The Notorious Marriage Read online

  ‘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 The offer is withdrawn!’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.

  Chapter One

  May 1814

  Eleanor Mostyn knew that she was in trouble even before the landlord told her, with a sideways wink and a leer, that there was only one bedchamber and there would be no coaches calling until the next morning. Eleanor, following him into the tiny inn parlour, thoughtfully concluded that the signs were all there: they were miles from the nearest village, it was pouring with rain and the carriage had mysteriously lost a spar when only yards from this isolated inn. What had started out as a simple journey from Richmond to London looked set fair to turn into a tiresome attempted seduction.

  It had happened to her before, of course—it was one of the penalties of having a shady reputation and no husband to protect her. However, she had never misjudged the situation as badly as this. This time, the relative youth and apparent innocence of her suitor had taken her in. Sir Charles Paulet was only two-and-twenty, and a poet. Though why poets should be considered more honourable than other men was open to question. Eleanor realised that her first mistake had been in assuming it must be so.

  She knew that Sir Charles had been trying to charm his way into her bed with his bad poetry for at least a month. The baronet was a long, lanky and intense young man who laboured under the misapprehension that he was as talented as Lord Byron. Still, she had thought his attentions were a great deal more acceptable than those paid to her by some other men during the Season. He might be trying to seduce her but she had believed that the only real danger she was in was of being bored to death by his verse. That had to be mistake number two.

  Eleanor removed her sodden bonnet and decided against unpinning her hair, even though it would dry more quickly that way. She had no wish to inflame Sir Charles’s desires by any actions of her own, and she knew that her long, dark brown hair was one of her best features. No doubt her hopeful seducer had written a sonnet to it already. At the moment he was out in the yard, giving instructions to his groom and coachman, but she knew that she had very little time before he joined her in the parlour, and then she would need to be quick-witted indeed. The lonely inn, the unfortunate accident, the single bedroom…And he had been dancing attendance on her for the past four weeks and she had been vain enough to be flattered…

  Here Eleanor sighed as she looked at her damp reflection in the mirror. Eleanor, Lady Mostyn, passably good-looking, only nineteen years old and already infamous, having been both married and deserted within the space of a week. She could remember her come-out vividly, for it had only been the Season before. Then, she had been accorded the scrupulous courtesy due to all innocent débutantes; now she was a prey to every dubious roué and rake in town.

  Her re-emergence into the Ton this Season had set all the tongues wagging once again about her notorious marriage, just as Eleanor had known it would. Not enough time had passed for the scandal to die down, but she had been foolishly determined to confront the gossips, to prove that though her husband were gone, squiring opera dancers around the Continent if the stories were true, she was not repining. She had the Trevithick pride—plenty of it—and at first it had prompted her to defiance. Let them talk—she would not regard it.

  Eleanor stripped off her cloak and hung it over the back of a chair. Needless to say, she had underestimated the power of rumour. One salacious story had led to another, each more deliciously dreadful than the last. The gossips said that she had eloped with Kit Mostyn to avoid a forced match; that he had deserted her on her wedding day because he had discovered her to be no virgin; that she had told him to leave because she had discovered he was a brute and a satyr who indulged in perverted practices…Eleanor sighed. The gossip had caused a scent of disrepute that hung about her and had the rakes sniffing around and the respectable ladies withdrawing their skirts for fear of contamination. Worse, she was not blameless.

  Despite her mama’s strictures that a lady always behaved with decorum, Eleanor had decided to scorn the gossips and fulfil their expectations. Just a little. At the start of the Season her off-white reputation had actually seemed rather amusing, much more entertaining than being a deadly dull débutante or a devoted wife. And in a complicated way it was a means of revenge on Kit, and she did so desperately want revenge. So she had flirted a little, encouraged some disreputable roués, even allowed a few rakes to steal a kiss or two. She had planned on taking a lover, or even two, perhaps both at the same time. The possibilities seemed endless for an abandoned bride whose husband clearly preferred to take his pleasures elsewhere.

  The idea had soon palled. Eleanor had known all along that she was not cut out to be a fast matron. The liberties were disgusting, the kisses even more so. All the gentlemen who buzzed around her had the self-importance to assume that she would find them attractive and did not bother to check first. Their attentions had become immensely tedious, their invitations increasingly salacious and their attempted seductions, such as the present one, most trying. In the space of only six weeks Eleanor had had to slap several faces, place a few well-aimed kicks in the ankle or higher and even hit one persistent gentleman with the family Bible when he had tried to seduce her in the library. And she was miserably aware that it was her own fault.

  Eleanor sat down by the meagre fire and tried to get warm. Now she had to deal with Sir Charles’s importunities. If she had found it difficult to decide whether to live up or down to her reputation previously, she knew now beyond a shadow of doubt that she was not cut out for some sordid intrigue. There was enough scandal already attached to her name without some indiscreet dalliance in a low tavern with a man she found boring. Besides
, she inevitably compared every man she met to Kit and found them wanting. It was curious but true—he had left her alone to face the scandal of their marriage and she had not heard a word from him since, yet still she found other men lacking.

  In the five months since Kit’s defection, Eleanor’s childish infatuation had turned to anger and misery. When her mother delighted in passing on another snippet of gossip about Kit that had been garnered from her acquaintance, Eleanor hardened her heart a little more each time. However, it did not prevent the memory of her husband from overshadowing every other man she knew.

  But that was nothing to the purpose. Eleanor smoothed her dress thoughtfully as she tried to decide what to do. She could appeal to Sir Charles’s better nature but that was probably a waste of time as she suspected that he did not possess one. She would not be here if he did. She could play the innocent and scream the house down if matters turned nasty, or she could act the sophisticate, then run away when she had lulled Sir Charles into a false sense of security. Eleanor frowned. She was not entirely happy with either option. There was plenty of room for error.

  She could hear voices getting closer—Sir Charles was quoting Shakespeare in the corridor. Oh dear, this was going to be very tiresome. The door opened. Sir Charles came in, followed by the innkeeper bearing a tray with two enormous glasses of wine. Eleanor raised her brows. That was not in the least subtle and somehow she had expected better of a poet. She really must rid herself of these false expectations.

  ‘There you are, my love!’ Sir Charles’s voice had already slipped from the respectful courtesy of their previous exchanges to an odious intimacy that made Eleanor’s hackles rise. ‘I hope that you are warm enough—although I shall soon have you wrapped up as cosy as can be, upstairs with me!’

  The innkeeper smirked meaningfully and Eleanor looked down her nose haughtily at him. No doubt he was warmed by the size of the bribe Sir Charles must have slipped him to connive in so dubious an enterprise. She wondered whether Sir Charles had always spoken in rhyme and why on earth she had not noticed it before. It was intensely irritating.