailed off with a guilty glance caught
Ethan’s attention.

“Whose?”

James dropped the papers onto the seat beside him and
crossed his arms over his chest. “I meant to tell you…”

Ethan narrowed his eyes. “Tell me what?”

“Helena’s invited one of her friends to the party. A widow.”

“And why should I care about that?”

“It’s Ulster’s widow.”

A chasm opened between them.

Red-hot fury shot through Ethan’s chest at the mention of
Ulster’s name. Bile tickled the back of his throat. His hackles rose. True, the
man was dead, but he wasn’t dead enough for Ethan’s liking.

“Come now, Pennington. Give her a chance. You will like
her.”

Ethan stared at James. Good God. The thought of spending a
month with
this
widow, even in the vast confines of Darlington’s estate,
made him want to wretch. She would be a constant reminder of the man who had
gone out of his way to ruin his father and then, as though that weren’t enough,
gone out of his way to ruin
him
.

No. He couldn’t spend a month with her. Couldn’t spend a day
with her. He would never be able to forget exactly who she was. He most
certainly could not
like
her.

Oh, she was lovely. She was without exception the most
beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. But she was Ulster’s wife. Ulster’s
widow.

No. He wouldn’t like her. How could he? Though she was
beyond gorgeous, she had married
him
. Ethan’s sworn enemy, the man who
had ruined his father and then driven him to take his own life. It had taken
Ethan decades to recover from the scandal, to build his fortune, recapture the
respect of his family name. It had cost him much. Very nearly his sight.

He rubbed at the scar that still ached at his temple. No. He
couldn’t like a woman who had willing placed herself—body and soul—into
Ulster’s care. Who had held him. Loved him. Fucked him. The thought made his
stomach churn.

That Ulster was now dead and gone—God rot his soul—make
absolutely no difference.

“Ethan?”

He shot a dark frown at his friend. Damn Darlington. He’d
known how Ethan would react. He’d kept this tidbit a secret until it was too
late to turn back. If James had told Ethan Ulster’s widow was attending this
party, he’d never have agreed to come.

He would have avoided James like the plague.

He would never have been caught.

But he had been caught, and James was his friend. A man
who’d stood by his side when so many others had deserted him. He’d paid for
Ethan’s commission. Financed his early investments. Saved him in oh so many
ways.

He would suffer
her
presence for Darlington’s sake,
but no more. He wouldn’t talk to her or dance with her when not strictly
required by good form. He would avoid her company. Ignore her presence.

He certainly wouldn’t like her.

“This is lovely, isn’t it?” Helena, who was standing by the
window, fixated on the lane snaking its way to the house, peeped over her
shoulder and smiled at Eleanor. “Just the two of us?”

“Yes.” They’d come to Exeter two days early so Helena could
organize the party. It had been quite restful, just what Eleanor had needed. A
chance to forget. To forget about
him
. She’d spent the past few days in
absolute leisure, reading and walking and exploring the grounds to her heart’s
content, giving herself permission not to worry about her future. At least for
now.

She hardly ever thought of
him
.

It was a struggle, but she hardly ever did.

It had been a shock to discover Darlington’s gardeners were
constructing a yew labyrinth—much like the Carlisle-Grant creation—at the
southern end of the sprawling gardens. Eleanor had not visited it yet. She
simply couldn’t bear to.

But each time she saw it, her heart would flutter and her
breath would catch.

And she’d look away.

Helena sighed heavily and trudged back to the divan as
though her slippers were filled with mud. She plopped down beside Eleanor. “I
have enjoyed spending this time with you, Ellie. Though, I must say, I do miss
James.”

Of course she did. “When will Darlington arrive?”

“Anytime now.” Helena lit up at the thought and Eleanor
struggled to hold her gaze. It was wonderful her friend had found such a love,
such a gentle husband. She should not be envious. She really should not.

She cleared her throat, searched for a topic. “And when will
the other guests arrive?”

Helena gusted out a sigh and fiddled with the twill on her
gown. “Well, Uncle Andrew is already here.”

Eleanor lifted a brow. “I haven’t seen him.”

“No. And you probably won’t, until dinner. He headed
straight for the library to research his book. He’s writing a tome on the
Darlington family history.”

“Lovely.”

“It’s already seven hundred pages long.” Helena leaned
forward and helped herself to a lemon cake.

“Fascinating.”

“Quite.” The cake flaked apart as she bit into it, and she
dusted the crumbs from her skirts. “Mind you, that’s the first chapter.”

Eleanor laughed. “Oh dear.”

“Mmm hmm. Whatever you do, don’t ask him about it. You will
undoubtedly become mired in a swamp, eight hundred years in the making.”

“Thank you, ever so much, for the warning.”

“Indeed.”

“And the others?”

“Let’s see.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Dent in a
few days.”

“With his wife and sister.”

“Yes, yes. And,” her lashes flickered, “Haversham on
Friday.”

Eleanor sighed and stirred her tea desultorily.

Helena put out a lip. “Don’t be so gloomy.”

“I’m gloomy.”

“You are. Come on, Ellie. You promised to give him a
chance.”

“I know. I know. I will consider him.”

“Do you promise? Do you?” Helena leaned toward her. Her
voice rose with each new demand.

“Yes, yes. All right. I promise.” Eleanor laughed. Then she
blinked. For Helena had leaped up from the couch and bounded back to the bay
window.

“Do you hear that? Is that a coach?” She hopped up and down
and squealed—yes, squealed—in delight. “It’s him. James is here.” She ran to
the door but stopped short. She turned. The chagrin on her face was
disconcerting.

“What is it?”

“I forgot to mention one little thing.”

“What’s that, dear?”

Helena squared her shoulders. “Darlington is bringing a
friend.”

“Oh?” How this information could explain Helena’s reticence
was a mystery. “Who?”

Helena pursed her lips like a trout, as she always did when
she didn’t want to say something she really had to say. “Pennington.”

A hardball wedged into Eleanor’s throat—for no particular
reason. She took a quick sip of tea. “P-Pennington?”

“Yes. Colonel Pennington. The war hero.”

Oh dear. “Ulster hated Pennington.” It was difficult to
speak. Her lips were numb.

“Ulster hated everyone.”

The ball flowered into full-fledged panic. Pennington was
here—or nearly here. That huge, intimidating, horrifying man. “I must not
stay.” She stood and rushed to the door, to the staircase, toward the safety of
her room, desperate to be gone before her husband’s enemy arrived.

But she was too late.

As she entered the foyer, the front door swung open,
revealing two tall men at the entrance. Only one caught and snared her
attention. She couldn’t help staring at him. At it. His beautiful, frightening
scarred face.

The face Ulster had given him.

Ethan stood on the threshold and studied Lady Ulster. He
tightened his lips to keep his vitriol in. When he looked at her, he saw only
Ulster. Ulster’s
bride
.

She was as lovely as he remembered, even dressed in widow’s
weeds. Her countenance was a porcelain masterpiece, exquisitely carved and as
mobile as marble. Her nose was long and proud, but in a delicate, feminine way.
Her nostrils were tiny, terminally pinched. Her eyes were clear and wide and a
shade of gray that brought to mind the mists on the moor or starlight perhaps.
And her chin—its curves were flawless, shaping her face like the heart he was
certain she did not have.

For as she was inexpressively lovely, she was as cold as
winter’s breath. Those misty orbs, while dreamy and deep in repose, sliced
through a man as though she saw his every secret, exposed his every flaw. And
that nose, as dainty and delicate as it was, seemed nothing more than a gauge
for that cold gaze, a compass for her distain.

He’d never heard her speak. She would not deign to address
someone as unfitting as he. Besides, in the few chance meetings they’d had, at
this party or that unfortunate outing, Ulster had dominated the conversation.
She had remained silent and still, nothing more than an ornament for his lordly
arm.

She did not speak now. She merely tipped her head, a
miniscule nod to no one in particular, and like a swan, glided up the staircase
and out of sight.

“Darlington.” At the dulcet exclamation, Ethan turned his
head, surprised to realize they were not alone. The countess stood in the entry
to the drawing room, her hands modestly folded. Her eyes, trained on James,
were not modest in the least. “I’ve missed you.”

“Helena!” James scooped his wife into his arms, kissing her
soundly. And at length. At very long length.

Ethan felt a headache coming on. He rubbed his forehead.

When Helena emerged from the heated clinch, her cheeks were
rosy. “I am sorry. You must be parched. Please, come into the sitting room and
have some tea.”

Darlington grimaced. “Tea? I was thinking something
stronger.”

“Oh, Baxter.” The countess gestured to the butler, hovering
nearby as all good butlers did. “Please bring the gentlemen some brandy.”

“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind…” Ethan bowed his regrets.
“I would much prefer to have something in my room.”

“Certainly. Dinner’s at eight. Shall I have someone see you
to your chambers? Baxter?”

Was that a wicked smile flashing across the countess’s
visage? And an answering grin from Darlington? Of course it was. The newlyweds
wanted to frolic. Ethan was more than happy to oblige them with his absence.

They didn’t even wait until he had reached the top of the
stairs, with the stodgy butler leading the way, before the drawing room door
closed with a decided click.

Pennington!

Eleanor put a hand to her chest, as though that could still
her fluttering heart.

Heavens. How could Helena have done this? How could she?

Of all the men in the world to invite to this house party,
why did it have to be the one man who despised her so?

The one man who had good reason to?

She had wanted nothing more from this party than to forget
herself. Forget her past. Forget her burdens. If only for a while. But
Pennington would never allow it.

Eleanor threw herself onto the window seat and gave her
tears of frustration free rein.

Damn, damn, damn.

Would Ulster’s shadow follow her everywhere? Would she pay
for the privilege of his name, the curse of his name, until the day she died?
Sometimes it seemed so.

Certainly today.

Her breath hitched as she remembered the image of Pennington
standing there in the doorway. Regal and forbidding. His handsome face had been
a mask of distaste. His lips had curled, his eyes narrowed as they took in her
person.

As always, his hatred for her was palpable.

She reminded him of Ulster. How could she not? Undoubtedly,
that led to reminders of the brazen treachery that had ruined his life.

Pennington should never have agreed to the duel. Everyone
knew Ulster was a master swordsman, a wizard with a rapier. Everyone knew he
would do whatever it took to win a challenge.

Everyone knew he cheated.

How could Pennington have expected anything less? How could
Pennington have expected a fair fight?

Ulster had turned, long before the count had finished, and
attacked, slashing at Pennington’s cheek and laying him open to the bone.

It had been quite a scandal.

Ulster hadn’t cared.

He’d known what people were saying but had merely laughed at
the few who dared confront him. He’d destroyed Pennington’s father, he’d
boasted, and now he’d savaged the whelp as well.