Lady Eleanor Mary Cantwell, daughter of the Marquess of Salford, is a proper young lady. With her golden complexion, raven-black hair, and manners befitting a princess, Lady Eleanor has always been deemed a belle. There is just one problem.
Lady Ele...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Eleanor had barely made it out the door before a hand was grabbing her and urging her to look back. However, she held her ground and refused to look back at the owner of the hand whose fingers were currently looped around her wrist. She didn't need to, though. She knew, without a doubt, who it was. If it wasn't the person's strong, signature scent which Eleanor was now used to didn't radiate off him in waves, helping her identify them, then the fact that no other person in the brothel, from which she had just emerged from, helped her confirm her raging thoughts.
The hot tears that were still cascading down in rivulets burned her cheeks and she forcefully ripped her hand towards herself. His hand had been warm on her skin and she couldn't deny the momentary jolt of electricity and sparks that it had ignited but she willed herself not to think of it, not to think of him who stood behind her.
Remember what he did to you, Eleanor, she thought. He took advantage of your feelings and emotions and toyed with them for his own personal gain.
She shut her eyes tight and repeated this over and over in her head, dispelling all other thoughts and drowning out his protests which threatened to tear own her defences and permeate her senses.
When she had finally, finally, managed to quell her tears and made sure she would not burst into body-wracking sobs in the near future, she slowly opened her eyes, trying to morph her expression into something akin to nonchalance. But, when the sight of his anguished face – his ocean blue eyes dark and awash with worry and sadness and his still-swollen red lips pressed into a grim, tight line – she felt her façade slipping and it took all her willpower to speak.
'Go away, Nathan,' she said as loudly as she could manage without bursting into tears again. 'I cannot handle any more of this torture and I desperately need time to think.'
'I did not mean it that way,' Nathan said, moving forward. Eleanor retreated away from him, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. If he came any closer, she knew her resolve would weaken. As it was, she was walking on a tight rope.
Nathan flinched when he saw her retreat and stopped in his attempt to get closer to her. His arms were raised mid-air as if he was reaching out to her but he dropped them now and cursed, making fists, turning and slamming the alley wall behind him. He stood poised with his fists on the wall for a few moments, his hurried breathing slowly calming and his heaving chest stilling. When some resemblance of normalcy slipped back into place on his face and his body posture, he turned back to her and started speaking again, trying to control his voice.
'Eleanor, please let me explain,' he said, an almost pleading look in his eyes. Eleanor didn't know what to do. On the one hand, she wanted to bolt away from him so as to not break down again but on the other, she wanted to stay and let him explain, to talk to her, to let the smooth flow of his words reassure her that nothing was the matter, that nothing was wrong. And although her mind screamed at her to run, her heart made her bare feet stay rooted to the spot.
