Horrified, she’d fled to her parents’ home, but her mother had slapped her across the face for leaving and sent her back to her husband. She’d learned her lesson then… the golden girl who had been her parents’ shining star only shone if she did exactly what they expected of her. It wasn’t about what she wanted; it wasn’t about romance or love. It was about what the world expected of her.
He settled in the chair next to hers. “Shall I read?”
She didn’t bother to respond.
Or maybe he’d read Byron, like most of the young bucks she’d met when she’d been a debutante. Although her husband hadn’t read poetry. No, he hadn’t spewed romantic nonsense, he’d been blunt and demanding and she’d thought he was a refreshing change. She’d been so very wrong. Still, she’d thought James above such nonsense.
“I count the dismal time by months and years,” James started, drawing her attention to him. “Since last I felt the green sward under foot, and the great breath of all things summer-mute met mine upon my lips. Now earth appears as strange to me as dreams of distant spheres or thoughts of Heaven we weep at.”
She was gone with his words, floating back to summer days as a child when she would visit her aunt Jeanie. Warm days wading in the river, stormy nights listening to the rain against the window of her bedchamber. There she was never afraid. Never. They were the days when she had felt most free.
“Nature’s lute sounds on,” James continued, his voice husky and enchanting, “behind this door so closely shut, a strange wild music to the prisoner’s ears, dilated by the distance, till the brain grows dim with fancies which it feels too fine, while ever, with a visionary pain, past the precluded senses, sweep and shine streams, forests, glades, and many a golden train of sunlit hills transfigured to Divine.”
The silence startled her back into the present. He watched her curiously, as if attempting to understand, to know her secrets. She felt as if she would drown in his gaze. She looked away, disconcerted.
“Who wrote it?” she asked, mostly to make conversation.
“A woman, actually.” He gave her a brief smile. “Rather famous, Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”
“What’s it called?”
He settled the book upon the table, his movements slow and unhurried. “The Prisoner.”
Eleanor felt dazed. Was he trying to tell her something by reading the poem? Was she so obviously the clichéd wealthy, married woman unhappy with her philandering husband?
“I don’t care for poetry. I find it silly.” It was a lie, or had been. At one time she had adored the sweet words of a lyrical note. But now they only made her want to weep. Poems taught one to dream. She’d had dreams at one time, long, long ago. Dreams of a knight in shining armor. Dreams of a romantic marriage.
“Is it not to your liking?” He clasped his hands together, resting them on his flat belly. He had long fingers, artistic hands. “Perhaps something else…”
She had no time for dreams, only for survival. Eleanor reached out, resting her hand on his sleeve. “No more.”
He looked at her hand; she looked at him, mesmerized by the way his lashes lowered, throwing shadows over his cheeks. Mesmerized by the way his hair glistened almost golden under the firelight. The way that pulse beat in the side of his neck.
He was beautiful. An Adonis, and she suddenly, desperately wanted him. “Kiss me.”
He lifted his gaze. “Tell me your name. Your true name.”
She swallowed her fear. “Eleanor.”
Heat traveled up her neck and into her cheeks, but she didn’t care. Guilt be damned. She leaned closer to him, closed her eyes, and waited… waited. When she heard him shift, moving nearer, a jolt of anticipation swept through her. She didn’t dare open her eyes, afraid she would bolt. Instead, she breathed in his musky scent as he drew closer, felt the heat from his body as he drew nearer. And then there was the slightest brush of his hand on the side of her face when he cupped her cheek. A soft caress, a gentle touch.
In her entire life she had kissed no one but her husband. She’d had no idea that kissing could be soft, gentle. No idea that she could find pleasure with a man. No, she would not think about Lord Beckett. Not now. She would merely enjoy James’s mouth on hers. When his tongue slid across her bottom lip, she swore she felt a shock of lightning. Eleanor jumped, startled, and pulled back.
He did not laugh, nor sigh. He did not whisper words of compliments or love, but she could see the lust in his gaze and it fueled her own need. She didn’t respond, merely closed her eyes and leaned forward. This time when her lips met his she was prepared. It was a soft press of his mouth, his lips molding carefully, gently to her own. A warm tremor raced down her spine.
Bemused, she started to pull away when his had slid from her cheek to the back of her head, his fingers in her hair. She barely had time to realize what was happening when she suddenly found herself lifted and settled upon his lap. The realization that she was sitting on his thighs was all but forgotten when his tongue delved between her parted lips. Her heart hammered in her chest, warmth flooding her body.
His kiss was not cold and slobbery, but warm and wonderful. Eleanor parted her lips, pressing her hands to his stomach, feeling the muscle and ribs and she moved up his chest to his broad shoulders. She was highly aware of his hard thighs beneath her bottom, of the rub of his tongue on hers. Highly aware of the heat spreading down her body to that aching place between her legs. A feeling she hadn’t felt in years. She didn’t have time to think, time to be embarrassed, for as he kissed her all rational thought disappeared. Eleanor was completely and utterly lost.
He tore his mouth from hers, his breathing harsh as he pressed his lips to her jawline. The scruff along his face scratched erotically against her sensitive neck. There was no doubt, James knew how to kiss a woman. Eleanor groaned, a completely wanton moan that tore from her throat in an animalistic way, shocking even her.
“You taste lovely,” he muttered.
The hard pulse of his erection throbbed against her bottom. The urge to shift, to rock against him overtook any control. And then his teeth nipped at her earlobe, and the shivers that raced up and down her spine were almost too much to bear. Her eyes rolled back, the air suddenly heavy, her corset too tight. An aching need to have more, know more, trembled through her body.
He tasted like brandy, like passion, like safety. Timidly, her hands slid around his shoulders, her fingers tiptoeing over his linen shirt, sliding around his neck. Bemusement, pleasure, and need crashed through her. She’d been married for over ten years, yet her husband had never made her feel this way. She marveled over the warmth of James’s body. She wanted to memorize every detail of their moment together. His hands moved from her shoulders down her arms to her waist, leaving behind a wake of heat as if he touched her everywhere at once.
She focused on that desire. There were no worries, no thoughts, only pure pleasure. His hands slid from her waist upward… suddenly his palms were cupping her breasts. His lips pressed to her neck as his thumbs brushed across her hardened nipples. Lost. Gone. She didn’t mind a bit. Would never stop. Never wanted him to cease.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice had grown deeper, raspy. Although she’d heard pretty words before, they felt utterly new. He left her breasts and slid his hands down her back, around her bustle.
“Th… thank you,” she stammered.
He gripped her arse and pulled up against his hard erection. His fingers found her skirts and bunched the material toward her thighs. She took nothing for granted, but savored it all. His musky scent, the warmth and strength of his body, the touch of his fingers as they slid underneath her skirts, brushing against the sensitive skin of her upper thighs. He was so kind, so very kind, but the feel of his steely muscles made her only too aware that like her husband, he could control her if he wished.
She wore no bloomers, and as his fingers brushed the silky nest of curls shielding her femininity, she wasn’t sure who was more surprised, she or Ja
mes. He pulled back, his gaze meeting hers. But there was no shock in his green eyes, only a desire that made her blush.
“Do you want me to touch you, Eleanor?” he whispered.
“Yes, please.”
His finger slid between her damp folds. Eleanor’s head fell to his shoulder as a groan tore from her lips. She’d been drugged, utterly seduced by the pleasure of his touch. “So very soft.”
His lips nuzzled her check as his finger slid into her aching sheath. The invasion sent a sudden and unwelcome image of her wedding night flashing to mind. An image she’d thought long dead, buried.
“Spread your legs,” her husband had demanded.
“But…”
“Shut your mouth and do as I say.”
She flinched, remembering the pain as he slammed into her tight body. Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, tried to forget her husband, that night, and her life after. Damn it all, it would never go away. Sudden tears stung her eyes, humiliating in their weakness. The memories were there, always there, and she had her husband to remind her. He owned her body and mind.
“Stop,” she demanded.
James drew back, his hand still on her bare thigh. “What is it?”
The concern upon his face overwhelmed her. No one looked at her that way anymore. No one cared. Not even her family. She felt herself softening, weakening, and she didn’t like it one bit. How would she ever survive?
“Nothing.” She shoved his hand away and her skirts down as far as they would go. “Perhaps this was a mistake. I’m married. This is wrong.”
She started to stand but he latched onto her arm, stopping her. His grip pressed against her bruises. Eleanor sucked in a sharp breath, her heart hammering with fear. She looked away, embarrassed, confused by her own emotions.
“I will not hurt you,” he whispered.
“I know that.” She said the words with a fierce determination. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to make him believe, or make herself.
“Eleanor, what is it?”
“Nothing, you merely startled me.”
“Nonsense,” he snapped.
Before she could protest, he gripped her wrist and shoved her sleeve up her arm. He went utterly still. Blast it, she had hoped he wouldn’t notice, or at least wouldn’t care. She didn’t look; she didn’t need to. When she’d received her first bruise those years ago she’d inspected it carefully, trying to understand how her husband and body could betray her. She’d hidden it away like a bastard child. But now… now she barely noticed them.
“My God,” he whispered. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” She jerked her arm away and pushed her sleeve down. Perhaps she’d wanted him to see. Perhaps she’d wanted sympathy from someone, anyone, just once. And perhaps, just perhaps, she didn’t want to hide her shame any longer. But she was alone in this hellish world. No one could help her.
“I have to go.” She stood, her legs weak and trembling. But she’d been weak before. With hands that shook, she scooped up her bonnet. “Thank you, James.”
He stood as well. “My lady… Eleanor…”
She held up her hands, warding him off. “No, you don’t understand. I’ve spent years hardening my heart. Your kindness will only make me weak. And weakness will get me killed.” She backed up a step, two. “Please, just let me go.”
Thank God, he didn’t respond, merely stood there stoically and watched her turn to leave. Eleanor replaced her bonnet and opened the door. James might be concerned, but he would forget her. He had plenty of women to take her place. Sadly, she feared she would never, ever forget him.
Chapter 5
James had slept with many women in his long career. Some were still clients and friends, others had come and gone, drifting away upon the breeze of time. Some he thought of fondly, others… not very much at all. But never had a woman troubled him as much as Eleanor.
Five days. It had been five days since he’d last seen her. Five days since he’d uncovered the unsettling realization that her husband was a monster who abused her. He shifted, uneasy, wishing to pace away his thoughts, but that was difficult to do when one was in a carriage.
A few days ago Lady Lavender had proclaimed that they were going to London for a brief visit. London only made him think of Eleanor, everything he’d lost and couldn’t have. Hell, everything reminded him of Eleanor. The scent of roses in the garden of the hotel. The taste of brandy. The husky laugh of a woman standing on the street as the carriage swept by. He’d even suggested shopping in popular districts in hopes of seeing her. Desperate, disgusting.
He’d known from the very first meeting that Eleanor was in an unhappy marriage. After all, why would she be visiting Lavender Hills if not? But he hadn’t known… never could have guessed…
He sighed, brushing aside the curtain just enough to look out onto the dusty, crowded streets of London. It was not his place to question the women or their husbands. Besides, what could any of them do? Women had very little say in their lives. And he… he had even less. He rubbed his brow, hoping that perhaps her husband had merely had a momentary transgression. Aye, he could hope, even if he knew it to be a lie.
Lady Lavender shuffled through her correspondences, mulling over her own problems, while the wheels rumbled over cobblestone. As the day was warm, they were headed to the gardens at Hyde Park. Ophelia enjoyed nothing more than shocking the gentry by appearing in public from time to time. Putting them in their place, as she called it. But he knew they were in London for another reason. She was investigating something or someone.
A small crease formed between her golden brows as she scanned a missive. Something important indeed was troubling her. James studied her pale face, the dark smudges under her eyes confirming that she hadn’t been sleeping. Her narrow waist seemed even smaller, if possible. Despite his troubling suspicions toward the woman, he couldn’t help but be concerned.
“Is all well?” he asked.
She glanced up, and in that unguarded moment, he saw her for what she truly was… merely a woman worried. A beautiful and wealthy woman, but still merely a woman. A human being, if one would. Nothing to fear, nothing to admire. Something inside him eased, as if a knot had come loose. She smiled at him, and in that moment it felt like they were friends again.
She waved the missive aside, dropping it to the seat. “Not at all. Merely from Gideon. He will be staying longer than we’d agreed.”
In other words, the man hadn’t asked for her permission. Typical Gideon. It was no secret that he and Ophelia despised each other. “I’m surprised you let him leave at all.”
She flushed, her eyes growing hard, and he remembered only too late that she didn’t like to be questioned. “ ’Twas good business.”
He’d overstepped his bounds. At times it was so bloody hard to tell when he could speak freely and when he couldn’t, even after all these years together. He was her favorite because he respected and appreciated what she had given him… a chance at life. The entire staff knew she preferred him, yet he couldn’t deny that he often wondered how much he truly knew about the real Ophelia. James resisted the urge to sigh as they rolled down Regent Street.
“Of course, my apologies for interfering.”
Uneasy once more, he glanced out the window. He’d never enjoyed London, although he wouldn’t voice any complaints. It reminded him too much of childhood. The stench of the Thames, the unruly crowds, the dust that hovered in the air from the coal and factories. He much preferred the countryside where one could breathe. But he supposed that was the Irish in him.
“I don’t trust her,” Ophelia admitted.
James slid her a glance. “Her?”
“The woman who hired Gideon, I don’t trust her.” She was handing him an olive branch by admitting as much. “We’re in London so that I might have Wavers uncover what he can about the family.”
“I see.” He knew better than to question her further, although he could admit to himself that his mind was spinning with curios
ity. What the hell was Gideon up to? One never quite knew. In all honesty, James didn’t understand why Gideon still worked at Lavender Hills. Perhaps Alex was right and there was something holding him there. They all had secrets.
“James, do stop the carriage. I’d like to shop at the antiquities store near the corner. The one where I picked up that lovely Chinese vase last summer?”
“Of course.” She always shopped when something was bothering her. It was a way to forget, he supposed.
He knocked on the roof. The carriage pulled to the side of the lane because Ophelia demanded immediate obedience in her staff. The door opened and James stepped outside, quickly scanning the streets, making sure there were no threats, no angry husbands out for revenge. In a way he wasn’t only whore and friend, but also guard. He turned to help Ophelia down.
She stepped gingerly from the carriage, ignoring the gasp of shock from her fellow shoppers. Protective mothers took hold of their daughters’ hands and rushed them away. Husbands glared. Some visitors had not yet noticed them and stood peering into windows, chatting with friends and family. But they would turn and stare soon enough. Another reason he hated London, for everyone knew precisely who they were and where they went at all times. The gossip rags would be full of information come tomorrow morning, most of it exaggerated half-truths.
He started to turn toward the antique shop when he spotted a group of four women standing near a dressmaker’s window. For a brief moment he merely stood there, wondering what had drawn him to their party. They were a pretty lot of varying ages, a wealthy group if one were to go by the fit and cut of their clothing. He started to turn away when one woman stepped back, separating herself from the others, and suddenly he knew the reason for his interest. His breath caught in his throat.
“I’ll only be a moment,” Ophelia said to the footman and driver, but James was barely aware.
He was too fascinated by the tallest woman in the group, the one who stood to the side as if she didn’t belong… Eleanor. The veil covering her face hid her from prying eyes, but he knew the gentle roundness of her jaw, the golden sparkle of her coifed hair, the fullness of those lips.