The Disgraced Marchioness. Anne O'Brien

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