Читать книгу The Notorious Marriage - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 7

December 1813

When Kit Mostyn stepped through the doors of Almacks Assembly Rooms that night, it was difficult to tell who was the more surprised, the chaperones of the hopeful débutantes assembled there, or Kit himself. Certainly Almacks was not a place where Kit normally sought entertainment, and this evening he had struggled rather incredulously with the compulsion that drove him there. It, or rather she, had so strong a hold on him that he could not resist, and being a man who chose not to struggle against fate, he resolved to meet his with a certain equanimity.

He saw her as soon as he entered the room. Miss Eleanor Trevithick, daughter of the late Viscount Trevithick and younger sister to the current Earl. She was dancing with an elderly roué, Lord Kemble, if Kit did not miss his guess, and just the sight of the two of them together made his temper soar dangerously. As he sought to keep a grip on it he was forced to acknowledge that it mattered little who was partnering Eleanor—the fact that it was someone other than himself was all that counted.

Slender, sweet and impossibly innocent, Eleanor Trevithick was the most demure of débutantes, yet there had been something between them from the beginning, a startling attraction that both she and Kit recognised—and knew they had to ignore. It had caught Kit by surprise, and although they had never spoken of it, he instinctively knew that the strength of the attraction both frightened and fascinated Eleanor. As for himself, he had cynically dismissed his feelings at first—a man of his age and considerable experience with the opposite sex was hardly likely to fall in love with an innocent in her first Season. The feelings she stirred in him could be no more than desire—admittedly strong, undeniably surprising, but no doubt of short duration.

He had been wrong. Kit had wanted Eleanor Trevithick for the whole of the past year, ever since they had shared an illicit dance at her eighteenth birthday ball, and his desire showed no sign of waning. Indeed the reverse was true. He was very close to admitting now that he loved her, but he did not wish to be that honest with himself at the moment. It would only undermine him still further. One could not always have what one wanted, and he could not have Eleanor.

Kit, whose title and position would have made him a more than acceptable suitor for any number of young ladies, was the one man whose addresses could never be welcomed by Eleanor’s family. There was a feud between the Trevithick and Mostyn families that went back hundreds of years, and the Dowager Viscountess, Eleanor’s mother, would cut him dead whenever she saw him. The fact that his cousin Beth was currently engaged in a dispute with the current Earl of Trevithick over the ownership of part of his estate only made matters worse. Kit had had no intention of being drawn any further into the Mostyn and Trevithick feud. Nor was he hanging out for a wife anyway. At the moment he had other responsibilities.

Even so…

He approached Eleanor as soon as he was able, cutting out the young Viscount who had thought this set of country dances belonged to him. Kit knew that all eyes were upon them, knew that Lady Trevithick was swelling like a turkey-cock in a temper and that her rout chair looked set fair to break under the weight. He ignored her, ignored the speculative looks of the other chaperones and the envious, spiteful glances of some of the débutantes, and smiled down into Eleanor’s eyes.

‘Miss Trevithick…It is a great pleasure to see you tonight.’

Eleanor met his gaze listlessly for a brief second. She did not smile. There was none of her usual vivacity in those dark Trevithick eyes. She avoided his gaze, looking over his shoulder to where her mother and Lord Kemble sat huddled at the side of the floor.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Kit frowned slightly. It was not that he expected her to show her partiality for him, for Eleanor was far too well-bred to make a display of her feelings in public. He was perceptive enough, however, to see that there was something wrong—something dreadfully wrong. Eleanor’s face was pale and pinched, all light quenched. She steadfastly refused to look at him.

Kit tightened his grip on her hands. ‘Eleanor…’ he said urgently.

She looked up. For a fleeting second, Kit saw all the misery and hopeless longing reflected in her eyes and his heart skipped a beat. Then her lashes came down, veiling her expression.

‘I believe you must wish me happy, my lord,’ she said, softly but clearly. ‘I am betrothed to Lord Kemble.’

‘No!’ The word was out of his mouth before Kit could help himself. His grip tightened murderously on her hands. He saw her wince, and had to force himself to let her go. ‘No,’ he said again, very politely. ‘That cannot be so.’

‘I assure you that it is.’ Eleanor’s dark lashes flickered again. ‘The notice will be in the Morning Post tomorrow. It is all arranged.’

‘It cannot be.’

For a moment her eyes searched his face and this time there was entreaty there. ‘Why not? It is not as though you can offer me an alternative, my lord!’

They had been speaking in edged whispers until that point, but now Eleanor’s voice rose as though she could not control her anguish. She bit her lip, a wave of colour coming into her pale face then receding to leave her even paler.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, regaining a faltering control. ‘I should not have said that.’

Kit’s heart turned over. He could see the hopelessness beneath her fragile dignity and it touched him deeply. He felt a rush of protective desire, stronger than anything he had ever experienced before.

‘If I could help you—’

‘Eleanor!’ Lord Kemble’s unctuous voice cut across his words. ‘I believe that this next is my waltz.’

He bowed to Kit, his hooded gaze watchful. ‘Your servant, Mostyn. Ain’t you going to congratulate me? This little honey-pot is all mine!’

Kit’s own bow was so slight as to be barely there. ‘I pray that you will not take your good fortune for granted, Kemble. Miss Trevithick…’ He smiled at Eleanor. ‘I must bid you good night.’

He watched as Kemble took Eleanor away. The man oozed a self-satisfied lasciviousness that was deeply offensive. The thought of Eleanor’s slight figure crushed beneath him, subject to his lusts, was almost too much for Kit to stand. He wanted to call the man out and put a bullet through him. In fact he was not sure if he would bother with the formality of calling him out, just shoot him where he stood. Or he could take Kemble’s neck-cloth and use it to strangle him…

He saw Eleanor smile stiffly at her betrothed as Kemble took her in his arms for the waltz. Kit turned away and threaded his way to the door, trying to keep his expression impassive as he passed through the knots of chattering débutantes. The cold night air helped to clear his anger a little. He had to think, had to decide what to do. If only it were not so damnably complicated…By the time he had reached the house in Upper Grosvenor Street his anger had once again been subdued to cool reason but he was no clearer on his course of action. All he knew was that Eleanor Trevithick was his and as such could never be permitted to marry Lord Kemble.

It was later—much later—when the butler came to him to tell him that there was a young lady on the doorstep who was begging to speak with him. By that time Kit had consumed half a bottle of brandy and he simply laughed.

‘I don’t think that would be a particularly good idea, would it, Carrick?’ He murmured. ‘In the first instance I am three parts cut and in the second, young ladies…’ he stressed the words ‘…are presumably tucked up in bed…alone…at this time of night, not walking the streets of London!’

Carrick, who was enough of a butler of the world to know that this was true, nevertheless stood his ground.

‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but this is very definitely a lady. A young lady, my lord, and in considerable distress…’

Kit sighed with irritation. His first thought—that Eleanor Trevithick had come to seek him out—had been quickly dismissed as wishful thinking. Eleanor was so very proper, so entirely well brought up, that she never put a foot wrong. Certainly she would not even think of entering a gentleman’s house alone, especially not in the middle of the night. Respectable young ladies simply did not behave in such a way.

Therefore it must be another sort of lady. An enterprising Cyprian, perhaps, or even a débutante with fewer scruples than Eleanor, intent on catching him. Kit had learned to be cynical. Several young ladies had twisted their ankles outside the house in Upper Grosvenor Street in the last week or two. He had even found a girl in the drawing-room one evening and she had sworn that she had simply mistaken the house for that of a friend. When Kit’s housekeeper had ushered her off the premises she had been distinctly annoyed.

Kit’s gaze swept around the firelit study, taking in the tumbled pile of papers on the desk, the empty bottle of brandy and the glass of the same amber liquid that stood by his armchair. To entertain a lady here would be the greatest folly. Besides, he had other preoccupations that night, plans that needed serious consideration. Plans that had suffered because of his preoccupation with Eleanor. He shook his head.

‘I am sorry, Carrick, but you must turn this so-called young lady away. I am certain that it can only be a trap and I am scarce going to walk straight into it…’

The words had barely left his lips when he heard the sound of running feet on the hall tiles and the scandalised voice of one of the footmen:

‘Pardon, madam, but you cannot go in there…’

Both Kit and the butler swung round towards the doorway.

‘Kit!’

Kit smothered a curse. He turned to the butler. ‘Very well, Carrick, you may leave us.’

Carrick inclined his head. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said expressionlessly. He went out and closed the door, softly but firmly, behind him.

‘I know I shouldn’t be here!’ Eleanor said defiantly, immediately the door had closed and they were alone. She was wearing a black velvet cloak over the same dress of pale white gold she had worn earlier in the evening. It was the demure, expensive raiment of the débutante. Her dark brown eyes, huge in her elfin face, were fixed on him. Her hair had come out of it’s chignon and rich, chestnut brown curls tumbled about her shoulders, spilling over the cloak and down her back. She looked delectable—and terrified. Kit saw her lock her fingers together tightly to still their trembling. He deliberately looked away from her.

‘You are correct. You should not be here. It is madness.’ Kit spoke curtly to mask a variety of emotions. He came towards her, keeping his hands very firmly in his pockets. ‘Miss Trevithick, I suggest that for the sake of your reputation you should turn around and go directly home—’

Eleanor shook her head.

‘Kit, I cannot! You must help me! I cannot bear to be married off to Kemble! That disgusting old man—why, he speaks of nothing but his horses and his gaming, and wheezes and snores his way through every play and concert we have ever attended! And then he paws at me in the most revolting manner imaginable!’

Kit took a deep breath, maintaining a scrupulous distance away from her. Miss Eleanor Trevithick, temptation personified. His mind was telling him to show her the door and his body was telling him to take her in his arms.

‘The correct thing to do in this situation is to apply to your brother,’ he heard himself say sternly. ‘He is the head of the family and could easily prevent such a match…’

‘You know that Marcus is away in Devon, and Justin too!’ Kit saw tears squeeze from the corner of Eleanor’s eyes and she rubbed them impatiently away with her fingers. ‘Mama means to marry me off before they return—she is hot for the match! And I have no one to apply to for help! Please, Kit—’ she broke off. ‘I thought when we spoke earlier that you might save me…’ Her gaze touched his face and moved away at what it saw there. ‘Perhaps I was wrong…’

‘You were.’ Again, Kit ruthlessly repressed the urge to take her in his arms. He took a sharp turn away from her and moved over to the fireplace, leaning against the marble chimney-breast. ‘Your mama cannot force the match, Eleanor, and certainly not before Trevithick returns—’

‘Kemble has a special licence!’ Eleanor burst out. ‘Oh Kit…’ she spread her hands in a pleading gesture and Kit felt himself flinch inside ‘…you do not understand! I was so sure that you would help me…’

Kit took a deep breath. Every instinct that he possessed was urging him to crush her to him, promise her that he would look after her, swear that all would be well. Yet in the morning she might well regret the whole escapade. In the cold light of day she might realise that she had ruined herself—and the only way to save her from that was to make her turn round now and go home, before anyone was the wiser. Besides, even had there not been such a violent feud between their families, Kit knew he was in no position to marry. He had other commitments, matters that might take him away at any moment. He was not free…

‘There is no need for such drama,’ Kit said, powerless to prevent the harsh tone of his voice, cursing himself that he could not help her. ‘In the morning everything will seem better and you will realise that the situation is far from desperate…’

He saw Eleanor’s chin come up as she heard the repudiation in his words. She squared her shoulders. Her dark eyes flashed.

‘Very well, Lord Mostyn. I see that I misunderstood you! I will leave now! There is no need to say any more!’

Oddly, Kit found that her pride angered him, got under his defences. He had been able to guard himself against her distress—only just, but he had managed it by telling himself that he simply had to withstand her for her good as well as his own. He would have to deal with his own feelings of helplessness and self-disgust—he did not intend to explain to Eleanor. In the cool light of day he might think of a solution, find a way to help her. But now her danger was intense and she did not even appear to understand that…

She was drawing on her cloak, preparing to leave and looking at him with a mixture of desperation and contempt in her eyes that provoked him beyond reason.

‘I thought you a gentleman,’ she said, softly but with biting sarcasm, ‘but it seems I was mistaken…’

Kit tried to clamp down on his frustration. ‘It is precisely because I am a gentleman that I am concerned for your reputation, Eleanor—’

She made a little noise indicative of her disgust. Kit straightened up and came across to her. He told himself that it would do no harm to make her think about what she was doing, frighten her a little so that she would never do it again. The thought of Eleanor throwing herself on someone else’s mercy in this trusting and foolish fashion made his anger burn almost out of control.

She was looking down her nose at him as though she expected him to hold the door open for her, as though he were some kind of damned butler. Instead, Kit leant one hand against the door panels and leaned over her. Now there was a flash of puzzlement in her eyes, puzzlement mixed with something more potent. Her lashes flickered down, veiling her expression.

‘Excuse me, Lord Mostyn,’ her voice trembled very slightly. ‘As you have pointed out to me, I should be leaving now…’

‘What exactly did you expect of me tonight, Eleanor?’ Kit’s tone was rough.

She looked up again. Her eyes were very dark brown sprinkled with gold and framed by thick black lashes that the blonde débutantes would give half their fortunes to possess. Her gaze was candid. She had more courage than he had thought and he admired her for it.

‘I thought that you would agree to marry me,’ she said.

Kit started to smile, despite himself. ‘Is that a proposal, Miss Trevithick?’

Eleanor glared. She might be young but she had all the Trevithick pride. Her chin came up and she gave him a haughty glance.

‘I think you flatter yourself, Lord Mostyn! The offer is withdrawn!’

Kit laughed. ‘A little late for that, Miss Trevithick! You are alone with me in my house—’

‘Your cousin’s house—’

‘A fine distinction! The material point is that neither my cousin nor my sister is here to give you countenance! You are alone with me—’

‘That situation can be addressed immediately!’ Eleanor said, in arctic tone, ‘if you will stand aside, my lord!’

Kit shrugged. ‘But I may have changed my mind!’

Eleanor’s shrug was a perfect echo of his own. ‘Too late, alas, my lord!’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘I should have known better than to approach a gentleman in his cups! I see that everything they say about you is true!’

Kit turned so that his shoulders were against the door panels. He folded his arms and looked at her. Her face was flushed, her delectable mouth set in a tight line. He had noticed her mouth before; it was pink and soft and made for smiling, not for disapproval. Or made for kissing…Kit shifted a little.

‘And what do they say, Miss Trevithick?’

‘Why, that you are a rogue and a scoundrel!’ Eleanor’s gaze swept from his face to the brandy bottle and back again with contempt. ‘There are those who say that your business dealings are none too scrupulous and your morals even less so!’

Kit’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yet you are still here?’ he said softly.

He saw Eleanor’s fingers clench tightly on her reticule. ‘I thought…’ Her voice faltered. ‘I did not truly believe it of you…’ Their eyes met. Kit could see the entreaty in hers; she was begging him to live up to her good opinion, prove himself a gentleman. It made him feel sick with self-loathing that he could not help her.

‘I thought that you liked me,’ she finished softly.

Kit caught his breath. Liking was far too pale a word to describe the feelings he had for her. He felt his self-control slip perilously.

‘Eleanor, I more than like you, but there are reasons—’ he began, only to break off as she made a slight gesture and moved away.

‘I am sure that there always are, my lord. Forgive my importunity and pray let me go now.’

Kit opened the study door for her with immaculate politeness. The hall was dark and empty—one stand of candles cast shadows across the tiled floor. The long case clock struck one.

Eleanor was halfway through the door when Kit put his hand on her arm.

‘Eleanor, I cannot let you go like this. I truly wish I could help you, but—’

‘Don’t!’ She shook him off with sudden, shocking violence. He saw the candlelight shimmer on the tears in her eyes, before she dashed them away. ‘Do not try to excuse your behaviour, Lord Mostyn! You are not what I thought you and I made a mistake in coming here. That is all!’

Kit could smell her scent, the softest of rose fragrance mingled with nursery soap. Her innocence hit him like a blow in the stomach; her desirability dried his mouth.

‘It is not all,’ Kit said roughly, knowing he should agree, let it go, let her go. ‘Eleanor, you know I care for you…’

She looked him straight in the eye. ‘I thought you wanted me,’ she said.

Kit was never be sure which of them had moved first but the next minute she was in his arms, her slender body pressed close to his, her mouth beneath his own. Her lips parted slightly and he took ruthless advantage, touching his tongue to hers, deepening the kiss when her instinctive gasp offered him the opportunity. There was a moment when he felt her resist and he was about to pull back, but before his mind had caught up with his body she had softened, melted against him, pliant in his arms. He covered her mouth with his again, drinking deep, until she was as breathless as he. Desire washed through him, hot and sweet. He thrust one hand into her tousled hair, scattering the pins, feeling the silky softness against his fingers. He had so wanted to do that…His other arm was about her waist, the velvet of her cloak slippery beneath his hand. He pushed it aside so that he could hold her closer still, feel the warmth of her body. The cloak fell to the ground with a soft swish of velvet.

‘Eleanor,’ he said again, though this time it came out as a whisper. He watched as she opened her eyes. They were so dark they were almost black, cloudy, bemused with passion. Her mouth, bee-stung with kisses, curved into a smile.

Kit held on to the last rags of his self-control. ‘Eleanor, if you are not certain…’

The smile lit her eyes. She raised one hand to Kit’s cheek and he almost flinched beneath the touch, so sharp was his desire for her.

‘I am certain,’ she said.

And after that there were no more words between them for a long time.

Kit Mostyn woke up with a headache. It was certainly not brandy-induced but it was, without a doubt, the worst headache that he had experienced in a very long time. The room was moving around him, rising and falling with a sickening regularity that wrenched a groan from him before he could help himself.

‘How are you, old chap?’ a voice asked, solicitously. ‘Been out cold for almost two days, y’know—unnecessary force, if you ask me…’

Kit rested his arm across his eyes and tried not to be sick. Then he tried to think, but the effort was monstrously difficult. His head felt as though it were two sizes too large and stuffed with paper into the bargain. And there was something troubling him, a memory at the edge of his mind…

‘Eleanor!’ He sat up bolt upright, and then sank back with a groan.

‘Steady, old fellow,’ the same voice said. ‘No cause for alarm.’

Kit opened his eyes and surveyed his companion with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

‘Hello, Harry. What the devil are you doing here?’

Captain Henry Luttrell grinned. ‘That’s the spirit! Knew you’d feel more the thing shortly!’

Kit sat up again, gingerly this time. The room was still swaying, but he realised that that was because he was on a ship. It was a pleasant cabin, well appointed, comfortable. The HMS Gresham, out of Southampton, just as arranged. Something had gone spectacularly wrong. He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

‘Harry. Where are we?’

Henry Luttrell’s handsome face creased into a slight frown. ‘Two days out, on the way to Ireland. I thought you knew…’

Kit shook his head slowly. ‘I went to the meet at the Feathers, but it was to pass a message to Castlereagh that I could not go…’

Now it was Luttrell’s turn to shake his head. ‘Don’t you remember, Kit? It was agreed to stage it all—the fight, the press gang…’

Kit looked at him. ‘I don’t remember a thing. What happened?’

Luttrell shifted against the bulkhead. ‘You walked in, Benson hit you, we carted you off here…It was all arranged…’

Kit groaned again. ‘Harry, I went there to tell Benson it was all off…’

‘You never got the chance, old chap,’ Luttrell pointed out. ‘Benson hit you first, no questions asked.’

Kit rubbed his head ruefully. ‘Yes, I can tell! And yes, I do remember we had agreed to stage it that way, but…devil take it, what about Nell! I only got married the day before…’

Luttrell’s eyebrows shot up into his hair. ‘Married! Thought you were keeping away from the petticoats, Kit!’

‘Well of course I was, but it just…happened!’ Kit said furiously. His head was aching more than ever now. ‘I married Eleanor the day before I went to the meet—that was why I was going to tell Benson I couldn’t make this trip!’ He put his head in his hands. ‘For God’s sake, Harry, do you hear me? I’ve just got married! I’ve left my bride all alone with no idea where I am…’

Luttrell put a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘Deuced bad luck, old fellow, but how was Benson to know? Besides, that was three days ago now…’

Kit raised his head and stared at him, his eyes wild. ‘Eleanor’s been alone with no word for three days now? Hell and the devil…’

‘You can send word when we get to Dublin,’ Luttrell suggested. ‘Besides, we’ll only be gone a few weeks, Kit. All over before you know it and no harm done. Surely your bride will understand when you explain…’

Kit shook his head, but he did not reply. There were two distinct sorts of sickness, he discovered. He had never been a good sailor but could deal with seasickness. It was purely physical. But the second…His heart ached. He remembered Eleanor, smiling at him and begging him prettily not to be gone too long…He groaned aloud. Three days ago!

Luttrell was getting to his feet. ‘I’ll bring you some hot water and something to drink,’ he said. ‘There’s food, too, if you feel up to it, though you still look a bit green, old fellow…’

Kit gave him a half-smile. ‘My thanks, Harry. Much appreciated. Is there pen and paper here?’

Luttrell gestured towards the desk. ‘Over there.’ He went out.

Kit stood up and stretched. He felt bruised all over. It must have been a hell of a blow to the head, but then he had always suspected that Benson did not like him. For all that they had worked together on various operations, he had never quite trusted the other man. Harry was a different matter, of course, dashing, devil may care, but utterly trustworthy. A true friend. If anyone could help him out of this mess…

Kit sat down at the writing desk and drew the paper slowly towards him. This was probably not the best time to write to Eleanor, when his head felt the size of a stuffed marrow, but he had to try. He would never forgive himself otherwise. Probably he would never forgive himself anyway and as for asking her pardon…Kit grimaced, momentarily wishing for a return to oblivion. It was a true nightmare and it had only just begun.