Eleanor had left.
Not only had she run away from her family and her betrothed, but she’d done it in the most stupidly reckless way possible. To run into the moors at night? In the rain? Alone? It would be dangerous for someone who knew the moors and combes. It would be dangerous even for a sturdy man who’d grown up here. . .
The unease had slid away, and in its place was something he didn’t even recognize at first—because it was fear.
Fear cold and viscous; fear chilled and oily in his veins.
He was suddenly terrified. And furious.
He managed to bark orders at someone, he didn’t notice whom, and within minutes the tailored silk jacket and gleaming dress pumps of his ball outfit were exchanged for a greatcoat and Hessian boots. A few minutes later and he was in the stables, mounting his horse.
And with directions for Eleanor’s parents to be informed and for a formal search party to be organized, he tore off into the night, hoping to Christ and all the forgotten gods of the West Country that he’d find her.
And that he wouldn’t be too late.
Chapter Five
She couldn’t remember when she’d sat down, or why it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
She could only remember the rain, the harrying wind, the chilled ache in her feet and hands. She’d worn her wool cardinal—she wasn’t so brainless that she’d escape into the Devonshire wilderness without some kind of outer covering—but what had been sufficiently warm for the short walk to the Pennard parish church was not nearly warm enough for a wet October night. The wide split in the front of the cloak allowed the wind to ruffle under her petticoats and nip at her ankles and feet, and the hood—sewn deliberately large so it could easily fit over curls and caps without crushing them—only served to allow the cold in around her neck and ears. When she’d sat, she’d tried to draw the garment more securely around her, but it was a losing fight against the wind, even sheltering as she was against a huddle of lonely rocks by the road.
At least, she thought she was still by the road. She’d been following it mostly by instinct and by feel in the pitch-dark night, and she wasn’t sure if she’d managed to stay on its path or not.
If only she’d run away sooner. A day ago. A week ago. If only she’d run before she left Pennard Hall; if only she’d left Pennard Hall the day her father told her she would marry Sloreley.
But how could she have known that she would fall in love with the duke? How could she have known that there would have been a way to rewrite her future after all?
And how could she have known that it would storm like this tonight? And how could she have known how lightless this night would be? How desolate? How utterly indifferent to her and her existence?
She thought of the dock with many ships, of the hallway with many doors. Her future, which—when she had been warm and dry—had seemed so close she could reach out and touch it. She would go to Plymouth, then to her godsister in Edinburgh to plan her new future. Everyone knew half a dozen spinsters, it seemed. It could not be that hard to figure out how to become one. Or where to live as one.
But you don’t really want spinsterhood. Not like that.
No, she didn’t. She wanted room to make her own choices, that was all. She wanted away from her family and the never-ending demands on her time. But she didn’t want to live an untouched life either, not at all. She wanted to be touched—often, and preferably by the Duke of Jarrell—but there wasn’t a future in which she could see that happening. The afternoon with him on the roof made her realize she only had two choices.
Stay and hunger for the duke…or leave and hunger for the duke.
At least this was the option that didn’t require marriage to Sloreley.
But she hadn’t expected this part to be so difficult. Walking? Down a road? It should have been the easiest part of the whole business, yet here she was, sitting on the hard ground, trying in vain to keep herself warm. It wasn’t long before even the brushed wool of her cloak was soaked through, along with her dress and her hair and her stockings and—
Everything was wet. Everything was cold.
She knew, in a vague sort of way, that it was probably better to keep moving. That staying still would make her colder yet, that moving might warm her. But the thought of standing, of taking a step after, of placing her feet on the slick, uneven road . . .
Perhaps she could wait a bit longer. Surely the storm must abate any minute now, surely no storm could last all night. And surely dawn wasn’t so far off . . .
If she waited for the light or even for the rain to ease, it would be better. She knew it would be better. She rested against the rock and closed her eyes. She thought about Far Hope, and about the ball. She wished she’d taken another look before she left, a final look at the grim and glorious place where anything had seemed possible.
Well, anything except for her own happiness.
She also wished she’d been brave enough to approach the Countess of Kellow at the ball for something more than the usual polite greetings. She wished she could have told Arabella Foscourt how what she’d seen two years ago had fired her imagination like nothing else. Asked how one found other people who liked those kinds of things, how one could be a sort-of spinster, but also get occasional kisses between the thighs…
The memory of the Foscourt party sent sparks of warmth everywhere, and she nestled into herself, as if she could coax those sparks into a little fire, into a cheery conflagration to keep her warm until dawn.
How had it all started again?
Oh, right. Her cousin had laid down for a nap after their meal, but Eleanor hadn’t been tired. She’d decided to enjoy her rare chance at solitude instead and take a walk around the lake on the far end of the Foscourt estate. There’d been a footman guarding the path, so she’d decided to detour through the stand of trees instead, coming to the folly from the other direction.
There’d been no footman there, no boundary or warning to alert her. She’d simply been walking, pleasantly lost in thought, and then the next moment she’d been greeted with a scene like something out of ancient Rome. Twenty or thirty people in various states of undress, music drifting through the air, liberal amounts of wine and food piled all over.
Instinct had forced Eleanor’s eyes shut; instinct then forced them open again. It was shocking—wrong—almost certainly immoral—and yet—
Well, no one had ever been hurt by simply looking, surely? Bacon and Descartes both agreed that observation was key to knowledge, after all, and who was she to disagree with them?
And there was so much to, ah, observe. Her cousins had talked to her of kissing, and a childhood in the country meant she was familiar with the mechanics of copulation, but she had never imagined anything like this. Anything so sultry, so languorous. When animals tupped, it was quick and cursory—often with the female of the species still chewing whatever they’d been eating before being mounted, then wandering off to eat some more afterward, as if nothing interesting had happened.
But the guests in the folly weren’t doing anything quickly, as if the end goal of procreation weren’t the point at all. It was all slow kisses, slow touches. Where there was mating, even the mating seemed leisurely, as if the lovers could do it all day. And there were more than just pairs of people—there were trios and quartets. A group of seven, all tangled silk and entwined limbs. And something else she hadn’t considered—but once she had, it seemed rather obvious—the pleasure wasn’t restricted only to men and women together. There were men with men, and women with women. The Countess herself was being idly stroked by a woman near her age, while she kissed a man next to her. And that man was being cradled by her husband from behind, who was—oh.