The garden of Creydon House, 1777
Lady Eleanor Creydon traced the words in the water that puddled on the stone rim of the fountain. “Lady James Winderfield.” Her lips curved in a tremulous smile. The man she loved was asking her father for her hand, and would soon come to ask her.
“I have made an appointment to meet your father tomorrow,” he had whispered in her ear last night as they promenaded down the centre of the double line of dancers. Then, as they passed one another, a few moments later, “You know what I want to ask him, my darling.”
She circled the girl at the head of the ladies’ line, barely aware of the other people in the room, conscious only of James and the words that set her heart thumping. Only years of practice kept her moving gracefully back around to meet James again, her arm stretched high, her hand ready for his brief clasp and her ears for another burst of whispered words.
“It is what you want?”
Looking up, she nodded, and the anxiety cleared from his eyes as they met hers. How could he be unsure of her? She had no further opportunity to reassure him. They had to part and dance down the outside of their respective lines, and the music drew to a close before they could speak again.
Her mother had been waiting, and hurried her away. The Earl of Farnmouth, her father, had decided it was time to leave the ball.
Eleanor had lain awake in the night, thinking that tomorrow would never come, but at last the sun had come up, and the interminable morning had passed.
James was with her father now, shut in the earl’s study. Soon, surely, the earl would send him out into the garden. The answer would be yes, of course. As the daughter of an earl, she knew her worth, but James was third son of a duke; a duke, furthermore who was a friend of her father.
Eleanor cast a glance at the house and frowned slightly. Her father would say yes. Of course, he would. Only last week, he had interrupted her dinner with her mother to announce that he expected a very eligible offer for Eleanor’s hand. “I am pleased with your daughter, countess,” he had told her mother. “Betrothed only two months after her debut. You are to be congratulated, madam.”
He had not spoken to Eleanor, but he seldom did, nor had he given a name. Who could it be but James? James was her most ardent suitor. Indeed, since the rapscallion son of the Duke of Winshire had made her the object of his devotion, the rest of her court had fallen away. They had been callow boys, in any case, standing up with her because of childhood friendship or because she had become fashionable.
James was a man, not a boy — twenty-four years to her seventeen. He was unbelievably handsome, charming, clever, funny, and dearer to her than anyone she had ever known, even her older sister. And he had chosen her! She clapped her hands and spun in a circle, unable to contain her delight.
Soon he would come. She composed herself on the stone bench opposite the path by which he would enter the garden. How would he propose? On one knee? Sitting beside her? The thought had her up on her feet again, too excited to stay still, peering down the path.
“Eleanor!” It was a hiss just a hairsbreadth above a whisper.
She spun around. James had come from the other direction. Well, no matter. She hurried towards him; her hands outstretched. He scowled, his eyes blazing in a white face. “James? What is the matter?”
He clasped her hands and pulled her after him into the shadows of the yew walk, where he wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her hair. “Eleanor, I love you. I love you more than life itself. You believe me, do you not?”
Eleanor pulled away, but only enough to peer into his eyes. “James? What did my father say?”
James groaned.
“James, you are frightening me. Did he say we must wait?”
“Eleanor, he says that he has given your hand to the Duke of Haverford,” James blurted.
Eleanor’s breath stopped, and the blood surged in her ears as her heart pounded. Her sight grew dark at the edges, and the enormous yew hedges swayed towards her as if to batter her into the ground. By force of will, she fought off her faintness. “But… but he is old,” she stammered, “and a wicked libertine, and cold as ice.” She stamped her foot. “I don’t want him, James. I love you. I love you, James.”
“Shush, my love,” James begged. “We must be quiet. Farnmouth told me I could not see you again, but I had to, Eleanor. I’ll find a way. I promise. You love me, and I love you. I will ask my father to help. He is friends with yours. Surely Winshire can persuade the earl.”
“Yes!” Eleanor’s heart gave another enormous thump, this time with relief. “We will be together?” she asked.
“We will marry,” James promised. He bent his head and his lips touched hers. It was a gentle, reverent salute, but Eleanor pressed closer and the kiss changed, James’s lips still soft, but questing, moving, devouring. His tongue pressed the seam of her mouth and swept inside when she gasped. Again, the darkness hovered, but this time it was a welcoming warmth, a giving and taking of sensation, a merging of selves so that Eleanor no longer knew who sighed and who moaned, or how long they stayed intertwined.
The whistling of a gardener brought them back to themselves. “I must go,” James told her. “Stay strong, my love. We are meant to be together, and I will find a way.”
“We are meant to be together,” she agreed.