Chapter 4
Eleanor’s head felt strange. She was having a difficult time corralling her thoughts.
It wasn’t the fuzziness too much alcohol imparted.
Imbibing with Charlotte the night of her arrival had left her feeling unbalanced and slightly sick the next morning.
No, she felt sharp yet languid. Clearheaded, yet confused.
She was aware of her body in ways she could not describe.
Speaking of her body, she felt hot and cold at the same time. Looking down, she expected to see where his lips had caressed her at the edge of her chemise. She touched her skin, but there was only the memory of the light, sensual graze.
Her skin was overly sensitive. Her sodden, heavy dress took on an element of torture.
She had to get out of it. Her hands trembled slightly as she unfastened the rest of the bodice and let the dress puddle around her bare feet.
Her stays were short and practical, the lacing in the front.
She loosened them and let those fall to the floor as well, leaving her in her chemise.
His shirt was made of soft lawn. She rubbed it against her cheek. Without second-guessing herself, she pulled her chemise over her head, tossed it aside, and slipped his shirt on.
It covered her to mid-thigh. She rolled the sleeves to her wrists, but didn’t bother to tie it at the neck, letting it slide off one shoulder.
She picked up the dressing gown, but it was a heavy brocade that she couldn’t bear to have against her skin.
She laid it back over the chair and returned to the overstuffed armchair, angling it so she could see the front door while she warmed herself.
Feeling the heat radiate against her bare skin was pleasurable in a way that made her wonder at herself.
Her mind wandered back to a painful memory. The madam of the whorehouse who had shown up on her front stoop demanding coin for services done to her husband. Eleanor had demanded to know what services could have sent her husband into debt.
“You don’t really want to know that, missus,” the madam had said with enough condescension in her voice to stir the embers of Eleanor’s anger.
“I demand to know what my husband got from your whores that he could not have gotten from me.”
The woman’s face had hardened at Eleanor’s demand. Or maybe it was the way she’d spat out the word whores. Whatever it was, the woman had decided not to spare Eleanor from reality.
“Your husband was nothing special. He loved a good suck and a rough fucking.” The woman went on to describe exactly what that entailed.
The more shocked Eleanor grew, the more relish the madam took in describing the acts.
Head spinning, Eleanor got rid of the woman and retreated to James’s study to cry.
Why was Eleanor thinking about what the madam had told her? And not with shock this time, but curiosity. Had she been addled by the cold?
Well, she wasn’t cold anymore. After finger combing her hair, she debated if she should braid it, but the loose curls felt good.
She propped her legs on the footstool, flexed her feet, and looked at her bare limbs with detachment.
She had never been this comfortable with her body.
With James, she had hidden herself under the cloak of darkness, not to mention the covers.
Yet here she was splayed out in a gentleman’s shirt in a remarkably small cabin with a man she only knew from a long-ago flirtation.
And yet… the notion did not send her running for the dressing gown.
Why didn’t it? She couldn’t even hazard a theory.
All she knew was she was content to lounge in Callum’s shirt in his armchair and in front of his fire.
In fact, she found herself looking to the door and awaiting his return with anticipation.
Finally Callum stepped inside on a swirl of snow. He shrugged off his greatcoat and jacket, hung them on pegs by the door, and then turned to her. His cheeks were reddened and his eyes bright. The tight smile he wore faded into a slack-jawed shock as he took her in.
“Is your horse well?” she asked.
“She’s snug for the night.” His voice was rough.
“Just like us, eh?” She tried on a teasing tone and gestured around them.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he said inanely.
“You left it for me to put on. Don’t you remember?” Maybe there was nothing at all wrong with her. Maybe the cold had addled his brain.
He picked up his dressing gown and crushed it in his fists. “I left you this too.”
“I know, but I don’t want to wear it. I’m quite content.” She turned to stare into the fire and rubbed her hands from under her breasts to her hips and back again, the hem of the shirt riding up a few inches to her upper thighs. “Your shirt feels so good against my skin.”
“But… But…” He sounded like an imbecile.
“But what? What on earth is the matter?” She stood, faced him, and put her hands on her hips. “You’re the one who commanded me out of my wet things.”
His face was a picture of shock and awe, his gaze traveling up and down her body, lingering in places that left her tingling. “Are you sure you’re well?”
A splinter of doubt made her suddenly self-conscious. Was it her hair? It was probably a mess from the snow and the ride. Or was it her body? Was there something unpleasing about the way she was assembled?
She looked down, touching the various body parts from her collarbones over her breasts to her hips. “Is something wrong with me?”
“There is nothing amiss with your aspect.” He stepped closer and took her hands. His were chilled. She had heat to spare and linked their fingers so she could warm him. She wanted him to feel as good as she felt.
“Then why are you acting so strangely?” she asked.
He choked out a laugh. “The punch you drank at the festival?—”
“Was delicious. I must get the recipe from Lady Westhorpe.”
“There was something added that should not have been.” He rubbed the back of her hands with his thumbs. His calluses rasped pleasantly.
“Some sort of spirit?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
She jerked her hands from his. “I have been sozzled before. I can assure you I am not sozzled.”
The smile that came to his lips crinkled his eyes and made him appear younger. No, not younger. Less care worn. More like the lad she remembered. Without hesitation, she traced her fingers from his temple to his lips. His smile faded, and it made her sad.
“I miss your smile,” she whispered, running her thumb along his lower lip.
He shook his head but with a ruefulness that she didn’t understand. “You are not yourself, Eleanor.”
That was balderdash. In fact, she felt more like herself than she had since she was a child.
Once she had had to start wearing long skirts and putting her hair up, she had also had to put on a facade.
She hadn’t been allowed to be silly or say what was on her mind.
Why had she caved to society’s expectations when society had turned its back on her without another thought?
“I disagree. I am more me than I have been for too long.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that…” She groped for a way to describe the way she felt. “I’m lighter. The weight of derision and insults are gone.”
“What? Who has insulted you?” His outrage was sudden and hot.
“Will you call out the entirety of the ton?” Her laugh held none of the bitterness she had borne for the past six months. Suddenly it mattered less what everyone else thought.
He tucked a thick lock her hair behind her ear and trailed his fingers down her neck to her bare shoulder. “What happened?”
She drew him to the arm chair and pushed him to sit. He tried to protest, but before he could rise, she plopped down in his lap and snuggled into his chest. Then she proceeded to tell him everything. Even details she had kept from her sister because of her shame and embarrassment.
“Your late husband was an ass, but how were you to know that when he was courting you?” he asked with a sympathy and kindness she had not been able to spare for herself.
“My father could only see his gentlemanly mask and station and encouraged the match. I saw glimpses of his true nature, but the banns had been read. It felt too hard to stop the wedding at that point.” For the first time, she didn’t bear the blame she typically heaped on herself for her naivety and cowardice.
“The whorehouse madam told me if I had just sucked my husband’s cock more that perhaps he would not have strayed. Do you think that is true?”
Callum’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water fighting for its life. “That is outrageous!”
“The question or the act?” Eleanor had to know if her lack of experience had caused James to visit whores. “Is sucking cock something only whores do?”
“I can’t believe I am having this discussion with you,” he muttered and then let out a big sigh. “As you know, I have never been married, but that particular act is not something only shared with whores. My opinion—and hope—is that the bedroom of a husband and wife is playful and pleasurable.”
“And you find getting your cock sucked pleasurable?” She pushed off his chest enough to see his face. His eyes were closed and his cheeks red. “Are you embarrassed by my questions?”
He opened his eyes and met her gaze. “Yes, I’m embarrassed. This is not something I’ve discussed with a lady. Or anyone for that matter.” He huffed out a laugh.
Eleanor snapped and pointed at him. “That’s the issue, isn’t it? No one discusses such matters. I had no idea what is typical of the marriage bed or what was expected of me.”
“Your mother?—”
“Died at my birth. Charlotte had married, but she told me nothing on my last visit. My stepmother is a dear, but she is very proper. There was no one else.” She would be discussing her sister’s reticence the next time they had a moment alone.
“If your husband was any sort of man, he should have introduced you to the pleasures of the marriage bed. Especially as he was more experienced than you.”