The Reluctant Bride Collection Read online

  Didn’t want to think about one long journey to India. Didn’t want to think about heat and warmth and life exactly how he liked it.

  Didn’t want to think who he’d bring with him because it wasn’t Miss Westin.

  His tight muscles relaxed. “Ah. Miss Westin. You have to move now. Before it’s too late; before my intentions becomes fact.”

  “I can make you forget all about Miss Westin.”

  “Who?”

  Elinor smiled at him and George truthfully forgot who they were talking about.

  She placed one knee on the chair, right between his. Her dress pulled tight against her breasts and she leaned forward to relieve the pressure.

  George’s hands came up without thought and circled her waist.

  St. Clair whispered to George, Remember who you’re playing. Remember that she doesn’t hesitate to crush her opponents when the opportunity presents itself.

  And bloody hell, if that didn’t make him even more excited.

  George pulled at her fichu, slowly exposing the creamy skin of her bosom.

  “Can you make me forget duty and family, Elinor? Remember you’re not playing Miss Westin, you’re playing me. And the earl.”

  “And St. Clair.” She tugged at his cravat sharply, making his heart thump.

  He murmured, “And St. Clair. And the countess.”

  She leaned into him and breathed against his lips. “And all I have is if.”

  If he could have spoken past the lump in his throat he would have told her she had a hell of a lot more than that.

  Then decided she already knew it.

  One last try. One last warning before they started a game neither one of them could win.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re playing against the way of the world, Elinor.”

  Her lips touched his, a spark traveled down his belly to his groin. His fingers began working on the buttons on the back of her dress.

  She pushed his coat off his shoulders and said, “It’s not the way of my world.”

  The fire had burned down and their clothes littered the furniture and floor.

  Sinclair lay cradled between her legs, his head heavy on her chest.

  Elinor was happy to stay here on the floor with him forever, and where his skin touched hers, she was warm. But her skin pebbled along the outside of her arms and outer thighs, and she shivered.

  Sinclair murmured, “A bed.”

  “A blanket.”

  He sighed and didn’t move. “A raging fire and I can pretend I am at home and not in this perpetually chilled country.”

  “You miss India so much?”

  “More than I can bear.”

  She ran her hand over his hair. “You love your brother so much.”

  “More than I can stand.”

  She laughed, pushing at him until he rolled off her, shivering himself. He made for the fire, poking and stoking until it again put out its heat.

  When he turned back to her, she was pulling on her dress and he reached for her, pulling the dress back off and tossing it away. He pulled her to the heat, trapping her between him and it and rubbed at her arms.

  When her arms were warm, he knelt at her feet, wrapping his arms around her and rubbing her backside.

  She pushed her fingers through his too long, too blond hair and thought she could almost relax around him. Almost be herself instead of what she thought he wanted.

  He smoothed his fingers around her waist, across her abdomen, his thumbs meeting over her navel. “Tell me about it.”

  “About the children I’ve never had?”

  He nodded and she said, “There’s nothing to tell.”

  He looked up. “How can a woman have five husbands and no children?”

  “They don’t last long enough to give me any, Sinclair.”

  She’d meant to say it coldly, matter-of-factly. But it came out choked and sad.

  “You can cry, Elinor.”

  She shook her head. She never had before, she didn’t know why she should start now, with the man who was going to give her everything she wanted at her feet.

  “Cry? Never. To cry would be to accept. To cry would be to admit defeat.”

  “And if it had been one husband for five years? Would it be time to admit defeat then?”

  Her stomach tightened. In anger, in fear.

  She’d gone through this with herself, over and over. Never with anyone else, though, and she pushed her anger down to haltingly say, “It wasn’t five years. Husband number one did his duty.”

  “The old codger.”

  Her smile lifted her lips, her stomach let go of its ill emotions, and she sank onto her knees.

  “The old codger,” she agreed.

  “And then the merchant,” Sinclair said, skipping over the heartbreak of a dead child. Because children died and women somehow, someday, pushed themselves from their bed and learned to live with only half a heart.

  She said, “He could have, should have. One year and no child. That is not so unusual. And then there was the Italian Stallion. Marcus. Who liked men.”

  “Ah. Only?”

  “Only. I had hoped. . . When I finally realized what the problem was, I thought I could change his mind.” She smiled self-deprecatingly. “I was wrong.”

  Sinclair sighed. “And then there was dear Bertie. I don’t think I want to know any of his secrets.”

  “Dear Bertie didn’t have any secrets. He was a good and kind man, more than a woman like me ever deserved. He was year two. And I will agree it is worrisome that there was no child. But still nowhere near impossible.”

  “And then year three was the young whippersnapper.”

  She shook her head. “Of the year we were married, he was able to enjoy our marital bed two times. He had a serious drinking problem and his member suffered for it.”

  Sinclair’s lips pulled back in a grimace. “Remind me to give up drink.”

  “He was a sweet boy, but very unhappy, and I don’t think our marriage helped any. So it was only two years. Not nearly long enough for me to give up.”

  Sinclair reached behind him, pulling his greatcoat over to the fire and smoothing it out on the floor. He lay down on it, holding his arm up for Elinor to snuggle down with him, and when she did, the warm fire on one side and his warm body on the other, she closed her eyes and nearly fell asleep.

  He said lightly, “You can’t fool me, Elinor. You feign sleep but I know, you’re thinking of solicitors and planning your next move.”

  She smiled. “You haven’t given me what I want. Yet.”

  “I gave it to you. More than once.”

  He had. Not a selfish lover, was George Sinclair.

  He is all that he promises.

  He whispered, “Even if I give you a child, I can’t marry you.”

  “I know. You can’t marry me unless the countess breeds. I won’t marry you unless I breed.”

  “And if you begin breeding and the countess doesn’t?”

  “I will have to make you marry me.” She opened her eyes to smile at him and run her hand down his chest. “Somehow.”

  “Fair warning. I can’t give that to you, Elinor. My life is not my own.”

  “Fair warning, Sinclair. I play to win.”

  “You play to crush; I remember. You think you can twirl me around your finger like all your other husbands? Make me forget my brother and my duty and cling only to you?”

  She pulled a pin from her disheveled hair and then another and she watched him as the locks tumbled down.

  She said, “Yes,” and George’s cock rose in agreement.

  He murmured, “God help me if you’re right,” and leaned in to kiss her, to cover her and love her again.

  To distract her, if only for a little while.

  Because he was right; it was her against his world.

  Her only play was to make him come to her side. To make him turn against his world.

  How did one make a man give you what you wanted when you’d
already given him what he wanted?

  Elinor had figured it out. She still didn’t know if she could do it.

  She would make him give her his heart.

  Nine

  Sinclair came to visit Elinor the next evening.

  And the next.

  And on the third evening, Elinor arrived home to find him tucked into her drawing room, reading, her dogs lying happily at his feet.

  He pulled her down into his lap and she went too easily, too happily.

  She said, “I’ll be giving Jones strict instructions not to let you in again unless I am here to receive you.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” He kissed her, a whole day apart too long. “Sounds like a great idea.”

  Elinor pulled back before they got too serious. She was tired of the hard floor and the fire burning itself out. Tonight she would take Sinclair to her bedroom.

  He tucked her into his side, telling her of his day with his brother. The tedious, never-ending details one needed to know to run an earldom.

  He exclaimed over the stewards and the running of them and she said, “It is the same as your frippery. You have lots of people taking care of their little part and you have to take care of them.”

  He’d told her all about the hours he’d spent scouring the markets and the excitement he felt when he found something special. The look in the merchant’s eye when he said he wanted as many as could be had. The contacts he’d made in London and the shops that stocked his doodads.

  “But. . .that’s fun. And I’m in charge of it. The earldom runs my brother, not the other way around.”

  “I am sure you will figure it out. I doubt it even occurs to the earl that it could be any other way.”

  “I appreciate your confidence even if I do not share it. My only hope is that I will never be in charge of the whole of it, although Sebastian is making threats that he will be giving me the running of an estate here and there. For the experience. Bloody hell, I’ll have to report to him.”

  Elinor hid her smile against his shirt. “How horrible.”

  “The worst. I know my father did the same to Sebastian and just look what it did to him. You won’t recognize me when he gets through with me.”

  She laughed outright at that and Sinclair said, “I’ll have to go to the country. Sheep. Tenants. Peace and quiet.”

  He shuddered.

  Elinor said, “Mud,” then sat up. “When will you be leaving for the country?”

  “Oh, not right away. Someday. He wouldn’t trust me with a dollhouse right now, let alone a real house and lands.”

  Elinor calmed her racing heart. He wasn’t leaving for the country yet. She still had time.

  “And Sebastian won’t send me during the season. Not while he is working so hard at getting me married off.”

  Elinor sat stiffly on his lap, trying to think of something witty to say to that. Something biting.

  But her heart still pounded and she imagined her townhouse without him here waiting for her and she just couldn’t think of anything.

  He ran his hand down her back. “This isn’t a secret between us, Elinor. There are no falsehoods between us.”

  She did smile then. “I am certain there are a few falsehoods between us, but you’re right. Not that one. I know you, and your brother, are still set on Miss Westin.” She leaned back against him. “Forgive me if I thought I could change your mind with only a few nights.”

  He breathed out, his breath puffing her hair into her face. “You know were circumstances different, we would be sleeping in a Scottish bed this night. Man and wife over a blacksmith’s anvil.”

  She took that pretty thought and held it to her heart. She never would have but it was a pretty thought.

  “Mr. Sinclair. You know I never get married without a passel of solicitors approving the transaction.”

  His chest rumbled against her back. “No running off to Gretna Green for you? You have killed every last romantic bone in my body.”

  “It is only romantic in your eyes because you wouldn’t lose everything. Stupid is not romantic.”

  “Then tell me, dear lady, your version of romance.”

  She paused to think. Romance? Love?

  Perhaps she did think stupid was romantic. Perhaps romance was doing what you knew was stupid, what you knew would hurt, what you knew would destroy, and doing it anyway. Just for the chance at happiness.

  “I. . .don’t know.”

  “You’ve never loved anyone? Any of them?”

  “Is that what you are looking for in marriage, Sinclair? Love?”

  “Of course not. That would be silly.”

  But she heard it in his voice, that love was what he hoped for. Just like the difference between his frippery and the earldom. One was love, one was duty.

  George Sinclair wanted to love. George Sinclair lived to love.

  He’d left all he’d built, the home he’d made for himself, for his brother’s happiness.

  She said, “Romance is simply the outward expression of love. And love, real love, is the giving up of everything you want in order to give the one you love everything they want.”

  George said nothing at her definition and she said, “No, I never loved any of them like that. I’ve never loved anyone like that.”

  “I think very few people have.”

  Elinor didn’t point out that was exactly what he’d done.

  He pulled pins from her hair. “But you’re right, sacrifice is much more romantic than Gretna Green. Luckily, love doesn’t require everything from most people.”

  Luck. Elinor had never had any.

  Her stomach turned and she was glad that she didn’t love George Sinclair, glad she wouldn’t be asked to give up everything for him.

  His fingers began to work on the buttons on the back of her dress and she slid from his lap, standing and offering her hand.

  “I am tired of the cold, hard floor.”

  He perked up. “A bed? Jones’ll never keep me out now.”

  She laughed, pulling him out the door and up the stairs. “Strict instructions.”

  “Ah, well. I only came early tonight because I will be very late tomorrow. A dinner.”

  “I know. I’ve been invited.”

  Sinclair stopped halfway up the stairs. “You’ve been invited to dinner at the earl’s?”

  When Elinor nodded, he exclaimed, “By the earl?!”

  “His wife.”

  “Has Flora lost her mind?”

  “I don’t believe she has.”

  “How in the world did you get her on your side?” Then he gasped. “Miss Westin will be there!”

  “And St. Clair.”

  Sinclair sucked in a breath. “My brother, my best friend, my intended, and my mistress.”

  She said thoughtfully, “Which of us do you think will be the most uncomfortable?”

  “Me!”

  She chuckled, tugging at him until he began climbing the stairs again. “I am betting on the earl. I am hoping for Miss Westin.”

  He said darkly, “I have underestimated you, Elinor. I won’t be doing it again.”

  “You did underestimate me. You should listen to your friend and your brother more often.”

  “Obviously.”

  She pushed open the door to her bedchamber, a wave of heat escaping to coat them.

  When Jones had told her Sinclair was waiting in her drawing room, she’d ordered her bedchamber fire stoked as hot as possible, and the room shimmered with heat. It was as close to India as she could imagine for him.

  She turned to Sinclair, still holding his hand, and said, “Are you going to start listening to them now?”

  He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply and saying, “God, no.”

  The pain started early the next morning.

  It had been less than a week; Elinor couldn’t be disappointed they hadn’t made a child in so short a time. She couldn’t be surprised.

  She was, and she was. She’d been so sure. She’d known
.

  But the tightening in her belly, the ache in her back, told her her menses were coming.

  She prayed she was wrong, refused to send her apologies to the countess.

  By early afternoon, the pain made her breath hitch, but there was still no blood. She could still hope. She refused to take any laudanum.

  She dressed for dinner slowly, haltingly, every movement hurting her, her maid looking worried and trying to talk her into staying home.

  Elinor shook her head, saving her breath to pant against the pain.

  And then there was a spot of blood. And then another.

  Elinor bent double and fell to the bed. She curled into a ball, groaning as the fire burned and twisted low in her belly, as her back spasmed.

  Mrs. Potts held her down and the maid poured that hateful elixir down her throat and far too slowly, the pain receded.

  Far too quickly, Elinor stopped caring that there was no child. She floated in that place where want didn’t exist.

  It didn’t even hurt that her last thought, right before she stopped thinking entirely, was that there would never be a child.

  Flora’s guests had gone home.

  The servants had cleaned up the mess that inevitably resulted from a dozen extra people dining and being entertained for an evening.

  The lights had been doused and the household was abed.

  Flora made her way carefully down the stairs to the library thinking of the Westins.

  Lady Westin and her daughter were cut from the same cloth– beautiful and gay and somewhat spirited.

  The kind of woman you could easily be jealous of, the kind of woman you could easily hate if she had but one mean bone in her body.

  The kind of woman who could make being a countess look easy. The kind of woman who could raise an earl.

  If only it was Sebastian who had to make that decision.

  Because George had jumped at every arrival, waiting for one person in particular.

  Flora had failed to mention that she’d invited the widow to her husband. Because Flora hadn’t wanted to give Sebastian time to disinvite her. And because Flora hadn’t wanted to spend any time being lectured at before the dinner– after the dinner was unavoidable.

  And because she’d wanted Sebastian to see. To see how George looked at Miss Westin, and how he looked at Elinor.