Marrying Mr. English: The English Brothers #7 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 11) (14 page)

“If you’re asking if I’m still married, I am.”

“Tom, be reasonable.”

“I just wanted to give you my address.”

“We could talk to your grandfather together. We could—”

“If any scenario you have in mind includes me annulling my marriage or divorcing my wife, then we have nothing to discuss.”

His father was silent.

“We are living at 33 Stony Brook Road in Weston, Connecticut, near—”

“Kinsey,” said his father. “What the hell are you doing all the way up there?”

“I got a job,” said Tom, “at Kinsey. Teaching English.”

“Teaching!”

“Yes.”

“Teaching kids English?”

This time, Tom was silent.

“Well, thanks so much, Thomas. We’ll be the laughingstock of the club when everyone finds out. First you marry some anonymous little slut from Denver, and then you—”

“Shut. Your. Mouth!” bellowed Tom, his spittle covering the mouthpiece of the phone. “You will
not
—I repeat, sir—you will
not
speak about my wife in that manner. I know well your contempt for marriage, as evidenced by your three discarded wives. But you will not talk about mine without respect.”

“You’re digging a deep grave, Tom,” said his father sadly. “Your grandfather regrets how things were left between you. He missed you at Christmas. He’s pliant now. If you’d just—”

“I love her,” said Tom quietly, owning the words with every breath he drew, every beat of his heart. “I won’t give her up.”

“Then there’s nothing more to say.” His father sighed. “Happy New Year, Tom.”

“And to you, Father. Good-bye.”

He hung up the phone quickly, still shaking from his fury, the words
anonymous little slut
making him see red. All he wanted after that was to leave the library and race home to her, hold her in his arms, smell her wonderful maple syrup smell, and reaffirm that the sort of love he bore her was the kind that would continue to grow and last a lifetime.

Instead, he was walking home through two-foot snowdrifts.

As their little house finally came into sight after a ninety-minute walk, Tom noticed that the house didn’t look bright and cheery, but dark and quiet. The front light, which Eleanora always left on, was off.

He pushed his key in the lock and turned the knob, stepping into the living room.

“Eleanora?” he called.

It didn’t smell like eggs and hash browns or pancakes and bacon. It didn’t smell like anything at all. And though he’d expected Eleanora to race to the door and greet him, his wife was nowhere to be found.

He peeked into the kitchen, flicking on the light. She wasn’t there, though there was a foil-covered plate on the table with a taped note on top that read “Dinner.”

“Eleanora?” he called again, walking up the stairs to their bedroom on the second floor.

Pushing open the bedroom door, he found the room lit up with the ambient light from the black-and-white, secondhand TV on the dresser. Eleanora sat up in bed, under the covers, staring at the TV.

Tom sat down on the bed beside her. “Hey, baby. Car wouldn’t start, huh?”

She didn’t look at him, just cleared her throat like he wasn’t there and continued to stare at the news.

Tom flinched. “Eleanora?”

“Your dinner’s on the table,” she said, her voice dull and cold.

He reached for her face, turning her head gently to face him. Even in the dim light, he could tell that her eyes were puffy and sad.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Baby, you’re scaring me.”

She jerked her head away, looking back at the TV.

Tom swung his legs up on the bed and scooted closer to her. “Eleanora, talk to me!”

“You want to talk? Okay. Let’s talk.” Her voice was furious—more angry than he’d ever heard it. It lashed his ears like an ice-cold wind. “I saw her. I saw that woman with you at the library this morning. I gather she’s someone you’ve known for a while. I know you’re supposed to see her tomorrow. I know that we only got married out of convenience and you’re staying with me out of some misguided sense of honor, but you don’t have to do that, Tom! You can go and . . . go and . . .” Her voice broke as it was enveloped in sobs and her shoulders shook from the force of her weeping.

Without asking her permission, he whipped the covers down, picked her up in his arms and deposited her on his lap, wrapping his arms around her and holding her as hard as he could without crushing her. He dropped his lips to her sweet-smelling hair over and over again, kissing her as she sobbed, as she let go of all the ugliness she’d been holding on to all day.

Apparently, she’d seen him talking to Charity this morning.

And gotten the wrong idea.

“I do want to talk,” he said gently, rubbing her back. “When you’re ready to listen.”

“I . . . I know I’m y-young and I’m not very c-cultured. B-but I would’ve tried my b-best to make you h-h-happy, Tom.”

“You
do
make me happy, sunshine.”

“Then why . . .?” she sobbed, dropping her forehead on his shoulder, but trying to push him away at the same time.

He held on tightly to her. “Whenever you’re ready to listen . . .,” he said again.

She took a jagged, sobby breath and stopped fighting him, letting her body go slack against his. And he held her, resting his lips against her hair as his hands made lazy strokes up and down her back.

“F-fine,” she said. “Talk.”

“You saw me talking to Charity Gordon, who is Dean Gordon’s daughter and whom I’ve known since I was a student at Kinsey.”

She took a deep, ragged breath and sighed. “S-skinny-dipping?”

He forced himself not to laugh. “Her, not me.
She
was skinny-dipping with a couple of guys from our class. Van and I stole their clothes. End of story.”

“So she . . . she never saw you naked?”

“Nope,” said Tom, gentling his hold on her.

She squared her shoulders.

“Why are you seeing her
tomorrow
?” she asked, her voice accusatory.

“Because you and I were invited for dinner at the dean’s house on New Year’s Day, and I forgot to mention it to you. I see your face every evening, and I get so distracted. It slipped my mind.”

She leaned back and looked at him, searching his face with puffy, red, watery eyes. “D-dinner? With the d-dean?”

Suddenly, she launched herself back into his arms, shuddering with the force of her tears, and Tom was so confused, he was almost alarmed.

“Baby? Why are you crying? There’s nothing between me and Charity. Eleanora, I swear to you, there never
was
, but there definitely isn’t now. I’m in love with
you
. I’m in love with my wife. I can’t even imagine wanting to be with another woman. Sunshine, you have to believe me. You’re everything to me.”

“And you’re everything to me,” she mumbled against his shirt, which was wet from her tears. “I love you so much, Tom.”

“Then please tell me why you’re still upset. There’s nothing going on between me and Charity. You and I love each other. It’s okay, right?”

She shook her head and said “No” in a very small voice.

“Look at me, baby.” She leaned back, and he tipped her chin up. “Why isn’t it okay?”

“Because I lied to you. There’s nothing wrong with the car,” she said, looking guilty and sniffling at the same time.

“You made me walk home because you were mad?”

She nodded.

He took a beat to think this over. It kind of sucked that she hadn’t given him the benefit of the doubt, but the reality was that they’d hadn’t known each other that long. Trust was something that still needed to be built between them.

“Try to trust me next time?”

She nodded.

“Good, because it was a cold walk.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“We okay now?”

“Mm-hm,” she said.

“Smile for me,” he said, leaning forward to brush her lips with his. “There’s no one for me but you. Don’t you know that?”

“I do now,” she said.

He slipped off the bed, taking off his jacket and hanging it up before looking back down at her. “So, what’s for dinner? I saw it on the table downstairs. I was thinking you might have made your breakfast casserole special since it’s New Year’s Eve.”

She winced, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth.

“Oh no,” she groaned.

“What?”

“Remember this morning? The, uh, the Paul Newman quote? The one you told me?” she asked, looking downright sheepish before dropping his eyes.

He nodded, sitting down on the bed beside her, not sure where she was going.

“Yeah.”

“Dinner is . . . hamburger,” she said softly, staring down at her lap. Then, lifting her chin, she met his eyes and added, “A big plate of raw hamburger.”

Tom stared at her in shock for several long seconds before his lips tilted up, slowly at first, then wider and wider, until she realized he was laughing.

“Sunshine, even when you’re pissed as hell, you’re still spectacular.”

He reached for her then, pulling her on top of him, and she covered his face with kisses, her relief as palpable as her love was strong, and in between smooches she promised that she’d never get jealous again, though she was fairly certain they both knew that was a big fat lie.

Tom flipped her over and deepened their kisses until they were strung out on passion. Trailing his lips along the column of her neck, he whispered that he loved her, that she had no reason, ever, to be jealous. He pulled off her sweatshirt, and his lips skimmed through the valley of her bare breasts, scalding her tummy, then pushing down her underwear to kiss the secret, hidden parts of her body. He worshipped her with his lips and tongue until she screamed his name and climaxed in boneless waves of awesome. And only then did he unbuckle his belt, pull down his pants, and slip inside her, groaning that she made him happy as she slid her ankles up his legs and locked them around his waist.

After making love, they faced each other in bed, Tom’s hand resting on her hip as he told her shocking stories about Charity Gordon, stories that made her gasp and giggle, proclaiming Eve Marie the far less slutty of the two.

Later, she cut up some onions and potatoes and fried them with the hamburger, which meant that instead of the fine meal she’d envisioned, they dined on hamburger hash and two leftover beers for their first New Year’s Eve as man and wife. Good intentions notwithstanding, it was the best hamburger hash she’d ever had in her entire life.

As they drove to the Gordons’ house the next evening, Eleanora reflected on the wonder of the previous night—how she’d felt so frightened and heartbroken before she learned the truth about Tom’s disinterest in Charity, and how his voice and assurances and strong arms around her body could whisk away all the fear and potential heartbreak like it never even existed.

She smoothed her hands on her black ankle-length skirt—the same one she’d worn the day she met Tom’s grandfather—and hoped that her simple white angora sweater didn’t look too cheap. She liked how soft and feminine it felt against her skin, and from the way Tom had looked at her when she met him downstairs, she knew he approved.

As they pulled into Dean Gordon’s driveway, Tom turned to her.

“I doubt Charity will be inappropriate since we’re here together, but please, baby, just trust me that I have zero interest in her. Never did, never will.”

She cleared her throat and smiled at Tom, then leaned over the bolster and kissed him. “Don’t worry about it, Tom. It’s going to be fine.”

Because if Charity Gordon
does
decide to be inappropriate, it won’t go well for her
, thought Eleanora.

Tom was
her
husband, and if she needed to proverbially piss on his leg a little in front of the flirtatious Miss Gordon to be certain that territory borders would be respected in the future, so be it. She’d stay well hydrated, just in case.

Tom kept his hand on the small of her back as they stepped up the walkway to the Gordons’ house, and Eleanora reached out to ring the doorbell, taking a deep breath in an effort to quiet her nerves. Her last foray into Tom’s world had been the furthest possible thing from pleasant, with the elder Mr. English calling her a slut and worse. She braced herself for unpleasantness, and—surprise! surprise!—immediately found it in the form of Charity Gordon.

“Tom!” she exclaimed, opening the door and offering Tom a beaming smile. Her eyes flicked momentarily to Eleanora, but didn’t rest long. “I’m delighted you’re here! Come in!”

Tom stayed rooted where he stood, his hand still flush on Eleanora’s back, and said, “I’d like to introduce to you my wife, Eleanora.”

“Hmm,” said Charity, sliding her eyes to Eleanora with all the warmth of a python. “Yes. Welcome.”

“Thank you,” said Eleanora evenly, stepping inside.

Tom helped her with her coat, then handed them both to Charity. She draped them over her arm and gestured to the hallway off the foyer.

“Tom, my father’s in the living room. My brother, Alex, is visiting, and Geoffrey’s come up for the holiday. Go say hello.”

Tom looked at Eleanora, asking her with his eyes if she was okay. She grinned at him and winked, and he kissed her cheek before heading off to find the other men.

“So,” said Eleanora, watching as Charity hung their coats on hangers and closed the closet door. “Thanks for having us.”

Charity turned around, giving Eleanora a frosty smile. “What was your name again?”

“Mrs. English,” she responded.

Eyes narrowed, Charity clarified, “Your
first
name.”

“Eleanora.”

Clearly she’d thought that Eleanora would be some coltish pushover. Well, she wasn’t. She’d lived through far worse than Charity Gordon could imagine.

“Eleanora English. Well, that’s ridiculously alliterative.”

“I prefer to think of it as melodic.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Charity, eyeing Eleanora with interest.

Eleanora endured her perusal without flinching.

“You’re not what I expected,” Charity finally said. Her eyes flicked down Eleanora’s sweater and skirt, sizing up the younger woman. “And you’re very young.”

“I probably seem that way to
you
,” said Eleanora, referring to their decade age difference. “But I’m certainly old enough to be married.”

She wouldn’t be pushed around, and she wouldn’t let another woman make a move on what was hers. And Tom belonged to her.

Charity’s smile, which had been frosty in the first place, disappeared, leaving a thin line of red-painted lips behind.

“Recent reports mark a higher chance of divorce for young, impetuous couples.” Charity tapped her chin. “Daddy says you married very quickly.”

“Yes, we did,” she said. “And, you know, I recently read a report that said your chances of surviving marriage, or
an engagement
, for that matter, are better if you’re not a total bitch.”

Charity’s eyes narrowed as she gasped.

“I may as well add that your unspoken suspicions are entirely true: Tom’s dynamite in bed. However, that said, he’s mine, Charity, so I’ll thank you not to visit him at the library anymore and embarrass yourself by inviting him out on private lunch dates.” Eleanora smiled congenially, but her eyes felt fierce, focused on Charity’s like lasers. “All clear?”

Charity sputtered, “I . . . well, I . . .”

“Shall we join the others?”

Eleanora spun around and walked in the general direction that Tom had headed, her heart thumping uncomfortably even as she made an effort to look as cool as a cucumber. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to find him, in front of a crackling fire, surrounded by three other men who looked equally rich and preppy. She sighed, then waved at him from the doorway of the room, and he excused himself to come to her.

His eyes scanned her face. “Everything okay?”

“The proverbial leg pissing is done.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry. I won. Introduce me?”

He leaned down and pressed his warm lips to her cheek. “Tell me all about it later.”

“You bet,” she said, letting him lead her over to the other men.

“Gentlemen,” said Tom, “may I present my wife, Eleanora English?”

To Eleanora’s left was the eldest of the three men, whom she assumed to be Dean Gordon.

“My dear,” he said warmly, taking her hand, “what a delight. You are very welcome.”

“Thank you,” she answered, with a genuine smile of her own, and wondering how a shrew like Charity had such a congenial father. “Tom is so looking forward to working with you.”

“And I him.” Dean Gordon looked at the young man to his left. “You must meet my son, Alex.”

Eleanora held out her hand, and Alex grabbed it eagerly, his eyes dipping to her breasts for a moment before returning to her face. “A pleasure, ahem, Mrs. English.”

“For me too,” she said, smiling at the young man.

He grinned back at her, his smile impish.
Oh, you’re trouble
, she thought, pulling her hand away from his tight grasp with a little tug.

“And this,” said Tom, “is Geoffrey Atwell. Geoff and I were at Kinsey together.”

Eleanora turned away from flirty Alex and met eyes with a man who looked considerably older than Tom, despite the fact that they were the same age. His blond hair was thinning, and his blue eyes looked tired. She remembered Tom mentioning to her that Geoffrey was Charity’s erstwhile fiancé, and her heart went out to him.

“Hello, Geoffrey,” she said warmly.

“Happy New Year,” he answered with a grim smile, taking a long sip of his drink.

“I hope it will be,” she said.

“Of course it will be,” said Charity, entering the room and taking Geoffrey’s arm with a big show.

He brightened suddenly, his face losing years as he looked down hopefully at his ex-fiancée’s hand on his arm.

Poor man
, thought Eleanora.
It’s obvious he’s crazy for her and
—from what Tom had told her—
Charity’s just stringing him along.

Charity’s eyes swept over Eleanora and slid to Tom, where they lingered for a moment, her lips turning down when she didn’t find what she was looking for. Eleanora felt Tom’s arm slip around her waist and his lips press tenderly to her temple. She was waiting when Charity met her eyes with a flinty expression.

You see,
said the look she gave Charity.
He’s mine.

“Dinner’s ready,” said Charity, turning to her sad-sack ex-fiancé. “Come, Geoffrey. I’ve switched things around and put you next to me, after all.”

***

Charity’s ridiculous rivalry with Eleanora strained things at the table for the first course, but by the second, Dean Gordon had taken over the conversation with a discussion of future improvements at Kinsey, and with four graduates at the table, they didn’t lack for opinions or debate.

One thing that bothered Tom, aside from Charity’s frosty treatment of his wife, was the way she was treating Geoffrey. If he’d been better friends with Geoffrey, Tom would have pulled him aside and told him to run for the hills—reminding him that there were a million delightful girls in Boston, where Geoffrey was from, or in New York, where he lived and worked—and advised him to find some sweet girl who could make him happy. But Geoffrey only seemed to have eyes for Charity, delighted when she gave him a moment of attention, and subdued but accepting when she made eyes at Tom.

It made him extra grateful for what he’d somehow managed to find with Eleanora—someone who had quickly become his whole world, but who loved him back in equal measure. How terrible to be in a relationship with someone when it was clear you were the one who loved harder and better, and always would. What a lonely way to live, to know that the love you bore would never be returned, that your heart would ache for more, and more would never be forthcoming.

And suddenly he was reminded of a verse from one of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets: “
The face of all the world is changed, I think,/Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul.
”

Under the table, he reached for his wife’s hand and squeezed it with unending gratitude. For finding her. For her love. For the right to love her. For the footsteps of her soul across the landscape of his heart.

After dessert she turned to him. “The bathroom?”

“I’m guessing it’s in the front hallway,” he whispered, standing as she excused herself, and noticing when Alex Gordon left the table not a moment later.

He would have had to be blind not to notice the way Alex had been staring at Eleanora from across the table, and after a few minutes of polite conversation, on which Tom could barely focus, he excused himself as well, hopeful that he’d intercept his wife before Alex did.

He stopped just short of the vestibule, standing in a dark hallway between the dining room and front foyer, as he heard Alex Gordon’s voice ask, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Okay,” said Eleanora.

“How old are you? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Around there.”

Alex’s cocky voice continued. “Then why on earth are you with an old man like Tom English? For God’s sake, he could be your father.”

“Sure. If he fathered me at nine,” she said dryly.

“Come on, sweets. You know what I mean. He’s old. He’s dull. You’re too young and too foxy to be tied down. I mean, your ass? It’s a thing of total beauty, and I say that having attended college in New York City for the past three years. I’ve known many beautiful women and never had any complaints. Let’s get out of here and go have some real fun. What do you say?”

She chuckled as though his words were genuinely amusing, and Tom pressed his hand to his chest, sucking in a painful breath and holding it.