But when she went to climb up onto the elegant four-poster bed, she discovered a book already waiting for her.
She picked it up with a small frown. What could it be?
Memoirs of a Well-Loved Lady
by Fanny Carson.
Oh dear Lord, where had this come from? There was a piece of paper sticking out from between the pages. Eleanor opened the book and lifted the paper to the light.
"Read it all. Then we will talk. B."
Brahm. Brahm had left this. Brahm had been in her room. He had let himself into her private sanctuary. Had he been the one to light the lamp as well? Such an invasion of her privacy should have angered her, but it didn't. It scared her and thrilled her at the same time. He had been here, where no other man ever had been.
She sat down on the bed and positioned the book near the lamp's glow so she could read. Part of her didn't want to discover the details of his affair with Mrs. Carson, but a stronger part of her demanded to know all.
She skimmed the parts that Lady Dumont had read aloud earlier. There was no need to read them again. It was the parts that she hadn't read that were the most enlightening. True, there were no more mentions of Brahm's "massive maleness," but there were other tidbits that were just as interesting.
Fanny Carson spent much time detailing Brahm's prowess, it was true, but she always went on to say that he demanded an exclusive relationship from her. She was his and he was hers for the duration of their time together, and neither was to take another lover. He was as faithful as a husband and more attentive, according to Mrs. Carson. He took her to the theater and the parks, bought her gifts and clothes. He was kind and considerate and treated her like a lady, something Fanny Carson had never experienced before and didn't expect to experience again. They spent much of their time together drinking, but they enjoyed each other immensely. They were friends as well as lovers— a friendship that Fanny claimed until this day.
If anything, Fanny Carson's admissions made Eleanor feel worse. If this was the way Brahm treated his mistress, how would he have treated his wife? Perhaps he would have resented that she wouldn't drink with him. Perhaps she would have resented his love of being foxed, but the consideration and kindness that he showed Fanny should have been hers. If only he had kept his wits about him. If only he had been strong enough not to drink.
But he was strong enough now. She had seen him consistently refuse spirits when they were offered. He didn't even drink wine with dinner. Not once since his arrival had she smelled liquor on him. He hadn't looked sideways at Lydia since his arrival. The situation was different. She was different. He was different. Surely that counted for something? Now if she only knew the full extent of his feelings and intentions. Did he simply want her forgiveness, or did he want her heart? Dare she hope that his feelings for her were as intact as hers for him?
There was really only one way to find out, and no sense in risking her heart until she knew the truth.
She set Fanny Carson's memoirs aside, no longer interested since she had read all that concerned Brahm.
Eleanor left her room and made her way down the corridor to the stairs. Down she went and on to the drawing room where the guests were. There was no sign of Brahm, but Arabella's husband, Henry, was there. Eleanor went to him rather than her sisters, whose attention she was very much aware of as she moved through the room.
"Henry," she asked softly, taking her brother-in-law's arm. "Have you seen Lord Creed?"
Henry's pleasant countenance and warm brown eyes were all kindness. "I believe he went out into the garden. Would you like me to fetch him for you?"
"Oh no. I only need to bother him for a moment. I will find him myself. Enjoy your evening."
She left then, not caring if anyone saw her go. This was her house, and she would come and go as she pleased. If people wanted to speculate about her movements, they were welcome to do so. She wasn't doing anything improper.
She opened the glass doors and slipped out into the night. The moon was rising and the night flowers were fragrant in the breeze. The stone path glowed in the dim light, and Eleanor took it deeper into the garden and its sheltering shrubs and bushes.
She found Brahm standing beside the goldfish pond. His leg must not be bothering him, as he wasn't leaning on his cane. The tip of it was between his feet, his hands resting lightly on the top. The moon illuminated his profile. He was so very handsome, and he looked so very lonely.
Eleanor cleared her throat. "I hope I am not intruding."
Brahm's head jerked up. He was surprised to see her. "No, not at all. I was not expecting to see you so soon."
That was understandable. She approached him. "I read the book."
He smiled. "That was fast."
She smiled back. "I only read the parts about you. It was very interesting."
He chuckled at that. "Do you want to discuss it?"
"There's no need. Mrs. Carson painted a very flattering picture of you. I am certain you will be despised by the men to whom she was not so kind."
"Do you believe me now that I am not a libertine?"
"I did not think you were."
He frowned. "But in the library— "
"In the library I was an idiot. I was angry and untruthful and I am sorry for it." There, she had said it.
"Untruthful?" He looked so fierce when he was perplexed. "About what?"
She didn't fear his scowl, but it was a little rude of him not to acknowledge her apology. "I told you I wanted honesty from you, but I did not offer you the same consideration. I was not angry because I thought you used and discarded women."
"Then why were you angry?"
Lord, but this was difficult. "I was jealous."
He stared at her, head twisted slightly to one side as though he hadn't heard her correctly. "Jealous?"
Eleanor nodded, twisting her fingers together as she moved closer to him. "This is very difficult for me to admit."
"Take your time."
She would have smiled at his tone were she not quite so nervous. She was standing directly in front of him now, as he had turned his body to hers at her approach. She could smell his soap, feel the heat of his body. She could not look away from the mesmerizing beauty of his gaze.
She drew breath, gathering her courage. "I hate the fact that you have been with other women— not because I believe you a rake, but because I was not one of them."
His eyes widened. "Of course you weren't. You were an innocent. I would have been a cad to take advantage of you, no matter how much I wanted to. I respected you too much to act as I wanted."
Some women might have been insulted that he admitted to having such sexual feelings for her, but not Eleanor. He had admitted as much several times since his arrival, but he'd never explained that he had felt them in the past, or why he hadn't acted on the feelings when he had a chance.
"That is why I was jealous," she explained. "You should have been mine and mine alone. I hate that those women knew you in a way I never had, even though you had claimed to want me as your wife."
"I did want you." His eyes were black in the darkness— black and bright. "I wanted you in every way I could possibly have you."
Eleanor flushed under the heat of his gaze and words. "I have no right to feel as I do, but I have never lost that possessive feeling where you are concerned. I once thought of you as mine, and as foolish as this all sounds, I cannot help but feel in my heart that you are mine still."
His hand came up to her face, cupping her cheek as his gaze drew her closer. "It does not sound foolish. Ever since we first met, you have had a hold on me that no one else has managed. I do not understand it, but I know it. All I ask is that you give me the chance to prove myself worthy of your claim."
Eleanor didn't know how she would have replied to that had Brahm given her the chance to speak. Any words she might have uttered were taken from her when he claimed her mouth with his own.
Firm and warm, his lips moved lazily against hers, as though all the years between their last kiss and this one simply hadn't happened. He tasted warm and spicy, and she opened her mouth to him, sighing in pleasure as his tongue slipped inside.
Never in her life had there ever been anything as sweet and right as this man's kisses. When she was younger she thought her reaction to him ordinary, the way she would react to any man, but now she knew the difference.
She clung to him, her fingers twisting in his lapels as she pressed herself against his length. How good he felt, how solid and strong. After so many years of being the one everyone depended on and leaned on, she felt that this was a man she could lean on if necessary.
And it was so wonderful not to have to pretend that she didn't care for him anymore. How freeing it was to admit the truth and to hear his own admission. So much time wasted between them. There were still obstacles for them to overcome, things to learn about each other before they could continue forward.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, he lifted his head, breaking their kiss. His breath was humid against her cheek.
"You realize, Eleanor, that by letting me hold you again you risk the chance that I might never want to let you go."
She smiled— impulsively. "I shall take that risk, my lord."
"Good," he growled, and covered her mouth with his once more.
Chapter 7
U
nderneath the shade of an ancient oak, Brahm leaned back on his forearm as he bit into a succulent strawberry. The day was warm enough that he had removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The soft wool blanket beneath was sun-warmed and contributed to his sun-drunk state.
He shared his blanket with Birch, and another bachelor, Locke— both of whom were trying to entertain the ladies by holding blades of grass between their thumbs and using them to make whistling noises.
The picnic was a rousing success if the laughter and conversation buzzing about him was any indication. Set atop a hill not quite a mile from the Durbane estate, the party sat on blankets and dined on a meal of cold meats, salads, and bread, with fresh, ripe fruit for dessert.
Eleanor was several blankets away, sitting with her sisters, shading her peaches-and-cream complexion with a dainty white parasol. Her golden hair was up in a simple knot, leaving her lovely face open for his appraisal. She was trying to shelter Phoebe under her parasol as well, no doubt to prevent the younger woman from developing a burn. Where was Phoebe's own parasol? She wasn't an infant unable to look after herself.
Eleanor offered an apple to Arabella before taking one for herself. Did she ever notice that she put everyone else before herself? She even did it to him, and he was probably the least worthy of such condescension.
With every passing day she became more and more beautiful to him. And two nights ago, when she had admitted to being jealous, to feeling possessive of him, she became the most exquisite creature on the earth.
He could still taste her kiss, even though he hadn't had the chance to steal another. These last two days had been a sort of hell, having her so close but being unable to hold her as he wanted, or even talk to her as he wanted. He wanted to know everything about her— everything that had changed since their first attempt at courtship. He wanted to make her laugh, wanted to learn how she thought and what her secrets were. Those things were damn near impossible when she had to play hostess for her guests. And even more impossible because he had to share her attention with other bachelors.
He was so very tempted to tell her father to send the other single men home. No one else would have Eleanor but him. After spending so much time obsessing and longing for her, he was not about to give her up to someone who wouldn't worship her half so well as he would.
In such a short time this journey had become about so much more than Eleanor's forgiveness, or trying to put her behind him. He didn't want to forget her, and he wanted so much more than her forgiveness. He would not stop until he had her heart, because she was already in danger of claiming his.
She probably wasn't even aware of how mad he was for her. Just looking at her was enough to make his soul feel as light as a feather. Her smile was the reason God had given him a second chance at life. She was his salvation, his reward for having turned his life around. He would do all he could to endeavor to deserve her.
Why? Because despite the fact that she had every reason to hate him, she didn't. She was too good for that. She offered him understanding when most other people would turn their backs on him. And most of all, because she seemed as inexplicably drawn to him as he was to her, as though they were missing halves to the same piece.
"You look very pleased with yourself, sir."
Brahm looked up, past the dainty boots and muslin skirts to the woman who smiled down at him. It was Arabella. She looked harmless enough, but Brahm wouldn't be surprised if she had a knife hidden under her chemise.
