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you all. Then your cousin arrived and you were, understandably, upset. I called back later, but you were engaged with callers. And, yes. You are stubborn and infuriating. But I suspect you would say the same about me.’

      She caught his eye. ‘I might,’ she said. ‘But not in public,’ she added, tilting her nose. ‘I have too much care for my reputation. Now, I must return to my aunt.’

      Before she could move, Matthew took a stride towards her and crooked his arm.

      Eleanor raised a haughty brow. ‘I do not think—’

      ‘Lady Cowper is looking. Do you want her to suspect we have quarrelled?’

      ‘My returning to Aunt Lucy will not look as though we have quarrelled.’

      ‘It will when I follow you. She will wonder why we do not walk together.’

      ‘Blackmail again, Mr Damerel?’ Despite her words, Eleanor laid rigid fingers on Matthew’s sleeve and her two footmen—who had halted at a discreet distance from their mistress—fell into step behind them.

      ‘Do not imagine this means I have forgiven you,’ she hissed even as her expression remained serene.

      ‘Oh, I know you have not,’ Matthew countered. ‘I am curious, though. Why, precisely, are you still so angry with me?’

      ‘Oh!’ Eleanor halted and stared at him. ‘Do you have to ask?’

      ‘Well...yes, I’m afraid I do. You see, I cannot decide if you are still cross over my not telling you my real identity or because of my behaviour last night or because of what happened with James yesterday.’

      They resumed their stroll, Eleanor staring straight ahead. Lady Rothley appeared to have finished talking with her friends. She looked round and, seeing Eleanor was with Matthew, she gave a little wave and then walked on ahead, her hand on the upright gentleman’s arm.

      ‘And if I say it is all three?’ Eleanor asked eventually.

      ‘Then I shall have to humbly apologise for all three,’ Matthew said promptly. ‘But you will understand that I am reluctant to apologise for something you may not still be angry about—there is only so much humble pie I can manage at one sitting.’

      He was encouraged to hear a stifled giggle as Eleanor’s fingers tightened on his sleeve. A sidelong glance revealed her lips pursed tight.

      ‘There now, that is better, is it not? Do you think we might be friends again, or should I grovel some more?’

      Eleanor almost burst with the effort of not laughing. ‘G-grovel? C-correct me if I am mistaken, but I have seen little s-sign of grovelling from you, sir. Cajoling, yes. Grovelling? I don’t believe so.’

      It was difficult to maintain her righteous indignation in the face of Matthew’s teasing, but Eleanor was not yet ready to fully forgive him. The truth was that her feelings were much more complex than mere anger. There was anger—smouldering still—after his behaviour last night. Her heart quailed when she thought of the implications had they been seen; her reputation would have been ruined for ever. And she was hurt by his lack of trust. Why had he not told her the truth earlier, particularly after she had confided in him about her mother? And then there was the humiliation over those kisses and the lowering realisation that—even last night, when she was so furious—she still would not have rebuffed his kiss.

      As for his argument with James—

      ‘Tell me you do not place any credence on your cousin’s suspicions,’ Matthew said.

      She shot him a startled look. How could he know what she had been thinking?

      ‘No,’ she said.

      ‘Your eyes tell a different tale,’ he said. ‘You doubt me and my motives. I can see how you might suspect a sinister agenda after everything that has happened to you, but please believe that I told you the truth last night about my reasons for not using my real name.’

      Eleanor hesitated. Her doubts about Matthew, raised by James and fuelled by last night’s events, had shaken her to her core, but a restless night had brought some perspective. Should she judge him through James’s eyes, or through her own experience? His actions—those times on the journey to London when he had saved her from her own naivety—were surely not those of a fortune hunter? Even last night, it had been Matthew who had stopped before their lips had touched.

      ‘I will admit that yesterday did raise doubts in my mind,’ she said, still not ready to completely let him off the hook.

      ‘I can only hope you will not allow those doubts to fester,’ he replied. ‘I thought I could protect you as Matthew Thomas, but I was wrong—the risk to your reputation if I was exposed was too great. Believe me when I say that is the only reason I have reclaimed my own name now. You remain in danger. I have sworn to protect you, and I hope you will accept my continuing protection and allow me the opportunity to expose your attacker.’

      Calmness settled over Eleanor at his words. She could not deny her feeling of vulnerability with only footmen in attendance, but she would not admit that to Matthew.

      ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I accept. If only to keep Aunt Lucy happy; she feels much safer when there is a gentleman around.’

      ‘For Aunt Lucy’s sake,’ Matthew repeated, very slowly.

      Eleanor glanced at him, suspecting he was poking fun at her, but he remained straight-faced.

      ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I am pleased that is settled. Now, I’ve been dying to ask...who is the gent with the splendid whiskers?’

      Eleanor bit back a smile as she looked ahead to Aunt Lucy and her escort. ‘They are quite magnificent, are they not? He is Sir Horace Todmorden and I believe he is courting Aunt Lucy. Is that not delightful?’

       Chapter Twenty-One

      Two days later, Eleanor and Aunt Lucy returned to their house in Upper Brook Street, having enjoyed another pleasant walk in Hyde Park escorted by Matthew and the increasingly attentive Sir Horace Todmorden. Eleanor sensed Pacey’s disquiet as soon as he opened the front door. Her normally unflappable butler gave every impression of having to restrain himself from chivvying everyone inside.

      ‘What is it, Pacey? Is there something wrong?’

      ‘There has been An Incident, my lady.’ His precise enunciation of those two words spoke volumes.

      Eleanor removed her spencer and bonnet and handed them to Lizzie, barely noticing the squirm of apprehension deep in her belly, it had become so familiar.

      ‘You had better come up to the drawing room and tell me what has happened.’ She led the way to the room.

      ‘One of the kitchen maids was accosted on her way home from running an errand this morning,’ Pacey said.

      ‘This morning? But why did you not tell me earlier?’

      ‘The silly girl was too scared to say anything at first, but Cook finally managed to wheedle it out of her,’ Pacey said. ‘In the normal course of events, I would not bother you with such a triviality, my lady, but in view of the goings-on I thought I must apprise you of the incident immediately upon your return.’

      ‘Goings-on?’ Sir Horace queried. ‘What goings-on?’

      ‘I think you had better tell us exactly what happened to the maid, Pacey,’ Matthew said.

      ‘Wait!’ Eleanor said. ‘Before you do...’ She turned to Sir Horace. She had no wish to become the subject of gossip, so the fewer people who knew of her misfortunes, the better. ‘I am sorry, Sir Horace, but—’

      ‘You must not object to Sir Horace knowing what has happened, Ellie,’ Aunt Lucy said, settling into a chair by the fireplace. ‘He is most discreet.

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