Page 58 of How to Tempt a Duke

Eleanor hadn’t expected him to give up anything for her, or to offer anything other than the pleasure she sought and a reprieve from the marriage mart. In truth, she hadn’t even intended him to have to make good on his promise to marry her. And yet Lottie’s words had pierced an area Eleanor had not realized was tender.

You should marry Devonington.

Charles’s blunt statement echoed in her mind. Her eyes tingled with the threat of emotion, but she pulled deep on the strength she’d always fallen back on. Murrays were strong, after all. They did not give in to hurt.

Somehow the reminder failed to penetrate the haze of pain, where it glowed in her chest with a white-hot intensity.

The footman appeared and led her to her hired coach. She followed numbly, listening and speaking with mindless action. A similar hackney sat parked across the street. Its very presence rankled her nerves with considerable irritation. Was Bloomsbury truly so popular as to have such traffic dawdling upon its rain-slicked streets?

Eleanor turned her gaze from the offensive hackney and directed her attention back to Lottie’s town house, where it rose high and obstinate in the shadows. How would Lottie’s conversation with Charles go?

The coach pulled away and Eleanor sat back in her seat. Worrying and wondering would do nothing. Considering how Lottie had spoken to her, Eleanor was sure she would not see Charles again—just as she’d feared. And it was her own fault.

Charles was gone forever—the man she’d somehow let in more than she’d thought. She’d hoped to meet another who could instill her with the passion he did, and yet she had been so dazzled by him the rest of the world had fallen into the shadows. Potential suitors included. She had squandered what precious little time she had.

It wasn’t until she was safely home and in her room that she gave way to the crush of disappointment. She put her face in her hands, where her palms were cool against the blazing heat of her face, ready to let free her tears.

A knock sounded at the door—the gentle rap of her mother.

Eleanor snapped her head upright and sucked in a deep, calming breath before bidding her mother enter.

The Countess strode in with a smile. “I come with the most exciting news.” Her mother clasped her hands together. “The Earl of Devonington has asked for my blessing.”

Eleanor might have staggered under the news if she hadn’t been standing beside her dressing table. She put her hand to its flat, steady surface. “I beg your pardon? Your blessing?”

“The Earl of Devonington. He is smitten with you, my dear.” Her mother brushed a lock of hair from Eleanor’s brow and frowned. “Are you ill? Your face is hot.”

“Devonington?”

Eleanor shook her head. The events of the night whirled themselves into a tangle of thoughts and emotions too great to sort out. Charles had told her to marry Devonington. Actually told her to. Her stomach churned.

Frustrated desperation knotted at the back of her throat. “Mother, he is old and fat.”

The Countess’s mouth fell open in horror. “Eleanor Murray, you are not ever to say such things. The Earl is exorbitantly wealthy and his family well-established. With Evander gone...”

“I know.”

Eleanor lowered her gaze from the starkness of her mother’s stare. The topic of Eleanor’s brother had always struck at a raw wound in them both. Her mother didn’t need to finish what she’d intended to say. With Evander gone there was no way to increase the remaining funds in her mother’s trust, nor to protect Eleanor from Leopold’s avarice. And Eleanor’s intention to find someone who made her feel like Charles had been terribly foolish and a shameful waste.

“The Season will be over soon,” her mother said.

“I know,” Eleanor said again, this time in a whisper.

The Countess stared at her daughter and her eyes softened. “I know you don’t want to wed him, Eleanor. You’re right—he is old and fat. But he is the type of man who will spend his days hunting and his nights engaged in activities which will keep him from your side. You need only see him occasionally, and he will likely die long before you.”

“Mother!” It was Eleanor’s turn to gape in horror.

The Countess waved dismissively. “Don’t be so shocked, Eleanor. I’m being entirely pragmatic. Once he is dead you will be a widow with the bulk of his wealth. You will have freedom to do as you please without the obsessive scrutiny of the ton.”

Her mother’s words were hollow, but they were true.

“And the alternative is far more dismal,” the Countess said with great gravity.

Eleanor nodded, unable to speak around the aching tightness in her throat. Her options were an abysmal marriage or a degrading, destitute existence. This was not how it was all supposed to turn out. She was supposed to have found a man who offered her a life of passion, of excitement.

The Countess patted Eleanor’s cheek. “We are invited to a ball at Lady Canterbury’s tomorrow evening. The Earl of Devonington will ask you to wed him. What will you say?”

Eleanor swallowed. Her heart throbbed with the weight of her burden and her ribs ached with every breath. “I will say yes,” she answered dutifully.