Chapter Forty

Eleanor—I'm here, mylove…

The whispered voice, which so often visited her dreams, had never disturbed her waking moments before.

Eleanor glanced up from her easel. But there was nobody there. The landscape stretched before her—the softly undulating sand dunes sloping toward the shore and beyond, the headland jutting out toward the sea.

"Eleanor."

Mr. Staines—Andrew—appeared before her.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked. "You've gone dreadfully pale. Perhaps it's too cold to sit out of doors."

"I'm warm enough, thank you, Mr. Staines."

"Andrew, please," he said. "There's no need to observe formalities when Mrs. Fulford's not here to remonstrate the world over its lack of decorum."

"I'm warm enough—Andrew. But, to alleviate your concerns, we can take tea inside when Harriet returns from her walk. You said yourself on Sunday that spring's come early this year, and I can see that for myself—the blooms are visible already."

"That's because the climate here is particularly temperate."

"And in your sermon last week, you said that fresh air was beneficial to one's spiritual wellbeing, even on a frosty morning."

He laughed, his eyes twinkling in the morning light. "Do you pay attention to every sermon I write?"

"Isn't that what parishioners are supposed to do? Listen to your sermons and apply the principles of the underlying message to their lives?"

"Most parishioners believe that an hour or two spent in church each week is sufficient to absolve them of their sins. They may hear what I have to say, but they fail to listen."

He stood beside her and placed a light hand on her shoulder.

"Something's distressing you, and it's not the cold."

She tilted her head up and forced a smile. Andrew may not be the one she dreamed of at night, but in the months since her arrival at Sandcombe, he'd proven to be a good friend.

What more could a woman ask for in a world ruled by men where she had little choice in life?

"I'm content with my life," she said.

"That's not what I asked. You shouldn't aspire to be merely content. I would see you blissfully happy, if it were in my power."

A flicker of desire shone in his eyes, and Eleanor's stomach twisted. She had no desire to see their friendship marred by a declaration of love that she must inevitably reject. But how could she articulate her feelings to such a dear, kind man, whose heart she had no wish to break?

Before she could reply, she heard the sound of scraping crockery, followed by a smash.

Was someone eavesdropping? Mrs. Fulford was such a busybody, always poking her nose in everybody's business—and she'd taken a marked dislike to Eleanor.

She rose to her feet, turned toward the noise, then froze.

Montague…

He was standing beside the cottage, a broken flowerpot at his feet. His hair had grown since she'd last seen him, framing his face in thick, dark waves. His eyes—his beautiful eyes—were as blue as they were in her dreams each night, when her body thrummed with life as she fought the urge to touch that secret place where the memory of pleasure still lingered…

Sweet Lord!Had he come to remonstrate her over the scandal? What of Papa—had he bullied him into revealing her whereabouts?

Nausea clawed at her. Would she have to flee once more, to avoid scandal?

"Eleanor? Who is this man?" Mr. Staines asked.

"M-Montague…" she whispered.

"Montague? You know him intimately?"

She winced at the anger in his voice. "H-he's the one I…" She shook her head. "Sweet heaven, I'm sorry!"

The world slipped sideways, and she closed her eyes and pitched forward, chasing oblivion.

But oblivion never came. Two strong arms caught her.

"Eleanor—I'm here."

She clung to him, focusing her mind on the gentle, whispered voice. Then she opened her eyes.

The arms holding her were not those of the vicar—but a stronger, more muscular pair, bedecked with a jacket of finely spun dark blue wool. She inhaled, and the familiar aroma assaulted her senses—the heady scent of wood, spices, and man. For a heartbeat, she clung to the memory of that glorious moment when he'd opened his soul to her as she had opened her body to him.

Then the memory faded, replaced by the harsh reality of the world. She tried to break free, but he held firm.

"Let me go!" she cried.

He freed her, but rather than the relief she'd expected, she felt nothing but loss. Cold air brushed against her neck, and she shivered.

"Eleanor—we should get you inside," Mr. Staines said.

Montague's gaze darkened, and he set his mouth into a firm line.

"Eleanor?" he said. "You're married?"

"N-no," she said. "This is Mr.—I mean, Reverend Staines. The vicar."

Did she imagine it, or had she caught a flicker of hurt in his eyes, followed by relief? Then he blinked, and the darkness returned—the enigmatic gaze that had captivated her before he even knew her name.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

His brow furrowed. "Isn't it obvious?"

Dear Lord, she'd been right. The scandal…

"Is that him?" Mr. Staines asked, taking her hand. "Eleanor, you're distressed. Shall I send him away?"

Montague lowered his gaze to where Mr. Staines had caught her hand, and a flash of fury sparked in his eyes.

"Who might you be?" he said, curling his lip in a sneer.

"I'm Eleanor's friend," Mr. Staines replied.

"An overly familiar friend, by the look of it."

"N-no, Montague," she said, freeing her hand. "Andrew—Mr. Staines—is a good friend. I have precious few friends in the world, and I won't have you casting aspersions on our friendship. If you're here to admonish me, please say what you came to say, then leave."

"Admonish you? Whatever for?"

"F-for disgracing your name!" she cried. "I never meant for anyone to see those pictures—I p-promised I'd show them to no one, and I kept my word. That's why I left—I couldn't bear the thought of being talked about, of you being talked about."

"So you ran away," he said. "Did nobody ever tell you that running away from your troubles is never the answer?"

"Is that why you're here—to lecture me on decorum?"

He shook his head. "No, Eleanor," he said, and her heart almost cracked at the fatigue in his voice. "Why would you think I'd want to admonish you, when you have suffered at the hands of others—including myself?"

"In that, at least, we find agreement," Mr. Staines said. "Eleanor, aren't you going to introduce this man?"

She glanced from Montague's face, creased with weariness and apprehension, to Mr. Staines's, with its gentle, calming expression tinged with an undercurrent of righteousness.

"Th-this man is Montague FitzRoy," she said. "Fifth Duke of Whitcombe."

"A duke?" Mr. Staines replied. "You never told me he was a duke!"

"Does it matter?"

"It only matters in that it makes your sister's sin against you more heinous."

"And in that, Reverend Staines," Montague said, "you'll find me agreeing with you. But I must ask how you come to know Eleanor's history."

"Because she told me, Your Grace," Mr. Staines said, with a sneer in his tone. "Eleanor's past has tormented her ever since she came to Sandcombe. Would you rather she suffered in silence?"

"I'd rather she didn't suffer at all!"

"Then perhaps you should return home, and plague her no more."

"I'll leave only if Eleanor wishes it," Montague said.

"And she does wish it. She said so herself."

"She said nothing of the sort, reverend. Must I silence you?"

"Try it, sir—and see where your attempts to cow me will leave you."

Their angry voices stabbed at Eleanor's senses, and a wave of pain rippled through her head.

"Please, stop—both of you!" she cried. "The last thing I want is for you to fight."

"What do you want, Eleanor?" Montague asked.

"I-I want it all to go away." She shook her head as the world tilted out of focus. Then the aroma of spices broke through the fog and a firm hand took her wrist, slipping her bracelet off before placing it in her hands. He curled her fingers over the bracelet, and she clung to the smooth metal as the fog in her mind dissipated.

"There," he said in a gentle whisper. "Is that better?"

Her vision cleared as she looked down to see Montague's hand over hers, guiding her fingers around the edge of the bracelet. She glanced up and met his gaze—the pure blue of his eyes sparkling with warmth as they creased into a smile.

"H-how did you know?" she asked.

"Do you not recall the day after I asked you to marry me, Eleanor? I saw how your maid tended to you when you became a little overwhelmed."

"And you remembered?"

He nodded. "Why would I not? I have committed to memory every waking moment that we shared together—each precious moment of pleasure that I have relived in my dreams, and each moment when your distress has wounded my heart."

"A-and you came here to tell me that?"

"No, my darling," he whispered. "I came here to bring you home."

A ripple of fear threaded through her, and she tried to pull her hand free, but he held firm.

"Unhand her, sir," Mr. Staines said. "You may outrank me, but that doesn't give you the right to force her to bend to your will."

"Is that right, Eleanor?" Montague asked. "Am I forcing you against your will?"

"I-I can't go home," she said. "Not after what happened. My father…"

"Your father loves you, Eleanor. And he misses you."

So, that was how he'd found her. By bullying Papa—as he was bullying her.

He released his grip and raised his hands in an act of supplication.

"I'll not force you to do anything if you don't wish it, Eleanor."

"But you forced my father to tell you where I was."

He shook his head. "I tried to persuade him, but your father stood firm." The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. "He gave me a shiner for my troubles."

She caught her breath at the thought of his pain, and lifted her hand to place it on his cheek, but his face was unmarked.

He placed his hand over hers. "It's faded now."

"When did you see Papa?"

"As soon as I heard you'd gone," he said. "A week after Christmas."

"That was months ago!"

"And you waited this long to come?" Mr. Staines said. "Hardly the act of a man in love."

"I didn't wait to do anything, you fool!" Montague said.

"Then what have you been doing?" Mr. Staines sneered. "Occupying yourself with doxies in London, no doubt. Why come here now to disturb Eleanor's peace?"

"If you must know, I've been looking all over the country," Montague said. "With the help of Lady Marlow…"

"Lavinia?" Eleanor said. "But Papa promised he'd tell nobody! Is there nobody in the world I can trust?"

"You can trust me," Mr. Staines said. "I won't ruin you then abandon you."

"I did no such thing!" Montague growled.

"Eleanor may have given herself to you freely, but she knew no better. You, on the other hand, knew exactly what you were doing. Then you abandoned her to the ridicule of others, no doubt to carry on with your profligate existence."

"Devil's toes—she told you?" Montague asked. "Did you hear how she screamed my name as I showed her what it was to make love?"

Mr. Staines flinched, his cheeks reddening.

"Aha—I see what's afoot, reverend," Montague said. "You want her for yourself."

Eleanor's heart sank as Mr. Staines's blush deepened.

"What I want is immaterial," he said, "but Eleanor came to Sandcombe with a broken heart and her world in turmoil. She's now at peace, and if you have not come here pure of heart, then you should leave, rather than shatter her peace again."

"You love her," Montague said.

Mr. Staines inhaled sharply. "Why would you ask such a question?"

"It wasn't a question."

"What if I do love her?" Mr. Staines cried. "At least I didn't take advantage of her for mere gratification. Are you here to break her heart again, because you didn't break it properly the first time?"

"No I'm not, you pompous arse!" Montague said. "I'm here because I cannot live without her!"

"If you can't live without her, why didn't you come in December when you discovered she'd gone?"

"Oh, you really are a numbskull, aren't you, reverend?" Montague replied. "Has a lifetime of pontificating and preaching addled your wits? I didn't know where she was! I tried everything—bribery, threats—but her father refused to say where she'd gone. So I've spent the past three months wandering up and down this godforsaken country, trying to find her!"

He wiped his brow and sighed, the anger fading from his expression, and moisture swelled in his eyes.

"Y-you've been looking for me?" Eleanor asked.

He nodded. "Lady Marlow gave me a list of all the places you visited as a child. Brighton, Wells, York… I spent a fortnight in the Lakes because she couldn't recall the name of the village where you'd stayed."

"Braithwaite," Eleanor said quietly.

"Yes, I know that now. The innkeeper recalled a Mr. Howard visiting with his family some ten years ago."

"You went to all that trouble—for me?"

He took her hands in his. "I'd go to the end of the world to find you." He gave a wry smile. "I almost did, but I decided to save that trip for last."

"The end of the world?"

"Lady Marlow said you'd accompanied your father to France when you were a child. She assured me you never accompanied him to the Far East, but I'd have sailed there if I had to."

"Why?"

"Do you not know, my Eleanor?" he whispered. "What else is a man in love to do when he cannot bear to be apart from the one woman who can make him whole?"

"But we agreed—"

"Speak no more of that," he said, his voice hoarse. "It pains me to recollect the arrangement I imposed on you. I was a selfish creature, thinking only of myself, and I convinced myself that you'd benefit as much from our arrangement as I. But what I didn't bargain for was how deeply I'd come to love you."

He drew her to him, and she surrendered to the need to feel his arms around her.

"Oh, my Eleanor—my darling," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I promised to teach you the ways of the world, to elevate your position in Society. But instead, you taught me more than I could ever teach you."

"Me?"

"Yes, my dear one," he said. "You taught me to view the world with different eyes—to appreciate that there are angels who walk among us who should not be fashioned into Society's ideal, but who should be celebrated and valued exactly as they are."

Eleanor heard a footstep, and she glanced to one side to see Mr. Staines retreating, his eyes filled with sorrow.

"Are you leaving, Mr. Staines?"

He nodded, then let out a sigh. "I love you, Eleanor," he said quietly. "I'd hoped that might be enough for the both of us. But…" He hesitated, then shook his head. "I believe there's one who loves you more. And while I want nothing more than to see him turn on his tail and leave you be—what I want is immaterial compared to what would make you happy. I cannot compete with him."

"Are you saying that you cannot compete with a duke?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I'm saying that I cannot compete with the man you love."

"I've never said—"

"You never had to say it, Eleanor. Had you said it outright, I'd have doubted your conviction, for we say what we want others to believe. It's only through what we don't say that we convey our true feelings. I've seen the longing in your eyes, and though I wished it was for me, I knew it was for another. For him."

Then he turned to Montague. "But let me say this, Whitcombe. You're the luckiest man on this earth to have secured her heart. I pray to the Almighty you'll take the best care of it. If you don't, I'll make a pact with the devil to hunt you down and deliver retribution, even if it condemns my soul for eternity."

Montague's lips twitched into a smile. "Your soul is safe, Mr. Staines, and though we can never be friends, I honor you for your praise and understanding of her."

Then he took Eleanor's hand and lifted it to his mouth. Her body tightened with need at the sensation of his lips against her skin.

"Eleanor, my darling," he whispered. "Would you make me the happiest of men and consent to become my wife?"

She tempered the flare of joy.

"I-I have no wish to be pitied, or wed out of a sense of obligation."

He shook his head. "My love—what will it take for me to convince you that I don't ask out of a sense of obligation? I ask because it is what I want. My hand is yours if you wish it. My heart, and my soul, will forever be yours."

"A-and you mean it?"

"I do." He lowered to his knees and placed his head on her stomach. "My beloved Eleanor," he said, "it pains me that you still doubt my intentions. I came here with one purpose—to make you mine. I returned to London to confess my love. I'll admit a spell of selfish joy in hearing that you'd not wed Colonel Reid—but my heart shattered when I heard about the pictures. If only I'd been there to defend you against your sister! I'd have declared to the world that you were the most delectable, beautiful, wonderful creature in the world, and that I had no shame in loving you in every manner possible."

His chest rose and fell in a sigh. "I want nothing more than to sweep you into my arms, take you back to the inn, and make love to you all afternoon. But…" He hesitated and caught his breath. "If you love another, I shan't stand in your way—not out of a wish to surrender, but out of a wish to place your happiness above my own."

"You would let me go?"

He tilted his head until their eyes met. "I want you to be free," he said. "I'll give you the freedom to do what you wish—to paint, to live your life how you see fit, in your own unique way, unbound by the constraints of Society. I can give that to you—and as my duchess, I can spend the rest of my days loving you. If you desire freedom from me, then I'll accept defeat and leave you in peace. But you shall, forever, be my model of what a good soul and a kind heart should be. I will return to Rosecombe knowing that while I cannot have my heart's desire, I can, at least, cherish the memory of having had the privilege of having you in my life, if only for a short while."

His words, and the raw, honest plea in his sapphire eyes, unlocked her heart. She blinked, and a tear splashed onto her cheek. He reached up to wipe it away.

"Shed no tears for me, my love."

"Can I not shed tears of joy?"

Her heart swelled at the raw hope in his eyes.

"Oh, Eleanor!" he cried. "Am I to be the most fortunate of men?"

"I-I wouldn't say fortunate," she said, "but…"

"And now, I must admonish you."

Her stomach curled in apprehension as he rose to his feet. He cupped her face and dipped his head until their mouths almost met.

"I would not have you believe that I am not blessed to have secured your affections," he said. "The world may not value you, but I do. There are many who love you—Lady Marlow was most distraught that you'd gone—but, most of all, you must love yourself for who you are. I would have you see yourself through my eyes. And if you consent to become my wife, I shall spend the rest of my life showing you."

Her heart soared at his words—spoken with such love.

"Then," she whispered, "I consent."

For a moment, he remained still. His eyes widened, at first in disbelief—then the disbelief turned into pure, unbridled joy. He dipped his head and claimed her mouth, sliding his lips against hers in a hungry kiss. A fizz of need threaded through her as she surrendered, parting her lips in invitation. He slipped his tongue inside, a groan of need reverberating throughout his body.

He pulled her close, and she drew in a sharp breath at the wicked pulse of need deep within her center as she felt his hard length against her stomach.

Sweet heaven!Her body ignited with an instinct born of need—the need to have him inside her. He shifted against her, moving his hips, and she caught the faint, but unmistakable, scent in her nostrils.

The scent of pure male desire—that called to her on a visceral level.

"Yes," he whispered, his voice a low growl. "Oh, yes…"

"Ahem."

The voice broke the spell, and she froze, drawing in a deep breath to dissipate the fog of pure animal lust.

Mr. Staines stood at the edge of the garden, his cheeks flaming red.

"While I consider it a privilege to have witnessed the reunion of two people so obviously in love," he said, "I fear I'll have to do much to reconcile myself with the Almighty if I witness any further…"

He made a random gesture toward them, and Eleanor felt her cheeks warming.

"Mr. Staines, f-forgive me—what must you think?"

He grinned. "That the Duke of Whitcombe is one very lucky devil." He approached them and offered his hand to Montague, who stared at it. "Permit me to be the first to congratulate you on what I believe to be your genuine engagement. Eleanor—I wish you all the happiness in the world, for none deserve it as much as you."

Montague took the proffered hand. "In that, I agree with you, Staines. I only hope you'll forgive me in taking this glorious creature away."

"Make her happy, and you'll need no forgiveness."

The two men shook hands, and a spike of pain tempered Eleanor's joy on seeing the sorrow in the vicar's eyes. Then he gave her a bright smile, bowed, and made his way toward the gate, pausing to pat the chestnut horse on the nose before he set off along the lane and disappeared.

"Poor man," she whispered.

"I should hate him for being a rival for your affections," Montague said. "But he wished us well."

"He's a good man," she said. "But I didn't love him—and a marriage without love is not to be borne."

"A year ago I'd have disagreed with you," Montague said. "But you taught me what it was like to love—with my heart, as well as my body."

He dipped his head and captured her mouth in another kiss. The flare of need curled in her belly once more, and she drew in a sharp breath. His eyes darkened with desire, and a wicked idea formed in her mind—too wanton to voice. But hadn't Montague taught her that she had the power to secure her happiness?

"Sh-shall we retire inside?" she asked. "Harriet is not due back for some time. We'll have the cottage to ourselves."

"Why, Miss Howard, do you intend to have your wicked way with me?"

Her cheeks warmed, and she lowered her gaze. He caught her chin and tilted her head up.

"No, my love," he said. "You must never hide from me again. I want nothing more than to make love to you all day."

"Montague!"

"Oh yes," he growled. "I've missed hearing my name on your lips. I intend to make up for lost time this afternoon, and hear you cry my name as you come apart at my touch. Oh, Eleanor—you cannot even begin to imagine how much I love you. But, for the remainder of this day, I shall refrain from telling you how much."

"Oh?"

"Instead, my love, I'll show you. Thoroughly, wantonly, and completely."

He took her hand, and she led him into the cottage. Almost as soon as she closed the door, she found herself swept up into his arms.

"Montague, shouldn't we wait until we're married?"

"Woman—do you seek to prolong my torment?"

"N-no—I just thought…"

"A man in love doesn't think," he said. "He does."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Hmmm," he said. "I like this bold, independent Eleanor. Is she as bold in the bedchamber, I wonder?"

In answer, she gave him a saucy smile and flicked her tongue out, running it along her top lip. His eyes flared with raw, primal need, and he gave a low growl—the call of a savage beast, ready to claim his mate.

Then he carried her upstairs, where pleasure awaited.