One Whisper Away (32 page)

“May I have a word, Lady Cecily?”

She glanced up from where she was sitting on the edge of a group of ladies, startled. “Lord Drury.” It was all she could do to keep from stammering.

“All I wish is to have a brief conversation. Unless you think your fiancé will take offense and attempt to behead me in the rose garden, in which case I can understand your refusal.”

Everyone around her laughed, but she had to give him credit for having the perfect amused expression on his face, and truly, it was very gracious the way he approached her with open friendliness to defuse the gossip.

She actually didn’t know how Jonathan might feel about it, but then again, a certain level of trust was needed in every relationship, in her opinion, and males did not own an exclusive right on granting it or not, and the viscount’s easy smile indicated he was simply being humorous about the possibility of violence.

His lordship’s voice was low as she rose to accept the invitation. “This will take only a moment, but I do prefer privacy.”

He knew about the engagement. Her grandmother had formally announced it at dinner, so what point was there in refusing? Cecily allowed him to escort her to the doors opening to the terrace, and though their departure was no doubt noted by everyone in the room, it was less conspicuous than it would have been in London.

“We’ll stand in full sight of the gaping crowd,” he told her wryly, stopping just outside, the dark gardens in the background, the country air tangy with summer. Lanterns had been lit all around the flagstone area, so they were no doubt very visible. “Do not worry. I just wanted a few moments of your time.”

“I’m getting used to the extra attention.” She smiled at him uncertainly. “Jonathan does not go unnoticed. If we are going to be married . . .”

“And it appears you are,” he finished for her. “Then yes, I think you will need to adjust to the interest. I wanted to offer my congratulations. You seem very happy.”

He gazed at her with visible sincerity and it seemed, though it was ironic, for the first time since their introduction they actually understood one another. She could pursue the veneer of a polite acquaintance, but she was hopeful he had not drawn her out to discuss her upcoming wedding.

She was, in fact, sure he hadn’t.

“I
am
happy.” Then she went on, though she wasn’t sure she should. “Eleanor said you had a lovely chat this afternoon.” That was rather pointed, but she could swear progress was being made. The comment had been casual, but as they’d dressed for dinner, her sister had been not precisely jubilant but certainly lighter-spirited than in the past weeks, and she’d even allowed herself to be persuaded to wear an emerald gown that she usually disdained because she claimed the neckline was too revealing. Cecily had received an accusing look for having her maid pack it, but it was worth it, for Elle had been the recipient of more than one admiring perusal from the males in attendance.

Viscount Drury took in a deep breath and appeared to make some inner decision. “I have wondered if I’ve been reading more into the recent conversations between your sister and me than I should.”

This was progress indeed.

She was an extremely amateur matchmaker, but so far so good. Cecily did her best to avoid looking openly jubilant. “Eleanor is quite stunning this evening, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” he agreed, elegant and nonchalant in his formal kit, his blond hair in perfect order.

“She’s also intelligent.”

“Yet again I agree with you.”

“Kindhearted.”

Now he started to smile. “I sense your affection for her, Lady Cecily.”

“I was simply pointing out that while she has a few flaws, as we all do, she would make any man an admirable wife.”

“I take it that means I am not getting the wrong impression?”

Now that Eleanor had admitted it to her, the quandary of how to answer that oblique question was much easier. “I think you are very intuitive, my lord,” she informed him with a serene smile.

“I have not been accused of
that
very often,” he said in a droll voice. “I’d more think I am cursed with being singularly obtuse. But may I thank you for being so frank with me? Shall we go back inside?”

“Indeed we should.”

When Jonathan joined her a few moments later, his desire to behead her former would-be suitor in check, it seemed, he drawled, “You look extremely complacent, my dear. I think you should at least try to control that particular smug glow.”

She looked up at him from under the fringe of her lashes and did try to assume a more demure expression. “His lordship wanted to offer his congratulations on my engagement.”

“Did he? I saw the two of you talking most earnestly out there. And?”

Was he jealous? He didn’t seem to be, but then again, after that interlude in the river, he had every reason to be secure enough about her affections.

“To ask about Eleanor.”

“A coup then?” His smile was genial, his dark hair loose for a summer country party, brushing his shoulders. His less-formal clothing suited him, his manner more easy when he wasn’t trussed up in a formal cravat; her grandmother knew young men well enough to make sure that by this time in the evening her guests understood they could embrace informality.

If only she knew just how informal they’d been earlier in the river.

Heaven forbid.

“I don’t know if I would view it as a fait accompli quite yet, but a very good start.”

“I rather thought the conversation had run along those lines.”

“Now you are omniscient, Lord Augustine?” she teased, aware of the people around them no doubt listening to every word they could catch.

He looked at her and leaned down. His breath warmed her temple. “Maybe I am. I knew the instant I saw you that we were meant to join our souls.”

Suddenly they’d shifted out of a refined English drawing room without moving a muscle.

He could do that to her.

With just a whisper.

A
t dinner she’d been seated next to a baronet named Sir Norman on one side who talked of nothing but horses and on the other a young man who constantly cleared his throat and refused to look at her as he ate his way through all six courses with his nose pointed to his plate. Eleanor was confident that her grandmother hadn’t planned to seat her in such an unattractive spot, but considered the arrangement suitable for a young woman who was past her first blush as an ingénue.

In contrast, Lord Drury was seated down the table between two attractive females, one a shy debutante and the other a young, pretty widow with striking ivory skin and auburn hair who was openly flirtatious to an extent that Eleanor wanted to excuse herself from dinner with as much dignity as possible and go upstairs to cry.

No, not cry, she decided. Like anyone else, she had moments when it happened, but she really wasn’t the weepy kind. Maybe go upstairs and give the wall a swift kick, which would undoubtedly bruise her toe and accomplish nothing, but it was excruciating to sit and watch him smile and laugh with another woman.

However, this seemed like a poor time to give up, no matter how charmed he seemed to be by the lovely Mrs. Kirkpatrick.

That was why when they finally retired, Eleanor found herself in her sister’s bedchamber, restlessly pacing, the hem of her dressing gown trailing behind her as she related the full details of the conversation between her and the viscount that afternoon.

Cecily smiled at the end of the recital, her eyes alight. “He actually asked you whom he should court? Did you mention yourself perhaps?”

Eleanor whirled around. “As if I could say that, Ci.”

Her sister’s amber eyes were reflective. “I suppose it would be a little forward, but still, I think he was inferring something. It isn’t so bad to be a little forward, trust me. I was the one who essentially proposed to Jonathan.”

And all the
ton
thought her sister was the demure one. Eleanor had to admit she was a bit taken aback. “You did?”

Perched on the edge of the seat at her dressing table, her long hair loose and a smile gracing her mouth, Cecily nodded. “Need I say it worked out quite well?”

If glowing happiness was any indication, no, it didn’t need to be articulated, but still . . . Eleanor couldn’t go to Lord Drury—or maybe she should think of him as Elijah, as that made him a little more approachable—and suggest that if he had romantic inclinations she would be amiable.

No. Out of the question.

It was too outrageous to contemplate. Unladylike. Maybe it worked with the somewhat unusual Augustine, but Elijah was a traditional English gentleman. He may have misjudged Cecily in some ways and mistaken her usual demure poise to mean she was a compliant, malleable young lady—when she really wasn’t either of those—who would make a perfect wife, but that had been what he
wanted
.

Except . . . well, he had said that afternoon that he had changed his mind.

. . .
someone who amuses me
. . .
with whom I can speak freely
. . .

“Maybe I
should
talk to him.” The words tumbled out in a rush, but the very thought of it caused her pulse to flutter. “But I have truly no idea what to say.”

“You?” Cecily looked amused. “That would be a unique moment.”

Eleanor gave her sister a quelling glare. “You are not being helpful, Ci. I can hardly tell him that I’ve harbored a secret infatuation for him ever since the day we first met.”

“Why not? Besides, I think he has already come to that conclusion anyway.” Cecily went on as if what she’d just said was perfectly reasonable. “And please, be yourself. He is intrigued by you, not the quiet persona you’ve tried to adopt this season.”

“I frightened him off the first time.” Eleanor pointed it out with all due practicality.

Cecily just smiled and lifted her brows. “I think his lordship has gotten past that. Besides, from what you told me he said, he frightened himself off. Quite different. The issue was not with his perception of you, but with his own self-doubt.”

Put that way, it was much better. Eleanor took in a deep, calming breath. “Maybe you are right.”

 

The knock was so quiet he wasn’t sure his imagination hadn’t produced it. Elijah Winters glanced at the clock and frowned when the light rap was repeated. He was only half dressed because he’d dismissed his valet earlier and sat on the balcony off his room sipping the duke’s excellent brandy and contemplating the rising moon. Contemplating why he’d accepted this invitation at all. Contemplating the luscious Lady Eleanor and the paradox of being attracted to a woman who had all the attributes he normally avoided in a female.

However, as he’d stated just that afternoon, he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

When he was finally foxed enough that he was sure he could sleep, he’d started to prepare for bed, and at the moment he wore only his breeches.

Who the devil was at his door?

Normally he would have put on his dressing gown, but the garment was not in sight and he had no idea where Bosco might have put it, and quite frankly, he’d had enough to drink he didn’t care much, because if propriety was an issue, no one would be knocking at this late hour.

When he jerked open the door, he had to admit he wasn’t prepared to see the subject of his thoughts standing there, her hair loose in a dark gold fall over her slender shoulders, clad in a robe of some ivory material that made her look very pretty and very young . . .

Which exactly matched the uncertain look in her eyes.

“What are you doing?” he rasped out, knowing Eleanor had to have come from the part of the manor house with the family apartments to the guest wing and anyone might have seen her.

“I need to talk to—”

Elijah caught her arm and ignored her startled gasp as he tugged her into the room so anyone coming out into the hall wouldn’t discover them conversing at his door at this hour. “Have you lost your senses?”

“I’m pretty certain I have,” she muttered with endearing irritation, “or else I would not be knocking on your door.”

Two points came clearly into focus at that moment.

He was barely dressed.

She was barely dressed.

And they had
both
lost their minds, since she’d come to him and he’d dragged her inside his room. In retrospect all that brandy had been a poor idea. Instead of thinking about the scandalous implications of her presence in his bedchamber, he found his gaze traveling over her tempting form, the folds of her nightclothes not quite concealing enough to eradicate the memory of how that dazzling emerald gown she’d worn earlier had showcased her spectacular breasts and slender waist, not to mention the gentle flare of her hips.

It wasn’t that Eleanor hadn’t always been alluring, it was more that he’d never been quite sure how to handle his reaction to her. Cecily was different. He’d felt comfortable from their first introduction. A liking, albeit nothing soul-stirring—and there was no doubt that Eleanor’s serene sister was very beautiful . . .

Yet still nothing like her unpredictable sibling, who right at the moment stood barefoot and clad in her nightclothes in his bedchamber. “Why are you here?” he asked, his voice thick from the brandy. “You do realize this is beyond foolish.”

Or maybe it wasn’t
just
the liquor he’d consumed. She was beguilingly close. There was only one lamp left burning, quite low, and her hair was the color of warm honey. Though normally he would never have imagined himself being so bold, he wished to run his fingers through the silky length of it.

In fact, he had quite a few improper thoughts at the moment.

“I need to speak with you.” She took in a deep breath and her breasts, he could not help but notice, quivered in a very tantalizing sway. By the same token, her gaze was riveted on his bare chest.