Chapter Thirteen

Each time Eleanor heard a footstep outside, her heart threatened to burst in her chest. The slightest sound set her pulse racing—when a messenger arrived with a letter for Papa earlier, she'd almost fainted as her vision blurred and her hearing muffled, as if she were underwater.

She slipped off her bracelet and twirled it around her forefingers, focusing on the smooth, regular movement, and, at length, the world shifted back into focus.

"Sit up straight, Eleanor dearest," Mother said, "and stop fiddling with that thing. You must behave properly when the duke arrives."

Eleanor dearest? Had securing the hand of a duke rendered her worthy of Mother's affection at last?

Juliette sat beside Mother, a sour expression on her face. "Perhaps he made a mistake last night," she said. "I'll wager he won't come."

"That's enough, Juliette!" Mother snapped, swatting Eleanor's sister with her fan. "Your sister's triumph is cause for celebration. Of course he'll come. But we must ensure your sister does not disgrace herself. Her peculiarities, which we endure in silence at home, will be subject to much scrutiny now she's betrothed. You must help her, Juliette."

Why did Mother always speak as if Eleanor was either absent or lacking in understanding?

"I am in the room, Mother," Eleanor said. "I can speak for myself."

She flinched as Mother turned her gaze on her, but before any admonishment came, she heard a loud knock in the distance.

"He's here!" Mother cried.

Footsteps approached, then the parlor door opened to reveal a footman. Standing behind him was…

Eleanor's breath caught as she caught sight of him.

My fiancé.

She could hardly bring herself even to think the words. Standing in the doorway, filling it with his powerful frame, he looked even more majestic than he had last night, surrounded by his own kind. His jacket clung to his frame as if it were a second skin. His breeches, a rich cream color, seemed to caress the muscles of his thighs, and his boots gleamed in the morning light, polished to perfection, most likely, by his valet until he could see his face in them. His hair, a little longer than might be considered respectable, formed thick, dark waves that seemed to absorb the light. And his eyes, the color of a deep summer sky, looked first at Mother, then Juliette, until, finally, settling on her.

His nostrils flared and he parted his lips, flicking the tip of his tongue out to moisten them.

Sweet heaven!She drew in a sharp breath to suppress a cry of need.

The footman ushered him in. "His Grace, the Duke of Whitcombe."

Whitcombe bowed to Eleanor's mother. "Lady Howard, a pleasure," he said, though his tone implied it was anything but.

Eleanor's mother rose to her feet, and Juliette followed suit. "Your Grace." Mother dipped into a curtsey. "Welcome to our humble home. I cannot tell you what an honor it is."

He arched an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth lifted a little—not a smile, but a sign of wry amusement.

"Eleanor!" Mother snapped. "Where are your manners?"

Her cheeks flaming, Eleanor rose, then curtseyed and almost lost her balance.

The amusement in his eyes turned to disdain. What must he think of her?

"Forgive my daughter, Your Grace," Mother said. "She—"

He raised his hand, curtailing her apology. "There's nothing to forgive, Lady Howard. I came to see your daughter—not to critique her ability to curtsey."

"You're most kind, Your Grace," Mother said. "Is he not kind, Eleanor?"

Eleanor struggled to contain the tremors in her body, but managed a passable "Yes, Mother" in response. Her mother cast a sharp glance in her direction, while Juliette's mouth curled into a sly smile.

"May I beg an audience with your daughter?" he continued. "After all, that's why I'm here."

There was no mistaking the irritation in his tone. Mother curtseyed, deeper than before, then held out her hand. "Juliette, my dear, come with me." Then she fixed her gaze on Eleanor. "Remember what I told you."

"Yes, Mother."

Her mother held out her hand and stared expectantly at the duke. He hesitated for a heartbeat, took it, and withdrew almost immediately. Then Mother exited the parlor, Juliette in her wake.

For a moment, Whitcombe remained standing. Then he gestured to the two-seater sofa beside the window.

"May I sit?"

Shame threatened to engulf her. How could she leave him standing? No wonder Mother had felt the need to tell her to behave.

"O-of course," she replied. "Shall I ring the bell for tea?"

"There's something I wish to say first, Miss Howard."

He took a seat and gestured to the space beside him. She sat, and the breath caught in her throat at his closeness. Their legs touched, and she could feel his body heat through the fabric of her gown. Then he reached for her hand and took it. A fizz of need ignited in her center, and she curled her fingers around his.

"I must thank you, Miss Howard," he said.

She glanced up. "For what?"

"For being so obliging last night."

Obliging? Hardly the words of a man in love.

"I was in a bit of a fix, you see," he continued. "My mother can be relentless, and I saw no other way to silence her. Of course, I had no wish to inconvenience you, but I trust you'll understand my motives."

"Inconvenience me?" Eleanor shook her head. "I-I don't understand—why would an offer of marriage be an inconvenience?"

"Oh, heavens!" He let out a laugh and withdrew his hand. "Devil's toes! Surely you didn't believe my proposal to be genuine?"

Icy fingers curled around her insides, and she winced as she looked into his eyes. Rather than the love she'd hoped for, she saw mirth and disdain.

"Your Grace, I—" She broke off, her throat tightening.

"I have no intention of marrying," he said.

"Then why…"

"Why did I ask you? I chose the woman everyone least expected me to approach. Had I asked any other young woman in the room, she'd have believed me to be serious in my offer."

His earlier laughter filled her mind until her head pulsed with it. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to fight the humiliation. But it threatened to overwhelm her.

He was right—they were all right.

"You chose for your own amusement—to ridicule me?"

Hot tears stung her eyes, and she looked away, unwilling to reveal her pain.

A warm hand took hers, only this time his touch was gentle.

He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. Then a hand touched her cheek, gently coaxing her to turn her head toward him. She lifted her gaze to see him looking directly at her, the cold blue of his eyes having softened to the color of a warm ocean.

"Forgive me, Miss Howard," he said. "It wasn't my intention to lead you to believe I felt anything for you other than…"

He made a random gesture with his free hand, as if searching for the right word.

"Other than nothing?"

"I fear I have no heart," he said.

"At least, not for me."

To his credit, he colored. Then he took a stray tendril of her hair and brushed it behind her ear, running his fingertips along the skin of her neck.

"I would never have made such a public offer for you had I thought you so lacking in understanding as to have believed it."

She blinked, and a tear splashed onto her cheek. Could her humiliation get any worse?

He sighed, and she shivered as his warm breath caressed her face. His proximity threatened to overwhelm her.

"I'm failing spectacularly at this," he said. "But I can say that, in all honesty, I didn't intend to cause you pain, and I deeply regret that I have."

"I-I'm in no pain," she said, but his brow furrowed and he shook his head.

"I can see your pain, Miss Howard," he said. "But let me atone for my behavior. Ask me anything, and if it's within my power, I'll grant it."

Her heart almost tore in two at the expression in his eyes, and for the first time, she saw genuine kindness, and a selfless wish to ease her pain. But, if anything, that was worse.

She bit her lip to suppress a sob, and another tear rolled down her face.

"Don't be kind," she said. "That last thing I want is your kindness."

His frown deepened. "Why not?"

"Because after today you'll never speak to me again—and I could better withstand that if I believed you to be an unkind man."

He sighed. "I've behaved abominably," he said. "Perhaps I should send for your mother."

"No!" she cried. His eyes widened at her outburst, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Please—don't."

What would Mother say when she learned the truth? The very notion was unbearable.

"Then let us have tea," he said. "I wouldn't blame you for evicting me, but I'm unwilling to leave you alone while you're distressed. Perhaps we can discuss how I might make amends."

"Very well," Eleanor said. "I—I'll find someone and ask them to bring some tea."

She rose and slipped through the door. As soon as she closed it behind her, the tide of sorrow she'd kept at bay burst. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she let out a low cry.

What a fool she'd been—a witless fool—to think he'd fallen in love with her! How everyone would laugh when they discovered the truth. How disappointed Papa would be. As for Mother and Juliette—the merest thought of their reaction was too much to endure.

She glanced at the top of the staircase. How easy it would be to flee down the stairs and outside, never to return!

"Left your betrothed alone?" a female voice said. "Not very civil. Or did he flee as soon as you opened your mouth?"

Eleanor's sister stood before her.

"Leave me be, Juliette," Eleanor said.

"I ask out of concern for your welfare."

"You've only ever been concerned about yourself."

"I'm concerned for the family, Eleanor," Juliette retorted. "If you've made a fool of us, it damages our reputation. Papa will never be granted a baronetcy if you're the laughingstock of London!"

"In what way am I the laughingstock of London?"

"Don't be a simpleton!" Juliette cried. "Everyone knows Whitcombe would only have asked you to marry him for a jape. I've seen you—mooning over him with your tongue hanging out like a lovesick puppy. But he despises you! I overheard him describe you to his mother last night as the ugliest girl in the room!"

"You lie!" Eleanor cried.

"Ask Bella if you don't believe me. Ask the duke's mother. I told Mama his offer of marriage was nothing but a joke, but she didn't believe me. I suppose I'll have to be the one to tell her the duke was just indulging in a little sport—or shall you?"

"Neither of you shall," a deep male voice said.

Eleanor turned and let out a cry. The Duke of Whitcombe stood in the hallway.

She'd been wrong—her humiliation could get worse, and it just had.

It was plain by his expression that he'd heard every word.