Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

N ando watched Eleanora intently as he awaited her response. She was dressed as sparsely and primly as she had been earlier, her golden hair beneath a cap, tucked into the same serviceable chignon she always wore, but this time nary a stray tendril having escaped to curl about her face. Perfect in her poise, as icy and glorious as ever. She gave him no hint of what she was thinking, her face as still as a mask.

He had expected more. A reaction, at least.

"You must know that I cannot." Her tone was measured, calm.

Ah, the answer he had been anticipating, a denial, a refusal. But Nando had spent the hours since his meeting with Tierney considering all the ways in which he might somehow persuade the stubborn Eleanora Brett to accompany him, and the answer, when he had fallen upon it, had been obvious. The more he thought about it, the more pleased he became.

"I want you to come with me as my betrothed," he added.

And then, the mask broke.

Her lips parted, her eyes widened, and the velvet depths of those blue orbs seemed to plumb his soul. "You make a mockery of me."

"Never."

He could understand her distrust of his proposal. He was not often a serious man. He was a voluptuary who had spent much of his life in search of pleasure as a means of distracting himself from the sorrows that haunted him. He had come of age in the shadows of war, and though his older brother had shielded and protected him, Nando had been more than aware of the danger, the blood that had been shed, the loss.

"I…I fail to understand." Her words were slow, halting.

Nando took both her hands in his, drawing her against him. "I want to marry you. From the moment I first saw you, you have haunted my dreams and all my waking hours. Come with me. Be my wife."

Her hands trembled in his, and a laugh bubbled up from her, the sound incredulous. "If this is your attempt at a sally, forgive me for finding it cruel."

He gave her hands an urgent squeeze. "This is no jest. Marry me, Eleanora."

Nando had turned the notion over in his mind, again and again. The thought of this woman being his had been more intoxicating than any opium or whisky he had ever consumed. He'd been obsessed with the prospect ever since it occurred to him. He would marry her, pleasure her beyond her ability to comprehend. Her artless sensuality the night before had proven to him that she was his match. She was responsive and eager, and he could scarcely wait to begin teaching her the art of pleasure.

"You are a prince."

He had never cared for the title less than he did now, standing before a woman who deemed it an impediment rather than a boon.

"Regretfully, yes." He grinned. "I do hope you would have me anyway."

She shook her head. "What I meant to say is that you are a prince, and I am not just a commoner, but the daughter of an actress."

This was news—his stern Eleanora the daughter to a woman who had trod the boards. However, he didn't care.

"I am more than aware of who you are, my dear."

"No, you are not." She tugged her hands from his grip and turned to walk the length of the room, her back to him as she waged some inner battle he didn't comprehend. When at last she spun to face him, her expression was stricken. "You cannot possibly believe that a marriage between the two of us could ever happen. It would be the misalliance of the century. Princes do not marry spinster chaperones who were born on the wrong side of the blanket."

Her words took him aback.

Nando went to her, genuinely confused. "The wrong side of the blanket? I don't understand. Forgive my pitiful English."

His English was eloquent, far from pitiful, but the term was unfamiliar to him.

She squared her shoulders. "I was born a bastard. That is what it means. My surname is not Brett. All that I am, all that I have made of myself, is a lie. If any of the grand households where I have been employed knew what and who I truly am, they would have cast me into the streets rather than expose their innocent daughters to me."

Her confession astounded him. Not because he was horrified to discover her mother had been an actress who hadn't been wedded to her father. Not even because he was surprised to learn she had been deceiving everyone with the proper fa?ade of Eleanora Brett. But rather because of what her revelation meant. Everything she had just told him could lead to her ruination, and yet she had trusted him with this information.

A rush of something foreign and potent swept over him, and he took her into his arms instinctively, ignoring the nagging pain of his wounded arm. He held her stiff form in a gentle hold that she could escape if she wished.

"Thank you."

Her brow furrowed, her expression one of pure befuddlement. "Why do you thank me?"

"For your honesty. For trusting me with your secrets." He kissed her softly, quickly, chastely—a gesture of gratitude rather than an attempt at seduction. "I don't care about your past, Eleanora. Your future is what I covet. You, in my arms, in my bed. I want you to be mine."

As the last word left him, he almost shuddered at the rightness of it, the potency. What a giddy feeling. His cock went hard again at the notion—Eleanora, his . He had never, in his storied career as a rakehell, had a woman who had been his alone. And that this magnificent one could be made him feel more powerful than he ever had. How he had imagined he could take her as a lover, bed her a few times, and then excise her from his blood, was a mystery to him.

"Marriage," she repeated, sounding dazed. "How shockingly bourgeois of you."

"Have I ever given you the impression that I take myself seriously?" he teased gently. "If so, I must offer my most sincere apologies."

She laughed, a true laugh. More like the giggle of a carefree young girl, the same way she had laughed when they had danced together and he had suggested Princess Emmaline needed pianoforte lessons. He felt as if he had emerged from war the victor.

"You are mad," she said.

And she was not wrong.

Nando kissed her again, needing that laughter on his lips. Her response was to wind her arms around his neck and sink her fingers into his hair. She clung to him as if he were a tree she intended to climb. And her mouth opened without any coaxing from him, her tongue darting hot and wet against his. He moaned, wanting her more than ever, his prick raging with need as he cupped her arse and pressed her more fully against him.

He kissed her and kissed her, until they were both breathless. His wound was paining him, but he didn't care. He was intent upon the woman in his arms.

When at last he lifted his head, her mouth was dark and swollen from his kisses, her eyes slumberous with desire. And he knew he had won her at last.

"What say you, Eleanora? Will you marry this mad prince?"

She was silent for a heartbeat. "Yes."

Eleanora woke as was customary, alone in her narrow bed as the faint strains of dawn began to paint the London sky with color. For a moment, she lay there, silent and still, convinced that the recollections of the night before flooding her mind had been nothing more than the fanciful imaginings of her dreams.

But no.

As the traces of slumber fled and she rose in her nightgown to stir the embers in her hearth to warm the cool morning air, she realized it had been real. Nando had asked her to marry him. And she had agreed, after which he had kissed her soundly and then bundled her off to her room.

She had been too confused by the unexpected developments of the evening to offer much protest. They'd walked silently, hand in hand, through the darkened halls, and he had left her with another kiss before urging her to get some rest. She had somehow expected more, his continued expert attempts at seduction. But he had disappeared into the shadows, and she had been left to undress in a state of shock.

What had she agreed to?

Had he been truly serious?

He hadn't felt feverish. He hadn't seemed delirious. He hadn't smelled at all of spirits, so he had not been in his cups. He had appeared perfectly rational even as he had made her an utterly irrational proposal.

Eleanora prodded the coals and then straightened, her mind still whirling. Marriage. She had never thought it a possibility for herself. And certainly not with a prince. For so many years, she had banished all thoughts of husband and family from her mind. Longing for that which was impossible had only made her circumstances more dire.

With shaking hands, she set about donning her stockings and chemise. How was it possible that the life she had yearned for had somehow fallen into her lap, given to her by a silver-tongued rakehell prince? What manner of husband would he make—or, for that matter, father? If she were fortunate enough to have children, would he love them?

Her own father had been present only occasionally during her youngest years. Her memories of him were faded like a dyed cloth left too long in the sun. He had been an important man, Mama had warned, and they mustn't ask for too much of his time. Their few visits had been dour and unsmiling. The man who had sired her had observed her as if she were a strange new insect that had appeared before him and he wasn't certain whether he should squish it beneath his boot or capture it for further study.

Then one day, Mama had asked the servants to pack up their belongings and leave the elegant town house that had been their home. They had left in a hired carriage and never returned. Her mother had taken a role that returned her to the stage and a new lover, although Eleanora had not understood who the gentleman who paid calls upon her mother had been at the time. As she had grown older, she had come to understand why the gentlemen visited Mama and why they moved so frequently. No town house was ever a home for more than a year, and not all of them had been as luxurious or stately as others.

Eleanora sighed heavily, smoothing wrinkles from her chemise. How could she expect a prince to be any different from the sire she had scarcely even known? She drew on her stays, tightening them so much that they bit into her sides, but she scarcely noticed. Was she making a dreadful mistake?

And how would she tell the princesses that she was leaving them?

Where would Nando expect them to live? In Varros?

The questions that had kept her awake, plaguing her through the night, returned with a vengeance. She took up her petticoat and gown, finally finishing her toilette with a modest fichu and a cap over her hair.

Nando had shown kindness to the cat he had rescued from the mean streets of London, she reminded herself. Benvolio had certainly seemed to adore his master. Surely that was a sign that he would not be a cruel father to any children they might have one day.

Eleanora left her chamber, no more certain of her decision by the light of day than she had been the night before. She wasn't even certain when she and Nando would marry. He wanted her to go with him when he left the town house this morning, but that was a scandalous suggestion. She could not live with him until they were wed.

She didn't have to go far to find Princess Anastasia, who came upon her in the hall, wearing a look of unabashed concern. "Miss Brett, just who I was looking for."

Eleanora offered her a curtsy. "Good morning, Your Royal Highness. I hope I did not keep you waiting."

Her duties for the day did not begin for another half hour, but she was quite accustomed to the demands of aristocratic employers. Most expected their servants to be at the ready upon a whim.

"Perhaps we might have some tea in my salon," the princess suggested, neatly avoiding Eleanora's polite question.

Something in the other woman's tone and unsmiling visage told Eleanora that Princess Anastasia knew .

"Of course."

The princess offered her a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We have much to speak about, haven't we? Come, Eleanora."

The air between them changed as she accompanied Princess Anastasia to the salon. Once they were comfortably ensconced within, they made polite conversation as the tea tray arrived. The princess poured, offering Eleanora a dish of tea with a wan smile.

"I do hope you know what you are doing, my dear."

Eleanora swallowed hard against a rush of emotion—dread, uncertainty, excitement, longing. "I am sure I don't."

"I wish you would have told me the truth when we talked about Nando's interest in you."

"I didn't know what the prince's interest was." Eleanora paused, frowning as she considered her words. "Indeed, I still don't know. I am at a loss as to why he would wish to bind himself to someone so socially inferior."

"You needn't be modest," Princess Anastasia said, pouring her own tea with elegant, efficient motions. "You are quite lovely despite your efforts to hide your looks. Nando is drawn to beautiful women."

Women.

She did not miss the emphasis the princess placed upon the last word, and she could not quell the sting of jealousy at the reminder that he had an endless string of lovers in his past and likely an equally unending string of more in his future. She didn't expect him to be faithful. She knew his reputation.

"I would hardly describe myself in such flattering terms, though I do thank you," she said.

The princess took a delicate sip of her tea. "And now, we are to be without you. Your loss will be felt by us all, but particularly by my sisters. You have been such a boon to them, and I am grateful for all your efforts on their behalf. You've done wonders to rein in some of their wilder Boritanian ways."

That was a polite way of describing the headstrong ladies and their penchants for scrapes.

Eleanora smiled, deciding it best to remain politic in her response. "I will miss Princess Emmaline and Princess Annalise as well."

She would not, however, mourn no longer having to contend with Princess Emmaline's affinity for trousers. Eleanora wisely kept that to herself.

"You will, of course, remain here with us as our guest until you marry," Princess Anastasia added, her tone growing stern. "Nando was insistent that you must accompany him this morning, but I refuse to allow it. He is…rather imprudent at times."

Imprudent. It was one way to describe the wickedly handsome prince who somehow wished to marry her. Certainly, no outside observer could call his decision to wed an unsuitable spinster who was his inferior in every way wise .

But there were other words she would use to describe him as well. Charming. He had that way about him of making it feel as if all the world were a jest presented for his benefit. He was quick to laugh, even at himself. He knew how to seduce, yes, but he was not selfish when it came to pleasure. Generous. He had given her so much without ever asking for anything in return. Kind. Witty.

Heavens, if she didn't take greater care, she would fall in love with him. And that would never do. Nando might, through some outlandish flight of fancy, choose to marry her. But he would never love her. She knew his sort of gentleman well, for she had seen them with Mama often over the years. Inconstant, their devotion at first a roaring fire that eventually subsided into cooling ash.

"I can only suppose how this must seem to you," Eleanora managed, turning her attention back to the conversation at hand. "I assure you that there was no scheming on my part to win the prince's favor."

"Oh, my dear, you need not worry in that regard," the princess reassured her. "I know your character. A more trustworthy, honest, good person I have yet to meet."

The unexpected praise made Eleanora's cheeks heat, for she had not been entirely honest and she had stolen to Nando's chamber in secret. She had not been good. The secret she had kept about her background had been necessary for her own survival, but the knowledge didn't ameliorate her guilt.

"Thank you." Her hand trembled on the dish of tea, her cup rattling. "You are far too generous in your praise, of which I am undeserving."

"You need not be modest. I have witnessed your patience and sincerity, your kindness and your gentle wit, on many occasions. I have come to like you a great deal during your time here, and that is why I wished to speak with you now in private. I am concerned for you, Eleanora dear."

"What is your concern?"

"Nando is reckless. He has spent his time in London engaged in all manner of debauchery, and now he has suddenly settled upon marriage, seemingly in the blink of an eye. Between the two of us, I am not certain he has the capacity to be the sort of husband you deserve."

Reckless. Yes, there was another fine word to describe him. Eleanora couldn't deny it. Nor could she deny that she harbored some misgivings of her own regarding Nando and their marriage.

"Do you suppose he will change his mind?" she asked, her tone sharper than she had intended, for the frantic thought had occurred to her more than once.

The princess appeared pensive, her lips flattened into a thin line. "I do not doubt that he is serious about marrying you. However, I find myself wondering what will happen after you are wed."

Eleanora managed a thin smile. "That makes two of us."

"Oh dear." Stasia's expression shifted, sympathy lining her lovely countenance. "You need not marry him, you know."

"I want to marry him," she said, shocking herself with the vehemence of her own words.

Because she realized the veracity in them. She did want to marry Nando. Even if she regretted it later and despite all the concerns and worries crowding her mind.

Perhaps she was every bit as reckless as he was.