Regency Surrender: Scandalous Return: Return of Scandal's Son / Saved by Scandal's Heir. Janice PrestonЧитать онлайн книгу.
were you doing on the landing? No, never mind.’ Matthew grabbed his jacket from the chair and bundled it into her arms, pushing her towards the bed. ‘Stay here, wrap up and don’t, whatever you do, make a sound.’
He slipped out on to the landing. At the top of the stairs he paused, straining his ears. Nothing. The window was along the landing, a few feet beyond the door of Eleanor’s bedchamber. Silent in his bare feet, he ran along and peered out. Nothing. Then a movement caught his attention. A bulky figure, in the shadows of the outbuildings. The figure moved, split in two, came together again. A flash of pale flesh as skirts were bundled up...and Matthew retreated from the window. That was the last thing he needed...to watch some lovelorn fool of a stable boy tupping his lady love when his own body was crying out for the same relief.
He gritted his teeth, willing his desires back under control. He would check Eleanor’s room, then go downstairs to make sure there was no one there, even though it appeared likely one of the maids had slipped outside to meet her lover. Which was all very well, but it had left the inn insecure, despite his impressing on the innkeeper the importance of barring the doors and posting a guard.
Where the hell was that guard? How had the maid got out without alerting him? The quicker he checked Eleanor’s room, the sooner he could go downstairs and find out what these fools were about. Galvanised into action, he entered her bedchamber. A quick glance around showed nothing amiss. He crossed to the window and flipped the curtain aside. It faced a different direction to the landing window. All was peaceful. He returned to the door and stepped out on to the landing.
And collided with a soft, familiar body.
‘What the...?’ For the second time that night, he steeled himself as he forced Eleanor away from him. ‘I told you to stay put.’
‘You were gone an age. I needed to know what was happening. Have you seen anyone?’
‘Yes...no...look, wait in there...’ he pushed her through the door into her room ‘...and I will come to tell you as soon as I’ve searched downstairs.’ He grasped her chin, forced her to look up at him. Her eyes glittered in defiance. ‘Stay here.’
Eleanor huffed a sigh but, thankfully, made no attempt to follow him on to the landing.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Matthew knocked softly on Eleanor’s door and went in. A solitary candle flickered, illuminating Eleanor, sitting on the bed, his jacket hugged around her shoulders, her hair...her glorious hair...framing her face, flowing over her shoulders...a river of silk. He itched to plunge his hands into those fragrant tresses.
Eleanor bounced to her feet, his jacket gaping. After one glance at the thin nightgown beneath, Matthew riveted his gaze to her face.
‘Well? Was there anyone down there?’
‘Just one of the maidservants.’
She had breezed in through the back door, bright-eyed and pink of cheek, as he had reached the kitchen. She had halted, momentarily disconcerted, then, with a calculating eye had swayed provocative hips as she approached him. He had declined what she offered, bolted the door, and searched the rest of the ground floor of the inn. The guard was sprawled on one of the settles in the taproom, snoring. Tempted as he had been to wake the fellow, solely in order to knock him senseless again, Matthew resisted. It was two in the morning. The inn was safely locked up again and, in a few hours, they would be gone.
At that moment, it had seemed more important to return to Eleanor...before she decided to follow him again to find out what was happening.
‘What was a maid doing up at this time?’
‘She said she had forgotten to do something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’ He wasn’t about to tell Eleanor the truth about the maid’s night-time wanderings. ‘She’s back inside now and the doors are all bolted. It is safe.’
Eleanor visibly relaxed. She took a step towards him, into a shaft of moonshine that slid through a gap in the curtains. ‘I am sorry I disturbed you,’ she said. ‘I...I was scared.’
‘And yet you came out of your room.’ His gaze returned again and again to her bare toes, washed by moonlight, as they peeped from the hem of her nightgown. Blood thrummed through his veins. The after-effects of danger, nothing more, he told himself. ‘You could have bolted the door—’
‘The door was already bolted.’
‘And you considered the wisest course of action was to unbolt the door and venture out on to the landing? Have you no...?’ He bit his tongue against the diatribe he longed to heap on her head. He did not want an argument now. Not here. Not with her standing there like that. Passion simmered dangerously close to the surface as it was. Anger would fuel an already tense situation. ‘Why did you not just shout for help?’
She cast him a scathing look. ‘I had no wish to cause a fuss by waking everyone. Aunt Lucy would be petrified and, as for Lizzie and Matilda, they would be in hysterics. Can you imagine?’
He could...but still...
‘You have no concept of your own safety, do you?’ he growled, closing the gap between them.
Her eyes were large and watchful, glinting as they held his gaze. Her lips firmed. She did not retreat.
‘I was completely aware of the risk,’ she said. ‘The noise I heard was downstairs. I merely peeked out of my door. There was no one there, or I would have screamed. Loudly. I am not a fool. But neither will I cower in my bed until trouble finds me.’
Her stubborn courage infuriated him; it terrified him; it made his heart swell with an emotion akin to pride. Her breath had quickened, her chest rising and falling. Without volition his gaze lowered to her pebbled nipples, outlined by the thin fabric of her nightgown. Blood surged to his loins. He forced his attention back to her face, his heart hammering.
He could feel her heat. Her breath whispered over the suddenly sensitised skin of his face and neck. An intense feeling of protectiveness washed over him and he raised his hand to caress her cheek—soft and smooth. Her eyelids fluttered down and she drew in a tremulous breath.
‘Goodnight, Eleanor,’ he whispered. He dropped his hand and forced himself to turn for the door.
‘Wait!’
He paused, his hand on the latch, not trusting himself to look round. There was a rustle and his jacket was thrust into his arms.
‘It would not do for Lizzie to find this in the morning.’
Matthew opened the door.
‘Thank you, Matthew.’
Her words stayed in his mind long after he had climbed into his cold, empty bed. He could not decide whether she was thanking him for what he had done, or for what he had not done.
And she had called him Matthew.
* * *
She had long dreamed of falling in love. She would not give up her independence for anything less. What she had never considered was this confused state of mind that accompanied her feelings about Matthew Thomas.
Desire.
Yes, she desired him, and she recognised it and admitted it for what it was, despite her innocence. Was it possible to feel desire without love? Men certainly did.
Think of it the other way round. Could I imagine loving a man without desiring him?
She thought not.
Desire.
* * *
The following morning, Eleanor studied Matthew, who was seated on the far side of a dozing Aunt Lucy, from under her lashes. He stared broodingly out of the chaise window at the passing scenery. The bump on his nose was more noticeable in profile. How had it been