Jeremy froze, glancing back over his shoulder at her, who watched him with smoldering intent.
“I do not know. I understood him to be traveling to Paris at some point. Do you know differently?”
“I do not, but he has a habit of turning up in the oddest places and at the most inconvenient times, no?” she winked.
Jeremy stepped towards her, anger surging at her innuendo. He stepped into the shadow of the lych-gate with her, the structure obscuring him from the carriage. She shrank back into the far corner, arms spread as though bracing herself. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, watching him from beneath long lashes. Her bosom heaved, revealed by the falling away of a scarf that had covered what her dress left exposed.
“What the bloody hell do you mean? Spit it out, madam. I will have no more games,” he muttered fiercely.
She gasped, either frightened or putting on a very good act. He suspected the latter and stepped closer.
“Do you blame me, Your Grace?Jeremy? Your letters to me lured me out here from London. You were the bright, shiny bait in that lure. The infamous Duke of Penhaligon, the greatest lover in England. The most debauched Duke of his generation. The Merry Duke, isn't that what they call you?”
She came out of the corner into which she had allowed herself to be backed. Now, Jeremy retreated until his back struck wood. Eloise put a be-ringed hand to his chest, stepping close enough that he could feel her breath.
“A man I killed. He no longer exists,” he waved away.
“But could he be revived, like Lazarus? For the right laying on of hands?” she asked in a husky whisper.
She leaned close to kiss him, but Jeremy caught her wrists, holding her away from himself at arm's length. She twisted from his grip, mouth loose in a sneering, silent laugh. Then she was darting back towards him, and he felt cold steel clamp around his wrist. With shock, he looked down at the manacle that gleamed dully around his left hand. Eloise held the other end aloft.
“Perhaps we might pick up where we left off. Restraint was the subject of our last letter. And not the sort Englishmen are usually expected to show, eh?” she purred with a mischievous smile.
Just then, the gate creaked, and Jeremy turned back in time to see Harriet standing there, taking in the scene.
“Do excuse me, Your Grace. I merely wanted to tell you that I think I will walk home. It is a fine day and only a few miles. Good day to you.”
She slammed the gate shut, and Jeremy heard her retreating footsteps. He managed to take one step after her when Eloise clicked the other end of the manacle shut around one of the wooden posts that supported the roof of the lych-gate.
“What are you doing, woman! Release me!” he roared.
The French woman wagged a finger at him. “Now, now, Jeremy. You should speak much quieter. These are consecrated grounds after all, and you do not want the good Reverend to hear us.”
She held up a key and placed it on a bench seat on the other side of the lych-gate shelter from where she had shackled Jeremy.
“I shall give it to you… in return for a kiss,” she began in a sing-song voice.
“Go to hell,” he growled.
She laughed musically and walked away.
Harriet did not know the way back to Oaksgrove, but she knew the general direction. She hurried out of Woodham Walter towards Danbury, aware that the river was to her left and it flowed to the south of Danbury. If she chose roads that kept the river to her left, she would surely arrive back home eventually. The distance proved greater than she had imagined, though, and Oaksgrove did not seem to grow any closer with each step that she took.
The sun felt hot on her head, even with the shade of her bonnet. But that did not bother her. Nor did her aching feet. She thought only of Jeremy and Eloise. The handcuffs clamped to his wrist, the other end in Eloise's hand. After everything he had said about not taking chances with his plans, the second Eloise de Rouvroy batted her eyelids, he became a senseless male, incapable of thought originating above the waist.
She was angry at him and then angry at herself for being angry at him.
What did I expect? He is a rake and a scoundrel! The kind of rogue that brings manacles to a ball with the intention of restraining a woman he intends to meet there. The kind of man who suggests such a game in correspondence with a woman he has never met!
It was a lucky escape for her. Eyes opened to the reality of a man for whom she was becoming increasingly attracted to, and... and... nothing. It had been physical attraction and nothing else. And now it was over.
Tears pricked at her eyes as she walked, knowing that once she set foot on Oaksgrove soil once more, it would be unlikely she would be allowed to leave it again until Ralph's return.
And how long will that be? Days? Weeks, or even months? To return to my old life, always second place to Ralph's business. Excited at an invitation to a ball or a dull luncheon, only to be let down again.
She needed to harden herself against the effects of men upon her. Harden her heart. Avoid disappointment. If she expected the worst, then it could never break her heart.
It was only when her cheeks grew wet that Harriet realized she had been crying. She scrubbed at them desperately with the heel of her hand, furious at her own weakness. Once she returned home, she would write to Jeremy, calling off their plan and asking that he not visit Oaksgrove again without Ralph's presence. She could not tell if the ache in her chest came from surrendering her freedom again… or from losinghim.
