Chapter Ten
The corners of Mr Chance’s eyes crinkled. He put his hand to his chest and laughed again. He couldn’t seem to stop. “You’ve got more whiskers than your Persian cat,” he said, mimicking Eleanor’s voice. “I swear, the look on Mrs Dunwoody’s face was priceless.”
Eleanor watched him from the opposite side of the carriage. She liked the sound of his laugh. The rich, resonant notes spoke of mischief and raw masculinity. She liked that his eyes shone bluer than a tropical sea. Never had she wanted to dive inside a man and explore his hidden depths.
“What happened to remaining calm?” he chuckled.
“Mrs Dunwoody insulted you and your family. After all you have been through, I couldn’t leave without putting her in her place.”
She despised bullies. They hid behind words or the weight of their fists. Vile comments were their weapons of choice, blades sharpened to slay anyone who discovered their dirty little secret—that a weakling lived beneath the mask of aggression.
“Well, I am in your debt. You used your brains while I was seconds away from unleashing a tempest.” His amused expression faded. “I’m built to withstand insults unless they’re aimed at my family.”
“Your love for your family is to be commended. It’s clear they mean a lot to you.”
“They’re all I have.”
She nodded, but the vast emptiness inside reminded her she had no one special. “If I loved someone, I would tell them every day. I wouldn’t leave them doubting the depth of my affection.”
His gaze softened. “Did you tell your father every day?”
The question took her by surprise. “No. He was a hard man to like.” She had pitied her father and blamed herself for his misery. How could she love someone who made her feel worthless? “I have never loved anyone, Mr Chance.”
A look passed between them.
A silent communication neither dared to voice.
He breathed a heavy sigh. “When you do, I expect your love will radiate in every honest word and deed. The beauty of it will leave the recipient in no doubt of your devotion.”
Tears threatened to gather behind her eyes.
Mr Chance’s tender words were as arousing as his ardent kisses.
“Bad things happen for good reasons.” She told herself that all the time. “Perhaps I might meet a dashing American when I’m forced to flee to Boston.”
He shifted with obvious unease despite her attempt to make light of her situation. “There’s no need to leave town. Troubling times always pass. I promise you, ladies will queue the length of New Bridge Street to purchase your gowns.”
“I wish I had your optimism. But you saw the way Lady Lucille looked at me.” Like she might stab Eleanor through the heart with a poker. “A jealous woman is as dangerous as a loon with a crossbow. She will drive me out of town by foul means or fair.”
He fell silent as he relaxed against the squab.
Was he thinking about the woman he admired?
“Do you still love her?” Eleanor said, though it pained her to think of him kissing anyone else. She had been so caught up in her own problems, she had not considered how difficult this must be for him.
“No. I admired her. It was never love.” He paused, his expression pensive. “Have you ever tricked yourself into believing something is true?”
Her heart grew heavy. “Many times.”
She had told herself countless lies. If she became a successful modiste, her guilt would dissipate as swiftly as a morning mist. Her father’s anger stemmed from love, not resentment. Loneliness was a state of mind one could overcome.
“Have you ever convinced yourself you could right the wrongs of the past?” he asked. “That if you did, you might feel whole again?”
Eleanor looked at her clasped hands resting in her lap. “Being a modiste was my mother’s dream. Trust me. Making her wish come true did nothing to banish the emptiness.”
He reached for her hand and clasped it tightly, and she loved him a little for the kind gesture. “How can the youngest of four brothers help his kin? Not with his fists. Not with his business acumen. But perhaps by elevating them to the life they were born to.”
“What are you saying?”
“Should anything happen to Wrotham, Aaron is heir to the title. If I were to marry well, he might be restored to his rightful position. I convinced myself I could love Lucille Bowman. But she used me to force Wrotham’s hand. She reminded me I will always carry the stench of the rookeries.”
He did not smell like the impoverished.
He smelled like a thunderstorm—fresh and earthy, a man with the power to control the heavens. A voice determined to be heard.
Eleanor gripped his hand. “You used her, too. Surely life has taught you that love is the path through the darkness.”
He did not avert his gaze in shame but gave a humourless snort. “That’s why I like you, Miss Darrow. You always hold me to account. In truth, I thought romantic love was a fallacy. Then my brother Christian married, and the power of his love for Isabella was almost blinding. Not even Aaron could have prevented their union.”
“Love is not something you decide. It chooses you.”
He frowned. “You speak from experience?”
“Of course not. I have spent years working myself to the bone.” She had never even kissed a man until she had locked lips with him at the theatre. “When would I have had the time to fall in love?”
“Franklin would have you in a heartbeat.”
