The Complete Regency Surrender Collection. Louise Allen

never being worthy of Eleanor, but it was agony to watch her with these men, any one of whom would be a perfect match for her.

      ‘You’re back.’

      Matthew whipped round at the sound of that familiar voice. Every muscle tensed and his chest swelled as he drew in a seemingly never-ending breath. Familiar hard grey eyes assessed him and it was as though the last eight years had dissolved, leaving his eighteen-year-old self facing the man whose love and approval he had craved above all else. He held his father’s gaze as his brain battled for control of both his body and his speech. The colourful, noisy ballroom receded until there was just Matthew, facing his father.

       Breathe out. Now.

      He willed his voice into the open. ‘You got my letter, then.’

      ‘What are your plans?’

      No welcome. No softening of those stern features. No pleasure in seeing his youngest son—now a man grown—after eight long years.

      ‘I’m back for good.’

      Matthew swung away, but...suddenly, Eleanor was by his side, with a swish of satin and the scent of jasmine. She grabbed his arm, pushed him back round to face his father.

      ‘Mr Damerel,’ she said. ‘Would you do me the honour of introducing us?’

      No! The silent roar reverberated around his head. He scanned the nearby guests; curious faces had turned in their direction. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached as he looked his father in the eye again. He stilled, momentarily breathless. Was that uncertainty in those familiar grey orbs?

       Not out-and-out rejection, then.

       Maybe? Possibly? Hopefully?

      ‘Eleanor, Lady Ashby, this is my father, Lord Rushock.’

      Eleanor dipped into a curtsy. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord. Your son has proved such an invaluable support to me over the past few weeks. He is, if I may say, a son of whom any father would be proud.’

      Matthew fought his inclination to close his eyes in despair. What on earth was she thinking?

      His father inclined his head. ‘Good evening, Lady Ashby.’

      He said no more. The silence loomed around them, prodding Matthew to say something...anything...to fill that void.

      ‘I am sorry to speak to you of such things in company, but you must know that I intend to pay the debts I owe you.’

      A frown creased his father’s brow. ‘That is not necessary.’

      ‘It is more than necessary to me—it is essential. I...you need not fear I shall ask anything of you, but I should like to see my mother and sisters.’

      ‘I have not told them you are back.’

      ‘You did not tell them where I went. You allowed them...all of them...to believe I would leave without a word. They did not even know if I was alive or dead.’ His voice shook; the words near choked him. He swallowed convulsively, and drew strength from Eleanor as she—under cover of her skirts—feathered his hand with warm fingers.

      ‘No doubt Stephen told you that.’

      ‘Why would he not? He was as shocked at your actions as, no doubt, Mama will be. You should know, sir, that I have written to Sarah, so it will do you no good to try to prevent Stephen from telling Mama the truth. Besides—’ Matthew gestured at the onlookers ‘—you know how fast news travels.’

      ‘I did my best for you. If Henson had died—’

      ‘But he did not. And...I...was...innocent.’

      ‘But not of cheating.’

      Eleanor’s gasp soothed the wound to his heart. As did the sudden realisation that his father had the look and the sound of a man who suspected he was in the wrong, but was desperate to justify his actions.

      Matthew reached a decision: this should not, could not, be resolved in a crowded ballroom.

      ‘I will call on you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘With the money. And we can discuss how we move on from there.’

      His father opened his mouth, then snapped it shut.

      ‘Very well,’ he said, after a pause. ‘I shall await your visit.’

      Matthew watched his father walk away, the tightness in his chest relaxing as his galloping heart eased to a trot.

      ‘I am sorry you had to witness that, my lady,’ he said, without looking at Eleanor.

      ‘Are you angry with me?’

      She did not sound particularly contrite. More...interested. Was he angry? Yes...and no. He felt a reluctant smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

      ‘What made you imagine it was your business?’

      ‘I was interes—’

      ‘Interested. Yes. I gathered that. Interested; or interfering, depending on your perspective. Or...’ he glanced at her, and her expression dispelled the remaining shards of any anger he had felt, ‘...or a friend, trying to help.’

      She smiled. ‘Thank you. One question.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘How shall you repay your father?’

      His spine stiffened. This, surely, was a step too far, even for her.

      ‘Do you have enough funds readily available? If not, I can—’

      ‘No!’

      She recoiled, a wounded look on her face. ‘You do not know what I was going to say.’

      ‘I can guess.’ He gripped her arm and steered her into an empty alcove nearby. ‘Do not insult me by offering me money. I am no pauper. I can pay my own debts.’

      But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until Benedict arrived with those two ships and their cargoes were sold. After that, he would have the wherewithal to pay his debts, invest in further imports and to live comfortably. Until then, however...

      ‘I was only offering a loan,’ Eleanor said, in a hurt voice.

      Matthew groaned inwardly. He must raise the money somehow. His pride would never allow him to admit to his father he was not yet able to pay his full due, but neither would it allow him to accept money from Eleanor, loan or not. It would have to be the bank. Or, if the bank failed him...he had always thought of moneylenders as the last possible resort but, now, Eleanor had supplanted them.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I will not accept money from you, even as a loan.’

      ‘Very well. I cannot force you to accept, but the offer is there if you have need.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Lady Ashby? I believe this is our dance?’

      Matthew fought the burning jealousy that scorched his gut again as he watched Eleanor walk away on the arm of yet another self-assured, titled and no doubt wealthy member of the St James’s set.

      His mistake had been to secure her hand for the first two dances. He could not dance with her again without causing gossip. It was bad enough they had spent so much time already in one another’s company, although the continued attentions of the cream of society’s most eligible bachelors would no doubt preclude any criticism. No one would risk upsetting them.

      He was now condemned to spend the rest of the evening either watching Eleanor from the edge of the ballroom or dancing with another lady. Neither option particularly appealed. With a muttered oath, he spun on his heel and headed for the card room.

      In the hallway he passed two jaded-looking elderly gentlemen, making their slow way to the ballroom. The name ‘Baroness Ashby’ caught his attention and he slowed.