To Bed the Bride Read online

  With any luck he wouldn’t clash with Michael, who’d not been shy about discussing the “Scottish problem.” Her fiancé made no secret of his opinion about bringing Scotland more closely under the control of England. There were too many people, according to Michael, who had thoughts of Scottish independence, even in this modern day. They needed to be choked off, brought to heel, and admonished.

  Eleanor thanked Barbara once again and watched as the woman left the room. Once the maid was gone, she scooted the bench back and looked at Bruce. Thankfully, the puppy had been asleep the whole time the maid was there.

  He woke, stretching before coming to her and licking her fingers. Her slippers were next to receive attention, but she tucked her feet beneath her gown.

  “You can’t eat my shoes tonight,” she said. “And you must promise me to be on your best behavior. You have to stay here while I go downstairs. No barking. Understand?”

  He grabbed the hem of her dress as an answer and tried to chew on it before she removed it from his mouth, replacing it with his rope toy.

  Mary, one of the maids from Scotland, had been her accomplice in sneaking Bruce in and out of the house for the past few days. She would come and get the puppy in an hour or so and make sure he went out on the lawn. If she knew Mary, she’d also spend some time playing with Bruce.

  Eleanor looked around the room for anything Bruce could eat that he wasn’t supposed to eat, sprayed perfume behind both ears, gave herself one more glance in the pier glass, and opened her bedroom door.

  She could hear the voices and immediately wanted to turn, reenter her bedroom, and close the door. She’d much rather have Bruce as her companion than any of the people downstairs.

  Tonight’s dinner was one of those indeterminable political events that were a necessity, unfortunately. Logan’s host was a wealthy industrialist, known for his generosity in making political contributions. Therefore, it would be a good idea to make his acquaintance. Plus, according to Fred—who always did exemplary research prior to one of these dinners—the family had ties to Scotland.

  Logan couldn’t afford to ignore any connection to his home country, especially in light of certain legislation that he was fighting to pass.

  At times like these, he wished he was married. It might be easier to attend one of these dinners if he had a companion, someone to take the attention away from him for a little while. It would also be nice to have a wife with whom he could commiserate when the evening was over. Someone who would understand how much he detested being on display.

  Hamilton Richards’s home didn’t surprise him. He’d seen a half dozen of these mansions in London, all occupied by wealthy men who believed that their fortunes gave them a right to have more say in politics. Money was a great leveler and he’d seen it used on more than one occasion.

  Perhaps he was supposed to be impressed by the richness of the furnishings, the soaring ceilings and the chandeliers from France. He’d seen it all before. He’d grown up surrounded by wealth and privilege, but his uncle had done what he could to ensure that Logan’s connections weren’t common knowledge. Most people—and it was a fact of life that Logan had come to understand—were insular. They really didn’t see farther than their own lives. They had little curiosity about others, which had suited him. Such an attitude had made it possible for him to be elected to Parliament.

  He met Hamilton Richards and his wife, Deborah, complimented them on their home, and thanked them for the invitation. Mrs. Richards was a beautiful woman of mature years with blond hair, distinctive eyes, and a manner that immediately put Logan on alert. He’d seen that sharp-eyed gaze before. Deborah was not the retiring sort. Wrinkles radiated outward from the corners of her eyes, but the lines above her mouth were more telling. She pursed her lips a lot, no doubt in dissatisfaction.

  Hamilton was slightly shorter than his wife, with a head of white hair, prominent mutton chops, and bushy eyebrows. He looked a little like Father Christmas transplanted to this fashionable house.

  Next was an introduction to Daphne Baker, Deborah’s grown daughter, and her husband, Thomas. Both husband and wife were exceptionally attractive. Daphne was the image of her mother twenty years earlier complete with a low, seductive voice. The look she gave him held a hint of flirtation, almost as if she were daring him to reciprocate.

  He’d gotten those looks before and he’d always wisely declined.

  The next guest was a surprise. He’d met Michael Herridge before, knew that the Earl of Wescott had no qualms about his disapproval of certain legislation that would benefit Scotland.

  Evidently, Richards wanted sparks to fly this evening. If that was the case, the man was going to be disappointed. Logan was an expert at determining when a battle was worth fighting. This one wasn’t.

  He would endure the dinner and be a grateful guest. He would compliment his host and hostess, be as amenable as possible, and leave without entering into any arguments, however much Herridge chose to bait him.

  At least that’s what he told himself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eleanor’s feet would not move.

  She tried, but her feet were frozen on the step. The townhouse had a large foyer, the black-and-white squares dramatic beneath the massive brass-and-crystal chandelier. The staircase curved up and around, the banister a work of art in metal and wood. One hand gripped it tightly and she hoped she could keep herself from falling.

  Would she hurt herself badly if she fainted from this height?

  She’d only come close to fainting once in her life and that was during her first season. Aunt Deborah had insisted on her corset being pulled an inch tighter than it normally was and she hadn’t been able to breathe correctly the whole night.

  One of her hands fluttered to her chest. No, she was breathing well. Yet her heart felt as if it stopped and started not once but several times. During all of it, she’d been unable to move her feet.

  She couldn’t move. Her feet would not work.

  He was staring at her.

  Logan McKnight was staring at her.

  She tried, she really did, to look away, but his gaze pinned her there, feet immobile, breathing fast, heart erratic.

  What was Logan McKnight doing here? Was he the member of Parliament who was a rabble-rouser? She could almost imagine it of him. He would question everyone the same way he had her, no doubt.

  He’d kissed her. He’d kissed her and she hadn’t run screaming from the cottage. Nor had she slapped him. She hadn’t said a word to him, merely left. That’s all she’d done.

  What was he going to say? She could just imagine the collective reaction if he divulged that she’d called upon him without a maid. Even worse, she’d taken tea with him, sitting for nearly half an hour alone in a cottage with him.

  She should take him aside, as soon as possible, and plead with him to remain silent. It was entirely possible that he wouldn’t agree, just to be contrary.

  What was she going to do?

  “And my fiancée,” Michael was saying.

  Now Logan would say something like, “I’ve already met Miss Craig before. In fact, we have had an intimate conversation, the two of us. I ended up kissing her.”

  “Miss Eleanor Craig,” Michael finished.

  Suddenly her feet were freed from that invisible grip. She descended the rest of the steps, her gaze on her footing, not the man she was about to confront. Finally, she stood in front of him.

  She said something, words that she had uttered hundreds of times before, thankfully. They were instinctive, effortless courtesy extended to a stranger. None of the words she spoke meant anything to her. Nor did they divulge a hint of what she was feeling.

  He bowed slightly, then looked back at Michael.

  Thankfully, he didn’t say anything about having met her before. Blessedly, he didn’t go into the details of their conversation.

  “It’s a pleasure, Miss Craig,” he said.

  Had his voice always been that low, sounding of
Scotland? Or had she previously been so annoyed by what he’d said that she hadn’t paid any attention to how he’d spoken?

  He wasn’t as handsome as Michael, but there was something about him that was different from the other men in the room. A sense of power, perhaps, that even Hamilton didn’t possess. Or perhaps it was determination. You immediately got the impression that this was a man who said what he meant, meant what he said, and was determined to achieve whatever he set out to do.

  He suddenly terrified her, but not in a way that made any sense.

  She knew, with a strange and unwelcome certainty, that he might lure her to do unspeakable acts, to ruin herself, to say the most outlandish things. He might even say to her, “Eleanor, let yourself be free. Be as you are in Scotland. Let me see that woman again.”

  She felt feverish. Her cheeks had to be red. How odd that her hands and feet were cold.

  He turned from her to answer a question someone had asked him. She felt immediately released as if she’d sprung back into the London Eleanor, silent and utterly proper.

  She moved closer to Michael.

  “You’re looking lovely,” Michael said. “I approve of your new gown.”

  She didn’t bother asking how he realized it was new. Michael kept a tally on the oddest things. He noticed when she had new earrings. Or when she’d nearly worn through a favorite pair of shoes. Details were important to him, but sometimes she wondered if he saw the minutiae but never the larger picture.

  He knew what she wore to social events, but never understood how much she detested them.

  Her cousin was coming closer, advancing in that way of hers that looked like she was gliding, as if her feet didn’t quite touch the floor. Despite the fact that she had given birth to two children—both of them darling creatures—Daphne was as slender as when she was a debutante.

  Her complexion was pale and flawless. Her blond hair was always arranged in an elaborate style flattering her oval face. Her blue-green eyes, a rare shade Eleanor had never seen in anyone other than Deborah, were her most arresting feature.

  She exuded something that only recently had Eleanor identified as confidence. Did all attractive people have it?

  Perhaps it was knowledge that they’d been better served by nature than the rest of humanity. Perhaps, every morning, after looking in the mirror, they were reassured as to their worth. Eleanor didn’t know, because she didn’t possess such confidence. The closest she came to feeling it was the time she spent in Scotland, where she was surrounded by things she loved and memories of a father who loved her. Was the confidence beautiful people felt provided by the people around them instead of their physical appearance? Was it the adoration of others that fed their self-esteem?

  Another question for which she had no answer.

  Daphne spoke, words Eleanor couldn’t hear. No doubt something along the lines of asking him to escort her into dinner. Just as easy as that, Logan was gone, offering his arm to her cousin, turning and leaving Eleanor without another word spoken. It felt as if he should have said something.

  “I’ll keep your secret. I won’t tell anyone that I stole a kiss from you and you didn’t protest.”

  He didn’t say anything at all.

  How surprising to feel disappointed.

  He didn’t understand how the hell Eleanor Craig was here in London, in this house. Let alone that she was engaged to be married, to a man who elicited only contempt from him. Herridge was a poseur, someone who spouted all the right words, but rarely followed through with his promises. Nor did Herridge know what the hell he was talking about half the time. He understood only about a tenth of the topics of his frequent lectures. The only saving grace was that the man was easily bored. He took up his position in the House of Lords periodically, but not as often as he should have. As far as Logan was concerned, the fewer times he attended Parliament, the better.

  That was the man Eleanor was going to marry?

  He couldn’t decide if he was angrier about the omission of her engagement or the fact that she was going to marry Herridge. The man was a puffed-up idiot. She wasn’t. Unless he’d totally misjudged her.

  “. . . in Parliament?”

  He realized that he hadn’t been paying attention to his companion’s question. No doubt Mrs. Baker was not used to being ignored. She was a beauty with white-blond hair and piercing green eyes. In certain parts of the world she would probably be worshiped as an idol come to life. Here in London she’d no doubt been feted as the toast of the season.

  Seen beside Eleanor, however, she was a gaslight next to a candle. He’d never liked the glare of a gas lamp, preferring candlelight where feasible.

  To her dismay, Eleanor was seated next to Logan.

  “You two will have a great deal to discuss, both being from Scotland,” her aunt said sotto voce as she passed Eleanor.

  Evidently, her aunt had forgotten that she’d lived in Scotland for the past two decades, given birth to two half-Scottish children, and raised them there.

  Of course, Eleanor couldn’t say anything of the sort, so she sat, prayed that Logan would direct his attention to anyone but her, and hoped that the rest of this evening would not prove to be interminable like most of the social events she had been commanded to attend.

  She hadn’t wanted a season, but she’d known there was little chance that she could escape one. Daphne had been the toast of London a few years earlier. Aunt Deborah was hoping that Eleanor could make some kind of mark, if only to continue the family reputation. Unfortunately, that first year Eleanor fell short. The nightly ritual of having to explain everything to her aunt had been tiresome. When they attended the same function she was relieved, on one hand. It meant she wouldn’t have to recount who was there, what they wore, and who said what. On the other hand, it meant that Aunt Deborah gave her a narrow-eyed glance most of the night.

  Just as she was right now.

  Aunt Deborah was probably going to be disappointed in her tonight, too.

  Eleanor was, frankly, at a loss when it came to social functions. She didn’t, despite the fact that she had diligently practiced, have the ability to laugh in that tinkling way some women possessed. Her laugh came out as a guffaw which had the effect of startling her companion.

  She was bored when talking about the weather or other acceptable topics at the dinner table such as traffic in London, the erection of the newest statue, or the play currently being performed.

  What she wanted to talk about would shock all the guests. Women did not discuss breeding in any form and definitely not when it came to horses.

  To Eleanor’s left was Logan. To her right was Daphne, and she sat across the table from Michael. The seating arrangement was commonplace. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for their guest. He was most definitely not the normal kind of visitor.

  She took Logan’s presence to mean that Hamilton was becoming more involved in politics. Was he going to contribute more? Or did he simply see himself as an elder statesman, someone who could give younger men advice on how to run the country?

  Logan leaned closer to her. His sleeve brushed her wrist, making it tingle. What would she do if he actually put his hand on top of hers? Everyone would look. Not only would behavior like that be unacceptable, but it would cause everyone to speculate.

  Thankfully, he didn’t touch her.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked in a soft voice as he concentrated on his soup. “You’re supposed to be in Scotland.”

  “I’d much rather be in Scotland.” A comment she couldn’t make.

  “I live here,” she said, hearing the dull tone of her own voice. There was no excitement in it. Why should there be? She was merely stating a fact. “Most of the time.”

  “I wrote you,” he said. “Just tonight, as a matter of fact.”

  Another surprise. She glanced at him and then quickly away.

  “What did you say?”

  “I inquired about Bruce, of course.”

  “Of cour
se.”

  “How is he?”

  She smiled, an easy expression when thinking of the puppy. “He’s upstairs, in my room, happily chewing on a toy.”

  “I take it he’s well, then.”

  She nodded. “Very well. And growing. You should see the change in him.”

  “I’d like that.”

  When she glanced at him it was to find him smiling at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I doubt anyone would understand if you took me to your room.”

  She shook her head.

  She mustn’t look at him. Instead, she should concentrate on Michael, now in conversation with Daphne’s husband. Thomas was obsequious to a fault, almost servile. Even Daphne didn’t grovel as much.

  Don’t look at Logan. Don’t look at him. Look away. Focus instead on the soup bowl placed in front of you, or the pattern of the china. The soup was a creamy bisque. Deborah’s cook was extremely talented. Every meal Eleanor had eaten in London had been excellent. Think about that instead of Logan McKnight, for the love of all that’s holy.

  The rest of dinner was blessedly uneventful.

  Her cousin was amusing, charming, and utterly delightful—words she’d heard Michael use once to describe Daphne. Jeremy, on the other hand, was somewhat sullen, but that didn’t surprise her, either. He liked to be the center of attention and when there was a large group, like tonight, he faded into the background. He didn’t have a title, a fortune, a position in politics, or a company that he was running single-handedly.

  As far as Logan was concerned, he was the perfect guest. He deflected those questions he didn’t choose to answer with a smile or a quip. He didn’t discuss legislation, but she had a feeling that it was going to be a subject of much discussion when the gentlemen left the table.

  Once dinner was over, the women would go into the drawing room and the men into Hamilton’s study, where they would avail themselves of the facilities, smoke cigars, drink brandy, and talk politics.

  “You didn’t tell me you were engaged,” Logan said in a low voice.