The most scandalous marriage in London…

If Kit and Eleanor’s elopement wasn’t enough to fire a frenzy of gossip, it was then heard that Eleanor’s new husband had disappeared only a day after their hasty wedding! Five long months later, Lord Mostyn returned. Though not at liberty to explain his departure, he was still determined to win back the affection of his fuming bride. Would he succeed? Perhaps if he continued the marriage exactly where it began—in the bedroom…

“Was there anything else, my lord?”

“Just one more thing,” Kit murmured. His gaze drifted from her face, which was becoming pinker under his prolonged scrutiny, down her slender figure and back again. His eyes lingered, disturbingly, on her mouth. Eleanor stiffened.

“I wished to disabuse you of any notion you might have of a marriage of convenience,” Kit said slowly. “All this talk of you going your way and I going mine might lead you to imagine…erroneously…that ours would be a marriage in name only.”

The Notorious Marriage

Harlequin Historical

Praise for Nicola Cornick’s latest books

The Virtuous Cyprian

“…this delightful tale of a masquerade gone awry will delight ardent Regency readers.”

—Romantic Times

“A witty, hilarious romp through the Regency period.”

—Rendezvous

The Larkswood Legacy

“…a suspenseful yet tenderhearted tale of love…”

—Romantic Times

THE NOTORIOUS MARRIAGE
Nicola Cornick

For my grandmother, who introduced me

to historical romances all those years ago.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Prologue

December 1813

When Kit Mostyn stepped through the doors of Almacks Assembly Rooms that night, it was difficult to tell who was the more surprised, the chaperones of the hopeful débutantes assembled there, or Kit himself. Certainly Almacks was not a place where Kit normally sought entertainment, and this evening he had struggled rather incredulously with the compulsion that drove him there. It, or rather she, had so strong a hold on him that he could not resist, and being a man who chose not to struggle against fate, he resolved to meet his with a certain equanimity.

He saw her as soon as he entered the room. Miss Eleanor Trevithick, daughter of the late Viscount Trevithick and younger sister to the current Earl. She was dancing with an elderly roué, Lord Kemble, if Kit did not miss his guess, and just the sight of the two of them together made his temper soar dangerously. As he sought to keep a grip on it he was forced to acknowledge that it mattered little who was partnering Eleanor—the fact that it was someone other than himself was all that counted.

Slender, sweet and impossibly innocent, Eleanor Trevithick was the most demure of débutantes, yet there had been something between them from the beginning, a startling attraction that both she and Kit recognised—and knew they had to ignore. It had caught Kit by surprise, and although they had never spoken of it, he instinctively knew that the strength of the attraction both frightened and fascinated Eleanor. As for himself, he had cynically dismissed his feelings at first—a man of his age and considerable experience with the opposite sex was hardly likely to fall in love with an innocent in her first Season. The feelings she stirred in him could be no more than desire—admittedly strong, undeniably surprising, but no doubt of short duration.

He had been wrong. Kit had wanted Eleanor Trevithick for the whole of the past year, ever since they had shared an illicit dance at her eighteenth birthday ball, and his desire showed no sign of waning. Indeed the reverse was true. He was very close to admitting now that he loved her, but he did not wish to be that honest with himself at the moment. It would only undermine him still further. One could not always have what one wanted, and he could not have Eleanor.

Kit, whose title and position would have made him a more than acceptable suitor for any number of young ladies, was the one man whose addresses could never be welcomed by Eleanor’s family. There was a feud between the Trevithick and Mostyn families that went back hundreds of years, and the Dowager Viscountess, Eleanor’s mother, would cut him dead whenever she saw him. The fact that his cousin Beth was currently engaged in a dispute with the current Earl of Trevithick over the ownership of part of his estate only made matters worse. Kit had had no intention of being drawn any further into the Mostyn and Trevithick feud. Nor was he hanging out for a wife anyway. At the moment he had other responsibilities.

Even so…

He approached Eleanor as soon as he was able, cutting out the young Viscount who had thought this set of country dances belonged to him. Kit knew that all eyes were upon them, knew that Lady Trevithick was swelling like a turkey-cock in a temper and that her rout chair looked set fair to break under the weight. He ignored her, ignored the speculative looks of the other chaperones and the envious, spiteful glances of some of the débutantes, and smiled down into Eleanor’s eyes.

‘Miss Trevithick…It is a great pleasure to see you tonight.’

Eleanor met his gaze listlessly for a brief second. She did not smile. There was none of her usual vivacity in those dark Trevithick eyes. She avoided his gaze, looking over his shoulder to where her mother and Lord Kemble sat huddled at the side of the floor.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Kit frowned slightly. It was not that he expected her to show her partiality for him, for Eleanor was far too well-bred to make a display of her feelings in public. He was perceptive enough, however, to see that there was something wrong—something dreadfully wrong. Eleanor’s face was pale and pinched, all light quenched. She steadfastly refused to look at him.

Kit tightened his grip on her hands. ‘Eleanor…’ he said urgently.

She looked up. For a fleeting second, Kit saw all the misery and hopeless longing reflected in her eyes and his heart skipped a beat. Then her lashes came down, veiling her expression.

‘I believe you must wish me happy, my lord,’ she said, softly but clearly. ‘I am betrothed to Lord Kemble.’

‘No!’ The word was out of his mouth before Kit could help himself. His grip tightened murderously on her hands. He saw her wince, and had to force himself to let her go. ‘No,’ he said again, very politely. ‘That cannot be so.’

‘I assure you that it is.’ Eleanor’s dark lashes flickered again. ‘The notice will be in the Morning Post tomorrow. It is all arranged.’

‘It cannot be.’

For a moment her eyes searched his face and this time there was entreaty there. ‘Why not? It is not as though you can offer me an alternative, my lord!’

They had been speaking in edged whispers until that point, but now Eleanor’s voice rose as though she could not control her anguish. She bit her lip, a wave of colour coming into her pale face then receding to leave her even paler.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, regaining a faltering control. ‘I should not have said that.’

Kit’s heart turned over. He could see the hopelessness beneath her fragile dignity and it touched him deeply. He felt a rush of protective desire, stronger than anything he had ever experienced before.

‘If I could help you—’

‘Eleanor!’ Lord Kemble’s unctuous voice cut across his words. ‘I believe that this next is my waltz.’

He bowed to Kit, his hooded gaze watchful. ‘Your servant, Mostyn. Ain’t you going to congratulate me? This little honey-pot is all mine!’

Kit’s own bow was so slight as to be barely there. ‘I pray that you will not take your good fortune for granted, Kemble. Miss Trevithick…’ He smiled at Eleanor. ‘I must bid you good night.’

He watched as Kemble took Eleanor away. The man oozed a self-satisfied lasciviousness that was deeply offensive. The thought of Eleanor’s slight figure crushed beneath him, subject to his lusts, was almost too much for Kit to stand. He wanted to call the man out and put a bullet through him. In fact he was not sure if he would bother with the formality of calling him out, just shoot him where he stood. Or he could take Kemble’s neck-cloth and use it to strangle him…

He saw Eleanor smile stiffly at her betrothed as Kemble took her in his arms for the waltz. Kit turned away and threaded his way to the door, trying to keep his expression impassive as he passed through the knots of chattering débutantes. The cold night air helped to clear his anger a little. He had to think, had to decide what to do. If only it were not so damnably complicated…By the time he had reached the house in Upper Grosvenor Street his anger had once again been subdued to cool reason but he was no clearer on his course of action. All he knew was that Eleanor Trevithick was his and as such could never be permitted to marry Lord Kemble.

It was later—much later—when the butler came to him to tell him that there was a young lady on the doorstep who was begging to speak with him. By that time Kit had consumed half a bottle of brandy and he simply laughed.

‘I don’t think that would be a particularly good idea, would it, Carrick?’ He murmured. ‘In the first instance I am three parts cut and in the second, young ladies…’ he stressed the words ‘…are presumably tucked up in bed…alone…at this time of night, not walking the streets of London!’

Carrick, who was enough of a butler of the world to know that this was true, nevertheless stood his ground.

‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but this is very definitely a lady. A young lady, my lord, and in considerable distress…’

Kit sighed with irritation. His first thought—that Eleanor Trevithick had come to seek him out—had been quickly dismissed as wishful thinking. Eleanor was so very proper, so entirely well brought up, that she never put a foot wrong. Certainly she would not even think of entering a gentleman’s house alone, especially not in the middle of the night. Respectable young ladies simply did not behave in such a way.

Therefore it must be another sort of lady. An enterprising Cyprian, perhaps, or even a débutante with fewer scruples than Eleanor, intent on catching him. Kit had learned to be cynical. Several young ladies had twisted their ankles outside the house in Upper Grosvenor Street in the last week or two. He had even found a girl in the drawing-room one evening and she had sworn that she had simply mistaken the house for that of a friend. When Kit’s housekeeper had ushered her off the premises she had been distinctly annoyed.

Kit’s gaze swept around the firelit study, taking in the tumbled pile of papers on the desk, the empty bottle of brandy and the glass of the same amber liquid that stood by his armchair. To entertain a lady here would be the greatest folly. Besides, he had other preoccupations that night, plans that needed serious consideration. Plans that had suffered because of his preoccupation with Eleanor. He shook his head.

‘I am sorry, Carrick, but you must turn this so-called young lady away. I am certain that it can only be a trap and I am scarce going to walk straight into it…’

The words had barely left his lips when he heard the sound of running feet on the hall tiles and the scandalised voice of one of the footmen:

‘Pardon, madam, but you cannot go in there…’

Both Kit and the butler swung round towards the doorway.

‘Kit!’

Kit smothered a curse. He turned to the butler. ‘Very well, Carrick, you may leave us.’

Carrick inclined his head. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said expressionlessly. He went out and closed the door, softly but firmly, behind him.

‘I know I shouldn’t be here!’ Eleanor said defiantly, immediately the door had closed and they were alone. She was wearing a black velvet cloak over the same dress of pale white gold she had worn earlier in the evening. It was the demure, expensive raiment of the débutante. Her dark brown eyes, huge in her elfin face, were fixed on him. Her hair had come out of it’s chignon and rich, chestnut brown curls tumbled about her shoulders, spilling over the cloak and down her back. She looked delectable—and terrified. Kit saw her lock her fingers together tightly to still their trembling. He deliberately looked away from her.

‘You are correct. You should not be here. It is madness.’ Kit spoke curtly to mask a variety of emotions. He came towards her, keeping his hands very firmly in his pockets. ‘Miss Trevithick, I suggest that for the sake of your reputation you should turn around and go directly home—’

Eleanor shook her head.

‘Kit, I cannot! You must help me! I cannot bear to be married off to Kemble! That disgusting old man—why, he speaks of nothing but his horses and his gaming, and wheezes and snores his way through every play and concert we have ever attended! And then he paws at me in the most revolting manner imaginable!’

Kit took a deep breath, maintaining a scrupulous distance away from her. Miss Eleanor Trevithick, temptation personified. His mind was telling him to show her the door and his body was telling him to take her in his arms.

‘The correct thing to do in this situation is to apply to your brother,’ he heard himself say sternly. ‘He is the head of the family and could easily prevent such a match…’

‘You know that Marcus is away in Devon, and Justin too!’ Kit saw tears squeeze from the corner of Eleanor’s eyes and she rubbed them impatiently away with her fingers. ‘Mama means to marry me off before they return—she is hot for the match! And I have no one to apply to for help! Please, Kit—’ she broke off. ‘I thought when we spoke earlier that you might save me…’ Her gaze touched his face and moved away at what it saw there. ‘Perhaps I was wrong…’

‘You were.’ Again, Kit ruthlessly repressed the urge to take her in his arms. He took a sharp turn away from her and moved over to the fireplace, leaning against the marble chimney-breast. ‘Your mama cannot force the match, Eleanor, and certainly not before Trevithick returns—’

‘Kemble has a special licence!’ Eleanor burst out. ‘Oh Kit…’ she spread her hands in a pleading gesture and Kit felt himself flinch inside ‘…you do not understand! I was so sure that you would help me…’

Kit took a deep breath. Every instinct that he possessed was urging him to crush her to him, promise her that he would look after her, swear that all would be well. Yet in the morning she might well regret the whole escapade. In the cold light of day she might realise that she had ruined herself—and the only way to save her from that was to make her turn round now and go home, before anyone was the wiser. Besides, even had there not been such a violent feud between their families, Kit knew he was in no position to marry. He had other commitments, matters that might take him away at any moment. He was not free…

‘There is no need for such drama,’ Kit said, powerless to prevent the harsh tone of his voice, cursing himself that he could not help her. ‘In the morning everything will seem better and you will realise that the situation is far from desperate…’

He saw Eleanor’s chin come up as she heard the repudiation in his words. She squared her shoulders. Her dark eyes flashed.

‘Very well, Lord Mostyn. I see that I misunderstood you! I will leave now! There is no need to say any more!’

Oddly, Kit found that her pride angered him, got under his defences. He had been able to guard himself against her distress—only just, but he had managed it by telling himself that he simply had to withstand her for her good as well as his own. He would have to deal with his own feelings of helplessness and self-disgust—he did not intend to explain to Eleanor. In the cool light of day he might think of a solution, find a way to help her. But now her danger was intense and she did not even appear to understand that…

She was drawing on her cloak, preparing to leave and looking at him with a mixture of desperation and contempt in her eyes that provoked him beyond reason.

‘I thought you a gentleman,’ she said, softly but with biting sarcasm, ‘but it seems I was mistaken…’

Kit tried to clamp down on his frustration. ‘It is precisely because I am a gentleman that I am concerned for your reputation, Eleanor—’

She made a little noise indicative of her disgust. Kit straightened up and came across to her. He told himself that it would do no harm to make her think about what she was doing, frighten her a little so that she would never do it again. The thought of Eleanor throwing herself on someone else’s mercy in this trusting and foolish fashion made his anger burn almost out of control.

She was looking down her nose at him as though she expected him to hold the door open for her, as though he were some kind of damned butler. Instead, Kit leant one hand against the door panels and leaned over her. Now there was a flash of puzzlement in her eyes, puzzlement mixed with something more potent. Her lashes flickered down, veiling her expression.

‘Excuse me, Lord Mostyn,’ her voice trembled very slightly. ‘As you have pointed out to me, I should be leaving now…’

‘What exactly did you expect of me tonight, Eleanor?’ Kit’s tone was rough.

She looked up again. Her eyes were very dark brown sprinkled with gold and framed by thick black lashes that the blonde débutantes would give half their fortunes to possess. Her gaze was candid. She had more courage than he had thought and he admired her for it.

‘I thought that you would agree to marry me,’ she said.

Kit started to smile, despite himself. ‘Is that a proposal, Miss Trevithick?’

Eleanor glared. She might be young but she had all the Trevithick pride. Her chin came up and she gave him a haughty glance.

‘I think you flatter yourself, Lord Mostyn! The offer is withdrawn!’

Kit laughed. ‘A little late for that, Miss Trevithick! You are alone with me in my house—’

‘Your cousin’s house—’

‘A fine distinction! The material point is that neither my cousin nor my sister is here to give you countenance! You are alone with me—’

‘That situation can be addressed immediately!’ Eleanor said, in arctic tone, ‘if you will stand aside, my lord!’

Kit shrugged. ‘But I may have changed my mind!’

Eleanor’s shrug was a perfect echo of his own. ‘Too late, alas, my lord!’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘I should have known better than to approach a gentleman in his cups! I see that everything they say about you is true!’

Kit turned so that his shoulders were against the door panels. He folded his arms and looked at her. Her face was flushed, her delectable mouth set in a tight line. He had noticed her mouth before; it was pink and soft and made for smiling, not for disapproval. Or made for kissing…Kit shifted a little.

‘And what do they say, Miss Trevithick?’

‘Why, that you are a rogue and a scoundrel!’ Eleanor’s gaze swept from his face to the brandy bottle and back again with contempt. ‘There are those who say that your business dealings are none too scrupulous and your morals even less so!’

Kit’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yet you are still here?’ he said softly.

He saw Eleanor’s fingers clench tightly on her reticule. ‘I thought…’ Her voice faltered. ‘I did not truly believe it of you…’ Their eyes met. Kit could see the entreaty in hers; she was begging him to live up to her good opinion, prove himself a gentleman. It made him feel sick with self-loathing that he could not help her.

‘I thought that you liked me,’ she finished softly.

Kit caught his breath. Liking was far too pale a word to describe the feelings he had for her. He felt his self-control slip perilously.

‘Eleanor, I more than like you, but there are reasons—’ he began, only to break off as she made a slight gesture and moved away.

‘I am sure that there always are, my lord. Forgive my importunity and pray let me go now.’

Kit opened the study door for her with immaculate politeness. The hall was dark and empty—one stand of candles cast shadows across the tiled floor. The long case clock struck one.

Eleanor was halfway through the door when Kit put his hand on her arm.

‘Eleanor, I cannot let you go like this. I truly wish I could help you, but—’

‘Don’t!’ She shook him off with sudden, shocking violence. He saw the candlelight shimmer on the tears in her eyes, before she dashed them away. ‘Do not try to excuse your behaviour, Lord Mostyn! You are not what I thought you and I made a mistake in coming here. That is all!’

Kit could smell her scent, the softest of rose fragrance mingled with nursery soap. Her innocence hit him like a blow in the stomach; her desirability dried his mouth.

‘It is not all,’ Kit said roughly, knowing he should agree, let it go, let her go. ‘Eleanor, you know I care for you…’

She looked him straight in the eye. ‘I thought you wanted me,’ she said.

Kit was never be sure which of them had moved first but the next minute she was in his arms, her slender body pressed close to his, her mouth beneath his own. Her lips parted slightly and he took ruthless advantage, touching his tongue to hers, deepening the kiss when her instinctive gasp offered him the opportunity. There was a moment when he felt her resist and he was about to pull back, but before his mind had caught up with his body she had softened, melted against him, pliant in his arms. He covered her mouth with his again, drinking deep, until she was as breathless as he. Desire washed through him, hot and sweet. He thrust one hand into her tousled hair, scattering the pins, feeling the silky softness against his fingers. He had so wanted to do that…His other arm was about her waist, the velvet of her cloak slippery beneath his hand. He pushed it aside so that he could hold her closer still, feel the warmth of her body. The cloak fell to the ground with a soft swish of velvet.

‘Eleanor,’ he said again, though this time it came out as a whisper. He watched as she opened her eyes. They were so dark they were almost black, cloudy, bemused with passion. Her mouth, bee-stung with kisses, curved into a smile.

Kit held on to the last rags of his self-control. ‘Eleanor, if you are not certain…’

The smile lit her eyes. She raised one hand to Kit’s cheek and he almost flinched beneath the touch, so sharp was his desire for her.

‘I am certain,’ she said.

And after that there were no more words between them for a long time.

Kit Mostyn woke up with a headache. It was certainly not brandy-induced but it was, without a doubt, the worst headache that he had experienced in a very long time. The room was moving around him, rising and falling with a sickening regularity that wrenched a groan from him before he could help himself.

‘How are you, old chap?’ a voice asked, solicitously. ‘Been out cold for almost two days, y’know—unnecessary force, if you ask me…’

Kit rested his arm across his eyes and tried not to be sick. Then he tried to think, but the effort was monstrously difficult. His head felt as though it were two sizes too large and stuffed with paper into the bargain. And there was something troubling him, a memory at the edge of his mind…

‘Eleanor!’ He sat up bolt upright, and then sank back with a groan.

‘Steady, old fellow,’ the same voice said. ‘No cause for alarm.’

Kit opened his eyes and surveyed his companion with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

‘Hello, Harry. What the devil are you doing here?’

Captain Henry Luttrell grinned. ‘That’s the spirit! Knew you’d feel more the thing shortly!’

Kit sat up again, gingerly this time. The room was still swaying, but he realised that that was because he was on a ship. It was a pleasant cabin, well appointed, comfortable. The HMS Gresham, out of Southampton, just as arranged. Something had gone spectacularly wrong. He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

‘Harry. Where are we?’

Henry Luttrell’s handsome face creased into a slight frown. ‘Two days out, on the way to Ireland. I thought you knew…’

Kit shook his head slowly. ‘I went to the meet at the Feathers, but it was to pass a message to Castlereagh that I could not go…’

Now it was Luttrell’s turn to shake his head. ‘Don’t you remember, Kit? It was agreed to stage it all—the fight, the press gang…’

Kit looked at him. ‘I don’t remember a thing. What happened?’

Luttrell shifted against the bulkhead. ‘You walked in, Benson hit you, we carted you off here…It was all arranged…’

Kit groaned again. ‘Harry, I went there to tell Benson it was all off…’

‘You never got the chance, old chap,’ Luttrell pointed out. ‘Benson hit you first, no questions asked.’

Kit rubbed his head ruefully. ‘Yes, I can tell! And yes, I do remember we had agreed to stage it that way, but…devil take it, what about Nell! I only got married the day before…’

Luttrell’s eyebrows shot up into his hair. ‘Married! Thought you were keeping away from the petticoats, Kit!’

‘Well of course I was, but it just…happened!’ Kit said furiously. His head was aching more than ever now. ‘I married Eleanor the day before I went to the meet—that was why I was going to tell Benson I couldn’t make this trip!’ He put his head in his hands. ‘For God’s sake, Harry, do you hear me? I’ve just got married! I’ve left my bride all alone with no idea where I am…’

Luttrell put a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘Deuced bad luck, old fellow, but how was Benson to know? Besides, that was three days ago now…’

Kit raised his head and stared at him, his eyes wild. ‘Eleanor’s been alone with no word for three days now? Hell and the devil…’

‘You can send word when we get to Dublin,’ Luttrell suggested. ‘Besides, we’ll only be gone a few weeks, Kit. All over before you know it and no harm done. Surely your bride will understand when you explain…’

Kit shook his head, but he did not reply. There were two distinct sorts of sickness, he discovered. He had never been a good sailor but could deal with seasickness. It was purely physical. But the second…His heart ached. He remembered Eleanor, smiling at him and begging him prettily not to be gone too long…He groaned aloud. Three days ago!

Luttrell was getting to his feet. ‘I’ll bring you some hot water and something to drink,’ he said. ‘There’s food, too, if you feel up to it, though you still look a bit green, old fellow…’

Kit gave him a half-smile. ‘My thanks, Harry. Much appreciated. Is there pen and paper here?’

Luttrell gestured towards the desk. ‘Over there.’ He went out.

Kit stood up and stretched. He felt bruised all over. It must have been a hell of a blow to the head, but then he had always suspected that Benson did not like him. For all that they had worked together on various operations, he had never quite trusted the other man. Harry was a different matter, of course, dashing, devil may care, but utterly trustworthy. A true friend. If anyone could help him out of this mess…

Kit sat down at the writing desk and drew the paper slowly towards him. This was probably not the best time to write to Eleanor, when his head felt the size of a stuffed marrow, but he had to try. He would never forgive himself otherwise. Probably he would never forgive himself anyway and as for asking her pardon…Kit grimaced, momentarily wishing for a return to oblivion. It was a true nightmare and it had only just begun.

Chapter One

May 1814

Eleanor Mostyn knew that she was in trouble even before the landlord told her, with a sideways wink and a leer, that there was only one bedchamber and there would be no coaches calling until the next morning. Eleanor, following him into the tiny inn parlour, thoughtfully concluded that the signs were all there: they were miles from the nearest village, it was pouring with rain and the carriage had mysteriously lost a spar when only yards from this isolated inn. What had started out as a simple journey from Richmond to London looked set fair to turn into a tiresome attempted seduction.

It had happened to her before, of course—it was one of the penalties of having a shady reputation and no husband to protect her. However, she had never misjudged the situation as badly as this. This time, the relative youth and apparent innocence of her suitor had taken her in. Sir Charles Paulet was only two-and-twenty, and a poet. Though why poets should be considered more honourable than other men was open to question. Eleanor realised that her first mistake had been in assuming it must be so.

She knew that Sir Charles had been trying to charm his way into her bed with his bad poetry for at least a month. The baronet was a long, lanky and intense young man who laboured under the misapprehension that he was as talented as Lord Byron. Still, she had thought his attentions were a great deal more acceptable than those paid to her by some other men during the Season. He might be trying to seduce her but she had believed that the only real danger she was in was of being bored to death by his verse. That had to be mistake number two.

Eleanor removed her sodden bonnet and decided against unpinning her hair, even though it would dry more quickly that way. She had no wish to inflame Sir Charles’s desires by any actions of her own, and she knew that her long, dark brown hair was one of her best features. No doubt her hopeful seducer had written a sonnet to it already. At the moment he was out in the yard, giving instructions to his groom and coachman, but she knew that she had very little time before he joined her in the parlour, and then she would need to be quick-witted indeed. The lonely inn, the unfortunate accident, the single bedroom…And he had been dancing attendance on her for the past four weeks and she had been vain enough to be flattered…

Here Eleanor sighed as she looked at her damp reflection in the mirror. Eleanor, Lady Mostyn, passably good-looking, only nineteen years old and already infamous, having been both married and deserted within the space of a week. She could remember her come-out vividly, for it had only been the Season before. Then, she had been accorded the scrupulous courtesy due to all innocent débutantes; now she was a prey to every dubious roué and rake in town.

Her re-emergence into the Ton this Season had set all the tongues wagging once again about her notorious marriage, just as Eleanor had known it would. Not enough time had passed for the scandal to die down, but she had been foolishly determined to confront the gossips, to prove that though her husband were gone, squiring opera dancers around the Continent if the stories were true, she was not repining. She had the Trevithick pride—plenty of it—and at first it had prompted her to defiance. Let them talk—she would not regard it.

Eleanor stripped off her cloak and hung it over the back of a chair. Needless to say, she had underestimated the power of rumour. One salacious story had led to another, each more deliciously dreadful than the last. The gossips said that she had eloped with Kit Mostyn to avoid a forced match; that he had deserted her on her wedding day because he had discovered her to be no virgin; that she had told him to leave because she had discovered he was a brute and a satyr who indulged in perverted practices…Eleanor sighed. The gossip had caused a scent of disrepute that hung about her and had the rakes sniffing around and the respectable ladies withdrawing their skirts for fear of contamination. Worse, she was not blameless.

Despite her mama’s strictures that a lady always behaved with decorum, Eleanor had decided to scorn the gossips and fulfil their expectations. Just a little. At the start of the Season her off-white reputation had actually seemed rather amusing, much more entertaining than being a deadly dull débutante or a devoted wife. And in a complicated way it was a means of revenge on Kit, and she did so desperately want revenge. So she had flirted a little, encouraged some disreputable roués, even allowed a few rakes to steal a kiss or two. She had planned on taking a lover, or even two, perhaps both at the same time. The possibilities seemed endless for an abandoned bride whose husband clearly preferred to take his pleasures elsewhere.

The idea had soon palled. Eleanor had known all along that she was not cut out to be a fast matron. The liberties were disgusting, the kisses even more so. All the gentlemen who buzzed around her had the self-importance to assume that she would find them attractive and did not bother to check first. Their attentions had become immensely tedious, their invitations increasingly salacious and their attempted seductions, such as the present one, most trying. In the space of only six weeks Eleanor had had to slap several faces, place a few well-aimed kicks in the ankle or higher and even hit one persistent gentleman with the family Bible when he had tried to seduce her in the library. And she was miserably aware that it was her own fault.

Eleanor sat down by the meagre fire and tried to get warm. Now she had to deal with Sir Charles’s importunities. If she had found it difficult to decide whether to live up or down to her reputation previously, she knew now beyond a shadow of doubt that she was not cut out for some sordid intrigue. There was enough scandal already attached to her name without some indiscreet dalliance in a low tavern with a man she found boring. Besides, she inevitably compared every man she met to Kit and found them wanting. It was curious but true—he had left her alone to face the scandal of their marriage and she had not heard a word from him since, yet still she found other men lacking.

In the five months since Kit’s defection, Eleanor’s childish infatuation had turned to anger and misery. When her mother delighted in passing on another snippet of gossip about Kit that had been garnered from her acquaintance, Eleanor hardened her heart a little more each time. However, it did not prevent the memory of her husband from overshadowing every other man she knew.

But that was nothing to the purpose. Eleanor smoothed her dress thoughtfully as she tried to decide what to do. She could appeal to Sir Charles’s better nature but that was probably a waste of time as she suspected that he did not possess one. She would not be here if he did. She could play the innocent and scream the house down if matters turned nasty, or she could act the sophisticate, then run away when she had lulled Sir Charles into a false sense of security. Eleanor frowned. She was not entirely happy with either option. There was plenty of room for error.

She could hear voices getting closer—Sir Charles was quoting Shakespeare in the corridor. Oh dear, this was going to be very tiresome. The door opened. Sir Charles came in, followed by the innkeeper bearing a tray with two enormous glasses of wine. Eleanor raised her brows. That was not in the least subtle and somehow she had expected better of a poet. She really must rid herself of these false expectations.

‘There you are, my love!’ Sir Charles’s voice had already slipped from the respectful courtesy of their previous exchanges to an odious intimacy that made Eleanor’s hackles rise. ‘I hope that you are warm enough—although I shall soon have you wrapped up as cosy as can be, upstairs with me!’

The innkeeper smirked meaningfully and Eleanor looked down her nose haughtily at him. No doubt he was warmed by the size of the bribe Sir Charles must have slipped him to connive in so dubious an enterprise. She wondered whether Sir Charles had always spoken in rhyme and why on earth she had not noticed it before. It was intensely irritating.

‘The inn is adequate, I suppose,’ she said coldly, ‘but I do not anticipate staying here long, sir. Surely there is someone who could carry a message to Trevithick House? The others will be almost back by now and will be concerned to find me missing…’

‘Oh, I do not believe that you need trouble your pretty little head about that, my love,’ Sir Charles said airily. He struck a pose. ‘Why, I sense a verse coming over me!’ He smiled at her. ‘My heart leads me to wed when I spy your pretty head, as you lie in my bed…’

‘Pray, sir, restrain your imagination!’ Eleanor snapped. ‘I do not believe that an inclination to wed forms any part of your plans! As for the rest of your verse, I like it not! A work of folly and vivid imagination!’

Sir Charles did not appear one whit put out. Evidently it would take more than plain speaking to deter him. He came close to the fire, rubbing his hands together. Eleanor found herself hoping uncharitably that his ruffled sleeves would catch alight. His dress was very close to that of a macaroni, with yards of ribbons, ruffles and lace, and she was sure he would go up like a house on fire.

‘Alas, my dear Lady Mostyn, that you are married already, otherwise I would show you my affections were steady!’

Sir Charles fixed her with his plaintive dark eyes, behind which Eleanor could see more than a glimpse of calculation. ‘You must know that my love and esteem for you know no bounds—’

‘As does your effrontery, sir!’ Eleanor interrupted, before he could finish the rhyme.

Sir Charles pressed a glass of wine into her hand and downed half of his own in one gulp.

‘You know that your relatives will not reach home for a half hour at least, sweet Eleanor, and will not start to worry about you for another hour after that, by which time it will be dark…’ His eyes met Eleanor’s again, carrying the implicit message that no one would be coming to help her. Eleanor noted wryly that he could speak plainly enough when he chose. ‘But have no fear! You are safe with me here!’

Eleanor bit her lip and turned her head away, hearing the innkeeper’s laugh as he went out and closed the door behind him. There would be no help from that quarter.

Sir Charles nodded towards her wine. ‘Drink up, my love. It will fortify you.’ He suited actions to words, gulping the second half of his wine in one go, wiping the excess from his chin. ‘This is a charming opportunity for us to get to know each other a little better. Most opportune, my rose in bloom!’

‘Or most contrived!’ Eleanor said coldly. She looked straight at him, noting that he was nowhere near as good-looking as she had once imagined him to be. His pale brown eyes were too close set to look trustworthy, and taken with his long and pointed nose they gave him the appearance of a wolfhound. Who was it had told her never to trust a man who looked like a hunting dog? It could only have been her aunt, Lady Salome Trevithick, and Eleanor wished she had paid more attention.

She took a sip of her wine, if only to give herself breathing space. Damnation! How could she have been so unconscionably foolish? She had been set up like a green girl and now had very limited options. The poet was nowhere near as harmless as he pretended and her dénouement looked to be only a matter of time. She shuddered at the thought.

Sir Charles smiled at her. It was not reassuring. His lips were thin and wet-looking. Eleanor, realising suddenly that staring at his face might give quite the wrong impression of her feelings, looked hastily away.

‘How far are we from London, sir?’ she asked casually.

Sir Charles’s smile became positively vulpine. ‘At least ten miles, my lovely Lady Mostyn. We are benighted, I fear. You must simply…accept…your fate, my love, my dove.’

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. ‘The carriage—’

‘Will not be ready until tomorrow, alas.’ Sir Charles spoke contentedly. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough. Here we shall stay in our pastoral heaven with only our love, the darkness to leaven…’

Eleanor, privately reflecting that Sir Charles’s poetry was the hardest thing to tolerate so far, nevertheless thought that it could be useful. If she could but flatter him…

‘Pray treat me to some more of your verse, sir,’ she gushed, with what she knew to be ghastly archness. She hoped that his vanity was greater than his intellect, or he would know at once precisely what she was doing.

Sir Charles wagged a roguish finger at her. ‘Ah, not yet, my pet! I believe our landlord is waiting to serve us a feast fit for a king…’

‘Well, let us see what he can bring,’ Eleanor finished a little grimly.

Sir Charles looked affronted. ‘No, no, my love, it does not scan!’

The door opened to admit the landlord with the dinner tray. Eleanor, who considered him a most unpleasant character, was nevertheless pleased to see him, for his arrival afforded her time to think—and time when the odious Sir Charles could not press his attentions for a space, unless he was inclined to do so over the dinner plates and with an audience. Eleanor thought this entirely possible. It seemed that Sir Charles was so in love with himself and his pretty poetry that he could not envisage rejection, and probably an audience would add to his enjoyment.

While the landlord laid out the dishes, she measured the distance to the door with her eyes, then reluctantly abandoned the idea of trying to run away. They would catch her, she was in the middle of nowhere and it was getting dark. How had she ever got herself into this situation? Her foolish idea of taking a lover, or even two, mocked her. Here was Sir Charles, proving another of Lady Salome’s adages, which was that reality was seldom as exciting as imagination. What folly had possessed her to accept his escort on the journey from Richmond back to London, when only five minutes before, her sister-in-law, Beth Trevithick, had looked her in the eye and told her that Sir Charles was an ill-bred philanderer who would try his luck if only given the chance? Eleanor had tossed her head in the air and allowed the baronet to hand her up into his curricle, and had not even noticed as they had fallen behind the other carriages and finally become separated altogether.

But this was not helping her to effect an escape. She allowed Sir Charles to hold a chair for her, watching under her lashes as he took the seat opposite and pressed her to accept a slice of beef, for all the world as though this were some Ton dinner rather than a squalid seduction. Eleanor accepted the beef, and some potato, wondering if either would be useful as a weapon. Probably not. The beef was too floppy and the potato too wet, though she supposed she could thrust it in his face and try to blind him with it. Her first plan, to hit Sir Charles over the head with the fire irons, had been crushed when she realised that there were none. The dinner plate would be a better option but it would probably crack, leaving him undamaged.

Eleanor sighed and tried to force down a little food. Even if she were able to escape Sir Charles for a time, she still had the landlord to contend with and she was alone and benighted in the middle of the country. All the same, there was little time for finesse in her planning. She had to come up with an idea, and quickly, and in the meantime she had to lull her seducer’s suspicions by flattering his diabolical poetry.

‘I remember a poem you wrote for me but a few days ago,’ she began, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘Something to do with beauty and the night…’

‘Ah yes!’ Sir Charles beamed, waving a piece of speared beef around on the end of his fork.

‘Oh she doth teach the torches to burn bright, She walks in beauty, like the night, And brightens up my lonely sight…’

‘Yes…’ Eleanor said slowly, bending her head to hide her smile as she calculated how much the poem owed to Lord Byron and William Shakespeare. ‘How many other words rhyme with bright, Sir Charles? There must be so many to inspire you!’

‘You are so right, my brightest light!’ Sir Charles proclaimed fervently. He seized her hand. ‘Lovely Lady Mostyn, your instinctive understanding of my work persuades me that we should be as one! I know that you have your scruples, virtuous lady that you are, but if you could be persuaded to smile upon me…’

Eleanor, tolerably certain that she was being spared the second verse so that Sir Charles could get down to the real business in hand, modestly cast her eyes down.

‘Alas, Sir Charles, your sentiments flatter me, but I cannot comply. You must know that I am devoted to my absent spouse…’

Sir Charles let loose a cackle of laughter. ‘So devoted that you let Probyn and Darke and Ferris dance attendance upon you! I know your devotion, Lady Mostyn! Aye, and your reputation!’

Eleanor resisted the impulse to stick her fork into the back of his hand. Despite his ridiculous habit of talking in verse and his overweening vanity, Sir Charles would not prove easy to overcome. And all this talk of love was a hollow fiction, to dress up his lust. He was filling his wineglass for a third time now and his face had flushed an unbecoming puce.

‘Eat up, my little filly! The night is becoming chilly and I need you to warm my—’

‘Sir Charles!’ Eleanor said sharply.

The inebriated baronet had come round the table to her now. His hand was resting on her shoulder in a gesture that could have been comforting and paternalistic—for all that he was only two years her senior—but it was neither of those things. His fingers edged towards the lace that lined the neck of Eleanor’s modest dress. Her temper, subdued for so long and with difficulty, triumphed over her caution. She pushed his hand away, repulsed.

‘Kindly stand further off, sir, and avoid any inclination towards intimacy! I may be marooned here with you but I have no intention of using the occasion to further our acquaintance! Now, is that clear enough for you or must I express myself in rhyming couplets?’

The angry, dark red colour came into Sir Charles’s face. He leant over Eleanor’s chair, putting a hand on either armrest to hold her in place. His breath stank of wine and meat and his person smelled of mothballs. Eleanor flinched and tried not to sneeze.

‘Very proper, Lady Mostyn!’ Sir Charles was still smiling, his teeth bared yellow in his flushed face. ‘I suppose I should expect a show of decorum at least from one who was raised a lady but has never managed to behave as such!’

He moved suddenly, grabbing Eleanor’s upper arms, and she was sure he was about to try to kiss her. It was disgusting. She pulled herself away, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. She was shaking now. It was no more or less than she had expected but the reality made her realise how hopelessly out of her depth she had become.

Into this charade walked the landlord, the pudding held high on a covered dish. There were footsteps in the corridor behind him but Eleanor did not notice, for she was too intent on a plan of escape. As the landlord came in, Sir Charles straightened up with an oath and in the same moment Eleanor stood up, swept the silver cover from the dish and swung it in an arc towards his head. It clanged and bounced off, throwing the startled baronet to the floor where he lay stunned amongst the remains of the blancmange. Eleanor staggered back, almost fell over her chair, and was steadied, astoundingly, by arms that closed around her and held her tight.

There was a moment of frozen silence. Sir Charles had sat up, the blancmange dripping down his forehead, a hunted look suddenly in his eye. Eleanor freed herself and spun around. Then the world started to spin around her. She grasped a chair back to steady herself.

‘Kit?’

It was undoubtedly her husband who was standing before her, but a strangely different Kit from the one that she remembered. His height dominated the small room and his expression made her insides quail. His fair hair had darkened to tawny bronze and his face was tanned darker still, which made the sapphire blue of his eyes gleam as hard and bright as the stones themselves. There were lines about his eyes and mouth that Eleanor did not remember and he looked older, more worn somehow, as though he had been ill. Eleanor stared, bemused, disbelieving, and unable to accept that he had appeared literally out of nowhere. She swayed again. The chair back was slippery beneath her fingers and she shivered with shock and cold.

‘Kit…’ she said, trying to quell her shaking. ‘Whatever are you doing here? I had no notion…I had quite given you up for lost…’

‘So it would seem,’ Kit Mostyn said to his wife, very coolly. His hard blue gaze went from her to the lovelorn baronet, who was showing all the spine of an earthworm and was still cowering on the floor, on the assumption that a gentleman would not hit him when he was already down. A smile curled Kit’s mouth, and it was not pleasant. Sir Charles whimpered.

‘So it would seem,’ Kit repeated softly. ‘I see that you have indeed all but forgotten me, Eleanor.’

Eleanor barely heard him. Darkness was curling in from the edges of the room now, claiming her, and she gave herself up to it gladly. She heard Kit mutter an oath, then his arm was hard about her and she closed her eyes and knew no more.

‘This is all most unfortunate.’ Eleanor had not realised that she had spoken aloud until a dry voice in her ear said: ‘Indeed it is.’

Eleanor turned her head. It was resting against a broad masculine chest, which she devoutly hoped was Kit’s since for it to belong to anyone else would no doubt cause even more trouble. His arm was around her, holding her with a gentleness that belied the coldness of his tone.

‘Drink this, Eleanor—it will revive you.’

Eleanor sniffed the proffered glass and recoiled. ‘Is it brandy? I detest the stuff—’

‘Drink it!’ Kit said, this time in a tone that brooked no refusal, and Eleanor sipped a little and sat up. Kit disentangled himself from her and moved over to where Sir Charles Paulet was standing near the door, brushing the remaining blancmange from his person.

Eleanor watched, hands pressed to her mouth, as Kit grasped the baronet by the collar and positively threw him out of the door, dessert and all.

‘Get back to London, or to hell, or wherever you choose,’ Kit said coldly, ‘and do not trouble my wife again!’

The door shuddered as he slammed it closed. Then he turned to Eleanor. She shrank back before the sardonic light in his eyes.

‘My apologies for removing your…ah…admirer in so precipitate a manner, my love,’ he drawled, ‘but I fear I have the greatest dislike of another man paying such attentions to my wife! Perhaps I never told you?’

‘Perhaps you did not have the time, my lord!’ Eleanor said thinly. She put the brandy glass down with a shaking hand and swung her feet off the sofa and on to the floor. She glared at him. ‘We scarce had the chance to come to such an understanding in the few days that we spent together! You were gone before we had exchanged more than a few words and I do not believe that any of them were goodbye!’

Kit drove his hands into his pockets. ‘I realise that it must have surprised you for me to appear in this manner…’

‘No,’ Eleanor said politely, ‘it is not a surprise, my lord, rather an enormous shock! To disappear and reappear at will! Such lack of consideration in your behaviour is monstrous rude—’

‘And I can scarcely be taken aback to find my wife in flagrante as a result?’ Kit questioned, with dangerous calm. His glittering blue gaze raked her from head to toe. ‘As you say, we meet again in unfortunate circumstances, my dear.’

Eleanor’s temper soared dangerously. Matters, she thought savagely, were definitely not falling out as they should. Her errant husband, instead of demonstrating the remorse and regret suitable for their reunion, was exhibiting a misplaced arrogance that she had always suspected was part of the Mostyn character. It made her want to scream with frustration. Except that ladies did not scream like Billingsgate fishwives. They endured.

‘Surely the point at issue is your want of conduct rather than mine, my lord,’ she said sharply. ‘I am not the one who has been absent for five months without so much courtesy as a letter to explain!’

Kit sighed heavily. ‘Eleanor, I sent you a letter—several letters, in fact—’

‘Well, I did not receive them!’ Eleanor knew she was starting to sound pettish but her nerves were on edge. ‘As for finding me in flagrante, surely you cannot believe that I am in this poky little inn by choice!’

‘Then you should arrange for your lovers to find somewhere more acceptable, my dear,’ Kit observed, his tone mocking. ‘I have searched for you in hostelries from Richmond to London, and there are plenty more that could offer you greater comfort!’

Eleanor felt the tears prick the back of her eyes. This was all going horribly wrong, yet she did not understand how to stop it. The anguished questions that she had wanted to ask ever since he had left her—why did you go, where have you been—remained locked inside her head, torturing her. She had been told that ladies did not question their husbands’ actions in such an unbridled manner and since Kit had not volunteered the information of his own free will she could scarcely shake it out of him. Eleanor struggled to master her anger and misery.

‘You misunderstand the situation, my lord,’ she said coldly. ‘If there have been others who have paid me attention during your absence, that was because you were not here to discourage them—’

‘And because you did not choose to!’ Kit said, between his teeth. His face darkened and Eleanor realised with a pang just how angry he was. ‘Do you know that all I have heard since I set foot back in England is that Eleanor, Lady Mostyn, is the Talk of the Town? The lovely Lady Mostyn, so free with her favours!’ His voice was savage. ‘They are taking bets in the Clubs, my lady—should Probyn be next, or Paulet? The wager is a monkey against Darke being your current lover!’

His fist smashed down on the table, making the brandy bottle jump. ‘Mayhap I am at fault for leaving you for all this time, but you have scarcely been pining in my absence!’

Eleanor turned her back on him. She could feel the fury bubbling up in her like a witches’ cauldron after a particularly uncontrollable spell. Here was Kit, firmly, demonstrably and absolutely in the wrong after deserting her with no word for five months, and here was she, being hauled over the coals for something that was not even her fault! She had already found herself trying to justify her presence in the inn with Sir Charles whereas Kit had barely mentioned his disappearance. Apologies, explanations…Clearly they were foreign to his nature.

She sighed sharply and moved away from the window. ‘How did you find me here, my lord? If you are but recently returned to England…’

Kit looked up. He raised an eyebrow. ‘I am sorry—did you not wish to be found? I must have misunderstood! I thought that you had just been strenuously explaining that you were not here by choice!’

Eleanor gritted her teeth with exasperation, wavering on the edge of abandoning the polite manners bred in her bones and upbraiding him as he deserved. She wanted to shriek at him, to beat at him with her fists and pour out all the hurt and misery of the past five months. Except that ladies did not—could not—behave like that, no matter the provocation. Self-possession was all. She screwed her eyes up tight and took a deep breath.

‘I dislike your double standards, my lord, but I suppose that a husband may do as he pleases, appearing and disappearing if he so chooses!’ The words came out with a kind of haughty desperation. She stole a look at Kit. He was pouring himself a glass of brandy and his face was quite expressionless. The misery that was squeezing Eleanor’s heart tightened its grip. She stared blindly out into the dusk, where Sir Charles’s carriage, its broken wheel spar miraculously restored, was just setting off down the road to London.

‘You may have been debauching yourself in all the bordellos from here to Constantinople for all that I care, sir,’ she added untruthfully, ‘but you could at least have warned me of your return!’

Kit stretched his legs out before the fire and took a long draught of brandy. ‘I am sorry if I have spoiled your fun, my dear!’ he drawled. ‘I had no notion that you had set up as a demi-rep!’

Eleanor made a sound of repressed fury. ‘All you can reproach me for, my lord, is indiscretion, whereas you…’ Her voice failed her. She could not even begin to put into words all the things that Kit had done wrong.

‘What was I supposed to do?’ she burst out. ‘Sit and wait for you? You might never have returned! At one point we even thought you dead!’

Kit’s expression was bleak. ‘And better off that way so that you could carry on a merry widow? You honour me, my dear!’

It was the last straw. With an infuriated squeak, Eleanor picked up the ugly clock from the mantelpiece and threw it at him. Kit fielded it with ease.

‘Glaringly abroad, my dear! One wonders why you did not use it against Sir Charles if his attentions were so repugnant to you!’

There was a heavy silence. Eleanor pressed both hands hard to her mouth to prevent herself from crying. She could not believe how close she had come to losing her self-control, nor how furious and unhappy Kit was making her. She could not see beyond the wicked coil that had enveloped her. Kit’s return had solved no problems for her; in fact it had generated nothing but trouble.

Kit rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. For the first time, Eleanor noticed that he looked weary.

‘Maybe we are both in the wrong, Eleanor.’ Kit’s tone was heavy. ‘May we not just sit down and discuss this sensibly? I know that I have been away for a space, but I sent you a letter as soon as I could, explaining what had happened. And then several more, after that. Surely you cannot deny it?’

The very patience of Kit’s tone grated on Eleanor’s nerves now, when all she wanted was to give way to impassioned recriminations. Perhaps if he had shown such calm forbearance when he had come in, matters might have been different. But he had not. And now…

She looked at him and wondered if she really knew him at all. Once, a year ago perhaps, she would have said that she knew Kit instinctively. There had been a recognition between them, sharp and exciting, as they had circled each other at Ton balls and snatched a dance or a conversation when her mother’s back was turned. Kit Mostyn was the type of man that all the chaperones warned against and under the veneer of well-bred sophistication, Eleanor had sensed a certain degree of ruthlessness in him that had made her feel in danger yet protected at one and the same time. She had not understood it but it had been desperately romantic—or so she had thought.

Now, though, she realised that she was married to a stranger. A very good-looking stranger, she allowed, as she studied him. The Mostyns, like the Trevithicks, were generally accounted to be a good-looking family and Eleanor saw little to argue with in that assessment. Like his twin sister Charlotte, Kit was tall and fair, but where Charlotte’s classical features were pleasingly feminine, Kit’s face was strong and unforgettable, aristocratic arrogance softened only by a rakish smile that had made her heart beat faster. But he was not smiling now. The arrogance, Eleanor thought furiously, and not the charm, was decidedly to the fore.

She walked over to the fire and made a business of checking her cloak and gloves to see if they were yet dry. The steam was still rising from her dress. Eleanor felt as though she was going through the washing process still inside it. And strangely she was suddenly aware of how every damp fold clung to her figure, yet when she had been intent on preventing Sir Charles’s seduction she had not even noticed it. But it was Kit who was watching her now, his smoky blue gaze appraising as it rested on her. Eleanor’s nerves tightened with misery and anger.

She swallowed hard. ‘Several letters!’ she said incredulously. ‘Thank you, my lord. I fear I never received them.’

Kit sighed again. It was clear that he simply did not believe her. Eleanor felt another hot layer of anger add to the volcano inside.

‘Very well,’ he said wearily. ‘I am quite willing to explain what happened and where I have been…’

Eleanor clenched her fists to prevent herself from screaming. So now he wanted to explain—when it was too late! If he had arrived at Trevithick House one evening rather than catching her in flagrante in such a ridiculous situation, if he had been remorseful rather than accusatory, if she had not felt so wholly in the wrong and yet so furious with him…Eleanor shook her head. It was impossible to sit down and discuss matters quietly now.

Visions of opera singers flitted before her eyes and she tried to swallow the tears that threatened to close her throat. She did not want the humiliation of hearing Kit justify that a man was permitted to come and go as he pleased, to take his pleasure where and when he chose, whilst expecting a different standard of behaviour from his wife. She had heard all of that from her mother when she had been a débutante and had thought it so much nonsense—except that now it appeared to be true. She had had such romantic notions of marriage, whereas her husband evidently did not expect it to interfere with his existing way of life.

Eleanor pressed her hands together. Her pride would never permit her to tell Kit her true feelings—how she had waited for him, heartbroken; how her mother had made matters irredeemably worse by broadcasting intimate details of her situation to the Ton; how she had been reviled and made a laughingstock, her hasty marriage and even swifter abandonment the on dit on everyone’s lips. It was Kit who had left her at the mercy of every rake in London then made matters worse by apparently parading his amours elsewhere. And deeper than all of these things was the secret suffering that made it impossible for her ever to forgive him his desertion.

Explanations…There were some that she would never make to him. And Kit was clearly incapable of expressing any kind of remorse. He had not apologised, not at all, and with every minute that went by Eleanor resolved that she would not, could not, move to make matters right when he clearly did not care. She turned away and hunched a shoulder against him.

‘You do not need to explain yourself to me, my lord! You may do as you please!’

Kit was now looking positively thunderous. A little thrill of pleasure went through Eleanor at her ability to provoke him. She knew it was childish but just at the moment it was all she had.

‘Eleanor, I want to explain…’

Eleanor smiled. Even thwarting him in this small matter made her feel perversely better. It might be contrary but it was satisfying.

‘There is no need for explanations, my lord,’ she said coolly. ‘I think it would be better if we pretended that it had never happened!’

‘Confound it, Eleanor, do you simply not care?’ Kit sounded exasperated now. ‘Not ten minutes ago you were castigating me for leaving you! I thought you would at least wish to know the reason why!’

Eleanor fabricated a delicate shrug. ‘It was the suddenness of your reappearance that shocked me, my lord, rather than anything else. I have no particular desire for us to become drawn into descriptions of what each has been doing. That would be most tiresome! Far better to let the matter drop!’

There was a pause. She saw a strange expression steal across Kit’s face but she did not understand it. He ran a hand through his dishevelled fair hair and sighed heavily.

‘I understand you, I suppose! And for all my anger earlier I shall ask no questions of you. Truth to tell, I really do not want to know.’

Eleanor frowned a little. She was not quite sure what he meant.

‘Oh, I was not intending to tell you anything of my exploits anyway, my lord!’ she said brightly. ‘I have managed quite well on my own! I have had the status of a married lady after all, without all the tedious responsibilities of tending to a husband!’ She paused as she heard Kit swear, and finished sweetly: ‘Now that you are back we shall be a thoroughly modern couple—you have your interests and I have mine—’

‘And plenty of them—’

Eleanor ignored him. ‘And we may present a charming façade to the Ton—’

‘It sounds delightful,’ Kit said, with an edge to his voice.

Eleanor essayed a bright smile, though in fact she knew the tears were not far away. For all that she had manoeuvred the conversation in this direction, it was not what she truly wanted. If only he had swept her into his arms and told her he loved her, everything else, even apologies and explanations, could have waited. She had imagined a reunion with Kit a hundred times, and it had never been like this. This cold stranger, with an angry light in his dark blue eyes, was not a man she could reach.

She told herself sternly that she had been brought up to understand the concept of duty in marriage and so did not expect a husband to show her an unsuitable affection, the way that her brother Marcus did so unfashionably with his wife Beth. Her parents had preserved just such a chilly outward show, and whilst she had sometimes thought that love might be more fun, she had learned that that was not so. Nevertheless, something was hurting her and she did not intend to give Kit the satisfaction of knowing it.

‘After all, I hardly expect you to hang on my sleeve in a tediously slavish way!’ she finished lightly. ‘You shall go your way—indeed, you already have done!—and I shall go mine—’

‘As you also appear to have done,’ Kit concluded dryly.

They looked at each other in silence, and then Eleanor shrugged. ‘So there we have it, my lord! What happens now?’

‘We go up to our chamber, I believe,’ Kit said slowly. A mocking smile touched his mouth. ‘As you are so determined to maintain a pretence of normality, my lady wife, I do believe we should start practising straight away!’

Chapter Two

‘This is ridiculous, my lord,’ Eleanor said in an outraged whisper as Kit, the candle clasped in one hand and his other firmly gripping her elbow, steered them up the rickety stairs to the bedchamber above. ‘Why can we not simply go back to London tonight?’

‘I do not care to do so,’ her husband said coolly. ‘It is dark and I cannot risk an accident to the wife I have so recently found again…’

Eleanor made a humphing sound. ‘I cannot believe that such matters can weigh with you, my lord! And if you think that I will get one minute of sleep in this flea pit—’

She broke off. It was not the fleas that were troubling her but the thought of sharing a chamber with Kit. She glanced at him apprehensively. His face was set, dark and brooding, and he did not look at her. Eleanor’s stomach did a little flip.

‘You may stay awake if you please,’ Kit said indifferently. ‘I assure you that I am tired from galloping across country to find you and will no doubt sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. Ah, a charming room…’ He pushed the bedroom door open.

‘The scene of your seduction, I imagine!’

Eleanor wrenched her arm free of his grip. ‘Enough, sir! I do not wish to hear another word from you on that subject! If you think that it has been pleasant for me to suffer Sir Charles’s attentions and then to be subject to your scorn as well…’ She stopped, sniffed hard and pressed a hand to her mouth. Now she was going to cry. She knew she should not have said anything.

Kit was watching her. He passed her a handkerchief as she angrily dashed her tears away.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘You will perhaps feel better once you have had some rest.’

Eleanor glared at him. ‘If you think that I will have a moment’s rest whilst you are here you are far and far out! Can you not sleep in the parlour or somewhere?’

‘Or somewhere?’ Kit raised his brows. ‘Somewhere away from you, I infer?’

‘Precisely!’ Eleanor scrunched the handkerchief into an angry ball.

Kit shook his head. ‘I fear I cannot leave you unprotected, my love…’

‘Fiddle!’ Eleanor marched across to the bed and looked at it unfavourably. The curtains were full of dust and the bedclothes none to clean. ‘There is no one here to be a danger to me…’

Except for you. Scarcely had the thought formed when she realised that Kit had read her mind and she blushed to the roots of her hair. He smiled gently, coming across to take the crumpled handkerchief from her hand. His touch was warm.

‘There is the landlord. He looks a villainous fellow…’

‘You are absurd.’ Eleanor found that her voice came out as a whisper. Kit was standing close now, his hand resting in hers. She found herself unable to move away, unable to look away from that shadowed blue gaze.

‘Your dress is still damp.’ Kit’s voice was as husky as hers. ‘You should not catch a chill…’

Suddenly Eleanor was back in the house in Upper Grosvenor Street, remembering with exquisite pain the only occasion on which they had made love. The night before their marriage. And the morning…She ached at the sweetness of the memories and recoiled at the naïve trust of the girl she had been.

‘I can manage very well on my own, my lord,’ she said, almost steadily, taking her hand from his and stepping back. ‘You will oblige me by sleeping in the armchair if the parlour does not suit.’

Kit looked at her in silence for a long moment, then he inclined his head. ‘As you wish, Eleanor. Good night.’

Before she realised what he intended he had raised a hand and touched her cheek. The feather-light touch shivered down her spine and made her tremble.

‘Good night, my lord,’ she said, with constraint.

After Kit had gone out she locked the door, removed her damp dress and lay down on the bed, curled into a ball. She did not cry, but lay staring dry-eyed into the darkness. And she tried to tell herself that she was glad he had left her alone.

Kit Mostyn closed the parlour door, moved over to the sofa and sat down. The fire was dying down now and the room was chill. The dinner plates had not been removed and sat on the table, the food congealing, and the smell of beef still in the air. There was also a slippery patch of blancmange just inside the parlour door.

Kit reached for the brandy bottle, poured a generous measure into a glass, and then paused. Truth to tell, he did not really want a drink, but the temptation to drown his sorrows was very strong.

The springs of the sofa dug into him. It was going to be an uncomfortable night, hard on the body but even harder on the mind. Which was why the brandy was so tempting. He could simply forget it all. Except it would all be waiting for him when he awoke…

Kit pushed the glass away and lay down, wincing as a spring burst and stabbed him in the ribs. Eleanor. His mind winced in much the same way as his body had just done, but he forced himself to think about her. It was only five months, yet she had changed so much. Previously she had had an artless self-confidence that had been the product of a privileged and sheltered upbringing. She had been bright and innocent and sweet. Now…Kit sighed. Now Eleanor had a shell of brittle sophistication and he was not entirely sure what was hidden beneath.

Kit shifted on the sofa as he tried to get more comfortable. The candles were burning down now and the old inn creaked. He wondered if Eleanor was asleep yet.

He thought about her and about the rumours that had assaulted him ever since he had returned to England, and about finding her in a cheap inn taking dinner with Sir Charles Paulet. He had been so angry to see all the rumours apparently confirmed. Angry and jealous. His innocent Eleanor, who had evidently not spent the waiting time alone.

Yet she had insisted that she was there under duress and there was the evidence of the blancmange…Kit turned his head and the arm of the sofa dug painfully into his neck. Perhaps it was true—but then what of the others; what of Grosvenor and Probyn and Darke?

Most telling of all was Eleanor’s fearful reaction when he had suggested that they should sit down and discuss matters calmly. Kit frowned. He knew that he should have explained himself much sooner, that he would have done so had his jealous anger not intervened. Yet when he had tried she had shied away from it. What had she said—‘I have no particular desire for us to become drawn into descriptions of what each has been doing’. He was all too afraid that he knew the reason why. There must be compelling reasons why Eleanor did not wish him to enquire too closely into what she had been doing in the past five months.

A huge, heavy sadness filled Kit’s heart. She need not worry—he would never force explanations from her, put her to the blush. Nor would he press her to accept his account of what had happened to him and thereby risk prompting any unfortunate disclosures from her. It seemed they were trapped within the modern marriage that Eleanor had decreed, each going their separate ways. It was not at all what he had hoped for when he had returned.

By the time that the carriage rolled into Montague Street the next day, Eleanor’s nerves were at screaming point. She had slept very little the previous night, had rejoined Kit for a poor breakfast of stale rolls and weak tea and had spent the journey mainly in silence, pretending to an interest in the countryside that she simply did not possess. It was raining again, and it seemed only appropriate. Kit had been as silent as she on the journey—Eleanor thought that he looked tired and he had seemed withdrawn. All in all it was enough to make her retreat even further into herself and to reflect that her life from now on would be a pattern card of superficial contentment. She and Kit would preserve a surface calm, and no one would know that underneath it her feelings were still aching. Least of all her husband. And one day, perhaps, she would feel better.

Eleanor could well remember her mother, the Dowager Viscountess of Trevithick, instilling in her day after day that a lady never gave way to any vulgar display of feeling and particularly not in public, but when the carriage steps were lowered and Kit helped her down, her composure was put to the test almost immediately.

‘But this is not Trevithick House!’

She saw Kit smile. ‘No. Naturally I would expect my wife to live with me in the house that I have rented for the Season!’

Eleanor stared. ‘But my clothes—all my possessions…’

Kit took her arm, urging her up the steps, out of the rain. ‘They were sent round from Trevithick House yesterday.’

Eleanor was outraged at this apparent conspiracy. ‘But I don’t want to stay here with you! Surely Marcus—’

‘Your brother,’ Kit said, with a certain grim humour, ‘whilst disapproving heartily of the whole matter, was not prepared to come between husband and wife! Come now, my dear, we are getting wet and achieving very little standing here…’

Eleanor allowed him to help her up the steps and through the door of the neat town house. The butler came to meet them; Eleanor recognised his face and flinched away. How could she fail to recognise Carrick, whom she had last seen fetching a hansom to take her back to Trevithick House five months before? She had been pale and exhausted from crying over Kit’s disappearance and Carrick’s face had mirrored the pity and concern he felt for her. Now, however, he was smiling.

‘Welcome home, my lady. I will show you to your room.’

Eleanor raised her chin, horrified to realise that she was almost crying again, uncertain if it was because of the unlooked-for warmth of his welcome or for other reasons. This was ridiculous. She was turning into a watering-pot and could not bear to be so feeble. This rented house, comfortable and welcoming as it looked, was not her home and she did not want to be here, especially not with Kit. She managed a shaky smile—for the benefit of the servants.

‘Thank you, Carrick.’

The butler looked gratified that she had remembered his name. Eleanor felt even worse. She followed him across the hall and up the staircase, very aware that Kit was bringing up the rear. She wanted to tell him to go away. Instead she ignored him. It was the best that she could do.

The house was small but extremely well appointed. Eleanor could not fail to notice that the carpet was a thick, rich red, the banisters polished to a deep mahogany gleam. There were fresh flowers on the windowsill and the smell of beeswax in the air. It was charming and she could not fault it. It was simply that she did not want to be there.

Her suite of rooms consisted of a large, airy bedroom and an adjoining dressing room decorated in cream, gold and palest pink. A small fire burned cheerfully in the grate though the May morning was promising to be warm.

Carrick bowed. ‘I will send your maid to you, my lady—’

‘In a little while, Carrick.’ It was Kit who answered, before Eleanor could even thank the butler. ‘There are some matters that Lady Mostyn and I have to discuss first.’

The butler bowed silently and withdrew. Eleanor straightened up, marshalling her forces. She looked at her husband as he lounged in the doorway.

‘Must we speak now, my lord?’ she asked, just managing to achieve the bored tone she strove for. ‘I am unconscionably tired and want nothing more than some hot water and a luncheon tray. Then I think I shall sleep. I fear that I had very little rest last night.’

Kit strolled forward into the room, swinging the door carelessly closed behind him.

‘It will not take long, my dear,’ he said, effortlessly matching her sang-froid. ‘I simply wanted to mention that I understand there is to be a ball at Trevithick House in a couple of days and we shall attend.’ His smile deepened. ‘It will be the perfect occasion to demonstrate our reconciliation!’

Eleanor grimaced. The Trevithick ball had been planned for some months but now it threatened to turn into more of an ordeal than ever.

‘I am not sure that I wish to attend…’

Kit wandered over to the window. ‘If you are as intent on presenting a good face to the Ton as you implied last night, you will have to be there.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘People will talk otherwise. Moreover, we shall have to be seen to pay at least a little attention to each other!’

Eleanor sighed. ‘This is all very difficult…’

‘It is indeed.’ Kit’s voice betrayed his tension. ‘But I am tolerably certain that we shall pull through—provided that we do not ask each other any difficult questions, of course!’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that is sufficient understanding between us?’

Eleanor clutched her reticule to her as though it was a lifeline. Her heart was beating fast and she felt panic course through her.

‘Lud, my lord, we do not need an understanding!’ she said, in a brittle tone. ‘We are married, after all! That should be understanding enough.’

Kit’s expression closed. ‘Very well. In that case I will just add that I do not expect to have to fight my way past every rake in the Ton in order to claim a dance with my wife! It may be unfashionable in me to expect it, but you will behave with circumspection, my dear. Is that understood?’

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. ‘I shall behave precisely as well as you do, my lord.’

Their gazes, dark blue and dark brown, met and locked, then Kit inclined his head. ‘Capital! Then we may preserve that excellent pretence that you alluded to so charmingly last night. Neither too warm, nor too cold! Delightfully mediocre, in fact.’

Just for a moment Eleanor thought that she had detected something else in his voice other than a bland lack of concern, a hint of bitterness, perhaps, which was gone so swiftly that she decided she must have been mistaken. She looked at him uncertainly. He was still looking at her, with a mixture of speculation and amusement.

‘Was there anything else, my lord?’

‘Just one more thing,’ Kit murmured. His gaze drifted from her face, which was becoming pinker all the while under his prolonged scrutiny, down her slender figure and back again. His eyes lingered, disturbingly, on her mouth. Eleanor stiffened.

‘I wished to disabuse you of any notion you might have of a marriage of convenience,’ Kit said slowly. ‘All this talk of going your own way and I going mine might lead you to imagine…erroneously…that ours would be a marriage in name only.’

Eleanor stared at him. Her face, so flushed a moment previously, was now drained of colour. Her heart fluttered and she felt a little faint.

‘But I…You…We cannot…’

‘No?’ Kit had come closer to her, unsettlingly close. ‘It would not be the first time.’

‘No,’ Eleanor snapped, moving away abruptly in order to conceal her nervousness, ‘only the third! It is out of the question, my lord! You may disabuse yourself that there is any likelihood of our marriage becoming a true one! I married you for your name and your protection, and just because I made a bad bargain I need not pay any more for it!’

Kit nodded thoughtfully. Eleanor was disconcerted to see that he did not look remotely convinced.

‘It is a point of view, certainly. But not one that I can share. Maybe it is old-fashioned in me to wish for a true marriage—and a family. However, that is how I feel.’

A family! Eleanor shivered convulsively. She walked across the room to her pretty little dressing-table, simply to put some distance between them. Kit’s proximity was too disturbing and his words even more so. She started to fiddle with some of the pots on the tabletop and kept her face averted.

‘I believe we are at an impasse, my lord,’ she said. ‘I cannot agree with you.’

Kit smiled a little mockingly. ‘I dare say it will take you a little time to grow used to the idea, Eleanor. And since I have no wish to force my attentions on an unwilling woman, you are quite safe—for the time being.’

Eleanor doubted it—not the truth of his words but the strength of her own determination. Already he had come dangerously close to undermining her resolve, or rather, she had been in danger from herself. It seemed that she could dislike Kit intensely—hate him for the way he had behaved to her, she told herself fiercely—and yet feel a confusing mixture of emotions that owed nothing to hatred. She shivered.

Kit raised her hand to his lips and she snatched it away, but not before his touch had sent a curious shiver along her nerve endings. Eleanor flushed with annoyance. She did not intend to give him the impression that he still had any power over her feelings.

‘I will send your maid to you, my dear,’ he said, and sauntered out of the room leaving Eleanor to let her breath out on a long sigh.

She heard his voice in the corridor, speaking to Carrick, then his footsteps died away and she was alone.

Two minutes later she was sitting on the end of the bed, staring into space, when the door opened and Lucy, her maid from Trevithick House, came in with an ewer of water. Eleanor thought that the girl looked excited. Goodness only knew the stories that were circulating in the servants’ quarters.

‘Oh milady! Is this not grand! The master returned and the two of you together again…’

Eleanor sighed. So that was the story—some highly coloured romance, no doubt encouraged by Kit to give the impression of a happy reunion! She knew that she should be grateful, appearance mattering above all, but it felt hollow and a sham.

Lucy was still chattering as she emptied the water into the bowl for Eleanor to wash her face.

‘They say that his lordship has been abroad for a space, ma’am…’

Eleanor nodded listlessly, not troubling to reply. What could she add? He was on the Continent with his opera singers. She started to unfasten her spencer.

‘In Ireland, ma’am…’

Eleanor frowned, her fingers stilling on the buttons.

‘On government business, I understand…’ Lucy nodded importantly. ‘Bromidge the first footman said that his lordship has done such work before, in France, for the War, ma’am…’

‘Nonsense!’ Eleanor said sharply, slipping the damp spencer from her shoulders and sighing with relief. She started to unpin her hair and Lucy came to help her. ‘I am sure that Lord Mostyn has been doing no such thing, and if he had it would be a secret…’

In the mirror her eyes met those of the maid. Lucy’s eyes were as round as saucers. She gave a little conspiratorial nod.

‘Oh no, of course he hasn’t been abroad or…or doing any such thing, ma’am!’

Eleanor sighed again. So now they were both involved in some imaginary conspiracy of silence to do with Kit’s absence. This was getting foolish. She really must tell him not to spin such tales to the servants.

To distract Lucy’s attention, she pointed to a door at the opposite end of the bedroom. ‘This is really a very pleasant house, but what is through that door, Lucy?’

‘That’s his lordship’s dressing-room, ma’am,’ the maid said, picking up the hairbrush again. ‘His suite of rooms is next door, and then the guest suite. It’s ever so pretty, ma’am, furnished in blue and gold…’

Eleanor was not listening. She had hurried across to the connecting door, only just managing to stop herself opening it through a sudden, belated realisation that she was now in her shift and Kit might well be on the other side.

‘His lordship’s dressing-room! But I had no idea he was so close…’

The maid smiled. Indeed it looked to Eleanor as though she almost winked, but thought better of it at the last moment.

‘Oh yes, ma’am! This is a most convenient house, if you take my meaning! Well-situated rooms—’ She broke off as she caught Eleanor’s quelling look. ‘Yes, ma’am, and may I fetch you anything else?’

‘Just a carpenter to fix a large bolt upon the door!’ Eleanor said brightly, happy to see that she had wiped the complacent smile from the girl’s face at last. ‘And if you cannot find one, Lucy, bring me a hammer and nails! I will do the job myself!’

‘Truly, Kit, what do you expect? A hero’s welcome?’

It was seldom that Lord Mostyn had to face the combined disapprobation of both his sister and his cousin, who were the only people on the face of the earth who could make him feel as though he were back in the nursery. He now reflected wryly that he had rather face Marshal Soult in the Peninsula again than take on the combined forces of his relatives. Not that anyone knew he had been in the Peninsula. That had been when he was supposed to be working for the East India Company, and before that…Kit sighed, and sat back, accepting the cup of tea that Charlotte passed him. She gave him a severe frown at the same time. Kit offered her a weak smile in return.

‘You look radiant now that you are a married woman again, sis—’

‘Gammon!’

‘And Beth…’ Kit manfully braved the glare that his cousin was directing his way ‘…increasing already! You are to be congratulated…’

‘Pray spare us, Kit!’ Beth said shortly. ‘You cannot be glad to see either of us married into the Trevithick family, but since you were not here to advise us you must just accept the consequences!’

Kit raised his brows. ‘Would you have accepted my advice, Beth?’

‘Certainly not! Especially with the example that you have set us!’

It showed all the signs of degenerating into a nursery tea party. Kit sipped his tea and wished he were at his club. He had hoped that his sister and cousin would be pleased to see him, fall on his neck with tears of joy, and provide the welcome that Eleanor had so singularly failed to do. He shifted uncomfortably. He was already grimly aware that he had no right to expect a warm reception from his wife and the fact that her coldness had hurt him was just too bad. He would learn to live with it.

To be fair to Charlotte and Beth, they had greeted him very warmly when he had first arrived at Charlotte’s town house that morning. Now, however, they were over their initial relief and pleasure and were full of questions—and recriminations.

‘How could you do that to poor Eleanor!’ Charlotte was saying, strongly for her. ‘To marry her and leave her all in the one day! To marry her in the first place so precipitately…’

‘To seduce her in the first place!’ Beth put in, eyes flashing. ‘Yes, Kit, I know that Eleanor ran away to you, but you could have exercised some restraint…’

Kit gave her a speaking look. Beth looked at him, looked down at her own swelling figure and after a moment, burst into a peal of laughter.

‘Oh, very well, I know I cannot upbraid you when my own behaviour has not been above reproach, but what an odious wretch you are to remind me, Kit! And I shall have you know that I am most respectably married now, and even if the tabbies count the months they can go hang—’

‘Beth!’ Charlotte said warningly. ‘You become ever more unbridled in your speech!’ She passed her brother a biscuit. ‘As for you, Kit, you know you have no defence. Your treatment of Eleanor has been truly dreadful!’

Kit sighed. He dipped the biscuit into his tea—it immediately broke off and sank to the bottom of the cup. It seemed all too apt.

‘I never intended to treat Eleanor so shabbily but matters fell out that way. I am not at liberty to explain…’

He shifted uncomfortably. They were watching him with scepticism and it made Kit feel both guilty and annoyed. He did not like the sensation of feeling in the wrong—and he felt it most strongly.

‘It was a difficulty relating to business that kept me away so long…’

‘Oh, please…’ Beth murmured, putting her teacup down with a disgusted clink of china.

‘I am sorry that I cannot be more precise…’

He thought he heard Beth say something that sounded like: ‘Pshaw!’

‘It is not important for you to explain to us, Kit,’ Charlotte said gently. ‘Eleanor is the one who requires an explanation—and an apology. I feel sure that you are able to take her into your confidence.’

Kit shrugged, hiding his frustration beneath a nonchalance he was far from feeling. ‘I have tried to offer Eleanor an explanation, sis! She would not let me speak. She has decreed a marriage of convenience and she says that she has been enjoying herself hugely as a married woman without the constraints of a husband!’

Kit cleared his throat and looked away from his sister’s penetrating eye. He had no wish to allude any more precisely to his wife’s disgrace and he hoped that he had not given away too much already. But perhaps Charlotte and Beth already knew all about Eleanor’s behaviour. It seemed that the whole of the Ton knew.

Charlotte and Beth exchanged glances over the teacups.

‘Oh dear,’ Beth said. ‘Eleanor has taken this every whit as badly as I would have expected.’

‘She is very young and has all the Trevithick pride,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘Besides, she has suffered a great deal. It is no wonder she is so adamant.’

Kit looked at them, mystified. They appeared to him to be speaking in riddles.

‘It seems quite simple to me. Eleanor is not interested in explanations…’

‘Nonsense!’ Beth said robustly. ‘She is hiding her hurt behind that confounded pride, Kit! I’ll wager she is positively expiring to know! If Marcus disappeared for five months without a word, the first thing that I would wish to know is where he had been—’

‘And the second would be who he had been with!’ Charlotte finished, nodding. ‘That would be after he had apologised, of course! Kit, I hope that the very first thing that you said to Eleanor was how sorry you were and how much you had missed her…’

Kit could feel the guilty expression spreading across his face. ‘Well…There was the matter of Paulet to deal with first…’

Charlotte sighed heavily. ‘Oh Kit—no! Tell me you did not blame Eleanor for her situation!’

Kit made a hopeless gesture. ‘I tried to explain matters to her later when my temper had cooled, but—’

‘Too late!’ Beth said, in a disgusted tone. ‘How like a man!’

There was a heavy silence.

‘There have been rumours about you, you know, Kit,’ Charlotte ventured. ‘It has been most distressing for Eleanor.’

Kit looked up, his attention arrested. ‘Rumours of what?’

‘Rumours of actresses—or was it opera singers?’ Charlotte looked vague. ‘You know how these tales spring up! People were forever claiming to have sighted you abroad and Eleanor has heard every one of the stories! The gossips made sure of that!’

Kit scowled. This was getting worse and worse. His guilt settled into a lump in his stomach. So Eleanor had heard rumours about him and he had heard scandal about her…And if he was unsure whether shehad been unfaithful, she must believe the same of him…What a confounded mess they had got themselves into!

‘Those stories are not true!’ he said coldly. ‘And I have heard plenty of stories about Eleanor, if it comes to that! Muse to Sir Charles Paulet, mistress to Lord George Darke—’

‘Poppycock! Club scandal!’ Beth’s silver eyes flashed. ‘Eleanor is as virtuous as on the day you married her!’

Kit frowned at her. ‘Beth, I admire you for defending Eleanor, but…’ he shifted his shoulders uncomfortably ‘…she practically admitted to me that she had encouraged the attentions of other men! Oh, not in so many words…’ he had heard Beth’s exasperated sigh ‘…but why else would she refuse to discuss what had happened during the last few months? She is afraid to tell me the whole truth!’

He thought that his cousin looked as though she would explode and he almost backed away. Beth could be awesome when her anger was roused.

‘Kit,’ Beth said, with reasonable restraint, ‘you are speaking nonsense!’ She took a deep breath. ‘We were not going to tell you this since we both agreed that it was Eleanor’s place to speak to you, but…’ she broke off at Charlotte’s murmured objection ‘…no, Lottie, I cannot keep quiet! For some extraordinary reason Kit thinks himself the injured party, when poor Eleanor is only nineteen and has been reviled and laughed at and ruined through the careless way in which he abandoned her—’ She ran out of breath and started again. ‘And now Kit adds his own voice to the chorus of disapproval! Oh, it makes me so cross!’

‘Yes,’ Charlotte said, in her customary, more measured tones. ‘Beth is correct, you know, Kit!’

Kit held a hand up in surrender. ‘Perhaps I have misjudged the situation…’

Beth glared at him. ‘You have, Kit! Indeed you have!’

‘I am sorry.’

There was a startled silence.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Beth said faintly.

Kit gave her a glimmer of a smile. ‘I know you think I can never apologise…’

‘No, I know it…’

‘Whatever the case…’ Kit grimaced. ‘I had no notion of any of this.’ He looked away. ‘I do not understand. How could Eleanor have been reviled when I was the one who deserted her?’

Beth raised her eyes to heaven.

Charlotte tutted. ‘For all your supposed experience of the world, Kit, I sometimes think you the veriest babe in arms! Do you not know that it is always the woman’s reputation that suffers? If you left her there must have been a reason—so goes the reckoning. In this case the favourite explanation is that you found her not to be virtuous…Which is where the rumours started!’

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