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Eleanor reconstructed her thoughts with a little shake of her head, trying to ignore the heavy sarcasm.

‘An offer of marriage, you say? You promised marriage, certainly. And I believed you. But I never received such an offer. It appeared that you had changed your mind.’ She held him in that clear gaze, willing him to deny her challenge. ‘I could wish that you had been sensitive enough to inform me of it. Instead you left me, left the country. No word, no explanation. Nothing. I was forced to learn of your departure from elsewhere. I admit, my lord, I had expected better treatment at your hands.’

‘You have a short memory, my lady.’ He was implacable in his response.

‘I have an excellent memory, my lord! I expected to hear from you. You promised that you would write when you had arranged your passage.’ Eleanor could hear her voice rising as the past flooded back and she fought hard to keep it controlled. ‘And then I was left to learn that you had sailed. To America. With no intention to return in the near future. You obviously had no thought for me at all.’

‘I sent you a letter. Telling you when I would sail. Asking you to join me as we had discussed. I gave you time and place.’ Lord Henry turned from her to stand before the fireplace, the distance between them a little greater. She was so lovely with the sun gilding her hair in an iconic halo. It would be so easy to believe her. And so disastrous if he allowed himself to do so. Besides, he knew that she lied. He clenched his jaw. ‘Don’t deny it. I know the message was delivered to your home. The groom I paid to do it confirmed the delivery.’

‘I received no such letter.’

‘It would certainly be more comfortable for you to hold to that fact, would it not, dear Eleanor?’ Lord Henry struggled to keep his tone flat, conversational even. ‘I would be the first to agree that such problems arise. It is quite possible for letters to go astray, as I discovered only a few hours ago. After all, I had absolutely no knowledge of Thomas’s marriage to you until Nicholas broke the news in the gun room. And yet Thomas had certainly written to inform me of the happy event.’ He picked up a fragile porcelain figure of a shepherdess and lamb from the mantelpiece, contemplated for the barest second smashing it on the hearth, replaced it gently with the utmost control in exactly the same spot. ‘But I know without any shadow of doubt that my letter was delivered to you, allowing you all the time you would need to join me at the vessel. My messenger was most reliable, as you could imagine for so important a delivery.’

‘Such a letter, if it ever existed, never reached my hands.’ She could find nothing other to say in her own defence.

Lord Henry shrugged, a gesture of cynical disbelief. ‘If you insist on holding to that, my lady. Tell me. Did you know my brother before I left, or did you wait until I had gone before you put yourself in his way?’

‘I…’ She could not believe that he had actually said that—that he could think so little of her!

‘It would not be very difficult to lure Thomas into marriage,’ he continued to taunt her. ‘You have a beautiful face, as I know to my cost. And my brother found it easy to trust those he liked.’

‘I never lured Thomas!’ How could the man whom she had once loved more than life itself be so deliberately vindictive?

‘No? But he offered you marriage.’

‘Yes. He did.’

‘I expect your lady mother was delighted. Your family might be respectable enough, but you had hardly been groomed for the role of Marchioness.’ He lifted a hand to sweep the room in an expansive gesture. ‘And here you are, mistress of Burford Hall, a town house in the most fashionable part of London and a hunting lodge in Leicestershire. Quite a killing, my lady.’

‘Of course. It was more than I could ever have dreamed of.’ A frown marred her forehead as she attempted to catch his meaning.

‘You must have been astounded at your good fortune. A Marquis as rich as Solomon in all his glory. Instead of a younger son with uncomfortably Republican leanings and an inclination to make his own way in the colonies.’

So! He thought she had callously rejected him in the interest of wealth and social position. She caught her breath at the injustice of the veiled accusation and stepped towards him with an unconcealed passion.

‘I would have risked everything to go with you if you had told me!’ Her hands curled into fists, at odds with her feminine appearance. ‘My home, my family. I would have followed you anywhere. How can you possibly doubt that?’

Lord Henry raised his brows in eloquent disbelief.

‘Are you possibly making a play for me again, my lady—now that my brother is dead? Is the role of mother of the heir insufficient for you?’ The bitter words were all that he could manage to hide the depth of hurt that still had the power to move him. He had truly thought that it had faded, that he had done with that episode of his life. Now, faced with the reality of her, knowing her rejection, it was as sharp and lethal as ever.

She could hardly comprehend his words. ‘How dare you! How dare you suggest something so degrading—so despicable!’

‘I dare! I dare do all manner of things!’ The past swept back in a submerging wave, allowing anger, frustration, desire, all long subdued, to take hold. A desire to possess her once more filled him and, if he were honest, not a little to punish her for her treachery. She was so beautiful, and she was not his! ‘Did you make a good bargain?’ His demands evaded his control, even when he saw the hurt in her eyes. ‘Could my brother give you pleasure to compare with that which you claimed to find in my arms? Or did you lie to me? And set your teeth when I kissed you or allowed my hands to touch your silken skin? Shall we rediscover what, if anything, was between us?’

He pounced with the lithe strength of a hunting cat on an unsuspecting mouse. His claws might be sheathed, but his dominance was lethal and dangerous none the less. His fine hands grasped her shoulders, holding her when she would have pulled away, but the initial contact startled them both, a tingle of reciprocating fire. He looked down at his hands where they grasped her shoulders. Surely he was over all that. This was not supposed to happen. Not now. Not when he had fought against it for so long, not when he believed her to be guilty of betrayal. He looked up to see her watching him with similar uncertainty, similar shock—but set his mind against it.

He would have taken her mouth with his, hot and demanding, more in punishment than passion, if his attention had not been caught by the jewel that she wore on her breast, a pendant on a fine gold chain. Small and delicate, of no great intrinsic value, yet it was beautiful and wrought by the hand of a craftsman. Its setting was gold filigree, leaves and flowers, the centre of each bloom set with a tiny diamond that glinted in the light with each erratic rise and fall of her breast. The central stone was an amethyst, clear and shining, of a depth of colour that reflected Eleanor’s eyes when she was radiantly happy.

But not at this moment, when her furious glare was the stormy intensity of indigo.

‘So you still wear it?’ Lord Henry’s tone was deceptively conversational.

‘Yes.’

‘It surprises me. Some would say that it was hypocritical not to consign it to the back of a drawer, since you turned your back with such ease on the one who gave it to you.’

‘Perhaps, after today, I will.’ She almost spat the words, shocked to the core by his accusations. ‘I thought the giver had some affection for me, love even. How wrong I was! I should be grateful to you, my lord, for pointing out the error of my ways.’ She angled her head, disdain writ large in her slanted glance. ‘Perhaps I should return it to you. You may find some other naïve lady of your acquaintance in New York to gift it to.’

His tenuous hold on his temper duly snapped.

And he lowered his head, his eyes all the time on hers, until his mouth, hard and angry, crushed her lips. When she murmured a protest, he immediately raised his head, eyes glittering. ‘Had you forgotten, dearest Nell? I thought you had enjoyed it. You did not refuse my kisses in the past.’

He slanted his head to take her mouth again, without kindness or thought for her own wishes, but forcing her lips to part against her teeth. Eleanor stood unresponsive in his hold, until on a breath, and a sob deep in her breast, her resistance melted away, her anger as insubstantial as morning mist. Instead of pushing against his chest to achieve her freedom, her fingers curled into the material of his coat and she clung to him. In response his arms tightened round her until her curves were moulded to his hard length from breast to thigh. Her mouth softened, lips parting of their own free will, to invite invasion. He groaned. And took what she was prepared to give, and more. The fire burned brightly, leaping through their veins with unexpected brilliance and heat, and seared them both.

When he finally released her, the anger had not been assuaged at all, but still surged through his blood, not even calmed when she swayed and would have fallen had she not grasped his forearms for support.

‘Well, my lady?’ For a brief moment he allowed her to see the temper that burned in his gut. ‘What do you think? A title and a fortune balanced against the pleasures of my hands and mouth? I wager that my brother was not lacking in skills of love. But did he satisfy you?’ But then the pain in her eyes, sharp and beyond her control, forced him to retreat. ‘Perhaps he was kinder than I,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps you were wise in your decision after all.’

Confusion swept Eleanor’s features as she pushed herself to stand alone. She could not think, could not accept what had just happened between them, what she had allowed to happen. Humiliation brought its warm colour to her throat and cheeks. She veiled her eyes from him with a downsweep of lashes. Perhaps there was the merest sparkle of a tear, but he could not be sure. But it brought him to his senses as assuredly as a deluge of cold water.

‘Forgive me. I should not have forced myself on you in that manner. It is unpardonable.’ He stepped back from her as disgust rose in his throat at his own temper. And that she should be able to rouse such longings in him again, revealing a weakness that he thought well and truly dead. Disgust at the betrayal of his body, which was hard and demanding for her. He now kept his voice low, but with no warmth in it, simply cold acceptance of the situation. ‘You would seem to have a talent for falling on your feet, my lady. I am not available to you. But I should warn you. Keep your clever velvet claws out of Nicholas.’

The lady flinched as if he had slapped her with the outrageous comment. ‘I will not continue this conversation.’ Eleanor choked on a sob. ‘I can only be grateful that fate spared me marriage with you, my lord. I could never have guessed at your capacity for inflicting such pain.’ She swept past him, but when she had reached the door his voice stopped her.

‘Eleanor?’

‘Well?’

‘I would be interested to know if you managed to persuade my brother that you were a virgin on your wedding night.’

Her whole body stiffened under the vile cruelty of the attack. She dare not face him again for fear that he would see the tears that had begun to track down her cheeks.

‘The matter is entirely none of your affair,’ she managed in a voice little more than a whisper.

‘Of course not, my dear. You are not my affair any longer. And I thank heaven for it. And by the by, there is no need for you to be concerned. I shall not divulge our sordid little secret to anyone. I believe it is not to the credit of either of us. We must preserve your spotless reputation at all cost, must we not?’

On which vicious parting shot, the composure of the Marchioness of Burford finally disintegrated. She wrenched open the library door to hurry from the room, slamming it forcefully in Lord Henry’s face.

His lordship merely stood, head bowed, eventually returning to stare blindly into the empty fire-grate, until moved to kick viciously against a half-charred log with his booted foot.

Well done indeed!

His intention had been to pursue the interview with icy and disinterested detachment. So how the Devil had he allowed himself to make such unwarrantable comments? To inflict such blatant intimacies on her, uncaring of her wishes in the matter? A despicable act, unworthy of his birth and upbringing. Conflicting emotions and images warred within his brain. Of course she deserved every accusation. Had she not rejected and humiliated him, casting his love into the gutter as so much worthless trash? Her promises of love, protestations of devotion and a willingness to throw in her lot with him, had been shallow and empty. Instead, she had chosen worldly ambition. How fickle women were! And yet…the horror in her face when he had accused her of perfidy demanded his attention. The hesitation in her voice. The tightening of the muscles along her jaw as she had striven, unsuccessfully in the end, to prevent tears gathering in those glorious eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She had not been unmoved by his words. Or by his demands on her body. He closed his eyes as he remembered the scent of her hair, the taste of her lips as they responded to his insistent possession. But then, women were skilled actresses after all.

But what did it matter? Lord Henry straightened, stretching, allowing the muscles in his shoulders to relax as his pulse slowed. He had not realised that he had been so tense. He walked slowly to follow the Marchioness from the library. It was all in the past. She had what she wanted. The inheritance was secure with an heir, albeit very young. Nicholas would more than willingly play the interested uncle and trustee. He was now free to return to America and wash his hands of the whole situation in England unless something unforeseen arose to demand his presence in the future. He need trouble himself no further over Eleanor Faringdon.

And in the short time remaining to him here at Burford Hall, he would treat her with all that damnable courtesy and good manners worthy of a gentleman. Whatever the cost!

Chapter Three

Lord Henry Faringdon settled back into life at Burford Hall in the following days with consummate ease. Casting an eye over the splendid horseflesh in the stables, he chose himself a handsome bay hunter and rode the familiar estate with Nicholas.

‘This is all very impressive, little brother. The livestock looks well. And you have drained the lower pastures at last, I see. Your doing or Thomas’s?’

Nicholas laughed, the shadows of bereavement lifting in response to the bright spring sunshine and physical exertion of a gallop across the open parkland. ‘Do I need to say it? I may be the little brother, but I have an eye to the future of the family. Thomas, as you are well aware, only had an eye to the next run of the fox in winter, or the next winner at Newmarket in summer. Or a flirtation with the prettiest girl in the room.’ His smile became tinged with sadness as the loss was driven home by the memories, and he changed the subject. ‘The stone quarry has been developed since your day, Hal. We have improved the surface on some of the roads. And we are beginning to manage the old woodland for timber.’

Hal snorted. ‘Very efficient! I will leave all such matters to you.’

Nicholas was silent for a moment as they reined in their horses to take in the fine view of the lower lake with its ornamental planting. Then he fixed his brother with a determined eye.

‘Hal. I know that you can tell me it is none of my affair—but is anything wrong?’

‘How do you mean?’ Henry betrayed nothing by glance or voice. ‘I am aware of nothing. Apart from having to share the breakfast table with Alicia Stamford and her interminable opinions on every topic under the sun. She is enough to make a saint swear—and I am no saint!’

Nick grimaced in sympathy, but refused to be put off.

‘I don’t know what it is, but between you and Eleanor I sense unease, some distance between you. More than that, in fact—a definite lack of…of tolerance.’

‘How so?’ Hal’s expression became even more bland.

‘I don’t know.’ Nicholas rubbed his chin with his gloved fist. ‘It is nothing that you say or do. Just that—you don’t seem to like each other very much. And you seem to have deliberately kept out of her way—and she out of yours.’

Henry kept his gaze fixed on the landscape, lifting his shoulders in the lightest of shrugs. ‘I was not aware. Perhaps Lady Burford is just wary of men, after Thomas’s death.’

‘There, you see. You are all cold formality, using her title. And I had not thought that she was wary. Nell is usually approachable and friendly enough.’

Henry shook his head, teeth clenched. Nicholas had called her Nell! A spark of jealousy gripped him before he could curse himself for a fool. Such suspicions were totally unfounded as he knew very well. And what was it to him? The Marchioness was free to give her affections where she chose.

He deliberately turned the conversation back to the engaging topic of the merits of growing beet for the overwintering of cattle, leaving Nicholas with a clear conviction that his question had been adroitly evaded.

Henry’s relationship with Mrs Alicia Stamford, Eleanor’s ever-present mama, edged to the glacial. They were scrupulously polite to each other with no direct reference made to the circumstances of their previous encounters, when he had been regarded by her as a most unsatisfactory suitor to her beautiful daughter. The rules were clearly laid down between them during their first meeting after Henry’s arrival.

‘Lord Henry. We are pleased to see you back in England.’ Mrs Stamford forced her lips into the semblance of a smile and inclined her head with condescending grace, as she smoothed her satin skirts and arranged the costly and delicate shawl round her shoulders in more becoming folds. She had been a beautiful woman in her youth, shadows of it still there in the rich auburn of her hair and her elegant figure. But advanced hypochondria and a fierce ambition dedicated to ensuring the social advancement of her daughter had taken its toll. Her once-porcelain skin was now finely lined, her complexion sallow. Her husband, a country gentleman of comfortable means but no social pretensions, had been dead some dozen years. The lady was now intent on enjoying her freedom and elevated status as mother to the Marchioness of Burford, secure in the knowledge that she lived at one of the best addresses in town and had the means to trick herself out in the latest fashions.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Lord Henry raised her cold fingers to his lips with impeccable finesse. ‘I see that you remember me.’

‘Of course, my lord.’ A flush stained her thin features. ‘I remember making your acquaintance in London during my daughter’s first Season.’

‘But our acquaintance, as I recall, was of very short duration.’ Since you did everything in your power to keep Eleanor out of my path!

‘You were very keen to seek your fortune in America, my lord, as I recall. I trust that matters went well for you.’

‘They did.’

‘And how long do you plan to remain here at Burford Hall?’ A matter of days, I sincerely trust!

‘I have not yet decided.’

‘I am sure the estate can manage well enough without your involvement, if business demands your presence elsewhere.’ Her lips curled unpleasantly that he might be engaged in something so common as business, no matter how lucrative. ‘Nicholas has proved himself an excellent trustee for my grandson. And Mr Hoskins, of course.’

‘I am sure he has. But it my inclination to remain here for a little while.’

Which was about as much as they could find to say to each other. Henry smiled and bowed. Mrs Stamford inclined her head once more. They understood each other very well.

And Nicholas, with half an ear to the exchange, was left with the uneasy impression that there was something here which he had missed, of which he was unaware. Conversation with Nell’s mama was always an adventure, bordering on the brittle. Opinionated, critical, frequently acerbic and intolerant, she took no prisoners. But here. Nick could not quite put his finger on it. The sneer on Mrs Stamford’s face, the edge to her voice as the exchange drew to a close could have cut through flesh and bone. And as for Hal. There was no love lost here, despite the exquisite politeness of the little episode. But short of asking either combatant outright. One glance at the closed expressions, the barely veiled hostility, convinced Nick that no man of sense or with an eye to self-preservation would risk such a foolhardy move.

In spite of Nell’s determination to keep her mind on more important issues, her thoughts betrayed her with cruel persistence. And her dreams. She relived again and again that magical Season when her mother and an aged uncle had launched her into society, the only season which was possible, given their financial circumstances. Her mother had been intent on a good match, as advantageous a marriage as could be achieved. Once she had met Lord Henry Faringdon, Eleanor had thoughts for no one else.

It was at a soirée, at the home of a distant cousin who mixed in the most fashionable of circles, an ideal opportunity for Eleanor to meet the privileged members of the haut ton. Her mother had managed to pull strings to achieve invitations. Eleanor could remember the occasion in perfect detail when she dared allow her mind free rein. Sitting in her bedroom with her son on her lap, she abandoned her attempts to discipline her memories and simply let them sweep back unhindered, layer upon layer. The decorations of hothouse flowers with the intense perfume of jasmine and heliotrope. The music and dancing. And the dress she wore for the occasion. White muslin as would become a débutante with a delicately embroidered hem and silver ribbons at waist and neckline. Her hair in high-pinned ringlets, falling to her shoulders, and a string of pearls, the only jewellery she possessed.

And she had seen him that night. He had entered the room with his brother, the Marquis, but Eleanor had eyes for no one but Lord Henry. The Marquis, for all his consequence and good looks, might not have existed. Lord Henry filled her vision and her senses. Tall, dark of hair, handsome of face, elegant of figure, impossibly attractive in the formal splendid of black satin evening clothes and white linen. They were introduced. They stood up for a country dance. And her heart was lost before she could take a breath, somewhere between the cotillion and a reel.

Her smile was wry, a little sad, as she recalled that heady moment. The merest touch of his hand had quickened her pulse and when his lips had brushed her fingers she knew that she was his for ever.

Disastrously, she was now forced to admit, Eleanor had believed that he was as captivated as she. What a fool she had been! Carried away by the romance of snatched meetings, the delicious duplicity of a few stolen moments of time when they could close out the world. She had listened to his dreams of a new life, fired by his ideas and ambitions. She had believed in him. Trusted. They would go together.

And then he had simply left her with not one word of explanation or farewell. Humiliated and heartbroken, she had hidden her grief, determined not to be an object of interest or pity. Her pride and her spirit had come to her aid when she might have been totally devastated, and she had survived. With the kindness and compassion of Thomas. Dear Thomas. But she had learned in those cold days after Lord Henry’s departure that there was a high price to pay for love and she would not willingly pay it again. To show emotion, to offer love, was to put yourself into the power of those to whom it was given. And when it was not returned.

Eleanor shuddered as she remembered the exact occasion of her open avowal of love and commitment to Hal, when a soft moon illuminated the summer house, casting deep and intimate shadows within, painting the leaves of the overhanging willow that enclosed them with silver hue.

When Thomas had offered marriage, her gratitude knew no bounds. She could not love him—he both knew and accepted that. She had never tried to dissemble or pretend to an emotion that was now beyond her capabilities. Deep affection, yes, without doubt. And trust. But love…that was not possible. And he in his turn had offered her friendship, kindness, respect, a marriage based on compassion and understanding. No promises of blazing passion. But she could—indeed, wished to—live without that, and had done so comfortably for two whole years. Why was love considered necessary to achieve a satisfying marriage? When Thomas had taken her to his bed and made her truly his wife he had possessed her with such grace and sensitivity, with a depth of care and tenderness that she still felt she did not deserve. He had quite determinedly allowed no room for either discomfort or embarrassment on her part, enfolding her in warmth and a gentle humour. Her heart swelled, tears threatened as she recalled those painful early days when Thomas had set himself to comfort and reassure. And she, in recognition of her debt to him, had set herself to be a good wife and mother, equally determined that Thomas should never fault her or regret the decision that he had made that desperate day when she had visited him at Faringdon House in London to cast herself on his mercy.

Eleanor, allowing her gaze to rest for a long moment on the miniature of Thomas which stood on her nightstand, believed in all honesty that she had kept her bargain and would mourn her husband’s death with genuine grief for the loss of the dearest of friends.

All passion in her life was dead.

If only Hal had not touched her beyond a formal gesture of greeting. If only he had not kissed her, held her in his arms. And she had responded, encouraged him. And wanted him. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as her senses relived the moment.

Eleanor straightened her shoulders and lectured herself with stern words. Lord Henry must never be given the opportunity to reawaken the passion. It would—it must—remain dead and buried. He must never know what she had suffered for his rejection. For the future, she would tolerate her mother’s well-meaning interference and devote her life to raising her beloved son. She would find enjoyment and fulfilment in that. She dashed the tears from her cheeks with an impatient hand. Of course she would. She buried her face in her son’s dark curls.

On a parallel course, though both would have denied it, Henry, too, found his thoughts returning far too often for comfort to those days when he had met and loved Miss Eleanor Stamford. His courtship of her had been carried on under the most difficult of circumstances, not least the suspicious glare of her mother who desired a far better marriage for her beautiful daughter. Lord Henry, although his birth might be impeccable, was a loose cannon with a desire to make his own way in the world and an uncomfortable lack of consideration for social standing and protocol. Mrs Stamford had watched him like a mother hawk, intent on defending her chick. But he and Eleanor had found the means to meet and the memories were bittersweet.

By God, he had loved her! And believed beyond doubt that she had loved him. Enough to disobey her exacting parent and travel to the new world where they would marry and make a life not bound by rigid convention. He had sworn his undying love, sweeping her along with his dreams of the future. Made preparations. Sent to tell her of the time and place of their sailing. And waited in vain on the windswept dock as the Captain made ready to sail.

No message. No note. Nothing. The minutes had ticked by, his idealistic hopes fading with every beat of his heart, yet still trying to believe that she would arrive at the eleventh hour. And then he could pretend no more. They needed to catch the tide and he had sailed alone. He had risked one further letter when he had landed, but received nothing in return.

So Mr Henry Faringdon had set himself to building his future alone, finding the time to curse Eleanor and all women for their capricious and inconstant nature. Without doubt, she had enjoyed the romance and the excitement of his wooing, been flattered by his declaration of love, but had no intention of keeping her own promises.

Perhaps she had enjoyed the power of having him at her feet. Henry grimaced at his youthful naïvety, his black brows snapping into a firm line. Very well. He too had learnt a hard lesson and would not in his lifetime forget the painful wounds. And it would not be something that he would put himself in the way of repeating.

Thus in his dealings with women since, trust and loyalty were never an issue. Definitely not love! He kept a mistress in some comfort and enjoyed her many talents, but it was a casual arrangement, both sides enjoying the benefits but recognising the lack of commitment.

He now smiled at the thought of her accommodating bed and welcoming arms. Rosalind gave him the pleasures of light conversation, feminine company and the soft delights of her body, with no demands on his time or emotions other than those he was prepared to give. He gave her financial security—and presumably some passing pleasure. But on that windswept dock as the England’s Glory prepared to sail from Liverpool to New York, he had vowed that he would never again give his heart and soul to any woman.