To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (4 page)

He nodded. "Two years"

"What? No Grand Tour? No sowing your oats? Why
ever would you wish to marry now? It's not sensible, a
gentleman your age agreeing to take a wife" Her brow
knitted with a frown. "Naturally, I use the term 'gentleman' quite loosely in this case"

"I'll brook no argument with that. I never claimed to
be a gentleman."

"At least we agree on that point. I do wish you'd go" Eleanor glanced over one shoulder, toward the house.
"You weren't expected for a fortnight, and this is most
irregular."

Her cheeks pinkened delightfully. God help him, but
he'd made a mistake. A terrible mistake. He could not
marry this woman, after all. She was, no doubt, a
bloody paragon of genteel grace and breeding, and he
was...

He allowed the thought to trail off, his stomach pitching uncomfortably in his gut. "I will take my leave," he
bit out. "I'll speak to your father-"

"You needn't bother," she interrupted. "I won't have
you, despite the agreement our fathers struck. It ... it
was rash and ill-advised, and I cannot possibly-"

"Allow me to set your mind at ease, Eleanor. I won't
have you"

It was her turn to gape in surprise.

No, he couldn't marry her. She represented everything he wasn't; everything he couldn't have.

And how very charitable of her to rub it in, like salt
in a wound. He'd be damned if he'd let her treat him like
a bloody tinker. Perhaps someone needed to bring Lady
Eleanor Ashton to heel-and perhaps he was just the
man to do it.

"What the devil are you doing here?"

Frederick turned toward his father's flinty voice.
"Ever the warm welcome, I see. As always, Father, a
pleasure. I believe I was called here to attend to business. A betrothal contract, if my memory serves me"

"You weren't expected for a fortnight. Mandeville
isn't even in residence at Covington Hall."

"Yes, I know. I've just come from Covington Hall
where I had the opportunity to briefly reacquaint myself with my intended. I'm afraid that, when Mandeville returns, you will have to tell him that I wish to beg off.
I've had a change of heart, you might say."

An angry flush climbed up his father's neck. "You
will marry her. I'll not renege on a deal made in good
faith with a man like Mandeville just to suit your capricious nature. You're damn lucky he agreed to the match
in the first place."

Frederick strode to the sideboard in the room's corner
and reached for an opaque blue glass bottle. Removing
the stopper, he poured a generous amount of his father's
finest brandy into a tumbler, then drained the contents
in one long draught.

His father's eyes narrowed, studying Frederick closely
as he set the empty tumbler on the sideboard. "Haven't I
enough troubles as it is without you coming here-quite
before you were expected, I might add-and trying to
destroy what's been accomplished on your behalf? After
what's happened to Maria-"

"Maria?" Frederick's stomach did an uncomfortable
flip-flop.

"Surely you recall your sister Maria? I realize that devoting oneself to a life of debauchery might cloud one's
memory, but still-"

"What the hell has happened to Maria?" Frederick
snapped, his patience worn thin.

"That vile husband of hers has left her, that's what.
Taken off with his mistress to God knows where, leaving her all alone, with child, and without a farthing. She
arrived here not a sennight ago, in a sorry state, indeed.
And now you burst in, declaring that you won't honor
your betrothal agreement. Tell me, is Lady Eleanor not
coarse enough, not vulgar enough to suit your tastes?"

His father's insult barely registered. Eckford had left Maria? The bastard. The blood roared in Frederick's
ears, a near-deafening din. "I'll kill him!"

"Eckford? You'll have to find him first, though there
are rumors he's hiding out near Plymouth."

"Oh, I'll find the bloody bastard, and when I do I'll
put a bullet through his head" Frederick's hands closed
into fists by his sides. "Where is Maria?"

"Upstairs. Well-sedated, I'm told."

With a nod, Frederick turned and strode off toward
the door.

"Where the devil do you think you are going?" his
father called out after him. "Come back here, I'm not
yet through with you."

Ignoring the command, Frederick continued on
toward the sweeping staircase. "I'm going upstairs to
see my sister, that's where"

"Not till you tell me what imbecilic reasons you have
for rejecting Lady Eleanor Ashton. If you've seen her,
then surely you cannot claim to find fault with her. You
should be grateful to Mandeville for even considering
your suit, much less agreeing to it"

He paused and turned toward his father. "I'm in no
mood right now to feel anything but concern for my
sister's welfare. Now if you'll excuse me"

"Perhaps if you'd been in Mayfair these past six
months, amongst the quality rather than holing yourself
up with your whore on Duke Street-"

"Actually, she resides in Jermyn Street," he corrected.
"Close enough to Duke. Somewhat shabby, I suppose-"

"Drinking, gambling, challenged to more than one
duel, I'm told," his father continued, ticking off his sins
on his fingers. "And off piddling away your time in Ireland before that"

"Aye, but I had pressing business in Ireland."

"You had no pressing business in Ireland." His father's scowl deepened. "Four years at Cambridge, and
still you speak like one of them"

"One of them? I have nae idea what ye mean," he said
with a shrug, forcing the thickest brogue imaginable
into every syllable.

His father rose to the bait. "You know exactly what I
mean. I expected they would raise you like a gentleman,
not like some filthy little heathen who cannot even
speak the King's English in a civilized fashion"

"Strangely enough, I find the familiarity of your criticisms somewhat comforting. You do realize, don't you,
that my mother-your wife-was one of those `filthy
little heathens'?"

His father approached him menacingly, his eyes narrowed and one finger pointed at Frederick's chest. "How
dare you say such things about your mother!" he sputtered, his face a mottled red. "You, of all people."

Frederick folded his arms across his chest. "Actually,
those were your words, not mine"

Ignoring his reply, his father continued on in a strangled voice. "Fiona was an angel here on earth, and if it
weren't for you-" His words broke off as one fist rose
to cover his mouth. At once the color drained from his
face, leaving him pale, ashen.

"Pray continue," Frederick drawled, waving one hand
in the air for emphasis. "If it weren't for me, she'd still
be alive. That was what you meant to say, was it not?"
Despite his flippant tone, Frederick's throat constricted,
making him feel suddenly as if he were suffocating.

"Indeed not," his father managed at last, the color returning to his sagging cheeks. "I only meant that ...
well-"

"Don't insult me, Father. I know exactly what you
meant. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll take my filthy halfIrish self off and see to Maria"

Frederick excused himself with a bow, delighting in
the displeasure so evident in his father's cold, hard features. There was nothing he liked so well as having the
last word, particularly where his father was concerned.

He would see that Maria was well-recovered, and
then he would find her bloody bastard of a husband and
take care of him, once and for all. Only then could he
return to London in peace-to the shabby, cramped accommodations he shared with his mistress. Where he
belonged.

Far away from his father, and even farther away from
Lady Eleanor Ashton, bloody paragon that she was.

"Blasted arrogant man," Eleanor muttered, raising
her skirts as she stepped carefully over a fallen branch
in her path. She had decided to go to Marbleton on foot
after all, hoping the exertion would help tamp down her
wildly overwrought emotions.

It hadn't, of course. She'd traversed a full mile, and
still she stomped along the dusty road, seething at the
injustice of it all.

All these years he'd haunted her dreams against her
will-and he'd forgotten her. Entirely. There he'd stood,
not three feet away, and he hadn't even recognized her.
A familial resemblance? Hah.

As if that weren't enough, he'd had the nerve to scrutinize her from head to toe and then declare that he
wouldn't have her. Why in heaven's name had he ever
agreed to the match in the first place? So that he could
have the pleasure of rejecting her yet again? Was he so
cruel, so heartless as his reputation suggested, that he
would tease her with an offer which he fully intended to
break off?

Pity he couldn't have waited to break it off in public where he could have had the full enjoyment of
her humiliation.

With a sigh of frustration, she ducked under the
fence's wooden rail, at last entering Marbleton's neatly
manicured park. Eleanor stopped to admire the scenery,
forcing away her dour thoughts. Forget him, she chided
herself. Do not let him ruin this fine day.

As her eyes took in the green, gently rolling landscape
before her, her furrowed brow began to smooth, her frown
to disappear. She had far too many fond memories of Marbleton and its inhabitants-past and present-to allow
thoughts of Frederick Stoneham to ruin her appreciation.

Many years ago, Marbleton had belonged to Sir Gregory Bradstreet, a baronet of limited means but the kindest of hearts. His wife, Lady Bradstreet, was equally kind
and generous, and the Bradstreets had four children, the
youngest being the same age as Eleanor and her twin.

Eleanor had spent many a fine summer day right here
in this park, running and skipping with the Bradstreet
children, served lemonade and sandwiches there on the
lawn with Henry beside her smiling happily-something
he did rarely at home.

No, at home he cowered beneath their mother's criticism, forced to while away his days indoors for fear that
he might overtax himself But here at Marbleton, Henry
blossomed under the gentle nurturing of Lady Bradstreet, fully accepted and genuinely liked by her children despite his weaknesses.

But then, just before her and Henry's tenth birthday,
Sir Gregory had fallen upon hard times. He'd been
forced to sell Marbleton, and the Bradstreets had packed
up their belongings and left, never again to return to the
district. Eleanor had cried for days, not for her own loss
of playmates, but for Henry's loss-acceptance, encour agement, nurture. Things he did not receive at home
save her own childish attempts.

Eleanor closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, summoning the memory of the happy sounds of children scampering about these very same grounds. In her mind's
eye, she could see Henry sitting there on the lawn, his
deep blue eyes dancing with delight, free from the sadness that usually darkened them.

Oh, Henry. Dear; beloved Henry. If only her brother
were here with her now, instead of off at university. How
cruel that their difference in gender forced a separation
at a time like this, a time when she was most in need of
her brother's companionship. She'd missed him terribly
when he'd gone off to Eton, but at least then he'd returned home for holiday breaks. Now that he was at
Oxford, he never came to Covington Hall.

He was, of course, a faithful correspondent. Not a
week went by without a letter, detailing his studies, his
art, his life. Still, it wasn't the same-would never be the
same. With whom but Henry could she share her hopes
and dreams, even her silly poems, without fear of being
laughed at? Certainly not her mama, and not even
Selina, her dearest friend.

No, no one knew her as her brother did, and it was
unlikely that anyone ever would. Eleanor sighed, watching as three fat geese waddled by, honking loudly in
unison.

Her thoughts now fully returned to the present,
Eleanor pushed aside the childhood memories and continued on toward the main house where Selina and her
husband, Lord Henley, now resided.

Yet her feet slowed not a dozen yards away when she
reached the tall honeysuckle hedge beside the old, towering oak-this had been their favorite spot for dining
alfresco. The ground beneath the oak was soft and shady, the air filled with the sweet scent of honeysuckle.
They would kick off their shoes and roll hoops or dance
about the springy lawn, their stomachs full and their
hearts light. More than anything, Eleanor yearned for
those carefree days. If only she could taste such freedom again, such lighthearted playfulness.

Did she dare? No, it was foolish. And yet ... the day
was so lovely, the lawn so inviting. Surely there was no
harm in it. Looking around furtively, she reached down
and unlaced her half boots, smiling in anticipation as
she did so.

Seconds later she stood in her stocking feet, the tall
blades of grass tickling her ankles. She untied her
bonnet and tossed it to the ground beside the oak's massive trunk, onto the old, gnarled roots that protruded
from the earth, covered with spongy green moss.

Hurrying to the hedge, she plucked a single honeysuckle blossom and tucked it behind her ear. She inhaled
its scent, gaining courage from the familiar fragrance.

And then she began to dance. Not the carefully modulated, reserved steps of a country dance, but the relaxed, inventive movements of a child. She hummed a
lively tune as she twirled and flitted beneath the oak's
drooping branches, her heart beating a happy rhythm.
The gentle breeze caressed her cheek as the birds
chirruped in harmony, and for the moment Eleanor was
free-free from worries, from marriage contracts, from
her parents' discontent and her brother's melancholy.

A hint of gray in the otherwise verdant surroundings
caught her eye, and Eleanor spun toward it, her breath
hitching in her chest.