Folly Page 4

  He’d never heard her speak. She would not deign to address someone as unfitting as he. Besides, in the few chance meetings they’d had, at this party or that unfortunate outing, Ulster had dominated the conversation. She had remained silent and still, nothing more than an ornament for his lordly arm.

  She did not speak now. She merely tipped her head, a miniscule nod to no one in particular, and like a swan, glided up the staircase and out of sight.

  “Darlington.” At the dulcet exclamation, Ethan turned his head, surprised to realize they were not alone. The countess stood in the entry to the drawing room, her hands modestly folded. Her eyes, trained on James, were not modest in the least. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Helena!” James scooped his wife into his arms, kissing her soundly. And at length. At very long length.

  Ethan felt a headache coming on. He rubbed his forehead.

  When Helena emerged from the heated clinch, her cheeks were rosy. “I am sorry. You must be parched. Please, come into the sitting room and have some tea.”

  Darlington grimaced. “Tea? I was thinking something stronger.”

  “Oh, Baxter.” The countess gestured to the butler, hovering nearby as all good butlers did. “Please bring the gentlemen some brandy.”

  “Actually, if you wouldn’t mind…” Ethan bowed his regrets. “I would much prefer to have something in my room.”

  “Certainly. Dinner’s at eight. Shall I have someone see you to your chambers? Baxter?”

  Was that a wicked smile flashing across the countess’s visage? And an answering grin from Darlington? Of course it was. The newlyweds wanted to frolic. Ethan was more than happy to oblige them with his absence.

  They didn’t even wait until he had reached the top of the stairs, with the stodgy butler leading the way, before the drawing room door closed with a decided click.

  Pennington!

  Eleanor put a hand to her chest, as though that could still her fluttering heart.

  Heavens. How could Helena have done this? How could she?

  Of all the men in the world to invite to this house party, why did it have to be the one man who despised her so?

  The one man who had good reason to?

  She had wanted nothing more from this party than to forget herself. Forget her past. Forget her burdens. If only for a while. But Pennington would never allow it.

  Eleanor threw herself onto the window seat and gave her tears of frustration free rein.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Would Ulster’s shadow follow her everywhere? Would she pay for the privilege of his name, the curse of his name, until the day she died? Sometimes it seemed so.

  Certainly today.

  Her breath hitched as she remembered the image of Pennington standing there in the doorway. Regal and forbidding. His handsome face had been a mask of distaste. His lips had curled, his eyes narrowed as they took in her person.

  As always, his hatred for her was palpable.

  She reminded him of Ulster. How could she not? Undoubtedly, that led to reminders of the brazen treachery that had ruined his life.

  Pennington should never have agreed to the duel. Everyone knew Ulster was a master swordsman, a wizard with a rapier. Everyone knew he would do whatever it took to win a challenge.

  Everyone knew he cheated.

  How could Pennington have expected anything less? How could Pennington have expected a fair fight?

  Ulster had turned, long before the count had finished, and attacked, slashing at Pennington’s cheek and laying him open to the bone.

  It had been quite a scandal.

  Ulster hadn’t cared.

  He’d known what people were saying but had merely laughed at the few who dared confront him. He’d destroyed Pennington’s father, he’d boasted, and now he’d savaged the whelp as well.

  Eleanor had been careful to hold her tongue. But when she was alone, in the dark shadows of the night in her cold chamber, she had wept. Wept for Pennington’s lost beauty and wept for herself.

  But now… Now when she looked at him, she didn’t see the scar slashing across his cheek, she didn’t see a disfigured visage. She saw a man who was even more handsome, even more frightening than before.

  A man who detested her.

  There was no doubt. She would have to leave. She couldn’t stay. She just couldn’t.

  Bereft, she curled up on the window seat, wrapped in a warm blanket, and gazed out at the gardens. A sob caught in her throat as her attention drifted to the labyrinth James was constructing to the south. She could just make out the shape of a whimsical folly in the center. She buried her head in her arms and wept.

  She wept and wept, until she was drained dry.

  She fell asleep like that and dreamed of a tall dark stranger with a bold, square chin and kisses that made her heart sing.

  It was dark when she awoke to Celeste scratching at the door. “It’s time to prepare for dinner, mum.”

  Eleanor groaned at the realization that it was far too late for her to pack and return to London tonight. She would have to stay the night. Which meant facing Pennington over the dinner table.

  Her belly gave a lurch at the thought. Clearly, she wouldn’t be eating much.

  She sighed and stood, then stretched out her limbs, which were all creaky from sleeping so long in an awkward position by the window. She allowed Celeste to dress her and style her hair, although she had no enthusiasm for the proceedings. When her maid was finished, she studied her image in the mirror.

  Was that her? The pinched-faced widow all swathed in black? Where had the young girl gone? She wondered. The girl who had laughed at the slightest provocation? Broken into song, just because she was happy? Found joy in the simple lines of a flower?

  Ah, yes. Ulster had happened.

  He had drained the joy from her soul.

  He had much to answer for in hell.

  Her great fear was that Pennington would expect her to pay the price in Ulster’s stead.

  But things could be worse. She wasn’t sure exactly how. But they could.

  At the sound of the gong, she stood and shook out her skirts, feeling somewhat like a soldier preparing for war. She had once been Eleanor DeWitt. Daughter of Charles DeWitt, fourth Baron of Beckford. No. She was, once more, Eleanor DeWitt. Strong, determined. Brave. A survivor. She put back her shoulders and stared at herself again, willing her spine to straighten, willing her eyes to take on that martial light they used to have. When she saw it, saw herself again, she smiled.

  She was Eleanor DeWitt.

  She could handle Colonel Pennington.

  She could handle whatever barbs he tossed her way.

  In the end, she needn’t have worried. Helena met her at the bottom of the stairs and linked arms, walking her into the dining room. Darlington fell in on the other side. Eleanor had the distinct impression they were forming a vanguard, protecting her. Or at least sending the message this was the case.

  Pennington, for his part, was a complete gentleman. He took her gloved hand and bent his head, as a gentleman should, although the contact was brief.

  They were to be informal, Helena announced, pointing each to their seats. She had thoughtfully seated Pennington down the table and to the left. That meant Eleanor sat directly opposite of Darlington’s Uncle Andrew who was, it seemed, a trifle deaf.

  Certainly deaf enough to be oblivious to anyone attempting to turn the topic from Darlington ancestors. Needless to say, the conversation was rather dry. And rather one-sided. This was probably why Eleanor became distracted by her own thoughts.

  This was probably why she sat there at the exquisite, elegant table and contemplated the thought of making a baby.

  Hardly proper.

  But very little about her was proper anymore.

  She’d come to the conclusion that the fact she wasn’t with child—yet—need not be the disaster it had seemed last week. She still had nearly a month before Berwick returned from Scotland. And there were certainly
options available. The world was full of virile men. Wasn’t it? She scanned the company.

  Darlington was out of the question. Helena would snatch her bald if she so much as brought it up.

  And dotty Uncle Andrew? She watched as one spoonful after another of delicious soup drizzled down his beard. No.

  There was always Baxter, the butler. But no. He had a manner about him Eleanor had seen before. Clearly Baxter would prefer a more manly woman.

  That left a handful of footmen. And Pennington.

  Eleanor shot a surreptitious glance in his direction and was shocked to find his attention fixed on her. Her heart seized.

  She had always thought him attractive—outrageously so. He was tall and dark and his eyes were like liquid silver. She allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be kissed by him. A red tide crept up her cheeks.

  He noticed—of course he noticed—and his lips quirked, a mocking smile.

  She sat back so he couldn’t see her and snorted to herself. No. Not Pennington. He wouldn’t touch her. Not if she begged.

  Which left Haversham. He would be here in a few days. But… Dear heavens. How would she explain something like this to him? How would she ever retain her reputation if, once she had explained things, he rejected her?

  No. Clearly she would have to leave. Go back to London. Find another masquerade. Or a brothel. Or something.

  “Eleanor?”

  She looked up. Mercy. The entire table was staring at her. She cleared her throat. “So sorry. I was woolgathering.”

  “You will sing for us? After dinner?” The request came from Darlington, accompanied by a pleading flutter of lashes. Eleanor didn’t allow herself to think about how handsome her friend’s husband was. But he was. How could a woman resist such charm?

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Lovely.” Helena clapped her hands. “I love Ode to Joy. We used to perform that at school. Do you remember it?”

  “I do.”

  The conversation turned then—away from the Darlington antecedents, much to Uncle Andrew’s chagrin—to music, and before long Eleanor found herself beside the piano, with Helena acting as her accompanist, doing the one thing she loved the most. Singing.

  It had been so long. So very long.

  Ulster had hated singing.

  Ulster had deplored frivolity of any kind. He’d certainly never allowed Eleanor to sing. Once, when he’d caught her merely humming in the garden, he’d punished her. He’d ripped out all the plants. Every one. Had them tilled under while she stood and watched. Helpless.

  He always made her feel helpless.

  She was not helpless now.

  Singing made her strong. It fed her soul.

  She closed her eyes as she made her way through her favorite passage of Beethoven’s Ninth, but only to keep from accidently looking at Colonel Pennington. She was aware of him though, of his gaze upon her as he sat sprawled in a chair, sipping on brandy. Watching her. But before long, his daunting presence slipped her mind completely.

  When she finished the piece, to a rousing applause, she saw Pennington had left the room. And she smiled, elated at the thought that she had slain the dragon. At least, for the evening.

  Chapter Four

  Dear God.

  Ethan found a corner in the library and dragged a heavy chair around to the window. He sat and glared out at the stars.

  Dear God.

  He’d been prepared to hate her. He’d been prepared to be coolly civil. He’d been prepared to tolerate her.

  But when she’d opened her mouth and started to sing, all of his resolute intentions had shattered.

  Dear God.

  She had the voice of an angel. His veins still hummed with his reaction.

  She was Ulster’s widow, damn it all to hell. How could he feel like this? About her?

  The inner turmoil roiling in his gut had disturbed him so much, he’d had to leave the room, though it had been difficult. Difficult to walk out. To leave while her music still swirled around him.

  He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm in an effort to erase the memory. It didn’t work. When he opened them again, he could see her standing there, face tipped to the heavens, rapt and transfixed with bliss.

  Dear God.

  Behind him, the door opened and Ethan, unwilling to cede his privacy—at least not yet, not until he regained some semblance of sanity—hunkered deeper into the chair. He grimaced as he heard the telltale shush of female skirts.

  “I’m so sorry, darling. So sorry I cannot say. I know how much you wanted… Well, how much you wanted this.”

  Helena.

  That could only mean she and Darlington had decided to come into the library to continue their earlier frolic or…

  “I’m sorry too.”

  Damn. Lady Ulster—or, as he’d suddenly started thinking of her—Eleanor.

  He should reveal himself. Clear his throat or simply stand. But he didn’t. He did not know why.

  “Please don’t leave.”

  Leave? Was she leaving? How could she leave? He’d only just… Only just what? Ethan grimaced at the errant direction of his thoughts. It would be wonderful if she left. Perfect.

  But then he would never hear her sing again.

  “I must go.”

  “Please. Wait. Haversham will be here in just a few days.”

  Haversham? What the hell did Haversham have to do with anything? For heaven’s sake, the boy was just a pup.

  “It wouldn’t work with Haversham, Helena. Don’t you see? I couldn’t tell him.”

  Tell him what?

  “Then don’t tell him.”

  Tell him what?

  “I can’t do that, Helena. He is terribly young. It wouldn’t seem right.”

  Damn straight.

  “What Ulster did wasn’t right.”

  Now this really caught Ethan’s attention, but Helena didn’t elaborate. And the next words out of her mouth were so interesting, Ethan completely forgot about the first part.

  “What about Pennington?”

  Eleanor snorted a laugh. “Now, that is hopeless.”

  “It’s not.”

  “He hates me.”

  “He hates Ulster.” Helena’s voice dropped. Ethan had to strain to hear. “The two of you are hardly unalike in that.”

  “He frightens me.”

  Ethan sucked in a breath as a familiar pain sliced through him, one more agonizing than the strike of the rapier that had caused it all.

  Helena voiced his thoughts. “His scar?”

  “His what? Oh. No. Lord.” Eleanor laughed, but it was a humorless sound. “If anything that scar makes him even more…”

  “More what?”

  Yes, Ethan thought. More what?

  “More compelling.”

  Ah. Compelling? But he had no time to contemplate the delicious taste of that one word. She continued.

  “He has always frightened me. He’s so tall.”

  “Ulster was tall.”

  “Ulster was…less.”

  “Less? Less what?”

  “Just less.”

  “Well, I don’t think you should rule him out. Pennington is a fine figure of a man. He would produce magnificent sons.”

  “I don’t need magnificent sons. I just need…”

  “Ulster’s heir.”

  “God help me, yes. Even so, there’s no guarantee such issue would be a boy. Oh, Helena. All this could still be for naught.”

  “Darling.” Her voice muffled and Ethan had the impression Helena had wrapped Eleanor into an embrace. “Don’t think that way. Besides, I told you. If disaster comes to pass and Ulster’s cousin tosses you out, you’re always welcome here.”

  Ethan’s heart thudded painfully.

  “You would take me in? Forever? Really, Helena. I would be nothing but a burden.”

  “It wouldn’t be forever, though I would welcome it if it was. But darling, you’re so lovely, one season, perhaps
one dance, and you’ll be snapped up at once.”

  “I am no fresh flower. I am…used.”

  “It’s hardly your fault you were bartered into a marriage with an ogre.”

  “I could have refused.”

  “At what cost? Your father’s life?”

  “And look. Five years of hell, bound to Ulster, and I still lost Papa. After everything.”

  “Ellie. He died in his own home. His own bed. It could have been Newgate. You saved him from that, at least. Ellie. Don’t cry.”

  Her sobs were audible. Ethan felt like a cad, now, for eavesdropping. Still, he didn’t reveal himself.

  “Crying is a privilege I’ve earned, Helena.”

  “Still. Don’t. It makes me sad.”

  “Well, dear Helena, I wouldn’t want to make you sad.”

  “Shall we have tea?”

  Eleanor gave a watery laugh. “A balm for all things. No, Helena. It’s too late for tea.”

  “It’s never too late for tea.” A battle cry. My, but Helena was fierce.

  “No. You go ahead. I think I would rather stay here a while. Sit by the fire. Read.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  Ethan listened as Helena left the room, her muslin making elegant swishes against the carpet. He stilled as Eleanor approached the hearth. Her form hove into view but her gaze was transfixed on the fire. She didn’t see him.

  She stood there, fingers twined behind her back, staring into the flames for a long time. Tears ran, unchecked, down her cheeks.

  He knew the very instant she realized she wasn’t alone. It was a subtle shift, tiny tremors in the stiffness of her carriage.

  Slowly, she turned.

  Eleanor froze as a movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She was not alone. Her belly dipped as she recognized a harsh, dark profile. She swallowed. “You heard?”

  Pennington sighed and stood, facing her in the dancing shadows cast by the fire. “To my chagrin, yes. I heard everything.”