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‘I would ask that you do not flaunt your mistresses…that you leave me that much dignity,’ she said, all in a rush, and went crimson.
‘If you give me the same assurance about your lovers, ma’am.’ She looked shocked. ‘I take my promises seriously, Eleanor,’ he said, dropping the mocking tone. ‘While we agree that our marriage is real then you will have my fidelity—not only the appearance of it.’
‘And you will have mine—which is an easy promise for me to make.’
Blake felt a flare of irritation at her self-deprecation. He had stopped noticing the details of Eleanor’s appearance, he realised. Stopped assessing the details of her figure or profile or hair. She had become familiar, had become something of his—and as his she should accept that she was perfectly adequate just as she was, he told himself, realising that that was at the core of his anger with Jon’s criticisms.
A small stirring of discomfort warned him that perhaps he was being a trifle arrogant. He pushed it aside. How to convince her? You could not tell a woman that she was perfectly adequate.
‘So you say now—before you are tempted.’ He smiled to show it was a joke and she narrowed her eyes at him, whether in threat or speculation he was not certain. ‘But I am certainly not going to discuss infidelity on the day we become betrothed. I am delighted that you consent, Eleanor.’
Chapter Eleven
Eleanor watched Blake open a drawer and take out a red morocco leather box. He pressed the catch and she blinked as the light caught the sullen red glow of a large ruby. It was difficult to take her eyes off it when he took it from its case and came round the desk to stand in front of her.
‘This is a symbol of our betrothal, if you care to accept it. If you prefer a different stone, another style, of course we can choose something else.’
Was this the ring he would have given his lost betrothed? What had been her name? Felicity—that was it. Surely he would not have a ring of this magnificence just lying around on the off-chance that a lady might come along and take his fancy.
She could hardly ask.
She looked down at the stone in his hand, the dance of light deep in its heart reflecting Blake’s pulse beat, or perhaps the slightest tremor of his nerves.
‘It is a beautiful stone.’ But for her? This was a stone for a lady of status, of power, and she would simply be Ellie…pretending.
But once married she must pretend successfully that she was a countess—because that, surely, was her side of this unequal bargain. Blake was giving her status, security, wealth and the opportunity to pursue what interested her, what she thought worthwhile. In return she must act the part of a woman to whom that rank came naturally, so that she could support him politically, socially and on his estates.
Jewels and gowns would be part of the mask she must construct to hide the real Ellie behind.
She held out her left hand, palm down. ‘I think it is an exquisite ring and I would not dream of asking for anything else.’ He slid it onto her finger and she instinctively closed her hand into a fist to support its weight. ‘My goodness, I am not used to wearing such a gem.’
On her other hand Mama’s little pearl ring seemed to fade like the moon in the light of the sun.
‘You will soon become accustomed. There are family jewels as well, of course—those that pass from countess to countess. We can match them against the family portraits one day so you can trace them back. It is an interesting exercise, and will distract you from worrying that the Pencarrow nose will manifest itself in the children.’
Children.
She had not really considered children as a reality—which was ridiculous. Of course Blake wanted children. That was the primary aim of dynastic marriages. She had resigned herself to not marrying, which meant not having children, and had told herself that it did not hurt, that many women did not have families and that she would become accustomed.
Have I become accustomed, or have I simply pushed that hurt away like all the others?
‘I will send them to Rundell, Bridge & Rundell for cleaning,’ Blake said.
She was still staring down at the ring, and he must suppose that her attention was all on the precious gem, because he did not appear to find her lack of response unusual.
‘You can select what you like from them and the ones you do not favour can go back into the vaults.’
Ellie pulled herself together, looked up and found a smile from somewhere.
Blake smiled back. ‘Some of them are fairly frightful, I have to admit.’ For a moment she thought he was referring to the painted noses, then he added, ‘We can look at getting those reset, I suppose.’
The thought of disliking antique family jewels and simply relegating them to a vault was startling, and certainly suppressed her almost hysterical desire to laugh about the family nose. Neither her father nor her stepfather had been anything other than comfortably off, yet neither had showered a bride with family jewels. But it would seem gauche to express surprise.
‘I look forward to seeing them. I have read about some family gems with long and fascinating histories. Are there any with curses or legends? There’s the Luck of Edenhall, isn’t there?’
‘That is a glass goblet. For magic, we Pencarrows have Great-Aunt Matilda’s garnet set, which probably dooms the wearer to extreme melancholy, it is so ugly, and a diamond parure which turns other ladies green with envy, so I am told.’
Ellie felt herself relax almost to the point of laughing. Here was Blake back again—the amusing, unserious Blake, the one she hoped she was marrying rather than the dark one, bowed down under a weight of heavy memories.
