“Very well, then I will just watch while you drink yourself into a stupor. May I pour you more brandy?”
Although his expression never softened, he considered her offer for a moment before holding out his glass. “Yes. I fear I am not in the best condition to manage it myself.”
Taking his glass, Eleanor poured him a generous measure and handed it to him. “May I have some of your brandy for myself?”
Damon shrugged. “Help yourself.” Then he paused to peer up at her. “The Dragon would say that ladies don't drink brandy.”
She ignored his provoking reference to her aunt. “I don't want to be a lady tonight, Damon. I just want to be your friend.”
“Bloody hell… I don't want a friend, Elle.”
“Well, perhaps I want one. I have always enjoyed your company far more than my aunt's illustrious friends, and just now I have had my fill of them.”
Damon stared at her a long moment before his mouth curled in agreement. “So have I.”
Glad that she'd managed to wipe that dark scowl off his face for the time being, Eleanor fetched her own fingerful of brandy and sat in the wing chair beside him.
For several moments Damon maintained a morose silence-a silence Eleanor was determined not to break until he was willing.
Fortunately he spoke first. “You impress me, Elle. Most females would be upset finding their husbands three sheets to the wind.”
She could have made a quip in response, but she kept her tone solemn. “But you have a good reason for getting soused. You want to remember Joshua, and this is your way of keeping his memory alive.”
“You do understand,” Damon mumbled, sounding a bit surprised.
“I am trying to, at least.” Eleanor held up her glass. “Shall we toast Joshua's memory?”
Damon didn't answer at first. She glimpsed the shadow of his sadness before the thick fringe of black lashes swept down to hide his eyes.
Still without answering, he drank a long gulp of brandy and then drew a deep, shuddering breath.
“I am terribly sorry you lost your brother, Damon,” she said softly. “Especially in that horrible way.”
At her quiet condolences, he cast her a sideways glance, yet the aggressiveness had faded from his countenance. Instead, one dark lock had fallen over his brow, giving Eleanor a hint of the young boy Damon had once been. He looked vulnerable, at a loss for words.
When he remained mute, Eleanor added just as quietly, “Mr. Geary told me what a special boy Joshua was.”
Averting his gaze, Damon stared down at his glass. “What a waste of a life.” She could hear the anger in his voice, an anger that turned to bleakness when he muttered a curse. “It should have been me, not Joshua.”
“I think I would have felt the same way if Marcus had died.”
The raw vulnerability in Damon's face made her heart ache for him. His handsome features were twisted in a merger of desolation and anguish.
She would give anything to be able to take away his pain, his grief. She wanted to hold and protect him, to find some way to heal him, to chase the shadows from his eyes.
Setting down her glass on the small table between them, Eleanor rose to stir the fire and added another log. Then she turned back to Damon and began to undress, starting with her slippers and stockings.
When she reached behind her to unfasten the hooks of her evening gown, Damon speared her with his glance. “What in hell's name are you doing, Elle?”
“Comforting you.”
She thought he might object, but he said nothing. Instead he stared at her broodingly, his eyes dark and watchful.
She finished removing her gown and then her corset. Finally proceeding to her chemise, she slipped the bodice down and let the garment fall to the floor in a whisper of cambric, leaving her completely nude to his view.
She heard Damon inhale a ragged breath, but he didn't stir a muscle when she moved to stand before him. He merely sat there tensely as she took his brandy glass and set it aside, then bent down and pulled out the hem of his shirt from his breeches.
She was heartened that he allowed her to draw his shirt over his head, exposing a smooth expanse of chest. Then she knelt at his feet to remove his boots.