Chapter Eleven #3
It was so easy with Benedict. She had never conversed easily with strangers, and when suitors had sought her company, she’d tripped over her own tongue more often than not.
As her suitors had dwindled, her ability to converse had grown, and now sometimes she could speak easily with people she did not know.
It was how she had become friends with Victoria, and she had thought she could also employ such with the Earl of Malvern.
It appeared, though, she had been incorrect with that assumption.
She stared at the doors leading to the garden. Perhaps she should try again. Perhaps she should follow him and, in darkness, perhaps she would know what to say, would know how to charm him. Perhaps she might even persuade him to kiss her.
Everything in her recoiled at the thought.
Setting her jaw, she started after the earl.
She had set this course, she would damn well follow it.
She had determined the earl would be her lover and she would see it through to the end.
That it might now not be what she truly wanted…
Well, she would rather know than regret for all time the opportunity missed.
Muttering under her breath, Eleanor turned from yet another dead end. She’d seen Lord Malvern enter this maze and so had followed, only to lose sight of him immediately.
A branch scraped the exposed skin of her upper arm, leaving behind a red mark. She disliked hedge mazes intensely. She had never been able to solve them, and Benedict was forever teasing her about her lack. He, of course, solved them with ease, always seeming to find the key in mere moments.
Torches lined the way, their hosts assuming guests would want to wander the puzzle, though so far Eleanor had encountered no one.
Even the earl eluded her. Perhaps he had the same knack as Benedict and had solved the maze in mere moments, and he was even now at its centre.
Or perhaps he was like her, hopelessly lost, and perhaps it was something they could bond over, perhaps laugh over, and maybe that would be the key to his attention.
A faint noise carried on the breeze, so muffled she could not tell what it was. Grimly, she continued on. Either she would conquer this maze or she would perish within its walls, lost for all time.
She turned a corner and there it was. The centre. Before she could be grateful to no longer be hopelessly lost, though, she realised it was occupied. Shock held her immobile and she could only stare wide-eyed at the scene before her.
A woman sat on the ledge of a stone grotto set into the maze, her head thrown back and her fingers threading the dark hair of the man knelt before her.
His broad shoulders pushed her legs wide, one hand splayed over her chest and his head between her thighs.
She could not see either of their faces clearly, but whispered sighs and stifled moans drifted toward her.
Eleanor knew she should look away, should turn and be covered in blushes, and fairly run from such an intimate scene, but instead she could do nothing but stare.
That is what Benedict had done to her in the carriage only hours ago.
Is that how he had looked? Is that how she had looked?
She swallowed a gasp as remembered pleasure streaked through her.
The woman arched, her body shuddering. The man between her legs wiped his mouth and rose up her body, pressing a kiss to her gown-covered stomach, her chest, beneath her jaw, and then he took her mouth in a passionate kiss.
He reached between them and then both of them groaned as he pushed his hips into hers.
Hooking her legs under his elbows, he started to thrust.
With the change, Eleanor could now see their faces. The woman was the sister of Lady Burfield, the widowed Viscountess Rocksley, and the man…the man was the Earl of Malvern. She had never imagined the viscountess and the earl knew each other, let alone well enough to be doing…what they were doing.
Gazes locked, the earl and the viscountess were completely focussed on each other.
The earl’s thrusts increased, the sighs and moans and grunts becoming louder.
The viscountess gasped, and then she convulsed.
The earl’s movements fell out of rhythm, becoming rough and wild, short, hard thrusts that jolted the viscountess before he groaned harshly, shuddering in her embrace.
Lady Rocksley and the earl recovered, holding each other tightly. Eleanor told herself to turn, to leave before they discovered her, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so.
Smoothing the earl’s hair from his forehead, the viscountess smiled, her expression full of love and care.
Lord Malvern touched his forehead to hers, and though his expression was more restrained, it held no less emotion.
Breaking apart, the viscountess adjusted her dress while the earl fastened himself up.
Taking a step closer to her lover, Lady Rocksley rubbed her arms.
Lord Malvern frowned. “You are cold.”
Eleanor started. She had not expected to hear his cool voice so clearly.
“A little,” the viscountess replied, her soft voice just as clear.
He started to remove his coat.
“Don’t be silly, James. If you do that, then you will be cold. I have a better idea.” Stepping forward, she unbuttoned his coat and then plastered herself against him, her arms clearly wrapping around his back under his coat. “There. Now we both will be warm.”
Tightening his embrace, Lord Malvern gazed down at her and the look on his face…There was care and awe and disbelief and…love. “We should return.”
“In a minute.” Lady Rocksley laid her cheek on his shoulder. “Do you think we should announce our betrothal tonight?”
Shock battered Eleanor, dropping her jaw. The Earl of Malvern, the notorious, debauched rake, was to marry the viscountess?
Again the earl frowned. “Your father is not here.”
“No, but that should not delay us. I am a widow. I do not require my father’s permission. Do you not wish to marry?” Her tone was light, but the faintest crease of worry touched her brow.
“Do not look so, Elizabeth,” Lord Malvern said intensely. “I wish to marry you. I want to be married to you. I want to be your husband. I want to walk into a room and have all know I am yours. Do not ever doubt that.”
Lady Rocksley cupped his cheek. “I love you.”
Turning his head, he kissed her palm.
Quietly, Eleanor retreated the way she had come. Even more than witnessing their coupling, watching such an intimate moment felt an intrusion. Leaving the earl and his love behind, she made her way along the now brightly lit path.
In truth, she still could not quite reconcile what she had seen.
The Earl of Malvern was infamous for his debauchery, for his lack of care of society and his shunning of its workings.
Just this evening she’d had experience of such, his tone with her borderline dismissive and rude.
With Lady Rocksley, though… It was clear he cared for her deeply, such that his finely moulded lips had displayed the ghost of a smile and his eyes…
those icy eyes had almost been warm. If it were true he and Lady Rocksley were affianced—and there was no reason to believe they prevaricated whilst alone—and if it came to pass they actually wed, it would explain why the earl had of late frequented society events.
Lady Rocksley was a respectable member of the Ton, one sister a Viscountess and her others married to gentlemen. He did it for her.
That he loved her enough to go against the nature of a lifetime… What would it be like to be the focus of that, for a man to love you so profoundly? Eleanor wiped at her cheek. She didn’t know she would ever experience such love.
Shaking the thought off, she instead considered what her discovery meant for her plans.
Clearly the earl was no longer an option, of which she had to admit she was glad.
She no longer wished the earl as her lover and if she wished to continue on this path, she would have need to choose another. So, if not the earl, then who?
The memory of Benedict, his hand tangled in her hair, his mouth wet form her lips, flashed before her.
Benedict. Of course it should be Benedict.
She wanted to slap herself for her stupidity.
Of course she wanted Benedict. She had never felt for the earl what she did for him.
Never had she craved the earl’s touch as she did Benedict’s, never had her breath been stolen by icy eyes when eyes of merry blue did every time.
She’d never wished she could trace his jaw, feel the catch of his roughened skin against her fingertips, or feather her touch over the softness of his lips.
She had never wanted his mouth on hers, his hands touching her, had never wanted him to bring her pleasure.
She wanted all that and more with Benedict.
Picking up her step, she rushed through the maze. She had to find Benedict. She had to find him and tell him and…what would she tell him. How would he react?
Would he want her as she did him?
Her step stuttered. What if he did not? What if had had only done this as her friend only? What if he did not wish for more?
She steadied herself. She would not know if she did not ask. She had to courage to tell him of her plan, to accept his offer of lessons. She would have courage for this, too.
In the ballroom, Benedict again stood with Lady C, his gaggle having dispersed.
Her breath seized in her chest. He stood so tall and straight, so handsome he made her hurt.
Victoria had been right. Benedict was the obvious option.
The only option. She should never have entertained the thought of Lord Malvern or anyone else.
A smile burst on her face, so bright it ached, as she pushed her way toward him. Toward her lover.