Chapter 6 #2
He turned her set face to him, studying it with concern.
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said at last. His thumb came up to tease at the corner of her mouth, softening her expression even as the bitterness ached within her.
“Do you realize, Eleanor, that this is only our third day of marriage? I feel so comfortable with you I sometimes forget. But when I think of what you have endured, I wonder you don’t throw fits by the hour. Do as you wish with regard to Kit.”
With a start, she realized he was manipulating her again. He probably did it all the time, but at least there was no need for her to succumb to such a blatant attempt.
Eleanor removed herself from his arms. “I would prefer,” she said firmly, “to see as little of your brother as possible. Not only was he responsible for my ruin, he practiced a gross deception, and one against you as well. I find his total lack of contrition, of even awareness, unacceptable.”
She faced Nicholas, prepared for further intercession.
“It is your right to feel that way,” he said evenly. “I say again, you must do as you wish.”
In the face of such acceptance she weakened. “I will try to brush along with him when we have to meet, Nicholas. I will try.” With that she escaped to dress for dinner before she melted entirely.
How was she to behave with such a man, who could bend her so easily into bedazzled delight and then go off to dally with another? It was impossible. She could only do her best and hope in the end he chose wife over mistress.
Later, in Madame Augustine’s other dress—a deep blue lace over a pale lilac slip—she considered the box of jewelry she had been given.
Because the dress was rather fine for a bachelor party, she chose only simple accessories.
Jenny clasped a silver collar with an ivory cameo set in the front around her neck, and a plain silver bangle around her wrist. Surveying herself in the mirror, Eleanor knew she had never looked finer, but she still felt overdressed, and said so to Nicholas when he came into her dressing room.
“Not a bit of it,” he replied. “You will need all your dignity to keep such an unruly mob in line. And anyway, I want them to see you at your best and envy me my good fortune.”
It was the laughter in his eyes that robbed this absurd flattery of offense. While discounting it, it still raised Eleanor’s spirits and he continued such lighthearted flirtation as they descended the stairs.
As a consequence Eleanor felt lively and confident as they greeted their guests, six handsome and fashionable young men ranging in rank from Miles Cavanagh, a simple Irish gentleman, to Lucien de Vaux, Marquess of Arden.
Despite the presence of high nobility, the atmosphere was more reminiscent of the young men’s Harrow days.
The six young bucks certainly appeared to admire her and vied with each other in showering her with compliments until she felt quite overwhelmed.
She looked around and saw Nicholas watching her with a proud smile that swelled her heart.
She held out her hand to him in appeal, and he came to claim it with a kiss.
“What have these rogues been saying that you must summon a mere husband to your side?”
“Oh,” she said with a blush, “nothing…”
“Indeed.” He looked round at his friends severely. “I felt sure you could do better than that. Eleanor, I see you were appealing to me to rescue you from boredom.”
The men all laughed and would have set out to prove his words wrong, but he led the talk into other channels and Eleanor could be comfortable again.
She saw how he was accepted as leader, even though none of these men was a nonentity.
The marquess, for example, though pleasant, was coated with the arrogance one would expect of the handsome heir to a dukedom.
She had already heard of Sir Stephen Ball, who was making a reputation for himself in Parliament. What had brought these men together?
When dinner was announced, Nicholas led her to the dining room and seated her at the head of the table.
He took the seat at the other end and she rather wished he were closer.
On her right hand, however, she had Lord Middlethorpe, who had the soulful beauty of a poet and exquisite manners.
She could not be afraid of him. On her left, she had no less a person than the glittering marquess.
She should be awed, she supposed. A few weeks ago she would have laughed to think she would sit beside the heir to a dukedom, but he was so roguishly charming that she could only enjoy the occasion.
“It seems damned unfair,” he said with a distinctly warm look from his clear blue eyes, “that I only meet perfect women when they’re already married.”
Eleanor was not immune to this, and when he took her hand she didn’t object.
“Luce,” said Nicholas lazily. “Hands to yourself. Your definition of a perfect woman is one who’s already married.”
The marquess obeyed the instruction, but only after placing a soft, lingering kiss on Eleanor’s knuckles. “He doesn’t appreciate you,” he said with a naughty twinkle. “Elope with me.”
Eleanor flicked a glance at her husband, who appeared merely amused. “To elope twice in one month,” she said dryly, “would be a trifle excessive, my lord.”
The marquess laughed and conversation became general.
No pretense at this party of talking only to your neighbors.
Eleanor, taking a lead from her husband, played a passive role, entering the conversation only when necessary and constantly alert for any way in which their guests’ comfort could be assured.
Lord Middlethorpe watched her and his friend in fascination.
This woman was not the one described by his mother.
She was handsome, with natural grace and charm.
In the occasional glances shared by the couple he saw warm feeling and understanding.
There was a harmony there. He found he wanted to learn more about Eleanor.
For her part, Eleanor was drawn to the dark young man with the gentle eyes and was soon talking easily with him.
He was not as exciting as the marquess, but neither was he as challenging.
She also felt a little protective of him, for among this group of strong, healthy bucks he appeared fine-drawn, almost delicate.
“Have you known my husband long, Lord Middlethorpe?”
“Since we were at school. We all formed a defensive pact at Harrow.”
“Defense from what, if you please?”
He smiled as he remembered. “Remember Psalm 91? ‘From the terror by night, the pestilence that walketh in darkness and the destruction that waiteth at noonday.’ In other words, bullies and cruel masters. You can have no idea of the potential for horror in a boy’s school.”
“No indeed,” she said, thinking the young Lord Middlethorpe must have been especially vulnerable to such horrors. “Was it very bad?”
To her surprise he shook his head. “No. I’m painting too bleak a picture.
There were good times, some of the best. But both boys and masters can be cruel.
While we were at Harrow there was a riot, lead by the famous Lord Byron, as it happens, to protest injustices.
Nicholas had already taken less flamboyant action to defend himself and others.
He gathered together a group and we resolved to avenge tyranny against any of the members.
We called ourselves the Company of Rogues. ”
“How many were you?”
“Twelve. Three are away in the armed forces. Two have died for their country.” He sobered. “We cannot defend each other from every peril, you see.”
He felt it dearly, and she placed her hand over his instinctively, then hastily withdrew from such intimacy.
“But you succeeded in school?” she asked quickly.
“Very well. We didn’t object to just punishments, you see, only to bullies. They soon learned to seek out easier prey.”
“It sounds unbelievable. Like a jungle.”
He smiled and considered her words. “I suppose it was, in a way. Perhaps that’s why our schools produce excellent soldiers and diplomats. They can practice on a miniature world before they set to work on the real one. You should have heard Stephen lecturing on the state of the food.”
Sir Stephen threatened to rise then and there and orate, but was physically restrained by his neighbors.
Mr. Cavanagh broke in. “Were you ever at school, Mrs. Delaney? How does a girls’ school compare with a boys’?”
Eleanor laughed. “I was at school, yes. But I doubt whether Miss Fitcham’s Academy for the Daughters of Gentlemen ever had much in common with the place Lord Middlethorpe just described.”
“Do you say so?” said the Irishman thoughtfully. “And I had always suspected that little girls were just as nasty as little boys.”
Eleanor admitted the truth of this but added, “Older girls are not generally cruel to the younger except in thoughtlessness, and the mistresses at Miss Fitcham’s were a sorry lot. Hardly to be feared at all.”
“Well then,” said Lord Middlethorpe, “there must be some profound significance there as to why little girls grow up into sweet gentle wives and mothers whereas little boys grow up into the likes of us.”
There was general laughter, but Nicholas joined in the conversation at that point to say, “Francis, if you still believe such rubbish as that, I had better introduce you to the majority of my female acquaintances—who are certainly not sweet and gentle. And though some of them are wives and mothers, it is generally a fate they do their damnedest to avoid!” He turned hilarious eyes on Eleanor.
“My dear, I think you should throw me out for a speech like that!”
“On any number of counts,” she agreed cordially, “but I will forgive you if you will admit that none of these ladies was likely to have passed through the hands of Miss Fitcham.”
At this there was a roar of laughter, and Nicholas raised his glass to her in acknowledgement.