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Oh, hell. How much of that had she heard?
Chapter Six
If Eleanor had overheard his remark about plain spinsters she gave no sign of it. Her expression was neutral, her tone simply matter-of-fact.
Blake expelled the breath he had been holding. Damn it, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings—simply wanted not to have her anywhere around, muddling his feelings. After he had made that disastrous proposal to Felicity he had sworn to keep his dealings with women simple. Mistresses who knew what they were doing and had very clear expectations from him, and eventually a suitable marriage to an eligible lady—one who would not expect emotions to come into the equation.
Felicity had been his for the asking—or so he had assumed—since they were children. And he had taken her for granted—never bothered to explore his own feelings, let alone hers. He had lost his love before she was his, and since then it had been easier—safer—simply not to feel, not to allow his happiness to depend on anyone else. Except for Jon, of course, but he was his brother, and that was different.
But to accept responsibility for anyone else’s happiness, to put
them at risk of his own inability to care enough… He forced his thoughts to a juddering halt, back to the present.
Eleanor inclined her head and went to Jonathan’s side, her expression concerned. Blake heard her murmured questions about whether he needed more laudanum, or a drink, perhaps. A shabby ministering angel. Which made him think…
‘I must go out and find Jonathan a temporary valet. May I take Polly with me? She can help with some shopping, replace the things that were damaged in the accident.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Eleanor scarcely glanced up. ‘She says she is quite well this morning, but please make sure she does not overtire herself.’
Blake left to find the maid, contemplating the wreck of his comfortable life just at the moment, largely thanks to the Lyttons. A scandal at the club—not that he could blame that on Lytton…that had been his own damned fault—a heap of boring sensitive work around the death and the inquest and the funeral, and then, to crown it all, he had allowed himself to be cozened into this trip up the length of the confounded country.
He knew why he had not simply loaned Eleanor his carriage and provided her with an escort. It had not been a quixotic act of gallantry on the spur of the moment. It had been because of his well-submerged conscience—not nagging him about this woman or about Lytton’s death, exactly, but reminding him that he was capable of letting people down and that included women too.
Love was dangerous, because love meant loss, which meant pain, and the people you loved let you down sooner or later, or you blundered and hurt them… And why was he even thinking about love, of all things? He was done with that. This was all about the duty he owed as a gentleman to a lady in distress.
‘My lord?’ Polly stood in the middle of the corridor, where she had apparently come to a dead halt as he strode down it, unseeing. ‘Were you looking for me?’
Now his infuriatingly tender conscience was prompting him to more insanity. ‘Yes.’ Be tactful. ‘How are you? Should you be resting?’
‘I’m just a bit bruised, my lord, thank you for asking. I’m keeping moving—stops it all stiffening up, like.’
‘In that case I need you to come out shopping with me. There are clothes that need replacing after the accident. Miss Lytton said she could spare you if you felt up to it. Things for you too, of course.’
The maid grinned, the wide smile startling on her solemn little face. ‘Ooh, thank you. I’ll go and fetch my cloak, my lord.’
*
Finally Ellie had finished the chapter about the date harvest, had extricated Oscar from the drainage ditch, and was sketching out a plan for the next few chapters. The desert was too tempting by far, with its images of white-robed horsemen riding across the sand dunes. She would send Oscar by boat along the coast to Egypt. There was a great deal to write about Egypt without once mentioning date palms. All the romance of the pyramids and temples, the River Nile, pictures of tall pharaohs striding out, bare-chested, long-legged, black-haired…
Oh, stop it, Ellie. Make a note of the idea and get on with Oscar.
‘I’m back, Miss Lytton.’ Polly came in, laden with parcels, followed by one of the inn servants, his arms full of more. ‘I’ll just put these in your room, miss.’
Ten minutes later she was back.
‘His lordship bought me a new dress, Miss Lytton, even though I told him I could mend the rips in the one I was wearing. A whole new outfit.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And he told me to buy everything, right down to… Well, he said all the layers, so as not to mention underthings, you know.’
‘That was very good of him,’ Ellie said absently, half her mind still on Oscar. Polly had undergone an unpleasant experience the day before, so it was only right that Blake had made her a gift.
‘I’ve unpacked your things, miss.’
‘Mine?’ Ellie put down her pen. ‘What things?’
‘On the bed. They’re ever so nice—the best we could find in the town. Not London standard, of course…’
Her voice trailed away as Ellie went past her into the bedchamber. A gown lay on the bed. A plain walking dress in golden-brown wool with a matching spencer in a darker brown beside it. And all the layers, just as Blake had told Polly. A heap of white lawn and cotton, even stockings.
A man had paid for her underwear. That man had paid.
