“And now?” Lord de Winter looked hard at the side of her face. “Do you feel you know him?”
Her skin heated. She remembered the melancholy in Grantham’s voice as he’d told her about his late sister, and his playful way of teasing her into smiling. She didn’t know every fact about the man, but she felt an affinity for him. And his kisses! She couldn’t forget those. “I feel I would like to know him,” she answered carefully.
“Good. Then we shall have to arrange for you to be in each other’s company in a way that doesn’t seem stilted. Not,” he amended, “that I would resort to more deception. I simply mean that locking the two of you in a drawing room before dinner will only result in an awkward three-quarters of an hour spent.”
Elinor felt a bubble of hope. “Why are you doing this for me?”
He shrugged. “You made him happy. He forgot about…things…when he was with you. But unlike the time he spends with women of a certain ilk, he didn’t loathe himself after. It was like he was whole again.”
She bit her lip. “Why me?” She held her breath and waited. If Lord de Winter truly believed Grantham cared for her, he would know the reason, wouldn’t he?
Lord de Winter shrugged again, as if none of this mattered to him. “You cause him to remember what it’s like to be innocent. No bad memories. No concerns. You’re an intrepid minx unafraid to try new experiences, though deep down, you’re scared to your toes. He needs that. The world can be a frightening place when you are afraid of making a misstep.”
Her heart overflowed with appreciation for Lord de Winter’s description of her. When he said it, she didn’t sound foolish and rash. She sounded dauntless. “Thank you, my lord.”
He grinned. A smile so virile and unexpected, it stole her breath. “Now to make Lord Chelford see it that way. I think I have just the idea…”
IT WAS time to return to London. Though Grantham had spent Christmastide at Chelford every year since he’d inherited his uncle’s estate, never had the holiday felt so interminable.
He moved to an icy windowpane to reassure himself the snowstorm hadn’t resumed when he wasn’t looking and was relieved to see it hadn’t. Good. He ought to be able to set off at first light tomorrow, assuming de Winter didn't make a fuss about returning so soon. The earl was never in a hurry to get back to the city.
Grantham was. Especially this year. He pushed aside an unwelcome memory of the blue-eyed chit down the road, reminding himself that no matter how intriguing he’d found her, she’d thought nothing of risking life and limb to deceive him into marriage. That wasn’t the sort of woman he ought to waste his time on. There were plenty of women more suitable, even if he found them all boring to the point of tears.
He set about planning his return to Town, rather than dwelling too long on Elinor. If the thought of his homecoming left him with a deadened sensation in his belly, it was no worse than how he’d felt when he’d left, and it was certainly no worse than he’d felt yesterday. At least he knew what to expect from the city. Its games he knew by rote, and they weren’t dangerous ones. The country had proved twice now to be plagued by peril.
No, it was Town life for him. Upon his arrival, he intended to find Tewseybury and Scotherby and get rotting drunk. Once that was done, he’d serve Steepleton an entire dish of humble pie, or else he’d never hear the end of it. With that most difficult task accomplished, he’d find a pretty lightskirt who wouldn’t ask too many questions and pull her onto his lap. Then he’d lose himself in feckless games of hazard until no proper lady would consider attaching herself to a man who spent his coin on wagers and women.
And if that didn’t take his mind off Elinor, he’d try again on the morrow. And the next. Every night was a new opportunity to forget that everything he’d tried to do had ended in precisely the same way: ruin.
“I told Miss Conley you’d meet her in your carriage house at half three,” de Winter said behind him. “It’s a quarter past. You’d best be going down.”
What the devil? Grantham turned on his heel. “You must be frothing mad to believe I’d agree to that.”
De Winter shrugged. He didn’t attempt to elucidate his reasoning or urge Grantham to acquiesce. While Grantham had only been an earl for half a decade, de Winter had been raised in the role. It never occurred to him to explain anything.
“Why?” Grantham demanded. “You know how I feel about her.”
De Winter’s arched eyebrow communicated more than Grantham wanted to perceive. “I do.”