Return Of Scandal's Son. Janice Preston
much closer than she had anticipated.
‘For me, too,’ he murmured, his blue eyes darkening. ‘I can’t bear to think...’ His voice tailed away as he cradled her cheek and slowly lowered his head.
Eleanor stilled as warm breath feathered her skin. Lips—surprisingly soft and tender—brushed hers...once, twice...then settled, moving enticingly. She leaned into him, feeling his hand in her hair. Pleasure and anticipation spiralled through her as her lips relaxed and she pressed closer. As his tongue probed her mouth, she raised her restless hand to caress his cheek, but her action seemed to return him to his senses. He wrenched his lips from hers and jumped up from the sofa.
‘I’m sorry.’ Harsh lines bracketed his mouth.
Eleanor tried to gather her wits, to understand what had just happened.
‘I shouldn’t have done that... I had no intention... It was a mistake,’ he said, and then muttered, as if to himself, ‘I do not need complications.’
‘Complications?’
The word jarred, rousing Eleanor from her dreamlike stupor.
He looked distant and reserved and didn’t quite meet her eyes as he said, ‘Please forget that ever happened.’
‘You regret kissing me?’
Humiliation flooded Eleanor. She had allowed a virtual stranger to kiss her, and had kissed him back, without a murmur of protest. She was her mother’s daughter all right. Blood will out. Aunt Phyllis’s voice—accusatory, censorious—echoed in her head.
‘Yes. No!’ He turned abruptly from her, raking his hand through his hair once more before facing her again. His eyes met hers, and softened. ‘No, I cannot regret it. But I forgot myself. I was frantic with worry, but that is no excuse for my behaviour. You are a lady and I like to suppose myself a gentleman, despite my station in life, yet at the first opportunity I have behaved like the lowest of rogues.’
Complications. The word rankled. He obviously regretted his impulsive embrace. For that is what it had been—an impulse. He had found her alone and taken advantage, stealing a kiss simply because he could. Now, he was shouldering the blame in order to make her feel better and to excuse her shameful conduct in returning his embrace. Furious with herself, Eleanor turned and would have left the room without a further word had Aunt Lucy not chosen that very moment to come in, her bright gaze darting from one to the other before lingering for some time on Eleanor’s hot cheeks, triggering another surge of shame.
‘Why, Mr Thomas,’ Aunt Lucy said at length, her voice icy, ‘how very nice to see you again so soon. I had understood you to be heading in a quite different direction from ourselves. Had I been informed of your presence, I should have made sure I came down to greet you immediately. I am, after all, Eleanor’s chaperon. I can see I shall have to keep a wary eye on you, sir—it is so very easy for a woman to lose her reputation, as I am sure you are aware.’
Eleanor cringed inside. Not only did Mr Thomas now have a complete disgust of her wanton response to his advances, but Aunt Lucy’s suspicions had also been aroused. She could wonder at neither of them, for she had no less disgust for herself. Gathering her pride, she walked to the door and opened it, standing to one side.
‘Mr Thomas is just leaving, Aunt Lucy. He has said all he needs to say.’
She raised her chin, boldly meeting his gaze. He might have crushed her feelings, but she would rather die than reveal her humiliation.
‘Oh, no, I’m not,’ Matthew retorted, holding her gaze for what seemed an eternity before switching his attention to Aunt Lucy. ‘I have brought grave news, Lady Rothley, news that has serious implications for the safety of your niece.’
Eleanor clamped her teeth shut on the remark she longed to fling at his head. How had the mere touch of his lips managed to block the news of the attack from her mind?
‘What news do you bring? What implications?’ Aunt Lucy sank on to the sofa and beckoned Eleanor to sit by her side. ‘Please, Mr Thomas, be seated—’ she waved her hand at the chair opposite ‘—and explain yourself.’
‘Last night, a young woman was attacked in the White Lion in Stockport,’ he said. ‘She was attacked by an intruder wielding a knife as she slept in one of the bedchambers reserved for your party. I occupied the other.’
Aunt Lucy gasped, turning stricken eyes to Eleanor, who took her hand, her fear giving way to annoyance at Matthew’s brutal telling of the story.
‘It does not mean,’ she said, ‘that the attack was intended for me. Surely...’ she faltered as Matthew focused his hard gaze on her once more ‘...surely, it must be a—’
‘Coincidence?’ Matthew interrupted roughly. ‘One coincidence I can believe, but two? So close together? It would now seem beyond doubt there is a pattern. There have been three attempts on your life in the past few weeks. It is time to take this threat seriously. Tell me, can you think of anyone who would wish you ill?’
‘Why, no, of course not. I’ve barely left Ashby Manor in the past seven years.’
The very idea was absurd.
‘Forgive me, but...your husband? Could he wish you harm?’
‘Husb— But I’m not married, Mr Thomas. Why would you believe that I am?’
‘Not married? But, how...? You’re a baroness. You must be wed, or...perhaps you’re a widow?’
Aunt Lucy put him straight. ‘My niece is a peeress in her own right. Unusual, to be sure, but not unheard of.’
Eleanor watched as Matthew digested this information. He looked, at best, not pleased. The implication of his belief she was married dealt a further blow to her already fragile self-esteem.
Was that why he kissed me, because I was a safe target? A married woman who might enjoy a flirtation in her husband’s absence? And how much more disgust must he feel now, knowing I’m single and yet returned his kiss?
‘Hmm, that puts a very different complexion on it.’
‘What possible difference does my being unmarried make?’ Shame made her sharp with him.
‘It makes every difference. There are many reasons to kill or harm another. Were you married, the reasons someone might wish to kill you might be hatred, or possibly jealousy or passion. But now, with greed as part of the equation, it begins to make more sense. May I ask—who is your heir?’
‘My cousin, James Weare.’
‘Then he must be our prime suspect.’
‘James? Never!’
‘Greed has driven more than one to kill, my lady. The lure of a peerage, and the power and privilege it bestows, is more than enough, quite apart from any wealth that accompanies it.’
Eleanor was silent, weighing Matthew’s words against her knowledge of her cousin and his character. The fear that had plagued her at odd moments over the past few weeks returned to gnaw at her insides and she shuddered, thinking of that poor girl who had been hurt.
That could have been me. But...no! Not James. He couldn’t...not the James I know. It’s just too horrible. This is nonsense. It must be nonsense.
Eleanor looked at Aunt Lucy and Matthew, both wearing the same troubled expression, and bitter resentment bubbled up inside. How dare he come here and scare her like this, accusing her much-loved cousin of trying to kill her?
She sprang from the sofa to pace the room. ‘No, I will not believe it. James and I grew up together at Ashby—we were like brother and sister. It makes no sense. If he had wanted to kill me he could have done so with ease many times. I am convinced the fire and the accident were unrelated.’ She rounded on Matthew. ‘I will thank you, sir, to keep such wild accusations to yourself.’
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