You don’t matter, Ellie, remember?
Or worse. A lifetime of no glances at all. How long would she be married before her feet didn’t make a sound when she crossed the marble floor? How long before she became a ghost?
She reached for her wineglass and found Mr. West staring at her from across the table with that same indecipherable expression she’d noticed earlier. This time she didn’t look away, but gazed back at him.
His green eyes warmed as she looked into them. Eleanor caught her breath. So green and soft, like lying back onto a carpet of sun-warmed grass—
“Amelia isn’t more than ten years old, is she, Mr. West?”
He tore his gaze from hers, and turned to Lady Catherine. “She’s eleven, my lady.”
“She can’t have been more than an infant when you left for India, then,” Charlotte said, “and you’ve only been back in London for a month. How is it you and she are so close?”
Charlotte’s question sounded more like an accusation than a mere inquiry. Now it was her sister’s turn to face the puzzled frowns of everyone else at the table.
Mr. West only raised an eyebrow at her, however. “Amelia was only a few weeks old when I left, yes, but I wrote to her every single day while I was gone.”
“Every day?” Eleanor’s voice sounded too high to her own ears.
“Yes. Every day. My aunt read her my letters, even when Amelia was still an infant. When she was old enough, my aunt made sure she wrote to me every day, as well. We’ve kept up quite a correspondence, so even with such a distance between us, we’ve remained close.”
Eleanor sighed. A caring brother, then, as well. He’d have her mother in the palm of his hand now too, right along with her brothers.
“Amelia and I are all that’s left of my immediate family,” he went on. “Our parents are dead. Amelia doesn’t remember them, so I’ve always been more of a parent to her than a brother, especially given the difference in our ages.”
Eleanor sucked a breath into suddenly airless lungs.
Not only a caring brother, but a father to that child. Even as young as he’d been, off on his wild adventures, seeking his fortune in India, he’d written to his sister every day, determined to be a part of her life even from that distance, determined she’d know him when he returned.
Devotion such as that, a love so deep as that, was . . . rare.
How could such a hard man be capable of such tender feelings? She’d never have imagined it of him, but then, what did she really know about Camden West? Her eyes met his across the table and her heart began a wild fluttering against her ribs at what she saw in those green depths. She’d seen hints of it before, but never had she seen his eyes burn with it as they did now.
Hunger.
He looks at you like a starving man looks at a Christmas pudding.
She’d dismissed Charlotte’s words, had thought it impossible Camden West looked at her as anything more than a means to some mysterious end.
But this afternoon . . . a simple caress on her hand, nothing more, but the moment he’d touched her, heat had exploded between them, as if a spark had been set to dry tinder.
She saw the same heat in those green depths now, and an answering heat rose inside her. He desired her. Not just as a convenient wife or a mother for his sister, but as a woman. A shiver chased up Eleanor’s spine as the spark kindled to life inside her leapt into flame.
His eyes darkened as they swept over her face, lingered on her eyes, her lips. She couldn’t tear her gaze away—
Delia’s voice broke their stare. “Does your sister still live with her aunt, Mr. West?”
His gaze remained fixed on Eleanor for a heartbeat before he turned to Delia. “No. While I was in India she lived with them at Lindenhurst, my estate in Hertfordshire, but I moved her to my townhouse in Bedford Square when I returned to London.”
“Hertfordshire?” Alec asked. “Any good sport to be had there?”
Cam blinked at the change of topic, making Delia laugh. “You’ll have to excuse Lord Carlisle, Mr. West. Our own estate in Kent was beset with floods this spring. There was so much water damage we’ve undertaken some long overdue renovations, and the manor won’t be fit for habitation until next spring. Lord Carlisle is quite vexed to lose hunting season at Bellwood.”
“He was never so fond of hunting until he found he must miss it,” Robyn added with a laugh.
“I haven’t been to the estate in some time, but my cousin Julian was there a month or so ago, and he predicted good sport when the season opened.” Mr. West hesitated, then, with a glance at Eleanor, “I don’t suppose you’d care to spend a few days hunting at Lindenhurst? The estate isn’t grand, but it’s comfortable, and an easy journey from London—about six miles south of Watford.”
Alec rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Sounds just the thing. Kind of you to offer, West.”
