rugged capability and down-to-earth manner? Probably, she mused, many ladies of the ton would value those qualities higher. But not her. She did not want pretty words with no heart behind them. She wanted... Matthew. She might as well admit it. She had wanted him since that first kiss. It had just seemed so impossible.
Now...
She looked up and caught his eye. He looked...
‘What is wrong? You look preoccupied.’
‘As do you,’ he said.
‘But I was preoccupied in a happy way,’ Eleanor retorted. ‘You look precisely the opposite. Why?’
He did not reply.
‘If you did not wish to dance, why did you ask me?’
His startled blue gaze bored into her. ‘Please do not imagine you know what is going on inside my head.’ He fell silent until they were near enough to converse again. ‘If you must know,’ he continued, ‘I had a visit from my eldest brother earlier. I was wondering what reception I might expect from my father when he arrives.’
Eleanor pondered his words. Matthew was adamant he had no wish to accept his rightful place in society but...could reconciliation with his father change his mind? Ideas of how she might help ricocheted around her brain but, if she were to help, it stood to reason she must discover the cause of their estrangement: the reason his father had banished Matthew to India.
They joined hands for the next movement of the dance. She barely noticed, dancing by rote. A swift tug caught her attention.
‘What are you plotting? I can see it in your eyes. You are up to something.’
Eleanor tilted her chin. ‘I am not. I was thinking about supper.’
She avoided his narrow-eyed study of her face. At the end of the dance, she said, ‘May we sit this one out, Mr Damerel? I find I am rather tired.’ Matthew had marked her card for the first two.
‘After one dance?’
‘It is the worry. The thought of meeting James and Ruth has quite overset me.’ She ignored Matthew’s quiet huff of disbelief. ‘I would appreciate finding a quiet corner to rest. To prepare myself.’
‘Very well.’ Matthew offered his arm and led Eleanor across the floor to where a set of French windows stood ajar. ‘Would you care for a breath of fresh air? There are others out there, so we cannot be accused of being unchaperoned. You cannot afford to take any chances; the patronesses of Almack’s are present. I saw Lady Cowper and Lady Jersey earlier.’
Eleanor glimpsed several guests outside on a well-lit, flagged terrace, where they were taking advantage of a cooling breeze. Perfect...enough in number to provide respectability, but few enough to enable them to converse without being overheard.
‘Indeed.’ Now to wheedle the truth out of Matthew.
They walked slowly to one end of the terrace, which ran the full width of Beauchamp House. Matthew held his tongue—Eleanor would speak her mind soon enough. Until then, he was content to enjoy the peace. As they turned to retrace their steps, Eleanor drew breath.
‘Your father,’ she said.
‘Ah, now we get to it. I knew you were up to something.’
‘I am not up to something. I am...interested. Your brother Stephen has accepted you back. Why do you imagine your father will not? What did your other brother say?’
And if she thought he was going to tell her about that interview, she was mistaken. ‘He was hardly overjoyed to see me.’
‘And yet he visited you. Why?’
Matthew shrugged free of her hand on his arm and strode over to the balustrade. He gazed blindly into the dark garden beyond the terrace.
Tenacious.
It described her perfectly.
She’s only trying to help.
As if she had heard his thoughts, she said, ‘I only wish to understand.’
‘I know.’
He turned to look at her. Gorgeous. His blood heated instantly. Her glorious dark tresses, piled on to her head, artful ringlets framing her beautiful face. That gown...the colour of a summer sky, over a white satin underdress...the low neckline revealing an enticing glimpse of full breasts and emphasising her fragile collarbones and swan-like neck, adorned by an elegant string of pearls. His hands curled into fists against the urge to reach for her.
She touched one of those fists...a fleeting contact, but enough to trigger that vibrant spark that arced between them whenever they touched. His resolve hardened. He must stay strong. Eleanor might believe her feelings lay hidden, but they shone from her eyes. He must disillusion her—she must understand there was no future for them, for her sake and her standing in society as much as for his pride.
‘I was caught cheating at cards,’ he said. ‘My accuser was then attacked and robbed. That is why my father sent me to India. My accuser was badly injured and Father feared he might die.’
‘But you didn’t do it.’ Her declaration rang with conviction.
‘I was long ago cleared of the attack,’ he said.
‘Why did you not come home, then?’
‘I am not wanted here.’ Claverley’s scornful words had pierced deeper than he realised. Damn him. And damn everything. And, in particular, damn his youthful indiscretions...his thoughtless, careless certainty that nothing could touch him. ‘Not then. Not now. I have a debt to repay to my father. Once that is discharged, I shall return to my previous existence.’
‘You are still bitter about his rejection of you. Is it not time to put that bitterness behind you and think of the future?’
‘Am I not justified if I do feel bitter? Would you not feel the same had you been rejected by your...?’ Too late, he bit his tongue. ‘I’m sorry. I forgot. I should not have said that.’
He saw her swallow. ‘It is true my mother left me. I don’t think I have ever been bitter about it, though.’ She took his arm. ‘Come, let us walk and talk. It is easier to speak with honesty when you cannot see the other’s face.’
They continued to stroll.
‘Mayhap I was never bitter because I still had my father,’ she said.
‘But it must have affected you.’
‘Of course it did. It devastated me. But...but...’ From the corner of his eye he saw her shrug in a helpless fashion. ‘I thought it was my fault.’
He had to strain to hear her. His heart swelled. He had been eighteen—old enough to rationalise his father’s behaviour. Eleanor had been eleven years old. Still a child. No wonder, at times, she doubted herself. No wonder she concealed that inner doubt behind a shell of determined independence. He covered her hand with his and squeezed gently.
‘You know now it was not your fault, I hope?’
She inhaled sharply. ‘Of course. But we were talking of you and your father.’
Her voice was bright and positive. He bit back a smile. She was the most courageous woman he had ever met.
‘May I tell you what I think, without annoying you?’
And here was a first—asking if he wanted her opinion before voicing it. ‘Go on.’
‘I think you should meet your father with an open heart. Listen to what he says and, more importantly, how he says it. Do not barricade your heart behind a wall of pride.’
That’s easy for her to say. ‘I will try,’ he said.
‘Did you prove you did not cheat at cards?’
‘Who says