Rules of Engagement Read online

  “It’s important you maintain your reputation as a woman of good character—”

  “Why?” she shot back. “Tell me why I should give a fig what people think of me? It won’t change a damn thing about my life!”

  Cian gripped his hands together. She could see he was growing angry, too. “We’ve spoken about this so many times—”

  “No, you lecture and I have to listen to it. God, you’re so impossibly stuffy and hypocritical, Cian. What happened to make you this way?”

  Her insults didn’t seem to move him, despite his anger. He studied her, his gaze boring into her and through her. “You cannot go on forever looking for adventure. I will not always be around to buy oil paintings and shove cads out the door for you.”

  “You bought it?” she breathed.

  He pushed his hand through his hair again. His thick, curly hair…it was soft to touch. She could remember the feel of it between her fingers. Only, that was from before.

  As he opened his mouth to speak once more, she said crisply, “I don’t require you rescue me every time something happens. I had the situation in hand tonight, just as I did the last time a man accused me of cheating.”

  “You punched the last man in the face!” Cian cried, throwing his hand out, as if it was a perfect example of his argument.

  “He withdrew his accusation, too,” she replied.

  Cian closed his eyes and blew out his breath.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t have taught me how to punch properly,” she added.

  He laughed. It was short and hard, as if it had pushed out of him involuntarily. “What am I to do with you?” he murmured.

  Eleanore let out her breath, as relief touched her middle. She didn’t like Cian being angry with her, although she didn’t understand why she should care—anger was one of the few emotions she ever saw on his face, anymore. It was better than the emotionless expression he usually wore.

  She picked up her train, shifted over to the bench beside him and looked up at him. “That’s better,” she said and touched his face. She slid her fingers into his hair.

  Yes, it was as soft as the other Eleanore remembered.

  Her heart fluttered. She slid her thumb over his cheekbone, which was high and fine and firm. That felt nice, too.

  She only realized she was leaning toward him when Cian grasped her shoulder and held her still. His expression was bleak. “No.”

  “Why not?” she breathed.

  He didn’t answer.

  She pulled her hand away, her heart working far too hard and not from pleasure. “Two kisses,” she said bitterly. “And none since I came back from that place. What harm can kisses possibly do?”

  Cian leaned into the corner, putting farther distance between them. “Your mother, if you listened to her anymore, would tell you kisses are the most dangerous weapon a man can use against a woman.”

  She scowled.

  It didn’t move him. Cian’s gaze remained steady. “You only want a kiss or anything which comes after a kiss, because it is a new way to make you feel anything at all. I won’t be a part of your great experiment to find meaning in your life, Eleanore.”

  Bitterness touched her. “You know me too well.”

  The carriage stopped and Cian sat up. “I do.”

  The footman opened the door. Eleanore moved past Cian and onto the footpath. She looked up at the big, sand-colored house and sighed.

  Home, again.

  Chapter Three

  Cian insisted upon escorting Eleanore right into the house, where Tennyson stood waiting for her cloak and things.

  “Good evening, Lord Innesford,” Tennyson said, his tone cold and disapproving, as it always was when he spoke to Cian.

  “Indeed, Tennyson, it is,” Cian said. His tone was perfectly civil. He didn’t seem to notice the butler’s chill.

  “Innesford! I thought that was your voice!” James said from the drawing room doorway. “I see you found Eleanore in one piece. Come in and have a brandy before you go.”

  Cian shook his head. “I don’t want to disturb the household,” he said. “It is late.”

  “We’re all still up. Come along,” James insisted.

  “You’ll disappoint him if you do not,” Eleanore murmured.

  Cian’s gaze slid toward her. He grimaced. “A small glass, perhaps…”

  “Splendid!” James spun and moved back into the drawing room. “A brandy for my guest, Frost, if you please,” Eleanore heard him say.

  “Yes, your Grace,” the footman replied, from farther inside the drawing room.

  “This way, Lord Innesford,” Tennyson added. He shepherded Cian toward the drawing room door as if this was the first time Cian had stepped into the Gainford house. In fact, he had been here dozens of times.

  She followed Cian and Tennyson into the spacious room. Her mother sat on the edge of the chaise longe, her hands in her lap. Nancy Neville raised her brow when she saw Eleanore but said nothing because Cian was in the room. Later, Eleanore knew, she would be lectured on showing her shoulders and arms with such enthusiasm and the shockingly low cut of her gown.

  “Innesford,” her mother drawled, acknowledging Cian. She never used his full title if she could help it, as if using the word “Earl” would sully her mouth.

  “Good evening, your Grace,” Cian replied, with a nod of his head and shoulders which was almost a short bow. He took the brandy snifter Frost held out to him. A bare inch of golden liquid was in it. Frost had been niggardly in his pouring.

  Cian turned to the armchair beside the chaise. “And good evening to you, too, Carlow.”

  Her uncle, Coleman, had inherited her father’s earldom when her father died, which made his rank equal to Cian’s. Coleman merely nodded in greeting, his nod stiff.

  Irritation touched her. Eleanore pushed the sensation away. Instead, she threw herself into the wing chair in the corner and drew up her feet under the satin gown. “Why is everyone not sound asleep and dreaming?” she demanded.

  “We were waiting to hear if you were still whole and unharmed,” James said. He was the only one in the room not stiff with tension or focused upon Cian. “Innesford stopped by earlier, looking for you.”

  “I was not in any danger. Did Cian tell you I was?” Her irritation turned to annoyance.

  James shook his head. His hair was just like hers—deep brown, thick and unruly. His face was round, though, like her mother’s, which gave him a good-natured appearance which matched his temperament. He smiled at her now. “I thought perhaps you might be in danger from Innesford. He hid it well, yet he was angry.”

  Eleanore considered her brother fondly. James was endlessly forgiving and understanding of her quirks and ways. “Cian is good at hiding how he feels,” she said.

  James blushed. “Well…” He cleared his throat. Any hint of intimacy unraveled him. “You are no longer angry, Innesford,” he said, shifting ground. “You sorted everything out, then?”

  Eleanore held her breath. If Cian truly wanted her to mend her ways, he could reveal the details about her evening and ensure her mother and uncle locked her in the attic for the rest of her life.

  “For now,” Cian said, his tone dark.

  Eleanore let out her breath. Cian railed at her almost daily. He rescued her even when she didn’t want it. He irritated her, he puzzled her, yet in this regard, he took her side. Her mother never learned of her grander adventures from Cian. Not even a hint escaped him. He let her mother and Coleman think he escorted her more often than he did, which further added to their disapproval of him while giving her a greater freedom than most unmarried women enjoyed.

  “Then your business here is at an end, Lord Innesford?” Eleanore’s mother asked, her tone cool.

  Cian drained the last of the brandy and handed James the glass. “Thank you,” he said, his tone warm. He faced her mother and inclined his head. “Good evening, your Grace. Lord Carlow.” Back to James. “Gainford.” Then his gaze met Eleanore’s.

>   Nothing showed in his eyes. Not even a mild frustration for the injustices her family delivered at every turn. “Lady Eleanore.”

  “Thank you for your assistance tonight, Cian.”

  Her mother frowned.

  Cian didn’t appear to notice. He followed Tennyson out of the drawing room and didn’t look back. Tennyson shut the door, containing the heat in the room.

  Eleanore turned to her mother and uncle. “You were dreadful to him, Mother! You, too, Uncle!”

  James sat. “Can you not wait until the man leaves the house, Eleanore?” he asked, sounding stressed. “He might hear.”

  “It won’t be anything he doesn’t already know,” Eleanore railed. “Cian is not a stupid man. You think he doesn’t notice how icy you are toward him?”

  “I am not,” James said firmly.

  “I mean Mother and Uncle Coleman and everyone else in the family,” Eleanore said.

  “There is no one else here,” James pointed out.

  She rolled her eyes. “I mean, when they are here. Uncle Matthew and Aunt Solange and Violet and Christopher and everyone else. You are all the same. It’s pure rudeness, which I thought was beneath this family.”

  Coleman looked a little guilty. Her mother kept her chin in the air. “If we were polite, it would encourage him to return.”

  “He returns anyway,” James muttered.

  “Exactly,” Eleanore said, leaping upon her brother’s murmur. “He keeps coming back, although God knows why. I would not tolerate the same rudeness from his family.”

  “Are they rude to you?” James asked, startled.

  “I’ve never met them,” Eleanore replied. “Oh, I know most of their faces—just as you do, James. They’re at all the same functions. I have never been formally introduced because you won’t meet them first, James.”

  James scrubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s not that simple, Eleanore.”

  “No? Why not? You like him, I know you do. A simple brandy and cigar with his family, then we would all be free to—”

  “That will not happen. Not ever,” her mother said. The chill was back in her voice. “Have you forgotten they are Irish?”

  “I had forgotten you are a hypocrite, Mother,” Eleanore snapped.

  “Eleanore!” James protested, as her mother squared her shoulders.

  Eleanore shook her head. “Father was born in Ireland, James! So was Mother. The Williams were all born in England. It doesn’t even make sense!”

  “Remind me again, Eleanore, where Harrow Hall is located?” Coleman asked, his voice harsh.

  Eleanore looked at him, holding his gaze. “Right beside Carlow House,” she replied, her tone sweet.

  Coleman blinked.

  “Oh, dear…Carlow House is…isn’t it in Ireland?” Eleanore added.

  “You are missing the point, daughter,” her mother said, her tone even colder than before. “Our family cannot associate with that family. Innesford’s father was born in Ireland and let us not forget he was a transported convict.”

  “He was exonerated!” Eleanore cried. She turned to her brother. “James, please tell me you do not support this nonsense?”

  James tugged at his bowtie. “The charges were removed from his record,” he said. “It isn’t the only stain upon the family, though.”

  Eleanore clutched her head, digging her fingers into her temples. They were throbbing. “Oh, sweet lord. Not Castlebar again!”

  “It is a fact which cannot be erased,” her uncle intoned. “James Williams had Richard Neville—your great grandfather, Eleanore—Williams had him charged with cowardice and drummed from the army. The Williams have proved they are not gentlemen.”

  “The Battle of Castlebar was over seventy years ago,” Eleanore pointed out. Her jaw was aching from clenching it.

  Coleman smiled. “Seth Williams further proved my point by siding with the Irish in 1840.”

  “Because they were starving,” Eleanore snapped.

  “Modulate your tone, my dear. You do not sound like a lady when you raise it that way,” her mother said.

  Eleanore surged to her feet, irritation flaring in her. She moved over to the sideboard and opened the enameled box and took out a cigarette. The tapers were in the Indian vase on the mantle shelf. She lit one from the fire, then lit the cigarette and returned to the wing chair.

  Her mother’s mouth twisted downward. “Really, Eleanore,” she said. “Must you smoke those things?”

  “I could smoke a cigar, instead, I suppose,” Eleanore said.

  Her mother’s lips parted.

  Eleanore drew on the cigarette and held the smoke inside her lungs. It had taken her days to learn the trick of it. Then she let out her breath and could feel the tension leave her. Her middle relaxed.

  “Your mother questioned why you must smoke at all,” Coleman added. “Ladies do not smoke.”

  “Then I must not be a lady,” Eleanore replied.

  “You are a descendant of princes and betrothed to one.” Her mother’s voice was a whiplash. “James, as head of the family, you must make your sister see sense. This reckless life she insists upon maintaining will be the ruin of the family.”

  Eleanore turned to look at James, narrowing her eyes in warning.

  James’ good-natured face turned pink. “I…er…” He cleared his throat. “It is all harmless fun,” he said. “Fellows get to spread their wings. Why can a lady not do the same?”

  “Prince Ferdinand will not be put off forever,” Coleman added, his tone chiding. “How long will you indulge your sister in these frivolous ways of hers, James? We should have secured that family connection years ago.”

  By marrying her to the odious prince, Eleanore added silently. “James…” she said, her tone one of warning.

  James lurched to his feet. His face was no longer pink. Perspiration dotted his temples. He tugged at his tie once more. “I really…wish…you would all stop hammering at me…” he whispered. He pressed his hand to his chest.

  Eleanore jumped to her feet. “James!” She tossed her half-finished cigarette into the fire and took James’ arm. “Mother, get up. He must lie down.” She looked into her brother’s eyes. “Over here, James. Come, now. A few steps, then a little brandy and peace and quiet.”

  James let her lead him to the sofa. His fingers dug into his chest, crumpling his immaculate shirt front. His lips were tinged blue on the edges.

  “Here, Nancy—give me the cushions,” Coleman said.

  Her mother pulled all the extra cushions from the sofa, clearing a space for James.

  “Call Tennyson,” Eleanore said. “Have him fetch the brandy from the library.”

  “That rot-gut…” Coleman muttered.

  “James likes it,” Eleanore replied. She turned James around. “Sit, brother,” she murmured.

  She heard Coleman calling for Tennyson, beyond the drawing room.

  James sank to the sofa, his head hanging. Eleanore bent and picked up his ankles. She turned him and put his feet on the cushions as her mother pushed the largest spare cushion under his head.

  “Thank you,” James gasped. His hand still clutched at his chest, though.

  Eleanore took his other hand and held it, watching him struggle to breathe. Her own chest was tight with tension.

  “Perhaps, his tie…” her mother said.

  “I’ll do it,” Eleanore said. She put James’ hand back on the cushions and unraveled his tie. Then she removed the front pins from his collar and opened the top button of the shirt.

  Coleman thrust a brandy balloon at her, holding a generous amount of the darker, stronger brandy James preferred.

  Eleanore pressed the glass against James’ lips. “Drink,” she encouraged him. “Just a little. You know it helps.”

  James struggled to obey. The sip was tiny. She watched his throat work. “Another,” she said.

  He took a second sip, then turned his head away. No more.

  Eleanore put the brandy glass on the
rug and picked up his hand once more. She watched anxiously as his breath came in hard, tiny gasps. Her mother clutched the arm of the sofa, hovering over them.

  James drew in a deeper, more normal breath. He sighed and his hand fell away from his heart. He took in another breath.

  Eleanore kissed the back of his hand. “There you go,” she breathed.

  Her mother gave out a soft sob, her hand hovering over James’ forehead, as if she was afraid to touch him.

  Eleanore watched the color return to James’ face as her mother wept noisily and Coleman trod the carpet in tight circles.

  “Tired,” James whispered.

  “Yes, I know you are,” Eleanore murmured. She looked up at her mother. “Go to bed, Mother. He needs peace and quiet and you are not helping.”

  Her mother pressed her hands to her mouth and stumbled away.

  “You, too, Uncle,” Eleanore told Coleman.

  Coleman drew himself up. “How dare—”

  “Go, Coleman,” James said, his voice weak.

  Coleman hissed and spun on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving Eleanore alone with James. She brushed his hair from his damp forehead. “Shall I go, too?” she asked.

  He squeezed her hand. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You are not alone, James. You never will be.”

  He sighed. His gaze met hers. “For as long as that may be.”

  Eleanore made herself smile, to push aside the dark cloud. “I’m sorry, James. I know how quarrelling upsets you, but I simply could not stand their hypocrisy another moment. I will try harder to keep everything peaceful around you.”

  James’ fingers tightened once more. “I wish you did not have to. I wish…for a great many things, I suppose, which I will never get to see or do.”

  “Shh. Enough of that.” She smoothed his brow. “Rest. Sleep, if you can. I will stay here.”

  James sighed. “Did you have fun tonight, Eleanore?”

  “More fun than you, I suspect,” she whispered, smiling. “I won nearly one hundred pounds tonight.”

  James shook his head wonderingly. “I wish I had seen their faces.”

  She repressed the natural inclination to suggest he accompany her the next time she played cards. James could not withstand the tension and excitement of a high-stakes games.