Secrets of Sloane House(85)

“Somewhere private. Someplace where we can talk.”

Because she did need to speak with him, she kept her silence, even when Douglass led her into a vacant hallway. As she glanced down the passageway, empty except for a few closed doors and a series of rather stuffy portraits of dead relatives, her uneasiness grew. It wasn’t the norm for guests to wander uninvited into closed rooms, and it wasn’t her norm to ever do so in the company of a man, with no escort or chaperone in sight.

“We will be missed. We should probably get back.”

“I agree. But not yet. We still have to talk, yes?” Smiling a bit, he led her farther down the passageway, trying one door, then the next, but finding them all locked.

“Douglass, where are you taking me?” she asked, feeling more than a little vexed.

“Listen to that. You have called me by my name. At last.”

His expression was so pleased, his words so boyish, she chuckled. “I guess I have.”

They walked farther down the hall, away from everyone else. “Here we are.” He paused at a door that had swung open. “Will you come inside with me?”

“Of course not, Douglass. I wanted to talk to you about something important.”

“I won’t have a conversation out in the hall. Anyone could overhear us.”

His statement was ridiculous. No one was around. No servants. Certainly no other guests. She pulled away from his grasp. “I am going back.”

“No,” he said in all seriousness. “No, Eloisa, I don’t believe that will be happening. Not yet.”

To her shock and dismay, he pulled her into the room and closed the door firmly behind them.

“Douglass!” she cried out.

But there was no way she could continue, because then his mouth was on hers, and his arms held her firmly against him.

And just as she was about to struggle, he pressed one of his hands against her neck, preventing her from breaking away.

Then, as he grasped her dress, all thoughts of orphans and Reid Armstrong and maids named Rosalind evaporated. All she felt was humiliation and pain.



Reid had just called for his carriage when he saw Eloisa standing all alone, just beyond a copse of trees. He wouldn’t have recognized her, wouldn’t have even noticed her, if not for the broad beam of light that a carriage made as it exited the home’s driveway.

Alarmed, he murmured to his driver that he would be a few minutes and strode toward her. When he got close enough, he realized she was shuddering and sobbing into her hands—and it looked like she could be injured.

A sixth sense warned him to approach her with great care, as if he was approaching a scared child. “Eloisa? Eloisa, yes, I thought that was you. Are you all right?”

She didn’t answer, only pressed her hands more completely against her eyes. Her shoulders curved, hiding her face from view.

His concern grew. He reached out to touch her, gently placing a hand on her arm.

With a cry, she flinched from his touch. Then, at last, lifted her face to his.

Her eyes were swollen from her tears. But even in the dark evening he could see that her golden hair was mussed, her lips looked swollen, and her skin was deathly pale. “Eloisa?” he whispered. “Eloisa, it’s Reid. My dear, what has happened to you?”

Her eyes widened, her lips formed a small o, and then she closed her eyes. “Reid?” Slowly, recognition and relief filtered through her gaze, followed closely by worry. And something that looked very much like pain.

“Oh, Reid,” she said at last. “What am I going to do?”

Conscious of where they were standing, as well as his carriage waiting for him, he made a decision. “Eloisa, I’m going to escort you home in my carriage. I’ll tell the doorman to tell your driver to go ahead on his way.”

She began to tremble. “I can’t go home. Not yet.”

“All right then. I’ll take you to my home. I live with my parents, you know,” he said conversationally, as he slowly reached for her elbow and guided her to his side. “We’ll go there for a bit.”

“I don’t know if I can face your mother.”

“Then we’ll sit in the kitchen,” he soothed. “It’s late. No one will bother us there.”

“No . . . no one will mind?”

“Not at all. And if you do choose to speak to my mother, I promise, she’ll be honored by your visit.” He smiled lightly. “You know what she’s like,” he teased, hoping she would take his over-the-top remarks for what they were—a light attempt at humor in a distressful situation.

However, she gave no response other than a weepy sigh. Glancing at her once more, he pulled off his overcoat and draped it around her as they walked to his carriage. The fact that he was leaving with a woman who was wrapped in his coat would cause some talk, but hopefully he would bear the brunt of it. He was hoping that no one would be able to identify the lady he was with.