Chapter 13 #3
Eleanor forced her gaze back to her dance partner, pasting a smile on her face that felt brittle. “How fascinating. His Grace has mentioned so little of his past acquaintances.”
“No doubt he wished to spare your feelings,” Croft said with a smile. “Though I must say, for a marriage of such recent vintage, you seem to have developed genuine affection for your husband. How surprising.”
Eleanor stiffened slightly before recovering her composure. “We corresponded for some time before our marriage.”
“How romantic.” His voice held a hint of skepticism. “And does the duke share your interest in business ventures amongst the ruffians?”
Eleanor’s guard rose further. “His Grace is supportive of my endeavors,” she replied carefully.
“A proxy marriage often leaves much to be discovered,” Croft observed, his gaze sharpening. “Has he spoken much of his time in the East? Or of his brother?”
“I fear I must plead ignorance on such matters,” Eleanor said with a deliberately empty smile. “My husband’s travels have been extensive, and we have had little time for detailed accounts since his return.”
Croft’s smile turned predatory. “How curious. Most wives would be eager to learn about their husband’s…
associations abroad. Particularly when those associations might affect one’s standing in Society.
” His grip on her hand tightened almost imperceptibly.
“The duke’s brother has such an interesting history, don’t you think?
It would be unfortunate if old scandals were to resurface just as you’ve established such admirable charitable work. ”
Eleanor’s blood chilled at the veiled threat, but she maintained her composure. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, my lord.”
“Of course not,” Croft replied smoothly. “Though I do hope the duke appreciates how… vulnerable… a wife’s reputation can be when built on such carefully maintained ignorance. Donors to charities can be so fickle when whispers begin about the moral character of their benefactresses.”
The music mercifully began to wind toward its conclusion, but Croft’s words had hit their mark. He was threatening not just scandal, but the destruction of everything she’d built.
As the final notes sounded, Croft retained her hand longer than propriety permitted, his thumb pressing against her pulse in a gesture that felt distinctly menacing.
“I trust you and His Grace will do me the honor of dining at my residence presently. I am hosting a small assembly a fortnight hence—intimate, merely a dozen particular acquaintances. I find such gatherings most edifying for all concerned.”
“Lord Croft, there you are!” Lord Brickenridge’s jovial voice cut through the tension. “Lady Harrington has been asking after you most particularly.”
Croft’s face darkened with annoyance at the interruption, but he quickly schooled his features. “Of course,” he said stiffly, finally releasing Eleanor’s hand. “Your Grace, do consider my invitation. I believe you’ll find the conversation most illuminating.”
“How kind,” Eleanor replied, acutely aware of her husband watching from across the room, barely controlled tension radiating from his distant figure. “I shall consult with His Grace about our engagements.”
“Your Grace,” Lord Brickenridge said with a bow, “might I claim the next dance? I promise to return you safely to your husband.”
Eleanor nodded graciously, though her attention remained divided between Lord Brickenridge’s polite conversation and the duke’s location across the ballroom.
As they took their positions for the country dance, she caught sight of a woman with striking auburn hair approaching her husband with the caution of a woman about to poke a sleeping beast.
Even from this distance, Eleanor could see the immediate change in her husband’s posture—the way his shoulders went rigid, how his careful social mask slipped for just a moment.
The auburn-haired woman stepped closer than propriety dictated, her gloved hand reaching toward his arm in a gesture that spoke of past intimacy.
Eleanor couldn’t miss the intensity in the woman’s expression, the passionate way she leaned toward her husband as she spoke.
She had to be Lady Laura.
Something sharp and unpleasant twisted in Eleanor’s chest. She had no claim on his affections—their marriage was a business arrangement, nothing more—yet the sight of him in such close conversation with his former love stirred a bewildering possessiveness within her.
No, she was merely concerned about Damien humiliating her before the ton, she told herself.
Eleanor stumbled slightly in the dance steps, earning a concerned look from Lord Brickenridge. “Are you quite well, Your Grace?”
“Perfectly,” she lied, forcing herself to focus on the dance while stealing glances at the intense conversation unfolding across the room. The Duke of Westmore remained perfectly still, but Eleanor could sense his tension even at this distance.
When the dance concluded, Eleanor made her excuses to Lord Brickenridge and moved purposefully through the crowd toward her husband. But as she approached, she saw Lady Laura turn away abruptly, her face rosy and damp with tears as she hurried toward the ballroom’s exit.
Eleanor reached the duke just as he watched Laura’s retreating figure with an expression of profound concern.
“We should leave,” he said without preamble, his voice tight with controlled emotion. “I find I’m rather fatigued by the evening’s excitement. Would you object to an early departure, Duchess?”
Eleanor was all too happy to agree but also wondered about the effect Lady Laura had on her husband who had appeared untouchable until now. The ballroom suddenly felt oppressive, filled with complications she hadn’t anticipated.
As their carriage pulled away from Harrington House, Eleanor settled against the plush velvet squabs, her purple gown pooling around her like liquid starlight.
She fought to push away the sharp twist of jealousy that had lodged in her chest since witnessing her husband’s intense conversation with Lady Laura, but the emotion clung to her.
The carriage swayed gently as it navigated London’s cobbled streets, each jolt sending tremors through her body that had nothing to do with the uneven road.
She studied her husband’s profile in the amber wash of passing streetlamps—the sharp angle of his jaw, the way shadows carved his cheekbones into aristocratic perfection, the tension radiating from every line of his powerful frame.
Whatever had passed between him and Lady Laura tonight had clearly affected him deeply.
The memory of their whispered conversation, the intimate way the woman had touched his arm, the obvious distress on both their faces—all of it fed the growing fire of possessiveness Eleanor was struggling to contain.
“Did you have a lovely reunion with your former lover?” The words escaped before she could temper them, edged with jealousy.
Her husband’s head turned toward her, green eyes glittering in the half-light. “About as lovely as you appeared to find Lord Croft’s attentions.” His voice was silk over steel. “I wasn’t aware you two were such intimate acquaintances.”
“We’re not.” Eleanor’s pulse quickened at his predatory focus. “Despite his elaborate claims to the contrary. Though he seemed remarkably… fascinated by you.”
“Fascinated.” His tongue caressed the word like he was tasting something forbidden. “And what secrets did the good viscount hope to extract from my beautiful wife?”
Heat bloomed in Eleanor’s chest at the possessive way he said my wife. “Your business abroad.” She leaned forward slightly, drawn by some invisible force. “Subjects about which I maintained complete ignorance, naturally.”
“How perfectly convenient,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips, “that our arrangement leaves you so deliciously uninformed about my affairs.”
“Almost as convenient as your failure to mention Lady Laura would be there to gaze at you like a starving woman contemplating a feast.” Eleanor’s voice had grown breathless despite her efforts to maintain composure.
Damien’s laugh was low and dangerous. “Laura chose her path three years ago.”
“Did she?” Eleanor found herself leaning closer, intoxicated by his nearness. “Because she looked like a woman drowning in regret.”
Something predatory flickered in his eyes as he shifted on the seat, closing the space between them with deliberate intent. “I believe, my darling wife,” he said, his voice dropping to a rumble that she felt in her bones, “you are jealous.”
The accusation hung between them, charged with electricity. Eleanor’s breath caught as he moved closer still, near enough that she could smell his cologne—bergamot and sandalwood—and something masculine that made her head spin.
“I hardly know you,” she whispered, even as every cell in her body strained toward him. “Our arrangement—”
“Is temporary,” he finished, his large hand rising to cup her face with devastating gentleness. “Yet I find myself increasingly dissatisfied with temporary, Eleanor.” His thumb traced her lower lip with maddening slowness. “Especially when I watched another man’s hands on what belongs to me.”
The raw possession in his voice sent liquid fire racing through her veins. Before she could form a coherent response, he eliminated the final inches between them, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that spoke of weeks of restraint finally shattered.
This was conquest, pure and primal. His lips moved against hers with devastating skill, coaxing and demanding until she opened for him with a soft moan that seemed to inflame him further.