Chapter 2
Two days later, Eleanor ventured into the village to retrieve ribbons for Charlotte, who was hard at work detailing several gowns before the solstice festival. She smoothed her borrowed red-wine-colored skirts. It was a bit tight at the bust but hadn’t needed alterations.
Even so, she felt uncomfortable. Although they were ugly, she missed her widow’s weeds. Missed them like a knight might miss his armor.
She entered the general merchandise store. A tinkling bell that she had triggered brought several sets of eyes swinging in her direction. Her face heated, waiting for the disdainful looks and whispering that had accompanied her appearance in London.
Most dropped their gazes after an offered nod or smile of welcome. One woman was bolder. She approached, albeit with the skittishness of a horse. As she drew closer, she offered a smile. “Might I hazard a guess that you are Mrs. MacGrath’s sister?”
Eleanor tried not to tense with the expectation of being cut. “Yes, I am Mrs. Denholm.”
“It is lovely to meet you!” The woman’s voice had become more forthcoming and friendly. “I am Lady Westhorpe. Fernlow, the Westhorpe estate, isn’t far. It’s our first winter in Warlock, and we are hosting the solstice festival on the grounds. I do hope you plan on coming.”
Eleanor had never met Lady Westhorpe during the season in London, but that was not surprising. What was surprising was her casual way of speaking and the warmth of her demeanor toward Eleanor. “It’s all my sister can talk about. She says it is great fun.”
“Indeed. The last hurrah before winter truly forces us inside to huddle by our hearths.”
“I’m surprised you do not retreat south for warmer climes.” Eleanor skirted the questions she really wanted to ask. How much time had Lady Westhorpe spent in London, and did she or her husband know of the scandal muddying Eleanor’s reputation?
“My lord and I are very unfashionable, I’m afraid, and prefer Fernlow over London. I am a lepidopterist.”
“Oh.” Did that mean she was a leper or studying lepers? She appeared healthy enough. “I’m sorry?” Eleanor said with an uncertain lilt.
“It is not a sickness. I study butterflies and moths.” Lady Westhorpe’s accompanying laugh was throaty and only made Eleanor feel a little bit foolish. “I’m working to develop an oil that repels wool-eating moths.”
“That sounds very interesting.” The polite white lie tripped off her lips.
“I find it so, but I don’t expect others to.” Lady Westhorpe took a step toward the door. “I must be getting on, but please pass my compliments to Mrs. MacGrath. The dress she fashioned for me for the festival is quite lovely.”
“I will be sure to do that, my lady.” Eleanor watched Lady Westhorpe slip out the door, bemused by the fact Charlotte was dressing a countess.
She retrieved the packet of ribbons and other fripperies Charlotte had ordered from the man working behind the counter and turned to browse the reams of fabrics tucked into one corner of the store.
She fingered a dark blue wool. Maybe she could ask Charlotte to make her a walking dress with the fabric.
It would be a compromise from the unrelenting black and gray of mourning.
The scuff of a boot made her glance over her shoulder. Callum stood there, looking windswept and handsome. She whipped her head back around before deciding she couldn’t ignore him without being boorish. She shifted to fully face him. He held a brown-paper-wrapped parcel under his arm.
“A cornflower blue would suit you better,” he said.
“And how would you know?” she asked tartly.
“I have eyes and opinions about beautiful women.” He glanced around. “I forgot you were married. Should I worry? Will your husband call me out for impertinence?”
Callum did not seem concerned in the least about the possibility.
Eleanor suspected there were few men who would choose to take him on.
Not only was he well-formed, but he had the air of a man not to be trifled with.
Certainly James, if he had been alive and tempted to fight for her, would not have been a match for Callum.
“I am a widow, so no need to fear some man will charge forward to defend my honor.” Oh dear. She had to learn to control the bitterness in her voice.
Any teasing and lightness went out of him. “I didn’t realize…”
She preferred the push-pull of their barbs over the intense awkwardness that had settled over them. “My sister is waiting.”
She held up the package and stepped toward the door, except he was in her way. She stepped right as he stepped left, effectively blocking her. She stepped left at the same time he stepped right, once again in her path.
“I didn’t realize you wanted to dance,” he said.
The past months had chipped away at her confidence, and after the revelations of his past betrothal, she had little patience or goodwill. She harrumphed. “I would never dance with you. Let me by.”
For an instant, a look flashed across his face that might have been hurt, but it was gone to be replaced by a slight sneer. “I suppose I would make a poor partner with my leg.”
“I didn’t mean—” She stuttered out the start of an explanation she didn’t know how to finish, but it didn’t matter because he was out the door, the bell tinkling violently. Regret niggled at her. She had been the recipient of too many thoughtless barbs not to know how they could hurt.
After taking a long moment to collect herself, she left the blue fabric behind and headed to the baker to get a loaf of fresh bread for their stew that evening.
The bakery stood alone at the far end of the village to minimize the danger of fires, but Eleanor didn’t mind.
The wind was bracing but, unlike London’s sooty air, fresh and clean.
As she walked, she nodded and smiled at the friendly greetings from the few villagers that were out and about.
No one glanced away or whispered in her wake.
When Charlotte had eloped and settled in Warlock, Eleanor couldn’t understand why her sister had thrown away the excitement and pleasures that London offered for such a remote backwater. Now Eleanor understood the appeal.
She slipped in the door, taking a deep breath of the fresh bread. A lone man stood at the counter with his back to her, but it was not the baker. It was Callum. His broad back in the black greatcoat was becoming a familiar sight.
He glanced over his shoulder, groaned, and let his chin drop to his chest, running a hand through his hair. Eleanor had a moment’s thought of turning around and leaving, but what would he think of her? She would be as cruel as the ladies of the ton she had come to despise.
“Are you following me?” he asked, his voice low and harsh. “Did you not get your pound of flesh already?”
She might have been put off by his gruffness if she didn’t intimately understand the cause of it. “Firstly, I’m not following you. I need a loaf for my sister’s stew tonight. And secondly, you ran away before I could explain myself.”
“I didn’t run away.” He turned around now, with a childishly indignant set to his mouth.
It made her want to smile for some reason. “Stomped away? Stalked away? However you want to phrase it, I had more to say and you left before I could.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?”
She still hadn’t formulated a plausible explanation that wasn’t embarrassing for her. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
“For my brusque words about dancing.”
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “You think you hurt my feelings? Ridiculous.”
He might deny it, but she recognized what she’d seen cross his face.
“It’s not that I don’t like dancing or?—”
“Just not with me. Yes, I understood you quite well, madam.”
Anger kindled in her chest. “I have as much right to be annoyed with you, sirrah.”
Surprise wiped the grumpiness off his face. “How have I offended you?”
“You were betrothed last we met.”
He had the gall to look surprised. “Never.”
“I was told you were promised to another the spring I was here and we…” She waved her hands to fill in the rest of the sentence. Keeping her voice to a furious whisper, she continued. “You hurt me.”
“I didn’t— I couldn’t—” He shook his head, swallowed, and turned pale. If he had been a lady, she might have pulled out smelling salts. He turned back to the counter and banged on the counter. “Burns! Are you back there?”
“I’ll be there in a moment, Callum. Just getting these rolls in the oven.” A faint voice sounded from behind a plaid curtain.
Callum muttered something too low for her to hear and rocked on his feet before seeming to make a decision, cramming his hat on his head and whirling toward the door.
“You’re leaving without your bread?” Eleanor asked.
“I’m in a hurry.”
“Are you scared of me?” Eleanor had no idea where she got the gumption.
Callum turned to face her, his legs braced apart. “Scared? Of you? Are you mad?”
“I’m not the one running away. Again. It seems a fair conclusion.”
He shrugged, but his gaze slipped away from hers. “I wouldn’t want to subject you to my company any longer than necessary.”
Callum tried her resolve to remain distant and aloof from any attachments except her sister. She wanted to shake him by the shoulders and scold him. She wouldn’t though. Her impetuousness had led her into a disaster, and she had resolved to be more circumspect.
“You are being childish, Callum Paxton.”
He closed the distance between them to something that felt highly inappropriate. A distance that was even closer than dancing. She suspected he was attempting to intimidate her into backing down.
“I am no child.” His whisper was stony and rough.
This new Callum was intimidating and not childish in the least. He was a man. A man who had been damaged in some way she recognized in her soul. While she might not have a limp, she too had been injured.
The part of her that had diminished since her marriage to James rose to his challenge like a dormant seed sprouting in rich earth.
She tried to tamp down the feeling. It was wholly ill-advised, especially with Callum.
A man who had dallied with her feelings once already, didn’t seem to like her—or anyone else—at the moment, and yet…
She didn’t take a step back. She merely tilted her face to his and met his gaze. He blinked and his mouth softened. What did she see in his face? Confusion? Anger? Regret? Yes, to all counts, but also something darker and smokier. Something resembling…
Desire . The mere thought of it set her heart pumping faster. Heat kindled in her chest, and she could feel a blush inch its way up her neck into her cheeks. Still, she held his gaze. If she backed down now, he would know she was rattled.
“You didn’t let me explain myself earlier, you stubborn man.” She kept her voice at a whisper and gave him a half-truth. “I was only widowed six months hence. It would not be appropriate for me to dance with anyone.”
Did she sense a softening in his stance? She wasn’t sure because he still loomed over her. “I see you have shed your widow’s weeds. Do you still grieve him in your heart, Mrs. Denholm?”
It was an oddly intimate question to ask of her. Even worse, she didn’t know how to answer. Words should have leaped to her lips. She had had to defend James often enough she should have a script like any good actress walking the boards.
But she was sick of defending his honor when he had none. She was angry at herself for falling for his pretty words only to find ugliness on the other side of her vows.
“I do not.” She should feel shame at the admission, but she only felt relief at voicing the truth.
He made a sound, but in understanding and not derision, or so she hoped. “It is rare to find such honesty expressed.”
Telling Charlotte the truth of her disastrous match and its dissolution had set something free inside of her.
She was tired of putting on a mask with a rictus smile when she did not feel in the least bit happy or optimistic about her future.
She let the fierce anger and disappointment bubble up.
Whether he could understand it or not was immaterial.
She was finally letting herself feel it.
“Mrs. Denholm, I feel I should explain why I was unforgivably rude the spring we met.” He cleared his throat.
When he didn’t seem inclined to continue, she said, “Go on.”
“I enjoyed spending time with you—very much so—but when I broached the idea of formally courting you to my father, he forbade it. You see, there was an understanding in place with a young lady who I’d known since we were children.”
“You wanted to court me?” Her cheeks heated.
“Of course I did. You were funny and beautiful.”
It was the nicest thing any man had ever said about her. “But you were so cutting.”
“I thought if you hated me, it would be easier to bear our parting. I was an callow young man and handled it clumsily. Please forgive me.” He sounded truly repentant.
She didn’t trust herself to discern between truth and lie, but she dearly hoped it was true. Before she could offer judgment, the baker bustled through the curtain with a tray of steaming loaves. “Ah, here we are!”
Eleanor and Callum sprang apart to face him. The baker’s cheeks were rosy, and his smile did not falter even as his eyebrows rose. “Just the one loaf, Callum?”
“That’s right. Thank you, Burns.” He stepped forward to lay the coin on the counter. “This is Mrs. Denholm, Mrs. MacGrath’s sister. She is in need as well.”
Callum took his wrapped loaf and ducked out of the bakery. Eleanor watched him until he disappeared.
When she finally returned her attention to the baker, she found him watching her in turn. “How are you finding Warlock, Mrs. Denholm?”
“Picturesque and very friendly. Mostly,” she added with more dryness than she’d intended.
Burns’s smile was tinged with sadness. “You refer to Callum, I assume. He is much changed from the carefree lad he once was.”
“Our paths crossed years ago, and I couldn’t agree more.” She bit her lip. Gossip and speculation had ruined her reputation. She had no desire to muck about in Callum’s past, but she couldn’t help herself. “What wrought the change in him?”
Burns shrugged. “He left to travel the Continent before settling down. When his father and sweetheart died, he returned with a limp and as touchy as a bear.”
“I see.” She had more questions, but she couldn’t seem to put voice to them.
She thanked the baker and made her way back to her sister’s cottage, unable to shake Callum from her thoughts.