An Unexpected Bride Page 10

“Remember,” he said, offering a teasing smile, “you do not need to thank me for anything.”

  She smiled at the ground, and he wished she would look up at him. “Am I truly not allowed to utter those words?”

  He shook his head before realizing she couldn’t see it. “You are allowed to do anything you wish—you do not need my permission.”

  “You deserve gratitude. I have to give it somehow.”

  Henry rubbed his chin. “You may show your gratitude by joining me for a ride tomorrow morning? My morning rides are rather lonely at present, and I want to take every opportunity to come to know you better.”

  Eleanor met his eyes, a spark of hope entering them. “It has been far too long since I have ridden. I enjoy being around the animals.”

  “Are you saying yes?”

  Another half-smile lifted her lips, and Henry found himself enchanted by it. “Yes.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment, his own smile growing. He had never seen Eleanor this comfortable beside him. It was progress, to be sure.

  “Mr. Beaumont, how do you do?” A woman’s voice met his ears from across the lawn. Strolling along the garden path with her two daughters, was Mrs. Morton. She was a woman of very particular fashion, always wearing the most recent trend and instructing her daughters to do the same. Their gowns appeared to coordinate in color, with each woman donning a peach accessory. Mrs. Morton wore a peach gown, Miss Morton a peach trimmed bonnet, and Miss Beatrice a peach shawl. Mrs. Morton’s smile appeared much less jovial than usual, her greeting less enthusiastic.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Morton.” Henry said.

  She came to a stop in front of them, her eyes lingering on Eleanor before returning to Henry.

  He felt he should provide an explanation as to why they were on her property without invitation. “Your housekeeper said you would not be home. I hope we are not imposing. I wished to introduce my stepson to the kittens.”

  Mrs. Morton exchanged a glance with her nearest daughter. “Your stepson?” Her eyebrows flew upwards, her green eyes flashing with surprise. “I had heard of your recent marriage, of course, for the whole town has been speaking of it, but I did not realize it came with a child.” Her eyes flicked to Arthur, where he sat with the kittens.

  Henry sensed Eleanor grow tense beside him.

  “Yes. He is a very well-behaved, kind boy. I am honored to have him, as well as my new wife.” He smiled, fully noticing the disdain that dripped from Mrs. Morton’s expressions. He slid his arm around Eleanor’s elbow. She stepped forward, her smile shaky as she greeted Mrs. Morton with a nod.

  “Mrs. Beaumont,” Mrs. Morton returned the nod, but with less depth, “I have heard so very much about you.”

  Henry’s chest tightened. Whatever Mrs. Morton had heard could not have been complimentary. The news of the missing Claridge girl had once been a very exciting topic of gossip, and even more so when the public heard of the scandalous elopement connected to it. Henry had known upon marrying Eleanor that his own reputation would suffer, and quite frankly, he did not care what Mrs. Morton and her small circles of friends thought of him or Eleanor.

  Eleanor surprised him by speaking. “What have you heard concerning me?”

  Mrs. Morton’s eyes widened in surprise. “Well, I—” she fluttered her hands. “Much. I have heard much.”

  “I am curious as to what that means.” Eleanor tipped her head to one side. She appeared genuinely curious, but Henry sensed a challenge in her eyes.

  Mrs. Morton’s pride bristled, visible in the straightening of her shoulders and the huffed breath she let loose. “Very well. I have heard that you entered into a scandalous elopement with a poor soldier, leaving behind your family, and leaving them to wonder over your whereabouts. Your husband must have died, it seems, for you to have married Mr. Beaumont. I am shocked to see that you have married again so quickly and are already out of mourning. As I said, I have heard much.”

  Henry’s anger mounted again. “I’m afraid you are wrong, Mrs. Morton,” he said. “There is much that you do not know concerning my new family.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Oh, I do not blame you for attempting to subdue the rumors surrounding your wife, Mr. Beaumont. Your own reputation is suffering as a result of hers.”

  His jaw tightened. “The rumors you have heard are false.”

  Mrs. Morton raised her chin. “I must rely on what I have heard to formulate my opinions of my new neighbors.”

  Eleanor’s voice came again, strong and inarguable. “To rely on gossip is to rely on uncertainty. The one who relies on truth will be both wiser and provide more pleasant company.”

  Mrs. Morton scoffed. “There is nothing uncertain about your reputation, my dear. Nothing can mend it. You will take Mr. Beaumont with you as you continue to fall in society. I was sorely disappointed to hear of his marriage to you.”

  “Have you no interest in learning the truth?” Henry wished he could throw the woman off the property, but the property belonged, in fact, to Mrs. Morton. He had never known the woman to be so condescending and rude.

  “The truth? The truth is that you will never be the esteemed son of an earl that you were born to be. You have been ruined by your association with this woman.”

  Eleanor flinched, her posture slackening. Henry’s gaze hardened. He needed to get away from Mrs. Morton now, before he did something that would ensure Silas and Edward never called him a ‘saint’ again. He took Eleanor’s hand, his heart sinking when he felt it trembling.

  “Arthur,” Henry said, exhausting all his effort to keep his voice calm. “It is time to leave.”

  The boy seemed to sense the tension around him, standing up quickly and taking hold of his mother’s other arm. He stared back at the kittens as they walked away.

  Henry held his composure, but only just. How dare Mrs. Morton say those things? He had never met a person with such disregard for the feelings of others. Eleanor, who just moments ago had been smiling, now appeared far from it.

  The walk back to the house passed in silence. Henry needed to give his anger a chance to subside before he spoke. By the time the house appeared in the distance, he trusted himself to speak.

  “I am sorry, Eleanor. I did not know Mrs. Morton to be so dreadful.”

  “She is dreadful, isn’t she?” Eleanor avoided his eyes again, as if she were afraid to be near him again. She held tightly to Arthur’s hand.

  Blast Mrs. Morton.

  “Please do not believe a word that she said.”

  Something like exhaustion appeared on Eleanor’s face, clouding her features. “She spoke some truth. I have ruined you. Society will not know you as the respectable son of an earl. They will know you as the husband to the scandalous Claridge girl.” Her voice cracked. “I am the one that should be sorry.”

  “Do not apologize. You have done nothing wrong.”

  Her eyes glinted. “Yes.” Her voice softened, shaking, as if she were making a confession. “I have.”

  They had reached the back door, and she took Arthur by the hand. “I do not feel well.”

  With that, she opened the door, walking swiftly past it and out of sight.

  Henry watched the door close behind her, wondering yet again what it was that she was hiding from him.

  Chapter 10

  Eleanor rushed up the stairs, her breath hitching and catching just like her skirts under her boots. She picked up Arthur, who remained silent, lines of worry creasing his forehead. She tried to keep her expression even, but Arthur always knew when something was wrong. And something was very wrong, indeed.

  As luck would have it, Mary was in Arthur’s room, making his bed. “May I leave Arthur to play with you for a few minutes?” Eleanor asked.

  She nodded, apparently sensing Eleanor’s distress. Eleanor set Arthur down to his feet, gently prodding him toward Mary, who took his hand.

  She did not wish for him to see her in such an uncollected state. She bit back her tears just until she crossed the t
hreshold of her own room, closing the door firmly behind her. It would be just a moment. It would take just a moment for her to recollect herself. It always took just a moment.

  Eleanor breathed deeply, Mrs. Morton’s words echoing through her skull over and over. Had Eleanor known what the consequences would be to Henry, she never would have let him marry her. He would grow to resent her for what she did to him. And if it was ever discovered what she did to her late husband…then Henry would be ruined for certain. She had almost told him, but then she had been too afraid. She did not want to put him in even more danger by giving him her secrets to protect.

  She sat down on the edge of her bed, trying to calm her breathing. A knock sounded at the door, and she froze. She had come to recognize Mary’s knock, and this one was not the same.

  “Eleanor?”

  Henry’s voice. Her heart leapt.

  “Yes?”

  “May I come in?”

  She crossed the room to the door, pulling it open. The sorrow and regret in Henry’s eyes was unmistakable. Was he already regretting his decision to marry her? She would not blame him for it. She hid her emotions, crossing her arms as he walked slowly into the room.

  “Are you still unwell?” he asked, his voice so soft and gentle she felt a strange urge to run to him, to bury her face in his chest and cry like she hadn’t in years. She shook the feeling away.

  “Yes, I am much better. I am just—not accustomed to the heat of summer.”

  Henry threw her a skeptical look but did not press her for an honest explanation. She liked that about him.

  “There is something that I wish to say.” Henry’s voice was slow, as if to ensure she would not possibly miss a word. “I must clarify at once that you have not ruined me. Not in the slightest.” He stared into her eyes, his own gaze firm and resolute. “You have saved me. You and Arthur have both saved me from a life of loneliness and monotony, and for that I must express my gratitude to you.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. The threads of warmth that had grown all too familiar spread up her limbs and into her chest.

  He walked closer, and her heart picked up speed. His closeness always had an effect on her, whether it was a sense of security or belonging, or the strange feelings he had begun to stir up in her heart. She scolded her heart for caring about his words, for believing them. Hadn’t she learned not to trust flattering words?

  No. Words could not be trusted. Only actions could. Henry’s actions had shown that he was noble in every way, yet she still hesitated to tell him everything. She was still afraid to let him close to her, to believe that he would not abandon her and Arthur when they needed him most. She squeezed her eyes shut against the memories that tore at her composure.

  Without warning, Henry’s fingers touched her cheek. Her eyes flew open and she flinched, pulling away and stumbling back a step.

  Henry’s hand fell, his eyes flashing with hurt. He appeared embarrassed, and Eleanor’s stomach twisted with guilt. She hadn’t meant to act so afraid of him, but the instinct had come naturally.

  “I will leave you,” Henry said, his voice quiet. “I hope you feel well again soon.”

  Before she could try to explain, he turned around, exiting her room without another word.

  She pressed her palm to her forehead, fighting tears all over again. Henry did all he could to leave a wake of kindness and compassion behind him, in every word and deed. It seemed all she was capable of was leaving a wake of destruction in her path.

  * * *

  A candidate for Arthur’s nursemaid arrived a week later for an interview. Her name was Adeline, and she was quite young. If Eleanor would have guessed the girl’s age, she would have thought her to be sixteen, with her youthful eyes and small frame. Even so, she seemed quite capable of performing the needed duties, and with her quiet, calm disposition, Eleanor thought Arthur would be quite comfortable around her.

  With Arthur now in Adeline’s care in the early mornings, Eleanor had taken to spending her mornings in the gardens. She was not used to having time to herself out of doors, but she found she quite enjoyed it. She loved listening to the birds and inhaling the fragrant scents of the nearby rose bushes. She felt at peace there in the gardens. Her stone bench surrounded by trees and bushes had become something of a sanctuary.

  While outside one morning, Eleanor was presented with a letter. Her heart skittered with fear before she saw who it had come from.

  Adam.

  She tore open the seal, eager to hear from him. She was disappointed to see that it was quite short.

  Dear Eleanor,

  I hope you are happy in Worthing and that Mr. Beaumont is treating you and Arthur well. My wife and I have received an invitation to a dinner party on the tenth at the residence of the Marquess of Seaford. Do you remember my old friend Philip Honeyfield? He is now a marquess and has a grand estate, which is likely the very last thing I would have imagined for his life to turn into. He has invited many of our friends from Brighton and he was more than happy to extend his invitation to include you and Mr. Beaumont. I need to see you again, Eleanor, to ensure you are happy and safe. I hope you will come. I believe Mr. Beaumont will know where to find Philip’s estate, Pengrave, in Seaford.

  With love,

  Adam

  Eleanor held the letter to her chest. Could she ask Henry to take her to the party? He had told her never to hesitate to ask for anything. Part of her was still afraid to venture outside of Worthing. What if the elder Mr. Quinton found her? She reminded herself that the dinner party was being held in Seaford, so there would be no risk of being discovered by Mr. Quinton there. Had he already been searching for her? The thoughts sent prickles of dread over her spine.

  “Good morning.”

  She jumped at the sound of Henry’s voice.

  He was walking down the path toward her bench, each step tentative and cautious. “It seems I have made a habit of startling you.” He chuckled, but the sound was half-hearted. She and Henry had hardly spoken since the week before, when he had touched her face and she had pulled away as if it had disgusted her. She hadn’t meant to offend or hurt him, and the persistent guilt that had followed her all week was enough to drive her mad. She needed to show him that she did not fear him.

  “It is not you that is startling me,” she said, turning her face up to look at him. Sunlight fell softly through the trees, illuminating the golden tones in Henry’s hair and the streaks of pale blue in his eyes. “It is Mr. Quinton. My memories of him. My fear of his father.” She shook her head. “It is not you.”

  Henry sat down beside her. She looked down at her hands, afraid she would cry if she looked at his face, at the gentle kindness in his eyes. She still felt that she needed to explain her reaction to his touch, why it had been so startling.

  “Mr. Quinton hurt me on more than one occasion.” She took a deep breath. “He never touched my face… unless to strike my cheek. He never touched me unless it was for his own purposes, his own desires, to hurt, to take, to control. And the only words he spoke to me were threats, followed by flattery that was meant to appease me.”

  She dared to look up at Henry’s face. His jaw was tight with anger, his eyes heavy with sorrow. She clung to the expression, knowing that it meant he cared. She had never confided in anyone about the things she had felt and endured over those years. The daily battle with fear and deciding whether to fight or submit to her husband’s demands.

  How different Henry was from Mr. Quinton. She could not think of one similarity between them in either appearance or character, except, perhaps, the color of their eyes. Both men had blue eyes, but the color was where the similarity ended. Mr. Quinton’s eyes had bled with darkness, and Henry’s emitted light. Her heart pounded at the realization. She clung to Henry’s light, to his nearness, to the feeling of trust that had begun growing in her heart. Even if he regretted marrying her, of taking her reputation upon him, at least she knew he cared about her.

  He slipped his han
d around hers, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Her eyes fluttered closed as a tear escaped, spilling down her cheek. She took a shuddering breath.

  “Eleanor,” Henry’s voice, soft, hoarse met her ears. She didn’t dare open her eyes. She couldn’t. His hand, warm and strong, enveloped hers tighter. “You must know that I will never, never, hurt you or Arthur.”

  Her closed eyelids were not enough to contain her tears. They slipped out the corners of her eyes and down her cheeks. Peace like she had not known in years enveloped her, born from Henry’s words and voice and gentle touch. “I know.”

  She opened her eyes, Henry’s face blurred behind the moisture in her vision, and she blinked to see him more clearly. His other hand lifted, slowly, carefully, until his fingers barely touched her cheek. She froze.

  He shifted, his gaze concentrating on each of her features as he traced his thumb over her tears, soaking them up and stealing them away. “Do not cry,” he whispered.

  Her face burned under his touch, a barren flame flickering in her chest as she studied his face. The dark sweep of lashes, the faint stubble on his cheeks, the creases near his eyes from years of smiling, the golden curls that fell softly on his forehead. She tried to memorize it all, because a small part of her still feared she would lose him. She had been schooled to believe that that which can be taken, will be taken, it is only a matter of time. Love, she had learned, was a weakness. And Henry was difficult not to love.

  His eyes settled on hers, and a small smile curved his lips. Her heart fluttered at the sight of it. She would have been quite content to stay on that bench forever, surrounded by warm sunlight beside Henry.

  “I came to see if you would still like to take the ride we planned last week,” he said.

  She had forgotten all about the ride. “I would.” She smiled, the action much easier now. “Also,” she turned to where she had placed the letter beside her, sniffing away the last of her tears, “I received an invitation from Adam to dine at Pengrave with the Marquess of Seaford in a fortnight. Would you like to go?”