Folly (4 page)

Eleanor had been careful to hold her tongue. But when she
was alone, in the dark shadows of the night in her cold chamber, she had wept.
Wept for Pennington’s lost beauty and wept for herself.

But now… Now when she looked at him, she didn’t see the scar
slashing across his cheek, she didn’t see a disfigured visage. She saw a man
who was even more handsome, even more frightening than before.

A man who detested her.

There was no doubt. She would have to leave. She couldn’t
stay. She just couldn’t.

Bereft, she curled up on the window seat, wrapped in a warm
blanket, and gazed out at the gardens. A sob caught in her throat as her attention
drifted to the labyrinth James was constructing to the south. She could just
make out the shape of a whimsical folly in the center. She buried her head in
her arms and wept.

She wept and wept, until she was drained dry.

She fell asleep like that and dreamed of a tall dark
stranger with a bold, square chin and kisses that made her heart sing.

It was dark when she awoke to Celeste scratching at the
door. “It’s time to prepare for dinner, mum.”

Eleanor groaned at the realization that it was far too late
for her to pack and return to London tonight. She would have to stay the night.
Which meant facing Pennington over the dinner table.

Her belly gave a lurch at the thought. Clearly, she wouldn’t
be eating much.

She sighed and stood, then stretched out her limbs, which
were all creaky from sleeping so long in an awkward position by the window. She
allowed Celeste to dress her and style her hair, although she had no enthusiasm
for the proceedings. When her maid was finished, she studied her image in the mirror.

Was that her? The pinched-faced widow all swathed in black?
Where had the young girl gone? She wondered. The girl who had laughed at the
slightest provocation? Broken into song, just because she was happy? Found joy
in the simple lines of a flower?

Ah, yes. Ulster had happened.

He had drained the joy from her soul.

He had much to answer for in hell.

Her great fear was that Pennington would expect her to pay
the price in Ulster’s stead.

But things could be worse. She wasn’t sure exactly how. But
they could.

At the sound of the gong, she stood and shook out her
skirts, feeling somewhat like a soldier preparing for war. She had once been
Eleanor DeWitt. Daughter of Charles DeWitt, fourth Baron of Beckford. No. She
was, once more, Eleanor DeWitt. Strong, determined. Brave. A survivor. She put
back her shoulders and stared at herself again, willing her spine to
straighten, willing her eyes to take on that martial light they used to have.
When she saw it, saw herself again, she smiled.

She was Eleanor DeWitt.

She could handle Colonel Pennington.

She could handle whatever barbs he tossed her way.

In the end, she needn’t have worried. Helena met her at the
bottom of the stairs and linked arms, walking her into the dining room.
Darlington fell in on the other side. Eleanor had the distinct impression they
were forming a vanguard, protecting her. Or at least sending the message this
was the case.

Pennington, for his part, was a complete gentleman. He took
her gloved hand and bent his head, as a gentleman should, although the contact
was brief.

They were to be informal, Helena announced, pointing each to
their seats. She had thoughtfully seated Pennington down the table and to the
left. That meant Eleanor sat directly opposite of Darlington’s Uncle Andrew who
was, it seemed, a trifle deaf.

Certainly deaf enough to be oblivious to anyone attempting
to turn the topic from Darlington ancestors. Needless to say, the conversation
was rather dry. And rather one-sided. This was probably why Eleanor became
distracted by her own thoughts.

This was probably why she sat there at the exquisite,
elegant table and contemplated the thought of making a baby.

Hardly proper.

But very little about her was proper anymore.

She’d come to the conclusion that the fact she wasn’t with
child—yet—need not be the disaster it had seemed last week. She still had
nearly a month before Berwick returned from Scotland. And there were certainly
options available. The world was full of virile men. Wasn’t it? She scanned the
company.

Darlington was out of the question. Helena would snatch her
bald if she so much as brought it up.

And dotty Uncle Andrew? She watched as one spoonful after
another of delicious soup drizzled down his beard. No.

There was always Baxter, the butler. But no. He had a manner
about him Eleanor had seen before. Clearly Baxter would prefer a more
manly
woman.

That left a handful of footmen. And Pennington.

Eleanor shot a surreptitious glance in his direction and was
shocked to find his attention fixed on her. Her heart seized.

She had always thought him attractive—outrageously so. He
was tall and dark and his eyes were like liquid silver. She allowed herself to
imagine what it would be like to be kissed by him. A red tide crept up her
cheeks.

He noticed—of course he noticed—and his lips quirked, a
mocking smile.

She sat back so he couldn’t see her and snorted to herself.
No. Not Pennington. He wouldn’t touch her. Not if she begged.

Which left Haversham. He would be here in a few days. But…
Dear heavens. How would she explain something like this to him? How would she
ever retain her reputation if, once she had explained things, he rejected her?

No. Clearly she would have to leave. Go back to London. Find
another masquerade. Or a brothel. Or something.

“Eleanor?”

She looked up. Mercy. The entire table was staring at her.
She cleared her throat. “So sorry. I was woolgathering.”

“You will sing for us? After dinner?” The request came from
Darlington, accompanied by a pleading flutter of lashes. Eleanor didn’t allow
herself to think about how handsome her friend’s husband was. But he was. How
could a woman resist such charm?

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Lovely.” Helena clapped her hands. “I love
Ode to Joy
.
We used to perform that at school. Do you remember it?”

“I do.”

The conversation turned then—away from the Darlington
antecedents, much to Uncle Andrew’s chagrin—to music, and before long Eleanor
found herself beside the piano, with Helena acting as her accompanist, doing
the one thing she loved the most. Singing.

It had been so long. So very long.

Ulster had hated singing.

Ulster had deplored frivolity of any kind. He’d certainly
never allowed Eleanor to sing. Once, when he’d caught her merely humming in the
garden, he’d punished her. He’d ripped out all the plants. Every one. Had them
tilled under while she stood and watched. Helpless.

He always made her feel helpless.

She was not helpless now.

Singing made her strong. It fed her soul.

She closed her eyes as she made her way through her favorite
passage of Beethoven’s Ninth, but only to keep from accidently looking at
Colonel Pennington. She was aware of him though, of his gaze upon her as he sat
sprawled in a chair, sipping on brandy. Watching her. But before long, his
daunting presence slipped her mind completely.

When she finished the piece, to a rousing applause, she saw
Pennington had left the room. And she smiled, elated at the thought that she
had slain the dragon. At least, for the evening.

Chapter Four

Dear God.

Ethan found a corner in the library and dragged a heavy
chair around to the window. He sat and glared out at the stars.

Dear God.

He’d been prepared to hate her. He’d been prepared to be
coolly civil. He’d been prepared to tolerate her.

But when she’d opened her mouth and started to sing, all of
his resolute intentions had shattered.

Dear God.

She had the voice of an angel. His veins still hummed with
his reaction.

She was Ulster’s widow, damn it all to hell. How could he
feel like
this
? About her?

The inner turmoil roiling in his gut had disturbed him so
much, he’d had to leave the room, though it had been difficult. Difficult to
walk out. To leave while her music still swirled around him.

He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm in an
effort to erase the memory. It didn’t work. When he opened them again, he could
see her standing there, face tipped to the heavens, rapt and transfixed with
bliss.

Dear God.

Behind him, the door opened and Ethan, unwilling to cede his
privacy—at least not yet, not until he regained some semblance of
sanity—hunkered deeper into the chair. He grimaced as he heard the telltale
shush of female skirts.

“I’m so sorry, darling. So sorry I cannot say. I know how
much you wanted… Well, how much you wanted this.”

Helena.

That could only mean she and Darlington had decided to come
into the library to continue their earlier frolic or…

“I’m sorry too.”

Damn. Lady Ulster
—or, as he’d suddenly started
thinking of her—
Eleanor
.

He should reveal himself. Clear his throat or simply stand.
But he didn’t. He did not know why.

“Please don’t leave.”

Leave? Was she leaving? How could she leave? He’d only just…
Only just what? Ethan grimaced at the errant direction of his thoughts. It
would be wonderful if she left. Perfect.

But then he would never hear her sing again.

“I must go.”

“Please. Wait. Haversham will be here in just a few days.”

Haversham? What the hell did Haversham have to do with
anything? For heaven’s sake, the boy was just a pup.

“It wouldn’t work with Haversham, Helena. Don’t you see? I
couldn’t tell him.”

Tell him what?

“Then don’t tell him.”

Tell him what?

“I can’t do that, Helena. He is terribly young. It wouldn’t
seem right.”

Damn straight.

“What Ulster did wasn’t right.”

Now this really caught Ethan’s attention, but Helena didn’t
elaborate. And the next words out of her mouth were so interesting, Ethan
completely forgot about the first part.

“What about Pennington?”

Eleanor snorted a laugh. “Now, that is hopeless.”

“It’s not.”

“He hates me.”

“He hates Ulster.” Helena’s voice dropped. Ethan had to
strain to hear. “The two of you are hardly unalike in that.”

“He frightens me.”

Ethan sucked in a breath as a familiar pain sliced through
him, one more agonizing than the strike of the rapier that had caused it all.

Helena voiced his thoughts. “His scar?”

“His what? Oh. No. Lord.” Eleanor laughed, but it was a
humorless sound. “If anything that scar makes him even more…”

“More what?”

Yes
, Ethan thought.
More what?

“More compelling.”

Ah. Compelling?
But he had no time to contemplate the
delicious taste of that one word. She continued.

“He has always frightened me. He’s so tall.”

“Ulster was tall.”

“Ulster was…less.”

“Less? Less what?”

“Just less.”

“Well, I don’t think you should rule him out. Pennington is
a fine figure of a man. He would produce magnificent sons.”

“I don’t need magnificent sons. I just need…”

“Ulster’s heir.”

“God help me, yes. Even so, there’s no guarantee such issue
would be a boy. Oh, Helena. All this could still be for naught.”

“Darling.” Her voice muffled and Ethan had the impression
Helena had wrapped Eleanor into an embrace. “Don’t think that way. Besides, I
told you. If disaster comes to pass and Ulster’s cousin tosses you out, you’re
always welcome here.”

Ethan’s heart thudded painfully.

“You would take me in? Forever? Really, Helena. I would be
nothing but a burden.”

“It wouldn’t be forever, though I would welcome it if it
was. But darling, you’re so lovely, one season, perhaps one dance, and you’ll
be snapped up at once.”

“I am no fresh flower. I am…used.”

“It’s hardly your fault you were bartered into a marriage
with an ogre.”

“I could have refused.”

“At what cost? Your father’s life?”

“And look. Five years of hell, bound to Ulster, and I still
lost Papa. After everything.”

“Ellie. He died in his own home. His own bed. It could have
been Newgate. You saved him from that, at least. Ellie. Don’t cry.”

Her sobs were audible. Ethan felt like a cad, now, for
eavesdropping. Still, he didn’t reveal himself.

“Crying is a privilege I’ve earned, Helena.”

“Still. Don’t. It makes me sad.”

“Well, dear Helena, I wouldn’t want to make you sad.”

“Shall we have tea?”

Eleanor gave a watery laugh. “A balm for all things. No,
Helena. It’s too late for tea.”

“It’s never too late for tea.” A battle cry. My, but Helena
was fierce.

“No. You go ahead. I think I would rather stay here a while.
Sit by the fire. Read.”

“Of course, dear.”

Ethan listened as Helena left the room, her muslin making
elegant swishes against the carpet. He stilled as Eleanor approached the
hearth. Her form hove into view but her gaze was transfixed on the fire. She
didn’t see him.

She stood there, fingers twined behind her back, staring
into the flames for a long time. Tears ran, unchecked, down her cheeks.

He knew the very instant she realized she wasn’t alone. It
was a subtle shift, tiny tremors in the stiffness of her carriage.

Slowly, she turned.

Eleanor froze as a movement in the corner of her eye caught
her attention. She was not alone. Her belly dipped as she recognized a harsh,
dark profile. She swallowed. “You heard?”

Pennington sighed and stood, facing her in the dancing
shadows cast by the fire. “To my chagrin, yes. I heard everything.”

Oh dear.

They’d never talked before. Not so much as a salutation.
Certainly not an actual conversation. She didn’t know what to say. So she
shrugged.

“I take it you are hoping to get with child and pass him off
as Ulster’s heir.”

She flinched. Put like that, it sounded horrid.

“I cannot say I’m not intrigued by the prospect of planting
a cuckoo in the Ulster nest. But tell me, Eleanor…” A shiver skittered up her
spine as he spoke her given name for the first time. “Have you no conscience
about such a deception?”

“Y-You question my conscience?” she stuttered.

He spread his hands. “Faced with the facts, yes.”

She crumpled. “Well, yes. Of course. But I have no choice.
If he had left me anything, anything at all…”

“He left you penniless?”

“Everything was entailed.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.” She barked a laugh. “His mother visited the
day he died to reclaim the jewels. His cousin was not far behind.”

“Berwick.”

“Yes.”

“Charming creature.”

Eleanor shot him a look, recognizing his sarcasm for the
bitter gouge it was. “I most certainly would not be considering such a thing if
Berwick were not…”

“Were not what?”

She struggled with the words. It was mortifying. Truly it
was. “If Berwick were not…pressuring me.”

Ethan stilled, his spine suddenly stiff, his stomach sour.
“Pressuring you? For what?” The gaze she tossed over her shoulder held its own
brand of bitterness. “But he’s married.”

“Exactly.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and paced the room,
riffling the silk carpet with a sudden fury. “It’s not as though they’ve been
kind to me. It’s not as though they’ve been fair.” A lowering desperation
flooded her eyes. And tears. She swiped at them impatiently. “I wasn’t like
this before. I would never even have considered such a thing. But I just don’t
know where to go. What to do.”

“And they do deserve it.”

“It’s hardly my place to say what they deserve.” She threw
back her shoulders. “But it is my place to try to survive. To try to make
something of my life.”

“So you want to make a child.”

“Need to make a child.”

“Before Berwick returns from bounding about the Highlands.”

“He’s hunting.”

“Clearly his priorities are in order.”

She bit back a smile but he saw a hint of it before she
turned away. “He always did like his hunting.”

“No worries. I’m sure he has the good manners to wear
black.”

Now she giggled. Just the bubble of a laugh. Ethan found he
liked it. He liked it a lot.

In fact, he found he liked
her
. And he liked her a
lot.

A resolution formed in his belly, or somewhere thereabouts.
He moved closer, ignoring her flare of fear at his approach. “Lady Eleanor.” He
could not bear to call her Lady Ulster. “I will make you a bargain.”

“A bargain?”

“If you will consider me, my lady,” he affected a courtly
bow, “I would be delighted to give you that child.”

She whirled on him, mouth agape. Tiny and pink and round. Oh
my. Yes. He liked her tremendously. Her swanlike neck worked as she swallowed
retort after retort after retort until she finally croaked, “What?” And then,
when he did not repeat his offer, “You would do that for me?”

“My lady. It would be my pleasure.” This, he said with a
smile and a glint in his eye, but she ignored them both.

“You said a bargain? What would you want in return for
this…service?”

He considered her for an eternity. “In return,” he said at
last, “you will do whatever I ask.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Whatever you ask?”

“Anything. Everything. And I do mean
everything
.” He
looked her up and down. “I must say, I find the prospect of having such a
beautiful woman at my beck and call appealing.”

“For how long?”

“The length of this party. For one month.” He smiled, a
wolfish grin. “Starting tonight.”

Eleanor’s heart stuttered. She stared at Pennington,
something akin to shock coursing through her veins. She couldn’t deny she found
the proposition attractive—all of it. He was, as Helena had said, a fine figure
of a man. She was undeniably attracted and always had been. But he frightened
her.

Upon reflection, she had to admit it was an exciting kind of
fear.

As he came closer, with that enigmatic smile on his lips,
she had to tip up her head to retain the contact. And oh. He was close. So
close she could feel the heat, the lust, the hunger rolling off him in waves.
He was overwhelming. The thought of being with him, like that, rendered her
mute.

She stepped back.

He followed.

“What say you, my lady Eleanor?” This, he whispered into her
ear, a hot rush of words that made her giddy. “Do you accept my bargain?”

She opened her mouth to respond, to say yes, but a sudden
realization swamped her and she shook her head. “I cannot. Not tonight.”

“Why?” His tone was harsh, strangled, angry, and she
flinched.

Heavens. How to explain? The weight of his gaze was a burden
but she faced him. She owed him as much, at least. “Four days ago, I discovered
I am not with child.”

A muscle in his cheek bunched. “That doesn’t answer my
question.”

She sighed and tangled her fingers in a knot. Blast. She was
going to have to say it. “I’m having my courses.” He barked a laugh, which
surprised her, so she sputtered, “People do not fornicate when a woman is
having her courses.” Ulster had made his disgust over her womanly functions
more than clear.

“No.” He leaned in. She would have edged away from his bulk
but his expression warned her not to. Oh. And he had backed her against the
wall. “People don’t fornicate, they fuck.”

Eleanor slapped a hand over her mouth to stay the gasp at
his bawdy profanity. She could not, however, stay the gush of warmth the
word—from his lips—evoked. It made her feel so wicked.

“Yes. Fuck. As in, I want to fuck you, Eleanor.” She tried
to turn away, but he took hold of her arms, his hands warm, firm upon her.
“Look at me.” She did. “I want to fuck you. I want to shove my cock into your
cunt and fuck you.” The words were arousing him. She could see it in the tight
tremble of his muscles, smell it in the heat washing toward her. But the words
were arousing her too. “I want to fuck you right now. Here”

She shuddered.

He smiled. “You want it, don’t you?”

“Yes.” It was all she could do to form the word.

“Say it. Tell me.”

“I want you to fuck me.” A whisper. A sigh.

“Ethan. Call me Ethan. And look at me when you say it.” He
gave her a gentle shake when she didn’t immediately comply. “Do it.” His voice
was low, urgent. A pulse pounded in his temple. A drop of sweat formed near his
hairline. “Say it.”

“Ethan, I want you to fuck me.”

“Ah. Yes.”

He pulled her flush against his body, then bent his knees
and rubbed his hardness against her throbbing center until she nearly swooned.
Yes, it was between layers of clothing, but the sensation was intense. Her
knees locked and she crumpled into his arms.

He grunted. A grunt of victory.

Just then the door to the library flew open.

As one, they turned to see Uncle Andrew enter, tapping his
pipe on his boot heel. He peered at them and blinked. “Oh. I say.”