Chapter 8
The house was quiet as Eleanor stepped inside. She’d floated home on a cloud of thrumming satisfaction, never once thinking about how her husband would react when she arrived. As she paused in the eerily quiet foyer, she wondered if perhaps her luck had run out.
Not even the butler waited for her, which was odd indeed. The heavenly glow that had enveloped her since seeing James faded and a shiver of unease raised the fine hairs on her neck. Had someone died?
For one moment she merely stood there, confused, attempting to understand her unease. Slowly, so very quietly, she untied her bonnet and set the hat upon the receiving table. The foyer stood polished and gleaming as always, from the marble flooring to the crystal chandelier above. The soft tap of her slippers as she moved toward the steps was the only sound. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
“Where have you been?”
Startled by her husband’s voice, Eleanor spun around to face him. He looked calm, the perfect gentleman in his black evening attire. Too perfect, too calm. She schooled her features and forced her lips to turn upward. Truth would be her best option, for she realized in that chilling moment that he knew something. “I went to the gardens for the show.”
“Gardens?” He strolled toward her, his gait easy and unhurried. His dress clothes indicated that he had just come from a ball, or the opera, which was why he was dressed in his evening wear. “Not a place for respectable women.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t think you cared what I did.”
Ridiculous, and they both knew it. Of course he cared. He always cared. When they’d first courted she’d thought his attention charming. It wasn’t until after they’d married that she’d realized it was merely his way of controlling her.
“Gossip, my dear.” He strolled around her like a farmer appraising cattle. “I care about gossip because it affects me and my family name.” He shook his head ruefully. “First, taking a hired hack home on your own, and now this? What will the world think?”
“I’ve never cared much for gossip or what others think, as you know, because usually it’s utter nonsense.” She started toward the stairs, determined to show no fear. Inside, she trembled. He knew something, she was sure of it. She would not panic, she would not beg for forgiveness, and she would not, under any circumstances, cave to the man’s power. “I’m tired. I’d like to retire.”
His hand lashed out, gripping her arm hard. She didn’t dare jump, had taught herself to keep still even while icy panic filled her soul. “Gossip, whether true or not, affects me. I will not be made a laughingstock!”
She jerked her head toward him. What did he know? She thought she’d been so clever hiring unmarked hacks and weaving in and out of crowds. She realized now she’d been a bloody idiot. “Whatever are you talking about?”
He pulled her close, crushing her to his chest much like James had done only an hour ago. But this was different, so very different. His hot breath brushed across her face and reeked of brandy. He’d been drinking. He was worse when drinking. “You were seen with a man at the gardens.”
She refused to react even as biting fear crawled up her body, warning her to bolt. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” He shoved her backward. Eleanor stumbled to get her footing but tripped over the rug and hit the wall hard. Pain radiated from her shoulder and down her back. For a moment, she merely gritted her teeth and leaned against the wall for support, attempting to regain control of her fear. She would not cry out. She would stay calm.
“Gossip,” she lied.
“I don’t give a shite what you did or didn’t do. What I care about is the reputation of my family!” He charged toward her, but she refused to run. There was no point; she had nowhere to go. “You have humiliated my family name merely by attending the garden party, and you know it!”
She’d thought his dark and heavy features so handsome and manly when she’d first met him. He’d looked just like his father; so very much like him in looks and temperament. The same heavy brow, same dark eyes, same square jaw, same uncontrollable anger. The man had beaten his son while extolling the importance of the family name. Not that she’d heard about his childhood from her husband’s lips. No, his sister had told her, perhaps hoping she would feel sorry for Lord Beckett, or merely understand his ways. But she would never understand why someone who had experienced pain and humiliation himself would wish to instill that same feeling in others.
“You will never humiliate me again!” He swung his arm forward, striking her hard against her right cheek. Eleanor stumbled, falling to her arse. The shock gave away to aching pain. She pressed her lips together, refusing to groan even while the coppery taste of blood swept across her tongue. He’d always been so very careful not to hit her face; why was he being reckless now?
“You will not leave this house alone ever again!” He reached down, gripping the collar of her dress. “You will be a veritable prisoner.”
“I already am!”
His eyes widened, anger reddening his face. He lifted his hand. Ellie refused to cringe, but waited for the blow.
“Stop!” Mrs. Handler cried out.
Eleanor’s anger flared. Of course the woman was here. Why was she not surprised? The fact that Mrs. Handler looked truly horrified didn’t help ease Eleanor’s ire, it only humiliated her all the more.
Lord Beckett released his hold, and panting with unspent emotion, he stumbled back. But his gaze, his heated gaze promised retribution. Slowly, he turned to face his mistress. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do.”
Mrs. Handler grasped onto the stairway railing, watching him with wide, bemused eyes. Eleanor felt a tingle of validation. The woman was seeing the true Lord Beckett for the first time. After a few tense moments, he swallowed hard, his hands fisting as if desperately trying to regain control. He wasn’t sorry for hurting her. He was sorry that Mrs. Handler had witnessed his lack of control. Without another word he stomped away, disappearing back into the library. He slammed the door shut, the entire town house vibrating and making Mrs. Handler cringe.
The foyer grew quiet. Not even the servants could be heard. They were, no doubt, hiding in the kitchens. Mrs. Handler started toward her, the swoosh of her pale pink skirts against the marble floor sounding unnaturally loud. The concern upon her face revolting. “You were spotted at the gardens with another man. Is it… true?”
Eleanor wished the woman would leave her alone. Wished she’d shut her mouth. She had the sudden urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Did Mrs. Handler truly believe she would reveal her darkest secrets to her husband’s mistress? Did she think they were friends?
She hesitated a few feet away, looming over Eleanor. “I wouldn’t blame you if it was true.”
“Do you honestly believe I’d tell you anything?” she hissed, shoving her hands into the cold floor, preparing to stand. Mrs. Handler reached out her hand, but Ellie ignored it. Tucking her wobbly legs underneath her, she slowly stood. The world swayed, the foyer slipping in a dizzying whirl.
Mrs. Handler stepped toward her, arms outstretched as if to catch her should she fall. “Let me help you.”
Horrified, Eleanor stumbled back into the stairway railing. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
The woman froze, her lower lip quivering with hurt. “Very well.”
Eleanor didn’t bloody well care. She only wanted to get away, away from the woman, away from her husband. Away. She took a step toward the stairs. The entire room tilted. She refused to moan, refused to stumble. She would make it upstairs on her own even if she had to crawl. How she hated him, hated her husband so much she could have killed him if she’d had the means. At the moment, oddly, she hated Mrs. Handler even more.
Unable to stop herself, Eleanor paused at the base of the stairs. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you love him? How can you?”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Mrs. Handler returned gently. “I was so lonely, my husband never paid attention to me. He didn
’t care.”
Eleanor turned to look at the woman who spent more time with Lord Beckett than she. She couldn’t deny that her husband cared. He cared too much. He cared not because he loved, but because he wanted to control. “I’d rather have no attention than this sort of abuse.”
Mrs. Handler glanced worriedly toward the library, where the doors were still closed. “You have no idea what it’s like to be ignored.”
“You’re insane.”
Mrs. Handler shrugged, flushing once more. “Perhaps. But you don’t see the man he could be.”
“You can’t change him.” She tried to make the woman see reason, to save her from herself and Lord Beckett. Lady Handler had two young children and Eleanor despaired to think about what might happen to them. She couldn’t save herself, but maybe she could save this woman. “You can’t make anyone do anything they don’t want to do.”
Mrs. Handler started for her with quick, frantic steps, as if desperate to make Eleanor understand. “He’s different with me.”
Eleanor sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. There was no use in talking to the woman. She would believe what she wanted, and for some reason she wanted to believe that Lord Beckett could change, that he was a good man.
“Perhaps you should judge people not only by how they treat you, but how they treat others. Would you still love a man who was kind to you but tortured kittens?” When Lady Handler merely stood there, looking so utterly confused, Eleanor shook her head. “You’re free, completely free, yet you choose to be with him. I’d give anything in this world be free like you, but I’ll never have the chance.” She spread her arms wide. “This is the rest of my life.”
But she could tell by the stubborn set of Mrs. Handler’s jaw that she could no more change this woman’s mind than she could change her husband. Eleanor turned and started slowly up the stairs. Each movement made her body ache, but she knew once she was in her chamber Fanny would take care of her. A warm bath would ease the pain. She was determined to think of James and her one magical night in the garden.
A memory that would have to last her for the rest of what would undoubtedly be a short life.
He’d been a whore for more than ten years, yet it was the first time James could truly say he actually cared about a client. Not that he had despised the others. No, he showed them pleasure, and then helped them along their way. Some, he could say were even friends. But once they left the estate, they left his mind.
Not Eleanor. No. She had stayed with him, if only in spirit, for the entire carriage ride back to Lavender Hills. As the sun peeked above the horizon and the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the estate, he was still thinking about her. He worried about her return home. He worried about her monster of a husband abusing her. Worried about how such a spirited woman would live the rest of her life trapped, imprisoned.
One of the many footmen opened the carriage door and grumbled, “Mrs. Roth is early.”
Lady Lavender sighed. “Deal with her, James, will you?”
“Of course,” he said automatically.
In truth he didn’t want to meet with anyone, but perhaps this was just what he needed… to enjoy another woman, to forget Eleanor.
The footman helped Lady Lavender from the carriage. “Are you awake enough to meet with Mrs. Roth?” she asked, looking somewhat amused as she stepped from the coach.
James forced himself to smile. “Always.”
Ophelia slid her arm through his and they started up the steps. The sun was just beginning to rise. It wasn’t unheard of for clients to visit so very early, hoping to evade the ton who tended to sleep until noon. And Mrs. Roth was usually early.
“She’s in your room,” the footman said, opening Ophelia’s office door. James had the odd feeling the big bull wanted him gone. At times he almost believed half the staff was in love with her, jealous of their relationship.
“Thank you.” James headed up the steps toward his chamber. “Send for a bath?”
The man grunted in response.
For over ten years this place had been home. Now it felt cold, stifling. He paused outside his bedchamber door, resting his hand on the porcelain knob. Damn it all, he wanted to return to London, he wanted to make sure Ellie was well. He felt oddly guilty for being with Bertie Roth, which was ridiculous considering Eleanor was married. He gritted his teeth and opened the door. She was relaxed on the settee, her rich, brown hair free of pins and trailing down her back; she was ready for him.
At the sound of his appearance, she turned toward him and smiled, small lines etched at the corners of her eyes showing her age. She was older than Eleanor, but he wondered if perhaps they had known each other once. Maybe still did. The urge to ask her almost overwhelmed his good sense.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” She stood, wearing a light gray morning dress. “How are you, James?”
“Well. I’m just getting back from London,” he explained, shutting the door behind him. “If you’d like to wait until after I bathe…”
She grinned. “Or I can help you wash.”
He nodded, shrugging off his jacket. He liked her, truly he did. She had a no-nonsense way about her that he appreciated. She did not giggle, or gasp with virginal shock. She was truthful in what she wanted and why she visited. And she didn’t give a bloody damn what other people thought about her. She reminded him of Eleanor. “Whatever you wish.”
He tossed his jacket toward a chair as she moved toward him. “Are you tired, poor thing?” She undid the buttons of his waistcoat, her long fingers moving down his chest. “In London, you say?”
He nodded.
“And you didn’t stop to see me?” She grinned up at him. “How the ton would adore that outrageous gossip.”
James returned her grin.
“But you look tired. Are you sure you’re up to the task? I do wear a person out, you know. Just ask my first husband. Well, if he wasn’t rotting in his grave.”
The woman was a widow and enjoying her life now that her husband, a man fifty years older, had perished while in bed with the maid. Now that she was free, she found her pleasure where she wished. She brushed the waistcoat from his shoulders, then started on the buttons of his shirtsleeves.
“Bertie,” he said. “Was your husband… cruel?”
She tossed his shirt to the chair where his jacket rested. “No, I can’t say he was cruel. Just a cold man who smelled like beets.” She shuddered as she reached for the waistband of James’s trousers. He’d known the woman for two years now. He knew she saw other men, and she never indicated she was in love. No, this was merely about pleasure and enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes they didn’t even make love, merely kissed and chatted.
There was a soft knock preventing Bertie from pushing his trousers down to his ankles. He reclasped the waistband and went to the door. Two footmen carried the tub inside, setting it by the fireplace. Moments later more footmen brought in buckets of steaming water and filled the bath. They looked so bloody young. Had he truly been that young once? Hard to imagine. Soon Lady Lavender would introduce them to whoring and they would be bound to the life forever.
As the young lads left, Bertie pulled the trousers and stockings from his legs. Not one to miss an opportunity, she squeezed his arse as he moved away. Stifling the urge to sigh in annoyance, James stepped into the tub and relaxed.
“As much as I would love to enjoy the view,” she said, moving a chair to his side, “you obviously have something on your mind and I’m curious to know what it is.”
“No,” he said, letting the warm water ease his aching body. “It’s your time.”
“Dear, I have all the time in the world. Especially since my family has stopped pushing me to remarry.” She laughed. “They might have forced me to marry the first time, but they have no control any longer.”
He lifted the rag and soap. “Good for you.” And he meant it. Women should have as much say as anyone. If only Ellie could have such freedom.
r /> She took the rag and soap from his hands. “Out with it.”
“A client,” he admitted, even though the word client seemed too minor of a description for Eleanor. She was so much more than that. “It’s obvious her husband hits her.”
She tsked. “It happens often.” She knelt beside him and began to rub his back with the washing cloth. “It’s too bad, but nothing can be done.”
She was right. So why did it bother him so? He’d always cared about his clients, but he also realized early on that he had less control than they did. Yes, for a brief moment he could make them forget, but nothing more.
“True,” he said, relaxing as her warm hands rubbed up his back, over his shoulders, and through his hair. He couldn’t deny that her touch was soft and tempting. He closed his eyes and leaned back, allowing the woman to wash him. But it wasn’t Bertie he pictured. No, it was Eleanor who flashed to mind. Eleanor’s smooth, full lips kissing the back of his neck. Eleanor’s warm hands moving over him. Heat rushed through his body and his cock stirred to life.
“That’s what I wanted to see,” Mrs. Roth purred in his ear.
But her voice was not Eleanor’s. And her scent was lemons instead of roses. The heat he felt fled, and as much as he tried to grasp onto his ardor, he couldn’t. Frustrated, he surged to his feet, water trailing down his body and dripping to the tub. “I need a moment.”
He stepped from the tub and went to his wardrobe, grabbing his silk wrap. His movements were jerky and frustrated as he paced the room. Damn it all, he couldn’t get Ellie from his mind. What the hell was wrong with him?
“What is it?” Bertie stood, watching him warily.
He raked his hands through his damp hair. “I don’t… nothing.”
“No, it’s something.” She settled on the settee and patted the spot next to her. She would not let it go. The woman was used to being obeyed. He didn’t dare deny her. Besides, he actually trusted her. But what to say?