The Reluctant Bride Collection Page 35

  But Elinor had not arrived. A note had been sent in her place, not in her handwriting, and Flora had every intention of visiting her friend tomorrow to make sure she was all right.

  When Flora had shown George the note, he’d read it slowly, then folded it tightly and tucked it in his pocket.

  She could only imagine that he had been just as surprised that the widow hadn’t come. Could only imagine that he, too, would be worried about her.

  He’d tried. Tried to be attentive, tried to be interested.

  But his fingers had strayed to his pocket time and again and he’d fiddled with the note the entire evening. As soon as Flora’s guests had begun departing, he’d left.

  Flora thought they’d been lucky he hadn’t left the moment the note had arrived.

  She paused at the library door. Thinking of earls and their brothers. Earls and their wives.

  She didn’t knock, just walked right in like she’d always done. As if it was her right.

  Sebastian was behind his desk, working. Taking care of his responsibilities.

  He lifted his head to smile at her.

  She didn’t smile back. She didn’t say a word, just untied her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor.

  She wished it was dark in here, wished she didn’t have to stand naked and on display for the man she loved.

  Not after ten years and four children.

  Loose, flabby, sagging.

  She hadn’t known, ten years ago, that one day she would miss her young body. Hadn’t known that one day she would wish she had been proud of it. That she’d spent every evening reclining naked in front of the fire, marveling at the smooth skin and firm muscles.

  In ten more years would she feel the same about this body?

  Sebastian’s eyes flicked down, then back up. “Flora?”

  She tilted her chin up and walked toward him, closer to the light.

  “Sebastian. I need you. Like this. Us, together.”

  She did need him like that, but it still made her blush.

  She also needed to try, one more time. Another chance at a son. Not for the earldom, not for duty. Not even for George.

  For her husband. To give him a reason to spend his days and nights working. For purpose.

  He thought he could live without it.

  He was wrong.

  Sebastian sighed. “Flora. I can’t. I won’t.”

  But his eyes kept getting dragged back down to her breasts, the apex of her thighs.

  His eyes didn’t complain that her breasts now sat lower than they had before. They didn’t stop at her belly to criticize the roundness or trace the faint lines left from skin being stretched too far to ever recover.

  She stepped around the desk, leaned down to rub the tip of her nose on his cheek and to smell the scent that was his alone.

  She whispered, “I need you, Sebastian.”

  When she pulled back, his eyes were closed and he said softly, merely a breath escaping, “Flora. Please.”

  She crawled onto his lap, her knees straddling his hips, and kissed him.

  She forgot about propriety and shame. Forgot about rejection and leading him where she wanted him to go.

  If he wouldn’t be led to her bed, if he wouldn’t lie with her, she would love him just like she’d always done.

  As if it was her right.

  George had raced to Elinor’s after leaving Flora’s dinner. His heart beating, the note tight in his fist.

  Lady Haywood sends her apologies.

  Something had to be wrong; the widow wouldn’t shy away from spectacle or scandal. Lady Haywood wouldn’t send her apologies.

  He’d nearly sent his horse up her short flight of stairs to trample through the front door but at the last minute had vaulted from it and used his fist to summon Jones.

  When the man opened the door cautiously, George tried to push through.

  “What’s wrong? Where is she?”

  Jones strong-armed him, keeping him out.

  “She is resting.”

  That did nothing to ease George’s worry.

  “Was it that coxcomb of a brother of hers?”

  “No, sir. She is simply. . .unwell.”

  “Jones, if you do not let me through to see for myself, I will take Anala out of my pocket. Yes, I will.”

  He would have to go home first to get her. But then, by gad, he would bring the little thing back and let her loose on the hapless Jones. And then on Elinor for making him worry about her.

  He was only slightly relieved it hadn’t been her brother. Had been imagining the madness in the man’s eyes and the bruises he must have surely left on Elinor’s arm the first time he’d seen them together.

  Jones looked to be at a complete loss, speechless in the face of George’s threat, then began to push the door shut, muttering something.

  George leaned closer to hear. “Pardon?”

  Jones flushed bright red, cleared his throat and said to the air above George’s head, “It is women’s troubles, sir.”

  George blinked. And blinked again. “Oh.”

  The two men didn’t look at one another until finally George shook it off. “Well, in that case, she shouldn’t mind if I pop in for a short visit. I won’t stay, Jones.”

  Since the man had wished George a farewell and a good morning at the same time for nearly a week now, Jones certainly knew how things lay between George Sinclair and his mistress.

  The poor man was weakening but Jones gave it one last shot. “She would not want you to see her. She has taken a heavy dose of laudanum.”

  “Ah. Excellent.” George pushed his way in, Jones stepping out of the way with a sigh as he realized the futility of the situation. “In that case, she need never know I was here. I will simply peek in to make sure she is as well as can be, then leave her to rest.”

  George didn’t wait for Jones to agree, simply bounded up the stairs and to her room, his coat flapping around him, his hat still on his head.

  He pushed open the door slowly, trying not to imagine what kind of troubles women suffered from, but when he saw a maid sitting quietly next to the bed and Elinor sleeping fitfully beneath a light blanket, he relaxed.

  Three large steps in and he was looking down at her, her hair still coiffed although horribly mussed now. The room was cooler than she kept it for him and it did not go unnoticed.

  No bruises marred her face, just a light sheen to her skin, and George said, “Women’s troubles.”

  The maid flushed and lowered her head, and George sighed.

  A woman who’d had five husbands– three and a half if she insisted– and no children and bad enough women’s troubles that she needed to be knocked out with laudanum.

  George sighed again. Because tonight he’d had dinner with a young girl and her pleasant family, his brother beaming at the splendidness of the situation.

  Splendid. Simply splendid.

  George would have to offer for Miss Westin. Soon.

  He could go tonight. Hunt down her father, make his intentions fact.

  Sip cognac and be welcomed into the family.

  And then call for the solicitors tomorrow.

  He could only think of Elinor now when he thought of solicitors and George smiled. And then he stopped.

  How long would she keep him once his engagement was settled? Until the wedding? After?

  Or would she drop him and move on once she knew she couldn’t win?

  George said to the maid, “I assume you know what you’re doing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her tone was too confident to doubt that she hadn’t done this before.

  George didn’t say goodbye, just turned and left. The anxiety he’d arrived with had dissipated into a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  He liked to call it his future.

  He trudged down the stairs.

  “Thank you, Jones. For letting me see her.”

  “Thank you, sir, for pretending I had any say in the matter.”


  George’s mouth twitched.

  He thought of cognac. And fathers. And solicitors.

  And said, “I don’t suppose Mrs. Potts has any tea down in the kitchen?”

  Ten

  When Elinor was receiving callers again, Flora came to pay her a visit. She stopped completely when she saw Elinor.

  “You look as if you should still be abed!”

  Elinor still felt shaky; her skin too pale, her movements too slow.

  “Thank you but I am well enough. It is the laudanum. It does not agree with me.”

  Or perhaps it agreed too well. Stopping the dosage was nearly as bad as not taking it in the first place and she didn’t know why she clawed her way out every month. Didn’t know why her menses were so painful in the first place; only knew she could very well spend the rest of her life in a stupor from the drug. Let it take away her desire and want.

  Many women did. A little sip morning, noon, and night. Just enough to keep oneself from caring.

  Elinor pushed it away. “I am sorry I missed your dinner. Sinclair didn’t get himself engaged, did he?”

  “No.”

  Elinor felt the flicker of life spark again. This was why she’d crawled out this time. Sinclair. Miss Westin. The countess, Elinor’s trump card. The game. Everything she wanted, so close.

  And she pushed away the fear that close didn’t matter, not for her.

  Flora said, “But the earl is becoming quite fond of Miss Westin. He is pushing his brother toward her at every opportunity. Which I am not interfering with since it irritates George to no end. At this point he wouldn’t marry the girl even if he was in love with her.”

  Sinclair had come to visit Elinor every day, she’d been told. Her staff had kept him out, and she was a little sorry she’d told them not to let him in unless she was able to receive him.

  He’d come every day and been turned away every day, and she was afraid he would stop coming.

  Elinor said, “If the earl made Miss Westin forbidden, Sinclair would be off to Gretna Green with her in a flash.”

  Flora sat quietly, looking at Elinor and parsing her words. She finally said, “Would he?”

  “He would think it romantic. And likely the girl is young enough that she would, too.”

  “George would never do that to her. Or to their children. Leave them with nothing for some romantic gesture.”

  Elinor shook her head. “Not a gesture if it was the only way he could have her.”

  Flora tapped her foot. “And should I tell the earl to do this?”

  Elinor tried. Tried to say yes. Tried to give up what she wanted for someone she lo–

  For someone she liked.

  For someone she could love. If she could love at all.

  Elinor said, “No.”

  And then the knocker on the door rang out before either of them could say anything more. And when Jones opened the drawing room door and let in Sinclair, Elinor thought again, No.

  Miss Westin couldn’t have him. Not so easily as that.

  Sinclair bowed to his sister-in-law, his hair bouncing wildly, his smile too sincere. He was too uncivilized, and Elinor couldn’t take her eyes from his face. So happy he’d come again.

  He said to the countess, “I thought I recognized your carriage.”

  Had he always been like this, open and happy? Or is this what India had done to him?

  Elinor thought she would never know.

  He turned to her and bowed over her hand, his eyes catching hers and then searching her face. She wished she’d waited until the bloom was back in her cheeks, the sparkle back in her eyes. Lovely and splendid and all a man could want in a woman.

  Her worry that he would stop visiting because of being repeatedly turned away twisting into the thought that now he wouldn’t return because he could see with his own eyes what her body put her through.

  He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling, his hand squeezing hers, and she smiled back.

  He settled on the sofa beside her, not touching, and said, “You are looking better.”

  Flora guffawed. “She looks like she’s on death’s door.”

  “You should have seen her yesterday.”

  Elinor turned her head slowly to look at him and raised her eyebrows. He smiled again at her and Elinor tried to be angry. That they’d let him in, that they’d lied to her about it.

  She couldn’t seem to muster the emotion. Who could keep him out when he wanted in?

  Flora said, “I came to tell her about the dinner she missed but if you’ve already been to see her, she’ll know.”

  Elinor and Sinclair didn’t reply, and Flora smiled, rising. “Perhaps you had more important things to talk of. I hope you’ll be feeling yourself again soon, Elinor.”

  Sinclair rose, putting a hand to Elinor’s shoulder when she began to follow. “The countess will forgive you the slight.”

  Elinor stayed sitting, and again tried to be miffed at Sinclair. For taking over her household, for his high-handedness.

  But all she could do was hide her shaking hands beneath her skirt and sit quietly.

  When the countess had left, Elinor said, “Jones let you in.”

  Sinclair sat down next to her, this time close enough to touch, close enough to kiss her lips lightly. “Of course he let me in. You look tired.”

  She was tired. Tired and happy. Stupidly happy.

  He lifted an arm, sliding it around her shoulders and tugging her against him. And she went, sliding down in her seat to lean her head against him.

  He murmured, “The countess visits you. She’s your if.”

  When Elinor nodded, he asked, “Is she breeding?”

  “Not yet.”

  Not yet.

  If.

  The same could be said of her. Not yet. If.

  Possibly never.

  A depression settled over her and she sat quietly, tucked tightly in the arms of a man she’d give everything to.

  If she loved him.

  Flora had gone to visit the widow, not sure at all how to share her news. Her conquest. Only knowing that if she didn’t, it would burst from her chest.

  She’d seduced her husband.

  And she’d had such fun, she was planning on doing it again tonight.

  She smiled, alone in her carriage, and tried to stuff her secret back down where it couldn’t escape.

  But she smiled. Because she loved, was in love. There was passion and fire and something new.

  Smiled because there was hope.

  She smiled as she remembered George and Elinor together, at that first flush of love. When nothing and no one else existed.

  She smiled when the carriage pulled up to her lovely home, smiled at the footman who helped her down, smiled as she swept through the waiting door.

  Smiled when she was told that his lordship had requested her presence as soon as she was able.

  Flora’s stomach flopped and she tried to stop smiling. But she simply couldn’t help it as she wondered about seducing her husband in broad daylight. Wondered if she could lock the library door behind her, and wondered if he wanted her for the same reason she wanted him.

  She floated to the library, entering without knocking and then breathing deeply when she saw Sebastian at his desk, working.

  She watched him as his pen scratched across paper and she leaned back against the door.

  He didn’t look up at her.

  She said softly, “You summoned me?”

  His pen paused, and then resumed writing. He cleared his throat.

  “I wanted to speak with you. At your leisure, of course. I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear.”

  She said nothing, waiting for him to look up. When he didn’t, she pushed herself away from the door and went to sit in the chair across from his desk, her smile gone, the tingles in her belly turning to lead.

  He still didn’t look at her and they sat in awkward silence until she leaned over to put her hand over his, to stop the scratching.

&
nbsp; “Sebastian.”

  He looked up then and he was angry. His eyes hard.

  She pulled her hand away at his look and her mouth fell open when he said harshly, “I underestimated your. . . needs.”

  She had nothing to say to that.

  “If there is a child, can I be certain it will be mine?”

  She choked, her own anger building. “I have lain with only one man my entire life; I have loved only one man my entire life. I dare say you can not say the same.”

  She stood, ready to leave, her entire body shaking.

  “Flora–”

  She whirled on him. “You need a son. It is my duty to give you one and you refuse me!”

  “Flora–”

  “A year! Alone in my bed, wondering who my husband is loving now that he is done with me!”

  “Flora–”

  “I loved you, Sebastian. No one luckier in all of London, that’s what I told myself. A countess, four beautiful children, saved from death itself by God’s hand. And for what?”

  “Only God could have saved you, Flora. That’s how close you were.”

  He said it so quietly that it cut through some of her anger.

  She held her hands out wide, showing him her whole body. Alive.

  “I didn’t die, Sebastian. And you’re the only one who makes me wish I had.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Who are you, Flora? Ten years and I still don’t know who my wife is. You flirt and laugh with George–”

  “And now what are you accusing me of?”

  “Nothing. It’s just. . . With him, you laugh.”

  “Everyone laughs with George.”

  “It makes me wonder. Who is the real you? She who laughs with my brother or she who stands by my side as the perfect countess.” He said, softer, “Or she who stands in front of me right now, angry.”

  She was angry, all right. Ten years and he didn’t know her at all. Ten years and he hadn’t even looked.

  Her voice was hard and unforgiving when she said, “If you don’t know who your wife is, then you haven’t been listening. And for your information, I don’t have to be just one of those women. I am all.”

  She swept out of the room, ignoring as he called her name one last time.

  Ignoring how her anger covered the hurt.