Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Adrian had known, even as he baited her the night before, exactly how she would respond.
Eleanor had never been one to tolerate being doubted.
She would sooner fling herself headlong into folly than allow anyone—least of all him—to suggest she lacked courage.
It had been ungentlemanly to use that knowledge.
Worse, it had been deliberate. And yet he could not pretend to regret it when it had achieved precisely the result he’d wished: it had forced her to grant him an opening.
He had spent the better part of the morning pacing his rooms like some knee knocking, nervous boy rather than a man who had long since outgrown such nonsense.
It would have amused her, no doubt, to see him so unsettled.
Eleanor had always possessed the steadier temperament of the two of them.
He had charm. She had sense. And for years he had relied upon that arrangement as though it were set in stone—immovable and eternal—never questioning whether it was fair, never considering that the distance he’d maintained might have wounded her pride in some way.
Was it only her pride? He dared not hope it might be more than that.
When she entered the morning room, she did so without flourish, dressed simply in a pale gown trimmed with brightly embroidered ribbons that was far less somber than what he typically saw her in.
Her gloves were already on, her reticule in hand, as if she meant to make it plain she had come prepared for this outing and would endure it with composure, whatever he might attempt.
There was no sign that she had slept poorly.
No hint that she had spent the evening rehashing their quarrel beneath the terrace lamps.
She looked as she always did—calm, competent, and very much out of his reach.
“Good morning,” she said evenly. “You are punctual, at least.”
“Given too much time, I was afraid you might reconsider,” he replied.
Her brow arched. “I do not reconsider. As you well know, when I am set on a thing, I will see it through to the bitter end.”
“That is precisely what I fear,” he responded. She’d given Marklynne consent to court her. For Eleanor, that was tantamount to an announcement of engagement because she wasn’t one to waste her time. “Your stubbornness is unmatched.”
The faintest curve tugged at her mouth—though he knew it was against her will—and that steadied him in a way nothing else could.
If he could make her laugh, if he could remind her that there was really affection between them, then perhaps he had a chance.
It was heartening to see her—the Eleanor he knew. Not distant. Not brittle. Simply wary.
“You may take me for a drive,” she said. “But if you intend to gloat about last night, I shall insist you turn us about and bring me home at once.”
“I would never gloat,” he said solemnly. “I am not nearly foolish enough to provoke you twice in as many days.”
She made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “That has not stopped you before.”
“No,” he conceded. “It has not. But the stakes are infinitely higher now, aren’t they?”
She appeared uncomfortable then, somehow put on guard by his question. “Shall we go?”
They descended the steps together, and the phaeton waited at the curb—high-wheeled and open to the air, driven by Adrian himself.
It had ben a calculated decision on his part, a way to be alone with her that would permit privacy without sacrificing propriety.
He assisted her up first, his hands firm at her waist as he lifted her to the narrow bench.
For a moment, as he steadied her, she was closer than propriety strictly required.
Then he stepped back, going to the other side and climbing up beside her.
Then he gathered the reins with practiced ease.
There was no barrier between them. No opposite seat. Only the narrow space of the bench and the shared exposure of open air. The breeze caught at the ribbons of her bonnet, and sunlight fell across her profile as they set off down the street.
“You look very solemn and stern,” she remarked as they joined the flow of carriages in the park. “As though you were about to deliver a lecture on how I might improve my comportment.”
He huffed a faint breath that might have been a laugh. “I have no intention of improving you. That would require presuming you need it.”
“You are utterly confounding,” she said, her face a mask of confusion.
He sighed. “I’ve teased you mercilessly in the past… for which I am heartily sorry. I never thought you’d take it to heart. You must know that I find you to be beyond charming. Your ability to navigate even the stickiest of social situations has always been admirable.”
“Until I fainted dead away in the middle of a ballroom the other night,” she reminded him ruefully.
“Why did you faint, Eleanor? You frightened both your brother and I half to death,” he informed her. It would do no good to tell her that his heart leapt into his throat at the mere thought of it.
“It was the heat. The Eagons prefer to keep the windows closed up even with a crowd gathered and the heat of the ballroom was just overwhelming… It was simply foolishness, really. I was already feeling unwell and then Lord Foxton wandered past—and his cologne,” she shuddered.
“Ah,” he said. “I see. Felled by an overly perfumed and yet unwashed peacock.”
“Precisely,” she admitted. “Now, if we have explored my shame and humiliation enough, might we change the subject? Such as why you suddenly feel compelled to act as though you have any interest in courting me?”
“I am not acting. I am quite sincere in my interest. Have you never wondered why I had not married, Eleanor?” He asked her softly.
She stiffened. “I supposed you simply had no desire to embark upon a matrimonial course. Please do not insult my intelligence by disclosing some unrequited passion for me.”
“Then I shall not tell you that. I will only say that every woman I have ever considered courting has been compared to you and found wanting. Too silly. Too serious. Too much of a bluestocking. Not intelligent enough. Too hysterical. Too emotionless… In short, you represented, and still do, an ideal of what I think women should be. And I did not court you because I hadn’t the prospects to take a wife and your brother would have refused my offer for you… with more than adequate reason.”
“And you no longer fear his rejection of your suit?”
“His reasons for rejecting that suit are no longer valid… I find myself now in possession of a great fortune. Somewhat unexpectedly and not entirely welcomed, but perhaps there is some benefit to it. As it now places me in a position to take you for a drive in Hyde Park and pay court to you as you deserve.”
“And did you ever once consider my feelings in any of these sweeping decisions you made about our respective futures?”
He glanced at her, catching the edge in her tone. It was not true anger—not yet—but it carried a warning. She was allowing him this trial, but she would not allow him to toy with her pride. “I am trying,” he said, “to avoid making a greater fool of myself than usual. It seems I am failing.”
“That would require significant restraint.”
“I shall attempt heroism, then,” he replied. “I own that I was high handed and perhaps a bit set in my ways. But it’s cost us something we cannot get back… time. And I dislike the notion of wasting more.”
She said nothing to that, but he heard her quickly indrawn breath. Saw the tension in her. And he knew, whatever she might say, that his words had left a mark upon her. They had penetrated the shell of armor she had wrapped about herself. So he stopped then, leaving it alone, letting her ruminate.
The park was already animated with the rituals of the Season—carriages gliding past in polished procession, riders parading their mounts, ambitious mothers watching from beneath parasols as though every turn of a wheel might alter the future of their daughters.
Adrian guided the horses away from the thickest of it, turning instead down a quieter lane where the trees arched overhead and the noise receded.
The filtered light gave the place an almost dream like quality, as though it belonged to a different world altogether.
Eleanor noticed the change at once. “You are avoiding the promenade.”
“I have had my fill of spectators,” he said. “Have you not?”
She did not answer immediately. “I have grown accustomed to them.”
“That does not mean you enjoy them,” he countered.
With one eyebrow lifted in challenge, she asked, “And since when have you made it your business to determine what I enjoy?”
He held the reins a little tighter than strictly necessary. “Since you accused me of not noticing you at all. You are quite incorrect on that score… I have noticed. I have noticed every single day and made myself pretend blindness to it--to you.”
That silenced her, and he felt a strange mixture of guilt and grim satisfaction at having finally forced the truth into the open.
They had spoken around this for too long.
He had hidden behind familiarity and let her do the work of maintaining ease between them while he took what he wanted—her steadiness, her wit, her company—without ever offering her anything that might have required courage.
He slowed the phaeton near a stand of trees and drew the horses to a stop, setting the brake. “Walk with me,” he said, and before she could object, he was down, offering his hand.
She regarded him as though she might refuse on principle alone. But then she placed her gloved fingers in his palm and allowed him to help her down. Once on the ground, she withdrew her hand quickly, as if she did not wish him to think the small contact meant more than it did.
They began walking along the narrow path, their pace unhurried. For several moments neither spoke. They had walked together a hundred times before, in gardens and parks and long corridors, in easy companionship. Yet now the silence between them was weighted, full of things unsaid.
“You have been very quiet since yesterday,” she said at last. “I should have thought you would relish having won your ridiculous challenge.”
“I do not relish it,” he replied.
“No?” Her tone suggested she did not quite believe him.
“No,” he repeated, more firmly. “I have been thinking about what you said.”
“I say a great many things.”
“You accused me of treating you with disregard,” he said.
She slowed, her gaze fixed ahead. He could see the set of her shoulders, the way she held herself a fraction more rigidly.
“And you think you have not?” she asked, though her voice had softened despite herself.
“I see you as not as a furnishings or ornamentation or merely something in the background. I see you, Eleanor,” he answered.
“Even when it has sometimes been painful to do so. What you interpreted as disregard was my attempt to hide my true feelings…because pressing them was infinitely more dangerous.”
Her lips parted as though she meant to retort, but before she could, her foot slipped slightly on the uneven ground where the earth dipped beneath the shade.
It was no dramatic stumble—merely a misstep—but Adrian reacted without thought.
His arm came around her waist, drawing her firmly against him before she could pitch forward.
Her hand caught at his coat, bracing herself against him.
For a suspended instant they remained thus, too close and too still, as though the world had narrowed to the space between their breaths.
Other than the odd dance here and there, it was the closest he had ever been to her physically.
And his reaction to that was rather shocking in its intensity.
“I am a graceless ninny,” she said with embarrassment. And while she laughed a bit at herself, she did not move away, allowing the closeness to linger.
He became acutely aware of the warmth of her through the fabric of her gown, of the rapid cadence of her breathing. He could have stepped back. He ought to have stepped back. Instead, he found himself reluctant to relinquish her.
“Have you ever been kissed?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes widened. “You are insufferable.”
“Answer me.”
“That is none of your concern.”
He studied her face, saw the flush deepen, saw the way her gaze flickered briefly away. Understanding dawned, and with it something unexpectedly gentle rose within him.
“You deserved better than my poorly crafted illusion of indifference,” he said softly.
He did not rush her. He did not seize the moment as he might once have done with some careless flirtation. He bent his head slowly, giving her every opportunity to turn away.
She did not.
His lips touched hers gently.
There was no practiced charm in it, no flourish meant to impress. Only warmth, and the triumphant smile of a man who, finally, after far too long, had taken action.
For a heartbeat she remained still, startled. Then her fingers tightened faintly in his coat, and she exhaled against him. That breath undid him.
He deepened the kiss only slightly, careful, reverent, aware that this was not conquest but confession. When he drew back, it was because he must, because if he lingered another second he might forget the world entirely.
Her eyes were wide and luminous, her surprise and something that might have been hope visible in their depths. “This changes nothing,” she said, though her voice trembled.
He could not help the faint curve of his mouth. “You have never been able to lie to me… It has changed everything. For both of us.”