The Notorious Marriage

She looked up again. Her eyes were very dark brown sprinkled with gold and framed by thick black lashes that the blonde débutantes would give half their fortunes to possess. Her gaze was candid. She had more courage than he had thought and he admired her for it.

‘I thought that you would agree to marry me,’ she said.

Kit started to smile, despite himself. ‘Is that a proposal, Miss Trevithick?’

Eleanor glared. She might be young but she had all the Trevithick pride. Her chin came up and she gave him a haughty glance.

‘I think you flatter yourself, Lord Mostyn! The offer is withdrawn!’

Kit laughed. ‘A little late for that, Miss Trevithick! You are alone with me in my house—’

‘Your cousin’s house—’

‘A fine distinction! The material point is that neither my cousin nor my sister is here to give you countenance! You are alone with me—’

‘That situation can be addressed immediately!’ Eleanor said, in arctic tone, ‘if you will stand aside, my lord!’

Kit shrugged. ‘But I may have changed my mind!’

Eleanor’s shrug was a perfect echo of his own. ‘Too late, alas, my lord!’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘I should have known better than to approach a gentleman in his cups! I see that everything they say about you is true!’

Kit turned so that his shoulders were against the door panels. He folded his arms and looked at her. Her face was flushed, her delectable mouth set in a tight line. He had noticed her mouth before; it was pink and soft and made for smiling, not for disapproval. Or made for kissing…Kit shifted a little.

‘And what do they say, Miss Trevithick?’

‘Why, that you are a rogue and a scoundrel!’ Eleanor’s gaze swept from his face to the brandy bottle and back again with contempt. ‘There are those who say that your business dealings are none too scrupulous and your morals even less so!’

Kit’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yet you are still here?’ he said softly.

He saw Eleanor’s fingers clench tightly on her reticule. ‘I thought…’ Her voice faltered. ‘I did not truly believe it of you…’ Their eyes met. Kit could see the entreaty in hers; she was begging him to live up to her good opinion, prove himself a gentleman. It made him feel sick with self-loathing that he could not help her.

‘I thought that you liked me,’ she finished softly.

Kit caught his breath. Liking was far too pale a word to describe the feelings he had for her. He felt his self-control slip perilously.

‘Eleanor, I more than like you, but there are reasons—’ he began, only to break off as she made a slight gesture and moved away.

‘I am sure that there always are, my lord. Forgive my importunity and pray let me go now.’

Kit opened the study door for her with immaculate politeness. The hall was dark and empty—one stand of candles cast shadows across the tiled floor. The long case clock struck one.

Eleanor was halfway through the door when Kit put his hand on her arm.

‘Eleanor, I cannot let you go like this. I truly wish I could help you, but—’

‘Don’t!’ She shook him off with sudden, shocking violence. He saw the candlelight shimmer on the tears in her eyes, before she dashed them away. ‘Do not try to excuse your behaviour, Lord Mostyn! You are not what I thought you and I made a mistake in coming here. That is all!’

Kit could smell her scent, the softest of rose fragrance mingled with nursery soap. Her innocence hit him like a blow in the stomach; her desirability dried his mouth.

‘It is not all,’ Kit said roughly, knowing he should agree, let it go, let her go. ‘Eleanor, you know I care for you…’

She looked him straight in the eye. ‘I thought you wanted me,’ she said.

Kit was never be sure which of them had moved first but the next minute she was in his arms, her slender body pressed close to his, her mouth beneath his own. Her lips parted slightly and he took ruthless advantage, touching his tongue to hers, deepening the kiss when her instinctive gasp offered him the opportunity. There was a moment when he felt her resist and he was about to pull back, but before his mind had caught up with his body she had softened, melted against him, pliant in his arms. He covered her mouth with his again, drinking deep, until she was as breathless as he. Desire washed through him, hot and sweet. He thrust one hand into her tousled hair, scattering the pins, feeling the silky softness against his fingers. He had so wanted to do that…His other arm was about her waist, the velvet of her cloak slippery beneath his hand. He pushed it aside so that he could hold her closer still, feel the warmth of her body. The cloak fell to the ground with a soft swish of velvet.

‘Eleanor,’ he said again, though this time it came out as a whisper. He watched as she opened her eyes. They were so dark they were almost black, cloudy, bemused with passion. Her mouth, bee-stung with kisses, curved into a smile.

Kit held on to the last rags of his self-control. ‘Eleanor, if you are not certain…’

The smile lit her eyes. She raised one hand to Kit’s cheek and he almost flinched beneath the touch, so sharp was his desire for her.

‘I am certain,’ she said.

And after that there were no more words between them for a long time.

Kit Mostyn woke up with a headache. It was certainly not brandy-induced but it was, without a doubt, the worst headache that he had experienced in a very long time. The room was moving around him, rising and falling with a sickening regularity that wrenched a groan from him before he could help himself.

‘How are you, old chap?’ a voice asked, solicitously. ‘Been out cold for almost two days, y’know—unnecessary force, if you ask me…’

Kit rested his arm across his eyes and tried not to be sick. Then he tried to think, but the effort was monstrously difficult. His head felt as though it were two sizes too large and stuffed with paper into the bargain. And there was something troubling him, a memory at the edge of his mind…

‘Eleanor!’ He sat up bolt upright, and then sank back with a groan.

‘Steady, old fellow,’ the same voice said. ‘No cause for alarm.’

Kit opened his eyes and surveyed his companion with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

‘Hello, Harry. What the devil are you doing here?’

Captain Henry Luttrell grinned. ‘That’s the spirit! Knew you’d feel more the thing shortly!’

Kit sat up again, gingerly this time. The room was still swaying, but he realised that that was because he was on a ship. It was a pleasant cabin, well appointed, comfortable. The HMS Gresham, out of Southampton, just as arranged. Something had gone spectacularly wrong. He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

‘Harry. Where are we?’

Henry Luttrell’s handsome face creased into a slight frown. ‘Two days out, on the way to Ireland. I thought you knew…’

Kit shook his head slowly. ‘I went to the meet at the Feathers, but it was to pass a message to Castlereagh that I could not go…’

Now it was Luttrell’s turn to shake his head. ‘Don’t you remember, Kit? It was agreed to stage it all—the fight, the press gang…’

Kit looked at him. ‘I don’t remember a thing. What happened?’

Luttrell shifted against the bulkhead. ‘You walked in, Benson hit you, we carted you off here…It was all arranged…’

Kit groaned again. ‘Harry, I went there to tell Benson it was all off…’

‘You never got the chance, old chap,’ Luttrell pointed out. ‘Benson hit you first, no questions asked.’