on her getting this right. Saving the company. This marriage was not about her; it was about giving them a future. Guilt washed over her. How could she have forgotten what was at stake for a single instant?
He stood staring at her, not moving a muscle.
She bent her head and pretended great interest in the hilt of the sword. Pointing to it, trying to get back to some semblance of normality, she said, ‘Lord Whittonstall, as you can see, I had the correct grip and the sword has stayed in my hand.’
‘Is fencing all you can think about?’
His voice sent a warm tingle coursing down her spine. She ruthlessly ignored it. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t interested in her. Men never were. If her stepfather were to be believed she possessed no sense of refinement and all the charm of a rogue bear.
‘It will do for now.’
‘And for later?’
She tried not to think about Lord Whittonstall drawing her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly. She’d accepted her fate a long time ago.
‘Are you seeking a rematch, Lord Whittonstall? A chance to prove you can learn from your mistakes?’ She lifted her head.
His dark gaze held hers. ‘When the time is right. I want to see if there is anything else I need to learn.’
She found it impossible to look away. He was going to kiss her. Every fibre of her being told her so. Against everything logical, he was going to do it. He was going to actually kiss her and she wanted him to.
‘Do you believe me now … about the grip?’ Her voice sounded far too breathless and reedy. ‘How that subtle change can transform your prospects of success?’
‘You have challenged a number of notions today. And I will accept your word on the swords. I had misjudged them.’
His hand smoothed a curl from her forehead before brushing her skin—a feather-light touch, but one that sent an unfamiliar jolt of heat through her. She wanted him to lean forward and … She flicked her tongue over her lips.
‘What is going on here?’ a high-pitched male voice asked, and she froze. ‘Why wasn’t I informed that there was swordplay in the library? My library?’
‘Nothing is injured, Viv. All things in moderation,’ Lord Whittonstall said, smoothly moving away from her.
‘Yes, but my Ormolu vases! My carpet! I might not read, but I like my books to look as if I do.’
Lord Whittonstall’s dark eyes shone with mischief. ‘Everything survived except for Mrs Blackwell’s bonnet—and that was her own fault.’
Lord Whittonstall retrieved his black velvet cut-away coat and put it on, becoming utterly correct again. The moment of intimacy slid away as if it had never been.
Eleanor struggled to fill her lungs. Saved from scandal. She was here for a purpose, a business transaction. Not some sort of tryst where she’d end up humiliated. Her hands shook slightly.
She should be relieved, but a stab of disappointment went through her. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t going to kiss her.
She shook her head. Desiring to be kissed had no part in her plans. All it did was make her look as ridiculous as her unlamented bonnet.
She grabbed her ruined bonnet and twisted it. One of the feathers snapped in two.
‘Is this what you mean by moderation in all things, Ben—duelling in my library?’
Eleanor half turned and saw her true quarry—Sir Vivian Clarence. Her heart sank. With reddened eyes and a sallow cast to its skin, his face showed distinct signs of hard living. An odour of stale wine hung about him—a stench that reminded her of her stepfather. Worse still were Sir Vivian’s voice, his mincing gestures with his hands, and the overly fussy way he wore his cravat. And he had the beginnings of a bald patch. He repulsed her. Utterly and completely repulsed her.
She could not imagine why she had ever thought he might be a suitable candidate.
How could she have forgotten his voice and his mannerisms? Why had she focused solely on his offer?
She could not even imagine asking him to escort her across the road, let alone become her husband and all that entailed.
It simply showed what a foolhardy scheme it had been in the first place. It should make her feel better, but somehow it didn’t. Her problem remained. She needed a husband desperately—but not that desperately. She wasn’t going to suffer her mother’s fate.
Eleanor gave Lord Whittonstall a panicked look. What if she begged him to marry her? He was a widower. They would have kissed if Sir Vivian hadn’t come in.
Instantly she rejected the idea—why would he accept her, or her proposition? And to be turned down would be far too humiliating. She had little desire to know if that moment when she’d thought he was about to kiss her had been real or not.
Neat footwork was required here. There was no way she could put her proposition to either of them. There had to be another way to find a bridegroom. Giving up and allowing her stepfather and Algernon Forecastle to win was not an option.
It was there on the edge of her brain, just waiting. She kept her eyes on the stone floor and concentrated, but her mind remained frustratingly blank. All she could think about was how Lord Whittonstall’s breath had fanned her cheek. She needed to return to being the sensible businesslike Mrs Blackwell this instant.
‘I was merely attempting to see what was so wonderful about Moles swords. Mrs Blackwell has made me a convert.’
She glanced up, startled. Lord Whittonstall made a bow and held out the sword. His eyes challenged her. The time to deliver the sword had arrived. She had to explain why she’d been so insistent that the interview take place.
Eleanor put her hand to her throat but no words came out.
‘The sword is a gift from you, cousin?’ Sir Vivian’s cheeks became tinged with pink. ‘You should have said, Ben. I thought you only wanted to berate me for spending my money like water and you’ve bought me a top-drawer sword. We will have that talk—the one I have been avoiding. I need to do you the courtesy of listening.’
‘Not from me,’ Lord Whittonstall said, inclining his head. ‘From Mrs Blackwell. But her purpose in giving it remains a mystery. She insists on speaking to you and only you. The mystery has me flummoxed.’
‘From Moles … for your birthday,’ Eleanor said quickly, before she gave in to her impulse to flee. This whole thing had turned into a nightmare. How could had she have blocked Sir Vivian’s voice from her memory? She should have remembered it from their previous meetings. And the fact he drank port to excess!
‘But you were duelling in my library!’ Sir Vivian squeaked, turning a strange shade of puce.
‘Lord Whittonstall believed that Moles’ swords were mere flash.’ Eleanor kept her voice steady. If she skated around the reason why she was even here at Broomhaugh Hall she might be able to think up an acceptable excuse, something she could believe in. Anything but the unvarnished truth. ‘I sought to change his view. I regret
