The Uncatchable Miss Faversham (6 page)

    Against his will, Nathaniel found himself imagining how such behaviour might be construed by the rakish young men of the
haut monde
. But perhaps she offered her suitors something other than marriage, for her own reasons.

    After all, what would she have to lose? Not her virginity, that was for certain.

    Nathaniel had never quite believed the wildest stories about the Faversham heiress. But now, after this shameless display …

    His throat convulsed. He tried not to consider how Eleanor might have moved from him to other men, allowing them to touch her in the same way he had once done. It was difficult not to give at least some credence to the whispers that had reached him in Warwickshire. The “Uncatchable” Miss Faversham had received dozens of offers of marriage, and accepted none, which seemed to suggest chastity – yet her very smile invited intimacy of a kind reserved only for wives and mistresses.

    What was a man supposed to think?

    The sight and scent of her glorious, ruffled hair disturbed him almost to the point of madness. Nathaniel was mightily glad to reach the lakeside path.

    ‘Can you walk from here?’ he asked, his tone more abrupt than was entirely polite. He set her down on the muddy track. ‘How is your ankle now?’

    ‘I’m not sure.’

    She was smiling at him sunnily enough, yet it seemed to him there was a shadow in her face. Could it be pain?

    That, at least, was something he readily understood and could sympathise with.

    ‘When I walked down to the lake,’ she continued, looking quickly away, ‘there was a groundsman on the drive. He has a horse and cart with him, on which I could ride back up to the house. Would you be good enough to call him, my lord?’

    Ignoring her request, Lord Sallinger hoisted her patiently in his arms again. If she was truly in pain, he could not in all conscience expect her to walk.

    ‘It will be quicker if I carry you to his cart.’

    ‘Sir, your leg … !’

    I am perfectly capable of bearing your weight a few more yards, Miss Faversham.’

    She lapsed into silence then, for which he was grateful. The last few steps up the track towards the drive were painful indeed for Nathaniel, but not due to any physical weakness. He was now convinced that Eleanor Faversham considered him an invalid, unable to function fully as a man. That could be the only explanation for the way her body was trembling in his arms, no doubt filled with revulsion at his proximity.

    With difficulty, Nathaniel shook away the turbulent emotion such thoughts raised in his chest, and allowed an icy calm to descend upon him instead.

    His scarred face, his limp: these defects were anathema to Miss Eleanor Faversham. A woman of her exacting standards would accept nothing but a perfect man, whole and healthy in mind and body. He was wracked in both, which meant his only hope of achieving any union with her was – as it had always been – via dishonourable means.

    Once he might have been tempted to pursue any offer from Eleanor Faversham whatsoever. But purely physical pleasures, however tempting in his darker hours, were no longer enough for him. Or were they?

    The man with the horse and cart straightened and stared at them in surprise, dropping his filthy shovel.

    Lifting Eleanor onto the box-seat at the front of the cart, Lord Sallinger bade the astonished groundsman convey his mistress straight back to the big house.

    ‘And drive carefully, man,’ he added in a clear voice. ‘Don’t go jolting your cart over every damned pothole, do you hear?’

    As the man busied himself at the tail-end of the cart, Eleanor turned a flushed face in Sallinger’s direction.

    ‘I don’t know how to thank you for this kindness, my lord,’ she began, but her rescuer made a curt bow and turned on his heel, not waiting to hear any more.

    Within a few minutes, Nathaniel was limping silently beneath the over-hanging trees that lined the mud track down to the lake, trying to forget the vulnerable look he had surprised in her eyes.

CHAPTER THREE

Much to Eleanor’s discomfort, Nathaniel was waiting on the steps of Sallinger House as the carriage pulled up outside its imposing façade at a little after six-thirty the following night. In a superbly fitted dark blue superfine coat and pantaloons, he looked formal and in control, nothing like the wild young man she remembered. Indeed, if it had not been for the livid scar that still disfigured the left side of his face, she might not have recognised him at all.

    Eleanor stepped down from the carriage, accepting the support of Lord Sallinger’s outstretched hand.

    Her pulse drummed alarmingly at the sight of such rough-hewn elegance, and she felt a little faint.

    She must not fall under his spell again!

    ‘I do apologise for not being here earlier, Lord Sallinger.’ Eleanor was satisfied to hear a calm in her voice which did not reflect her racing pulse. ‘There was a small domestic matter to be settled before I could leave.’

    Her excuse was not entirely untrue; she had been delayed by an unexpected disagreement with Suzanna while dressing.

    Her Jamaican maid’s disapproval at her visit to Sallinger House had been tangible and undisguised.

    ‘That bad man almost ruined you last time, Miss Nellie!’ she had exclaimed, dragging a brush through Eleanor’s hair with unnecessary force. Reflected in the dressing-table mirror, her dark-skinned face with its proud, high cheekbones quivered with outrage. ‘Why let him get so close again?’

    There was little point arguing with such a passionate and deeply opinionated woman, Eleanor conceded. She had tried nonetheless. Born into slavery, the illegitimate daughter of an African slave, Suzanna had worked in her father’s household since childhood. Now a free woman, she had chosen to stay on in her service when Eleanor moved to London, and was more like an elder sister to her now than a lady’s maid.

    Eleanor was no longer a girl though, and she was determined to make her own decisions. Suzanna still sought to influence Eleanor’s decisions at times – though rarely to any effect.

    On this occasion however, Suzanna was mistaken in her advice. Eleanor was absolutely determined there would be no repetition of her earlier indiscretions. However hard Lord Sallinger might try to get her alone, he would not succeed.

    ‘You are not late, Miss Faversham,’ Nathaniel said, giving her a slight bow. ‘My sister is eager for your company. Though there are some stairs to climb, you will remember. How is your ankle today?’

    ‘Oh, much improved!’ she said lightly, reminding herself not to seem too serious. He must not know how his presence affected her. Her smile was openly flirtatious as she took his arm. ‘There is a little swelling but no pain. It is not even twisted, the doctor says. Merely bruised.’

    ‘I am relieved to hear it,’ he said. ‘In that case, shall we go up to Charlotte?’

    ‘Of course,’ Eleanor agreed, and handed her diaphanous white wrap to a waiting maid. She accompanied Lord Sallinger up the stairs to the first floor. The house was surprisingly warm for the time of year, due in part, she had no doubt, to the great fire crackling in the hearth upstairs.

    The first floor salon was no longer the dark, gloomily outmoded room she remembered from her last visit; Sallinger’s taste was clearly more fashionable – and expensive – than his late father’s, which surprised her a little. Two elegant sofas done out in a rich yellow silk stood facing each other near the fire, a splendid Persian rug lay soft underfoot, and several large oil landscapes in ornate gilt frame – which she did not remember seeing before – adorned the high walls.

    At the pianoforte a small boy sat in cotton pantaloons topped with a smart navy smock, banging away at the keys in a noisy and tuneless manner.

    On one of the sofas lay Charlotte herself, clutching a filigree white lace handkerchief to her mouth.

    ‘Charlotte,’ Lord Sallinger said in an oppressive tone, shooting an irritable glance at the small boy on the pianoforte, ‘Miss Eleanor Faversham is arrived.’

    Eleanor hurried forward. ‘Dearest Charlotte!’

    Raising herself from the sofa, a languid figure in pale green crepe, Charlotte embraced her with genuine affection.

    ‘Nell, how I have missed you. Five whole years in London – and apart from that one visit I made to your lovely town house, we have had barely a card or letter to let us know how you get on. Not even when I married. It is too bad of you!’

    ‘I am so sorry, you are quite right to chide me. It was wrong of me to miss your wedding day, but indeed I really was in Rome that summer. And though I did enjoy your visit to me in London, I am a dreadfully lazy correspondent.’ Eleanor laughed, kissing her friend back. ‘But you must sit down, Charlotte. I shall incur your brother’s displeasure if I allow you to excite yourself like this.’

    Her friend seemed pale, the loose folds of her dress not quite able to hide her condition. Charlotte smiled though and shook her head, the tastefully arranged nut-brown curls of her hair framing her face beautifully.

    ‘I have been unwell, it’s true. But the news that you had agreed to dine with us buoyed me up.’ She bit her lip, glancing hurriedly at her brother and away as though afraid of his reaction. ‘I was sorry we could not talk the other night.’

    ‘You were taken ill. Please don’t tease yourself over it. I perfectly understand. There is nothing worse when you are feeling ill than some stuffy assembly room full of noise and heat!’

    Charlotte sank back onto the sofa, fanning herself. ‘Come and sit beside me, Nell. I am such a poor creature today, I cannot stand up. Even the heat of the fire is too much for me some evenings. But it is only the baby, you know. Yes, in case you had not guessed it, I am increasing again. I was the same with Robert, but shall soon prosper, you will see.’

    They sat and smiled at each other.

    ‘Let me look at you,’ Charlotte said, laughing and examining her from head to foot. She waved her handkerchief at Eleanor’s white muslin gown, falling in folds Grecian-style almost to the floor, its curved neckline adorned with the finest French lace. ‘You are grown so elegant, Nell. I would surely not have known you last night if everyone at the assembly had not been gossiping about your return and pointing you out to each other.’

    ‘Oh, what nonsense!’

    ‘It is true, I swear. And your gown is exquisite, so very stylish. Is it from Paris?’

    Eleanor smiled at the envious tone and shook her head, stripping off matching white kid gloves. ‘Alas, nothing that expensive. But the modiste is French. Your instincts are good.’

    ‘I try, I do try. But I get to Town so rarely these days, of what use are my instincts? Little Robert does not like to travel, you see, and I hate to leave him with his nurse.’

    Casting a swift glance at the little boy, who had left the piano and was inexpertly making card houses on the floor near the fire, Eleanor nodded sympathetically. ‘How old is your son now?’

    ‘Three and a half years. Though he is large and strong for his age, I know.’

    ‘And this new child …?’

    Eleanor tailed off discreetly, and tried not to look at Nathaniel, who was pointing one of the servants in her direction with a tray of wine.

    Lord Sallinger had changed physically since she had left Warwickshire. His chest seemed broader than she remembered, his body less wiry and more muscular than the year they had met, the same year he had returned from the Peninsular. The blue coat fitted him so snugly, his pantaloons too, she found herself staring in the stupidest fashion at his physique.

    Much to her embarrassment, his head turned at that moment and their eyes met.

    She looked hurriedly away, staring down at the skilfully woven Persian rug under her feet, a slow flush creeping up her cheeks.

    ‘The doctor believes … that is …’ Charlotte did not appear to have noticed her heated face. Her friend was waiting impatiently until the servant had left the room; then she continued discreetly, lowering her voice. ‘The doctor has told me that late August, or perhaps early September, should see me safely brought to bed.’

    ‘Your husband will have returned by then, I hope?’

    ‘We cannot be sure.’ Her friend struggled not to let any emotion show in her face, but her distress was plain. ‘I sent Henry word straightaway, of course. Yet my letter may miss him. It is not a long voyage this time, not above a year at sea. But Henry did not plan to return before Christmas.’

    ‘Let us hope your letter finds him sooner than that.’

    ‘Yes,’ Charlotte breathed. Her voice became solicitous. ‘But what of you, dearest Nell? I hope that you are well. You seem flushed. Is the fire too strong?’

    ‘No, indeed. I am quite well, thank you.’

    Perched on the edge of the yellow sofa, Eleanor sipped at her wineglass, only too burningly aware of Nathaniel’s presence.

    Nathaniel was standing uncomfortably close at hand, his back to the fire, one booted foot resting on the railed fire surround. She could not prevent herself from glancing up, sure that she had felt his eyes on her face. But he was not looking at her. He had one hand thrust into his coat pocket, and was apparently intent on his glass, contemplating the ruby-dark wine as though he had never seen that particular shade before.

    ‘How long do you plan to stay in Warwickshire?’

    She hesitated, unsure how to answer her friend. ‘My plans are not yet definite. Until the end of the month, perhaps.’

    Charlotte was watching her small son with an indulgent smile. ‘Such a short time.’ She clucked her tongue as the boy knocked his card tower down with a restless gesture. ‘Could you not extend your stay a few more weeks? I may recover my health within a month, and would dearly love to visit you up at the Hall. It would be just like old times.’

    ‘I should like nothing better, Charlotte,’ she said warmly, pressing her friend’s hand. ‘But it may be that I cannot stay that long. I know, I know! All these years without a visit home, and now I stay but a few bare weeks. Yet it cannot be helped.’