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hand to drift
down her belly, to stroke herself where he’d caressed her, licked and lapped at
her. She quivered, even now, at the thought.
    He’d tasted her.
    Ulster had certainly never done something so intimate. Then
again, mating with Ulster had been anything but intimate. Anything but warm.
    It astounded Eleanor that lovemaking could be so different
from man to man, but apparently it could be. Could it be the difference was in
her? The way she felt about her mystery lover, the arousal she’d known just
being in his presence, had been worlds apart from her experience with Ulster.
    Her body had never readied for Ulster. Never wept for his
presence. Their matings, as infrequent as they’d been, had been painful.
    Though not nearly as painful as what came after.
    She winced at a wayward memory, this one far darker and not
pleasurable in the least.
    While she regretted the brevity of her tryst with her
magnificent masked lover, she couldn’t help but send up a prayer of thanks to
heaven, or whatever power had led her to him. Because of him, because of last
night, she now knew coupling didn’t have to be a misery.
    It could, in fact, be extraordinary.
    Eleanor reached for a second scone. She’d been hungry
lately—it had been so long since she’d had an appetite. In the back of her mind
she nursed the hope that this meant she might be with child. She smiled at the
thought.
    The smile was still lingering on her lips when Helena
bustled into the room. “I’m so sorry, darling. That took forever.” She took her
seat on the divan beside Eleanor and gusted a sigh. “Those Hammersmiths are so
long-winded.”
    Eleanor bit her lip to quell her smile. “It was kind of them
to visit.”
    “Was it?” Helena wrinkled up her nose, reminding Eleanor of
the young, friendless waif the countess had been when they’d met years ago at
Lady Satterlee’s School for Girls. It wasn’t a persona Helena showed the rest
of the world—the ton saw her as the staid, reserved Lady Smythe, Countess of
Darlington. Only Eleanor—and James, of course—knew of her penchant for running
barefoot through the dew. “They were angling for an invitation to James’
party.”
    “Who wouldn’t? Did you invite them?”
    “Heavens no. It’s Darlington’s birthday. He would never
forgive me.” She shuddered. “Besides which, I couldn’t bear it. Have you heard
Lady Hammersmith sing?”
    “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
    Helena, who’d just taken a sip of tea, choked. “Eleanor, for
shame.”
    “It is rather like a cat fight.”
    “I was thinking more of sheep in season.”
    “Hmm.” Eleanor blinked innocently. “All the bleating.”
    Helena snorted a laugh. “Too true. No, I would rather keep
the guest list short. It wouldn’t do to have a large affair.” She patted
Eleanor’s knee. “You’re still in mourning, after all.”
    “I don’t need to come, you know. If you’d rather invite the
Hammersmiths.”
    Helena shot her a glare. “You are a naughty girl.”
    Eleanor grinned. “I am, aren’t I?” It was rather a new
feeling. She’d done the right thing her whole life, at great sacrifice. Being
naughty was so much more fun. “And the others? Who else is coming to the
party?”
    “Dent is arriving sometime next week. He’s bringing his wife
and his sister. And then,” she cleared her throat, “Lord Haversham is coming
that Friday.”
    “You invited Haversham? I had no idea he was friends with
James.”
    Helena became suddenly fascinated with the arrangement of a
leaf in the bouquet on the table.
    “Helena?”
    “Oh, all right. I invited Haversham for you.”
    “For me?”
    “He’s handsome. Well-heeled. And, most importantly, kind.
He’s a kind man, Ellie. He would be a wonderful husband.”
    “I don’t want a husband.” The words were past her lips
before she was even aware of them. Of the thought. And no. God no. She did not
want a husband. Ever again. The prospect made her blood run