To Romance a Charming Rogue (Courtship Wars)

Did he love Lydia Newling? Was that why he kept returning to her? The thought was sharp, painful, overwhelming.

Eleanor let herself in by way of a side door and then halted blindly, not knowing where she was headed or even where she was. Suddenly paralyzed, she bent over at the waist as she tried to draw breath into her lungs. She felt as if she were suffocating.

To think that Damon had been deceiving her this past week, perhaps the entire time since his return to England.

How could he? After all his tenderness and passion this morning, she had begun to think they might have a true marriage after all. What a witless fool she was!

The cold desolation that squeezed around her heart threatened to strangle her, yet she felt a kernel of fury forming inside her as well. How dare he? Damon had made her love him and then callously proved himself unfaithful at the first opportunity, heedless of her feelings.

Well, she wouldn't stand for it! But what choice did she have? Eleanor wondered in desperation. She couldn't end her marriage the way she had terminated her engagement two years ago; it was far too late for that. But she never wanted to see Damon again, to speak to him.

Her only course was to banish him from her life. He had wanted a marriage of convenience, so she would give him one! She would live independently of him when they returned to London after the house party concluded.

Meanwhile, Eleanor vowed, she wouldn't let on that she knew about his mistress. She had her pride after all.

No, she thought with a surge of panic, that would never work. She couldn't face Damon. Not now, with this awful despair clawing at her heart. She had to return to London at once…

Straightening, Eleanor forced herself to move down the corridor and then mount the rear service stairs. She had nearly reached her bedchamber when, to her dismay, her aunt appeared at the far end of the hall.

Spinning abruptly, Eleanor hurried the opposite way, knowing she was in no condition to encounter her relative.

At first she pretended not to hear when Beatrix called after her. But when the viscountess spoke her name more forcefully, she turned slowly and retraced her footsteps.

“I confess disappointment,” Beatrix stated as Eleanor approached, “to find you here instead of entertaining our guests.”

“I am sorry, Aunt,” Eleanor murmured, “but I beg you to make my excuses. I mean to return to London tonight, and I must pack.”

“Good heavens, what is wrong?” Beatrix demanded, examining Eleanor's face more closely.

“Nothing is wrong.” Her voice was calm, even though her heart was breaking. “It is just that I cannot stay here a moment longer.”

“Whyever not? Come now, Eleanor, I insist that you tell me what is amiss.”

She hesitated a long moment before confessing in a low voice. “It is Damon. Prince Lazzara saw him this afternoon at a public inn. He was with the same woman who was his mistress two years ago.”

Beatrix stared at her for a long moment, a progression of different emotions crossing her elegant features: anger, distaste, sympathy, and finally dismissal.

“Well, it is not the end of the world,” she said brusquely. “Gentlemen frequently keep mistresses. What is important is that your union is sealed. You will always be Lady Wrexham. If you ask me, you must swallow your pride, my dear, and ignore his peccadilloes.”

Eleanor could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “You think I should ignore the fact that Damon is keeping a mistress?”

“Yes, indeed. Most genteel wives do. I myself did before I was widowed. It is unfortunate that Wrexham chooses to consort with females of that type, but in my experience, it is wisest to turn a blind eye to your husband's failings.”

She didn't want to turn a blind eye to her husband's failings! Eleanor thought scornfully. But there was clearly no point in arguing. Her aunt had clearly been won over by Damon with the mere act of marriage.

When she remained silent, Beatrix reached out and patted her shoulder. “Trust me, Eleanor, you should not let this overset you. Wives have been dealing with this troublesome matter since time began. Now, why don't you go to your room and lie down for a bit? You will feel better after you think on it a while. Have Jenny put a damp cloth on your brow.”

A thousand damp cloths would not help, Eleanor knew very well, but she did as her aunt bid and made her way to her room. Once there, however, she rang for Jenny to help her pack, not to comfort her.

Then suddenly losing all her defiance, Eleanor climbed onto her bed where she lay on her side, staring at nothing.

The bright glare shining through the windows, however, reminded her how hopeful she had been this morning. She did not feel hopeful now. One moment she felt hollow, numb. The next, agony tightened her chest, and so did fury.

She hurt so much she wanted to die. She wanted to murder. She wanted to scream, to cry, to stamp her feet hysterically. She wanted to curl up into a little ball of pain and have the world go away.

Worst of all, a significant part of her wanted to go to Damon and plead with him to reconsider.

Furiously Eleanor dashed a hand over her burning eyes. She would not cry over that wicked Lothario! She had known Damon was a heartless rake, and he had proved it once again. She would simply have to come to terms with that painful truth and establish a new life for herself, separate and apart from him.