Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

E leanora woke with a start to inky darkness.

At once, she was aware that something was amiss. She was seated upright instead of lying comfortably in the bed she'd been provided, and her surroundings were unfamiliar. Where was she?

Realization hit her like a bolt of lightning.

Somehow, she must have fallen asleep in the chair at the prince's bedside. A host of unanswered questions flitted through her sleep-fogged mind. Had no one thought to wake her? To check on his condition?

The candle that had been lit had long since sputtered out, leaving them cloaked in the shadows of night. The remnants of a banked fire smoldered in the grate across the room, serving for a pitiful source of illumination.

Her gaze instantly went to the still form of the prince. He had fallen into the depths of slumber from the laudanum she'd persuaded him to take. And she had remained at his side for a moment, thinking that she would rest until a servant arrived to take her place. It must have been the upheaval and shock of the day that had rendered her so exhausted that she'd fallen asleep.

Concern for him instantly sliced through her.

How was he?

She had no wish to disturb his rest, and yet she needed to know. As quietly as she could manage, Eleanora rose and hovered over his bedside, gently laying a hand over his brow to detect whether he had a fever.

His skin didn't feel hot. But she couldn't account for the jolt that shot through her at touching him. It felt forbidden. Dangerous. It felt impossibly, erroneously right. As if he were hers to touch and tenderly care for. But that was as foolish as it was impossible. The Prince of Varros belonged to no woman.

She snatched her hand away, telling herself she needed to collect her wits and flee this room at once. Because her reputation was all she possessed, and it was without reproach. She needed to preserve it at all costs. She had neither lineage nor wealth to rely upon. Not even youth, for she was approaching her thirtieth year. She had only herself and the lone skill to which she steadfastly clung—that of churning out marriageable ladies, even though Eleanora herself would never be a bride.

She turned to take her leave.

"Don't go."

The low rasp was so unexpected that she paused and spun to face him in the darkness. But there was also a note of underlying pain in his voice that made her linger when every other part of her knew she ought to flee.

"Your Royal Highness," she said, finding her voice. "Is something amiss?"

"Yes. You're intending to leave my side when I have need of you."

His voice had gained strength and yet it remained strained. It occurred to Eleanora that he must have mistaken her for a servant in the darkness.

"I'm not a nursemaid, Your Royal Highness," she explained gently. "I can fetch someone else to attend you if you like. Your bodyguard, perhaps? Or a footman?"

"I only want you, Eleanora."

Something inside her seized. So, he did realize she was the one at his side. He hadn't mistaken her for a maid after all. And he wanted her to remain. Ruthlessly, she tamped down the unwanted feeling.

"I'm afraid that I have stayed longer than I should have already. Is there something you require? I'll see that a servant is sent to you."

Tending to him was private. Intimate. Dangerously scandalous. She couldn't remain. That she had stayed this long was a testament to her own recklessness, and it wouldn't be repeated.

"No one else," he insisted stubbornly.

"Your Royal Highness—" she began, only to be interrupted by his surprised grunt of pain.

She rushed to his side instinctively. "What happened? What is paining you?"

She didn't have sufficient illumination to see his expression. The absence of candlelight frustrated her, but there was no hope for it at the moment. She leaned nearer, peering through the shadows.

"My arm. I dare say I shall only survive with your tender care."

There was no mistaking the flirtatious tone that had crept into his voice. The utter scoundrel. It was also a definitive indication that it was time for her to go. He was confounding.

"I'm afraid I know precious little about tending to wounds," she told him tartly. "The hour is late, Your Royal Highness. I must go, but rest assured, I'll be certain to send one of the servants to your aid."

"I do wish you'd call me Nando again," he said with a sigh.

And yet she lingered, quite against her better judgment. "We've already established that it is improper for me to be so familiar with you."

Strangely, she found herself yearning to be familiar, however. Clearly, spending so much time in this jaded rake's cunning presence was rendering her mad.

"Just once more before I die, please?" he asked as if she hadn't spoken.

"You sound well enough to me," she pointed out.

"Ah, but the agony of my wound, you see. It feels as if someone has thrust a hot poker through my flesh. I'm burning from the inside out. The wound is festering, I have no doubt of it."

"Surely it's not. You didn't feel feverish to me just now."

"Feel my brow again, my darling Eleanora," he urged, his voice suddenly sounding thready and weak. "I fear I am."

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, finding herself in a fine predicament.

"I'll fetch you more laudanum," she suggested. "It will help you to remain calm and rest."

"I don't want more laudanum. Give me your hand."

She had already moved nearer to the bed, quite stupidly drawn to the man despite all reason. She knew better than to grant Prince Ferdinando such proximity. She knew just what manner of persuasion rakes were capable of. She'd witnessed it on many occasions.

And yet, she was doing as he'd demanded. Allowing him to bring her hand to his brow. His flesh didn't feel any hotter to the touch than it had before. But her body's reaction was the same. A stunning sense of awareness fell over her, so potent that it made her belly tense. As if he sensed her susceptibility, his fingers tightened over hers. He gently caressed her hand.

It was the most sensual touch she'd ever received, and yet it was so light. So unassuming. On her hand, no less. Not some other portion of her person that would be far more daring and damning. Her breath had caught in her lungs. She struggled to find words.

"Do you see, Eleanora?" he asked, voice low and silken when she failed to speak. "I'm on fire. I have been from the moment I first saw you."

That same fire he spoke of rushed through her.

She tugged her hand away at once. "You haven't a fever at all, Your Royal Highness. I must bid you good evening."

Eleanora turned to go.

"Please."

One word, and it stopped her as if it were a physical restraint. Because it radiated with raw emotion. Real emotion, she thought. Not his practiced flattery and seductive persuasion. Genuine emotion.

Fear with a hint of pain, tinged with something else.

Longing.

It was as if the mask he wore for the world had suddenly shattered and fallen away. Instead of playing the role of experienced seducer and devil-may-care rake, he was showing her the man hiding beneath the fa?ade. A man of vulnerability.

And she found herself, despite every reason she should retreat at once, remaining. Relenting. Feeling things for this wicked prince she had no right to feel.

"Perhaps for a few minutes more," she allowed, feeling her way through the darkness to her chair.

"Do you think you might light a candle before you sit?" he asked with a boyish hope that further unsettled her. "I'd prefer to see your lovely countenance thoroughly illuminated."

She tamped down any yearning that his comment about her loveliness caused. She knew it was empty flattery anyway. Eleanora was more than aware of what she looked like, and she was no beauty. Not as her mother had been. But then, Mama had possessed a truly rare and original beauty, a vivacity that had shone from within and had attracted men to her the way a Siren lured sailors into rocky shoals.

Working her way through the shadows, she found a spill and lit it in the remnants of the dwindling fire before lighting the candles on a candelabra whose form she'd taken note of in the murkiness. She carried it to the table near his bedside, trying not to look at the way the golden light lovingly highlighted the elegant planes of his handsome face. He was a beautiful man. Even in his present state, looking exhausted, the bandage around his upper arm, he was the most breathtaking gentleman she'd ever beheld. A dangerous man, to be sure, and not just because of his undeniable looks, but because of a host of other reasons as well.

Not least of all the way he made her pulse flutter.

Averting her gaze, Eleanora resumed her seat at his side, taking care to primly smooth her skirts and gather her wits.

"Thank you."

His silken voice and gratitude had her gaze lifting to meet his against her better judgment. He was watching her intently, but his expression had changed. His jaw was clenched, and as he shifted in the bed, he made another grunt of pain.

"Allow me to fetch some laudanum for you, Your Royal Highness," she said hastily, thinking it would be better if she were occupied with a task and if he soon returned to the depths of slumber where he belonged so that she might make her escape.

If the princess and Mr. Tierney were to discover she'd been lingering here alone with Prince Ferdinando all night long, she had no notion of what they would say. It was entirely possible she might be dismissed, despite it having been the princess's idea for her to attend him earlier. If Eleanora had learned anything from her time beneath the thumb of the quality, it was that they were mercurial creatures.

"I've already told you that I don't want the damned poison," he grumbled.

But Eleanora ignored him. Rising from her chair and going to the tray where the laudanum was kept, she poured him a measure.

"It will help with the pain," she told him, returning to his bedside with the medicine and offering it.

He winced but quickly replaced the expression with a devilish smile. "Will you come closer, my dear? I fear I'm too weak to partake on my own. Sit here."

With his uninjured arm, he patted the area to his right.

The bed.

No, she would not—dared not—sit on the bed with him. Even in his weakened, wounded state, it would be ruinous.

Eleanora shook her head. "It wouldn't be proper."

"Do I look like I'm concerned with propriety, Eleanora?"

She wished he would cease calling her by her given name. The familiarity sent a frisson down her spine whenever he called her Eleanora in that deep, mellifluous voice of his.

She swallowed. "You may not be concerned with it, but I must be. As we've established, Your Royal Highness, I am dependent upon my reputation. Without it, none of the lords and ladies of the ton will allow me to guide their daughters."

"Yes, but none of them are about at the moment, are they?" he asked smoothly. "How would they know?"

"Of course not, but word travels quickly in circles such as these, as you must surely know. Servants gossip. Whispers carry."

She was reminding herself as much as him. But then, likely Prince Ferdinando had never needed to worry about scandal broth. He was celebrated for his reputation rather than scorned as a woman in his position would be. The unfairness of polite society was not lost upon her. She'd witnessed what it was capable of in the most brutal and exacting way. Her mother had paid the price for it. Eleanora had managed to escape relatively unscathed thus far. But she certainly hadn't managed that by lingering with libertines in their chambers.

"No one would dare gossip about you," the prince countered with a conviction he had no right to possess. "I'd never allow it."

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, but she sternly chased it away. "That is most generous of you, Your Royal Highness. However, I don't see what control you could have over all polite society."

"I'm a prince." He patted the bed. "Sit here for a moment, won't you? The way you're hovering over me is giving me an aching head. I'm usually the tallest man in the room unless my brother is about."

His brother, the King of Varros. Eleanora had not met Prince Ferdinando's sibling, although word of his recent visit to London had left the ton positively abuzz. The king had been the subject of innumerable scandal sheets. But not in the way Prince Ferdinando had.

All the more reason for Eleanora to avoid sitting on the bed in dangerous proximity to him. Wounded or no, he was positively perilous to her reputation, her determination, her livelihood.

She offered him the laudanum. "I'm afraid I don't dare accept your offer, Your Royal Highness."

"Then I won't take the laudanum," he said stubbornly.

They stared at each other, at a stalemate. The prince grimaced, stirring as he sought a more comfortable position. He was suffering. Her inner urge to come to his aid surmounted all other concerns. Eleanora gingerly seated herself on the edge of the bed. Not where he had requested, but a safer distance.

Again, she extended the laudanum to him, the measure in its small tumbler. "Now will you take it?"

"You've convinced me." He accepted her offering, his fingers grazing hers as he did so. Holding her gaze, he brought the laudanum to his lips, making an expression of discontent as he swallowed the liquid down. "Bloody terrible stuff."

"It will ease the pain," she reassured him, taking the tumbler from him. "And allow you to rest. You need to regain your strength."

"On that we agree, my dear. I certainly do. Without my strength, I'll never be able to win your heart."

Once more, the mask of roguish charmer was firmly in place. She wondered what he used it to shield, beyond the pain of his injury. And then she promptly told herself it hardly mattered.

Eleanora struggled for a light tone. "How amusing you are, Your Royal Highness. I haven't a heart to win, but even if I had, I do not doubt you'd be the last person attempting to win it."

"Do you mean to say you haven't a heart at all, or that it cannot be won?" he asked, his tone curious.

"Of course I have a heart," she conceded. "However, it is firmly out of consideration. I'm far too old for such nonsense."

"Old?" He arched a golden brow, his blue gaze sweeping over her form in a thorough way that made her flush. "You couldn't be more than five-and-twenty. Hardly ancient."

"I'm eight-and-twenty," she countered primly. "Quite on the shelf."

"Young enough to come off the shelf, certainly," he observed. "With the proper motivation, of course."

She understood the subtle suggestion in his voice all too well, along with the way he looked at her. It was the look a wicked rake bestowed upon his prey. But Eleanora had no intention of allowing herself to fall beneath this handsome prince's spell.

"I'm comfortable as I am, Your Royal Highness," she said.

"Are you, truly?" he asked shrewdly. "You don't seem to be the sort of woman content to blend in with the shadows. To help others shine like diamonds of the first water while hiding yourself in dowdy gowns and dreadful fichus and caps."

His words startled her. Disturbed her. What did he see in her that no one else had? How had she given herself away?

He was disturbingly close to the truth. Once, she hadn't been content to hide herself. But she needed to do so now, for her own survival.

"I enjoy helping others," she told him curtly. "As you can see by my unwise presence at your sickbed."

"You're here because you want to be."

His tone was knowing. And more alarming still was that he was not wrong with his assertion. She did want to be here. She was enjoying his company. She liked the way he flirted with her. Liked the way he made her feel. Old feelings, dangerous feelings, feelings she couldn't afford to indulge in. And yet, she remained perched on the edge of his bed, a bird prepared for flight, her wings tied by her own wayward inclinations.

"There are many other places I would rather be," she countered firmly.

His eyes dropped to her lips before rising again. "Name them."

That look had her so flustered that she had quite lost the thread of their conversation. Her heart beat rapidly, new warmth creeping through her. The way he examined her—it was not just scandalous. It was intoxicating too.

"As I thought," he said, a note of smugness entering his voice.

She blinked, realizing he had soundly routed her. Eleanora tried to summon up places she would rather be.

"A boat," she blurted.

"A boat." He rubbed the hand from his uninjured arm slowly along his jaw. "What sort of boat?"

She hadn't thought that one through.

"The sort that travels over the water."

Oh heavens, this was going poorly. He had her quite flustered, the combination of his nearness and regard, coupled with the fact that she was seated on his bed and he wasn't even wearing a shirt beneath the counterpane…

No, she mustn't think about the shocking expanse of shoulders and chest revealed to her whenever he shifted beneath the bedclothes. He was only wearing half a dressing gown. She'd done her best not to acknowledge it, but the lateness of the hour, the intimate tone of his voice… It was all swirling together into one unending sea that was steadily rising and threatening to drown her.

"Is that not, by definition, all boats, Eleanora?" he asked, his lips twitching.

He was finding her discomfiture amusing, the scoundrel.

"Your Royal Highness is, of course, correct," she said sweetly, forcing a smile.

"I begin to think you are finding yourself growing fond of me against your will, my dear," he said, his mouth tipping up at one corner into a half smile that stole her breath. "You're enjoying yourself. Admit it."

She was. And how hideous of him not just to realize it, but give voice to it.

"I'm merely pleased to see that you're doing so well after suffering a grievous wound and losing so much blood," she said, which was also true.

He may have been a conscienceless seducer and the most handsome man she'd ever seen, but that didn't mean she wanted any harm to befall him. She had been terribly worried for him. Was still worried, if she were honest with herself. There was still ample time and opportunity for an infection to set in.

"Your tender feelings for me are a balm to my heart," he said with a courtly air.

He was ridiculous. He made her want to smile. He made her want to take him gently in her arms. He made her want to kiss him and fall under his maddening spell and cast her future aside for just one night with him.

And she hated him for that. For the way he seemed to sense her weaknesses with such ease, toying with her, charming her, flirting with her. Leading her ever closer to ruin.

"You should get some rest now, Your Royal Highness," she said, summoning what remained of her ability to resist his potent allure as she rose. "The laudanum ought to do its work."

His eyelids appeared to be growing heavier as the medicine took effect once more.

"I wish you wouldn't go."

"I must," she forced herself to say, dipping into a curtsy.

"Eleanora?"

Her gaze tangled with his. "Yes, Your Royal Highness?"

A faint smile curved his lips as thick gold lashes swept lower over sky-blue eyes. "Thank you."

She took her leave from the room before she was further tempted to linger.