“Why? What is so different about your marriage?” he asked as if truly wanting to know.
What was different about her marriage, Eleanor wondered, when Damon was insisting a union of convenience between them? Frowning, she avoided a direct answer. “I would never betray my husband that way. Certainly not a man I loved.”
“Love?” Lazzara looked startled. “Is that what you feel for your husband?”
“Yes, indeed.” She had never stopped loving Damon, even after ending their betrothal. When he had forced his way back into her life a few short weeks ago, meddling in her affairs and driving her half mad with his infuriating interference, she'd futilely fought her feelings for him. But in truth, she had never stood a chance against the fierce yearnings of her heart.
Lazzara was regarding her with skepticism, evidently not convinced that she would turn down his unsavory proposition. “So is that your answer, Donna Eleanora?”
“Yes, your highness. And I do not wish to discuss it further. Pray, may we speak of other things?”
“As you wish,” the prince muttered. “But Wrex-ham clearly does not have the same scruples as you.”
She cast him a sideways glance. “I beg your pardon?”
“Just this afternoon I was in Brighton and saw him with Miss Newling.”
Miss Newling? Miss Lydia Newling?
Eleanor abruptly halted, which required the prince to follow suit. “What did you say?” she demanded in a breathless voice.
“I saw Lord Wrexham with his inamorata. Miss Newling was once his lover, was she not? Or am I not supposed to speak of such things either?”
Eleanor stared at him, not wanting to believe. “You must be mistaken,” she rasped.
“I assure you, I am not.” The prince smiled faintly. “I confess sometimes I do not understand the English. I cannot fathom why Wrexham would wish to seek his pleasure elsewhere when he has you in his bed.”
But Damon had not had her in his bed until last night, Eleanor thought wildly. She had purposely kept her distance in order to taunt and tease him into wanting her more.
A feeling of dread crawled over her. Dear heaven, could it be true? Had Damon returned to his former mistress to fill his carnal needs, all the while swearing fidelity to her? Surely it wasn't possible…
“If you do not believe me, Donna, you should see for yourself. The Boar's Head in Brighton is where you will find him. Wrexham is there even as we speak. I left him there only a short time ago.”
She knew the place. The Boar's Head was a busy posting inn on the main road leading north to London.
Her hand crept to her heart in response to the sharp pain she felt there. Was Damon betraying her before their marriage lines were barely dry? Dear God.
Her knees suddenly felt like pudding. Her head spun dizzily, as if she might faint.
“Are you ill, Donna Eleanora?” the prince asked. “You look pale.”
No doubt she was whitefaced with hurt and shock. She shook her head mutely; her throat had become too tight and arid to speak. She had to get away from the prince before she broke down completely.
With great effort, Eleanor managed to dredge up a denial. “No, I am not ill, your highness. But I believe I will return to the house, if you will excuse me.”
Turning, she hurried back down the path until she was almost running. History was repeating itself. Damon had betrayed her again with the same beautiful courtesan who had been his mistress for years.
Eleanor's hand fisted at her breastbone in an effort to stem the terrible ache inside her.
Did he love Lydia Newling? Was that why he kept returning to her? The thought was sharp, painful, overwhelming.
Eleanor let herself in by way of a side door and then halted blindly, not knowing where she was headed or even where she was. Suddenly paralyzed, she bent over at the waist as she tried to draw breath into her lungs. She felt as if she were suffocating.
To think that Damon had been deceiving her this past week, perhaps the entire time since his return to England.
How could he? After all his tenderness and passion this morning, she had begun to think they might have a true marriage after all. What a witless fool she was!
The cold desolation that squeezed around her heart threatened to strangle her, yet she felt a kernel of fury forming inside her as well. How dare he? Damon had made her love him and then callously proved himself unfaithful at the first opportunity, heedless of her feelings.
Well, she wouldn't stand for it! But what choice did she have? Eleanor wondered in desperation. She couldn't end her marriage the way she had terminated her engagement two years ago; it was far too late for that. But she never wanted to see Damon again, to speak to him.
Her only course was to banish him from her life. He had wanted a marriage of convenience, so she would give him one! She would live independently of him when they returned to London after the house party concluded.
Meanwhile, Eleanor vowed, she wouldn't let on that she knew about his mistress. She had her pride after all.
No, she thought with a surge of panic, that would never work. She couldn't face Damon. Not now, with this awful despair clawing at her heart. She had to return to London at once…
Straightening, Eleanor forced herself to move down the corridor and then mount the rear service stairs. She had nearly reached her bedchamber when, to her dismay, her aunt appeared at the far end of the hall.
Spinning abruptly, Eleanor hurried the opposite way, knowing she was in no condition to encounter her relative.
At first she pretended not to hear when Beatrix called after her. But when the viscountess spoke her name more forcefully, she turned slowly and retraced her footsteps.
“I confess disappointment,” Beatrix stated as Eleanor approached, “to find you here instead of entertaining our guests.”
“I am sorry, Aunt,” Eleanor murmured, “but I beg you to make my excuses. I mean to return to London tonight, and I must pack.”
“Good heavens, what is wrong?” Beatrix demanded, examining Eleanor's face more closely.
“Nothing is wrong.” Her voice was calm, even though her heart was breaking. “It is just that I cannot stay here a moment longer.”
“Whyever not? Come now, Eleanor, I insist that you tell me what is amiss.”
She hesitated a long moment before confessing in a low voice. “It is Damon. Prince Lazzara saw him this afternoon at a public inn. He was with the same woman who was his mistress two years ago.”
Beatrix stared at her for a long moment, a progression of different emotions crossing her elegant features: anger, distaste, sympathy, and finally dismissal.
“Well, it is not the end of the world,” she said brusquely. “Gentlemen frequently keep mistresses. What is important is that your union is sealed. You will always be Lady Wrexham. If you ask me, you must swallow your pride, my dear, and ignore his peccadilloes.”
Eleanor could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “You think I should ignore the fact that Damon is keeping a mistress?”
“Yes, indeed. Most genteel wives do. I myself did before I was widowed. It is unfortunate that Wrexham chooses to consort with females of that type, but in my experience, it is wisest to turn a blind eye to your husband's failings.”
She didn't want to turn a blind eye to her husband's failings! Eleanor thought scornfully. But there was clearly no point in arguing. Her aunt had clearly been won over by Damon with the mere act of marriage.
When she remained silent, Beatrix reached out and patted her shoulder. “Trust me, Eleanor, you should not let this overset you. Wives have been dealing with this troublesome matter since time began. Now, why don't you go to your room and lie down for a bit? You will feel better after you think on it a while. Have Jenny put a damp cloth on your brow.”