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When she at last relaxed against him, he withdrew his hand and looked down—into her open eyes. Eyes glazed with pure, unadulterated lust.
Everything—including, it seemed, his heart—simply stopped. Time didn’t resume its steady march until her eyes drifted shut a moment later. With a long, contented sigh, Eleanor sank back into the arms of oblivion, a woman’s smile curling lips swollen from his kisses.
Reality came thundering down on Sorin like a landslide as he pulled back and settled her against the squabs. Part of him felt no regret—the animal part that was even now aroused almost beyond the point of self-control. The other part, the decent part of him, recoiled over his deplorable conduct. He’d damned near lost control of himself. Another moment or two and he would have taken her right here in the carriage.
Only a scoundrel would take advantage of a lady in her condition. I’m no better than Yarborough.
Turning, Eleanor flung an arm over her head and muttered incoherently, snuggling deeper into the cushioned seat. In all of her mumblings, he’d heard no mention of love—for him or anyone else. Does she even know I’m here? She’d looked right at him a moment ago, but had she truly seen him? Were her actions spurred on by a hidden desire for him or was it merely animal need, incited by the drug, that had driven her to behave like a wanton?
The drug. If it truly was an opiate Yarborough had given her, it couldn’t have been the sole impetus. She would certainly have been incapacitated, but not impassioned. Had he given her something else? Alarmed, he checked her pulse. It was slow, but steady, as was her breathing. She was in a deep sleep.
He sat back, feeling hollow inside, drained.
Will she remember? Some—not all, but some—did recall events that occurred while they soared on the wings of opium. His heart seized at the thought. Would she hate him? It was too much to hope that she would remember the pleasure and crave his touch again. He wouldn’t allow his heart to cling to such a fantasy. Better to hope instead that she would have no memory of the incident at all.
He would have no way of knowing until she awakened fully.
While he ruminated over his troubles, Eleanor slept peacefully the rest of the way to St. James’s Square.
When they arrived at Ashford’s house, he sent the driver to get help. Though he longed to hold her in his arms again, he couldn’t risk another unconscious attempt on her part to sedu
ce him. Ashford’s staff would be scandalized enough already. Two footmen came out to assist him, as well as her maid.
Sorin waited outside Eleanor’s room while the housekeeper and servants got her settled and sent for a physician. Then, despite vociferous protest from the housekeeper, he pulled up a chair and waited by her bedside, unwilling to leave her.
Charles and Rowena arrived half an hour later. Leaving his beloved to the womenfolk, Sorin drew Charles aside and asked to speak with him privately. “She is not ill,” he told his friend as soon as the door closed. “She was drugged.”
“Drugged?” Charles sat abruptly, paling. “Are you certain? Marston said she’d grown sick and—”
“It was Yarborough.”
“Tell me everything,” demanded his friend.
“Marston was helping me keep an eye on Eleanor and saw them go out onto the terrace. When he followed a few minutes later, he discovered Yarborough attempting to compromise her.” Sorin watched his friend’s pallor disappear, replaced by an unhealthy brick-red flush. “She collapsed just as he reached them. When he discerned her condition, he accused Yarborough of treachery. The bastard denied any wrongdoing, of course, and fled. Marston managed to help her to a salon and then sent for me. We both suspect Yarborough gave her some sort of opiate. A physician has already been sent for.”
“Did anyone see them?”
Sorin remembered what Marston had said and forced himself to repeat it. “Marston said a couple coming back from the garden witnessed the incident. How much they saw is in question, and they may or may not talk of it, depending on whether or not theirs was an illicit tryst.”
“Dear God,” muttered Charles, passing a trembling hand over his face. “If they do talk, it’ll be her ruination, drug or no drug. Why in the seven hells would Yarborough take such a terrible risk? He might have killed her!”
“Is not her inheritance enough of a reason? Had he actually managed to compromise her, you’d have had no—”
“I would have had no choice but to call him out,” interrupted Charles flatly.
“That, or convince her to marry him and avoid such unpleasantness,” Sorin said, hating every word.
“Force her to marry a man who would take her against her will?” Charles snorted. “I’d sooner send her off to America! Eleanor is more a sister to me than a cousin. I would never ask her to do such a thing.”
Sorin squirmed inside, feeling the acid burn of shame and guilt. No. He hadn’t taken Ellie against her will, but he’d come very damned close. And no matter how he tried to rationalize what he’d done, there was no acceptable justification. He’d fallen prey to lust, plain and simple. Charles would never forgive him if he found out. Everything depended on Eleanor now, on whether she remembered the ride home and, if so, how she felt about what had happened.
He debated for a moment the wisdom of it, but then decided it was best that Charles knew of his visit to Bow Street and the findings of his investigation. At least he could do that much to help further ensure her safety.
“The greedy bastard!” swore Charles, eyes bulging as he listened. “I’ll have him hung! I’ll tie the bloody knot myself. I’ll—I’ll—”
“You’ll keep quiet,” cut in Rowena.
They both turned to see her standing in the doorway. Neither man had heard her come in.
