To Bed the Bride Page 19

  Eleanor deserved better.

  Logan disliked being helpless. He’d wrapped his heart in wire and there was no way to free it. Eleanor was the only one with the power to do that and it was all too obvious that she was going to marry Michael Herridge.

  Logan had no one to blame but himself. He should never have taken the puppy to her. If he hadn’t, if he’d found Bruce a home somewhere else, he wouldn’t have gotten to know her. He wouldn’t have fallen in love. He wouldn’t be standing at the window, watching as his beloved drove away.

  Mindful of the courier still in his study, he forced himself to return to the task at hand, knowing that there was plenty of time to behave like a lovelorn idiot later. Right now, Disraeli was waiting on him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A few nights later, Eleanor was preparing to attend a ball being held by one of Michael’s distant cousins. The purpose was to introduce his daughter to society. Tonight’s function was a preseason ball, given for the debutante to acquire some practice and poise before the start of the season.

  She’d experienced a similar event a few years ago. Unfortunately, she had to follow in Daphne’s footsteps, and while London society had oohed and ahhed over her cousin, they welcomed Eleanor with somewhat less enthusiasm.

  There was a decidedly rigid standard for beauty in London. Blond hair was preferred over brown. Unusually colored eyes were always admired rather than plain blue. It also helped if one’s father or guardian was sufficiently wealthy. It was amazing how beautiful a certain girl could become with the hint of wealth in the background.

  Eleanor sincerely hoped that the girl tonight was attractive enough not to be shunned, but had the sense to realize that whatever attention she received for the next several months wouldn’t be for herself as much as her father’s rumored fortune. From this point on, Francesca would be the object of attention from young men of good families but few financial resources.

  She also hoped that Francesca had friends who would last beyond the season. Eleanor hadn’t seen Jenny Woolsey since the announcement of her engagement. It was as if the girl had simply melted away along with her friendship.

  The other girls she’d known, most of whom had gone on to become wives, were less true friends than companionable rivals. Every man worth marrying was considered a prize. At the end of her first season, when she’d not received an offer, she was considered not quite damaged goods but certainly slightly used. She was all for skipping the second season, but her aunt was determined. Deborah considered Eleanor’s lack of success in the marriage mart almost a blot on her social record.

  No doubt Michael’s earldom and the fact that he was distantly related to Francesca’s father would have some influence on how warmly the girl was welcomed into close-knit London society. That’s why he was making an appearance at this preseason event. They would stay long enough for Michael to be seen and admired and for her to be critically reviewed.

  In other words, the night was going to be ghastly. She would much rather be at home, curled up in a chair with a good book. Unfortunately, her schedule looked to be filled with a flurry of social engagements. The months until the wedding would be occupied with pre-celebrations, everything from lunches to dinner parties to balls.

  The wedding ceremony was expanding in size and scope with each passing day. Even Hamilton was taking a growing interest, no doubt because he was paying for it. On three separate occasions she’d attempted to discuss the expense with him, but he refused to address the matter with her.

  “It is of no consequence, my dear,” he said. “You mustn’t worry about it.”

  Nor was her aunt reserved about spending money. It seemed as if the wedding was less a religious ceremony than it was a way to demonstrate the Richardses’ wealth. Eleanor truly didn’t need all the dresses the seamstress was making. The trousseau was already occupying three trunks with more ordered.

  The gown she was wearing tonight was a lovely creation, something that had been sent from France and altered by Mrs. Fournier. Of watered silk, it was a shade of peach that flattered her complexion and brought out the blue of her eyes.

  Michael would no doubt approve. Getting her aunt’s nod, however, had always been more difficult. Before she descended the stairs, Deborah made her turn slowly, raise her skirts to show her matching slippers, then don her elbow-length gloves. Only then did Deborah smile.

  “You will do us credit, my dear. Jeremy will meet you downstairs.”

  Even though she and Michael were an engaged couple, her aunt believed that it was necessary for them to have a proper chaperone when they attended social events. For that purpose, her cousin was pressed into service when Deborah or Hamilton couldn’t attend with them. Jeremy normally obeyed Michael’s every directive, being less a chaperone than simply an extra person in the carriage. If Michael attempted to do something untoward, Jeremy wouldn’t lift a hand in protest.

  Such was the power of being an earl.

  Eleanor couldn’t help but wonder if she’d acquire a similar ability as a countess. Would she be able to wave her hand in the air and have something instantly done? If so, it would explain why so many people believed that a title was such a great honor.

  She walked slowly down the curving staircase, wishing that she enjoyed going to a ball. She would much rather sit somewhere and listen to the music than cavort to it. If tonight went as some of the entertainments in the past month, she’d meet a great many people, some of whom were related to Michael. Some of them would attend their wedding. Some of them might possibly make judgments as to whether she was good enough to become the Countess of Wescott. If they knew her true feelings about the matter, there was every possibility they’d be shocked. After all, who wouldn’t want to be a countess?

  She didn’t.

  The majordomo was in the foyer, but there was no sign of Jeremy. To her surprise, Michael’s carriage had already arrived. No one was inside, which meant that he was probably waiting for her in the drawing room. She turned and walked in that direction, but was sidetracked by voices coming from Hamilton’s study.

  Rather than interrupt the two men, she hesitated in the hallway, trying to decide if she should wait in the drawing room or go back to the foyer.

  Michael’s words made the decision for her. She remained where she was.

  “His inspection was answer enough for me. The horses will be sold, as will all the furnishings. I’ve plans for the house, too.”

  “If that’s the way you feel, then of course it’s the right decision. I doubt that Eleanor will have the same opinion, however.”

  “She has an idiotic attachment to the Hearthmere bloodline. I trust that you’ll leave such matters to my discretion.”

  “You have to understand,” Hamilton said, “that it is her home. Hearthmere means a great deal to her.”

  “That’s strictly emotion talking, but I don’t expect any less from a woman. I don’t want to be bothered by property in Scotland since I have no intention of ever traveling there. I’ve already found a man I’m going to send to appraise the furniture. He’ll deal with the staff as well. As soon as we’re married I’ll finalize the sale.”

  She stood there, frozen, her hands at her midriff. She’d seen Michael yesterday and the day before. Not once had he brought up Hearthmere. Nor had he said anything about an inspection.

  They only talked about Scotland occasionally. Whenever she brought up the subject of her country he would brush her comments aside.

  “I don’t care for Scotland,” he’d said once. “You must understand that.”

  “You haven’t seen the best parts of it,” she’d responded. “Hearthmere, for example, is magnificent with its rolling hills and mountains in the background. If nothing else, you should see the horses. No finer horses have ever been raised in Scotland or England, for that matter.”

  “I can assure you, Eleanor, that no horses anywhere shall ever cause me to wax eloquent about them. Nor, as I said, am I fond of Scotland. I have no inte
ntion of traveling there.”

  Hearthmere was her legacy. Her father had left it to her because he’d known she would keep it safe.

  Michael couldn’t sell it. He couldn’t sell the bloodline. It was hers.

  Turning, she walked back to the foyer, nodding to the majordomo again. She would stand here and wait, however long it would be. If the majordomo waited with her, that was fine. An audience would guarantee that she didn’t succumb to what she was feeling.

  She would shock the entire household if she did what she wanted to do. She wanted to pick up something heavy and throw it, preferably through the glass at the side of the door or a window. Or scream. That would startle everyone. She rarely made a noise of surprise or disdain, anger or frustration. She was a nonentity: silent, exquisitely proper, and barely there.

  Five minutes later Michael appeared, resplendent in his black evening wear. He truly was an attractive man. Yet his physical appearance meant little to her now, especially knowing what she did about his character.

  He greeted her and she forced a smile to her face, thanking him when he complimented her on her appearance. Jeremy suddenly appeared on the stairs, joining them as they left the house and entered the carriage.

  She needed to talk to Michael, but not in front of her cousin. However, when they arrived at the home of his relative, it wouldn’t be the time or the place. Nor did she think she could wait until after the ball.

  “I can’t agree to selling the bloodline,” she said, hearing the emotion in her own voice. “The horses are my father’s legacy. I don’t know what kind of inspection you ordered, but I won’t sell them. Hearthmere horses are known throughout the world. It would be foolish to dismantle the stable now.”

  For a long moment he didn’t answer her. The exterior lantern cast shadows on his face as they made their way through the crowded London streets. Even nightfall didn’t make the traffic lighter.

  Jeremy looked fascinated with their conversation. By tomorrow every member of her family would know exactly what they said.

  “Eavesdropping is a vulgar practice, Eleanor.”

  She ignored his comment as well as his contempt. “If I hadn’t, would you have told me what you wanted to do?”

  “I see no reason to involve you in my plans, Eleanor.”

  “Hearthmere is mine.”

  “Until our marriage. Then it will be mine.”

  “What?”

  “Your property, your inheritance become mine, Eleanor.”

  “It can’t. You have to be . . .”

  He cut her off. “I have no intention of discussing the matter with you.”

  She wished there was more light in the carriage. She wanted to see the expression in his eyes. Were they as flat as stones? Or did they hold any emotion?

  First Bruce, now Hearthmere. Michael had as much as given her an outline of their marriage and her future. He would make unilateral decisions and she would be expected to simply accept them. He would decree and she would submit.

  No.

  She’d been disturbed about Bruce, but she’d told herself that perhaps there was a reason for Michael’s antipathy to the puppy. Perhaps something like her own experience with the rabid dog had colored his reaction.

  Now she knew it was nothing that decent.

  Michael Herridge was simply a bully. An attractive, well-dressed, wealthy, charming, and titled bully.

  A strange place to have such an epiphany, but perhaps it was fitting after all. They were always on their way to some social event or another. They rarely sat and talked. She’d spent more time with Logan than she ever had with her fiancé.

  Even worse, she would have gladly traded one man for the other.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Eleanor was on her way back up to her room when her aunt called her into the Ladies Parlor.

  “What is the matter with you, Eleanor? You’ve been sulking all morning.”

  She hadn’t felt like speaking to anyone and had retreated to the park for a few hours. If she’d still had Bruce she would’ve cuddled with him for a little while or even told him about this aching feeling of betrayal. Her conversation with Michael still replayed in her mind.

  “Are you ill? You were out very late last night.”

  “Michael wanted to remain at the party.”

  He’d been in an expansive mood, greeting people with a smile, exerting all the charm she knew he possessed. As for her, she’d been in a daze most of the night. She remembered meeting some people, but couldn’t recall either their faces or their names. All that she could think about was what Michael was planning.

  “Well, then, that’s understandable.”

  Was anything Michael did acceptable to her aunt? Could he do nothing wrong?

  Eleanor came and sat on the chair opposite the couch where her aunt was sitting. There was a book on etiquette on Deborah’s lap. No doubt she was going to impart some knowledge to her later on how to be a countess.

  “Tell me you haven’t quarreled with him.”

  “No, I haven’t quarreled.”

  “I sometimes think the man is a saint to put up with your disposition.”

  “My disposition?”

  “Such as right now. You’re acting almost sullen. When I ask what’s wrong, you won’t answer me. Are you ailing?”

  “I’m not ill, Aunt Deborah. I’m heartsick. Michael’s going to sell my horses. My father’s horses. The Hearthmere bloodline.”

  Deborah shook her head. “The worst thing your father ever did was leave Hearthmere to you. You’ve become fixated on it. If Michael thinks it’s best to sell them, then of course that’s what you must do. I’m certain it’s a wise decision on his part.”

  “It’s my inheritance. He has no right to sell them.”

  “Of course he does. He’s going to be your husband.”

  “Does that mean he can do anything he wishes and I have no say?”

  “Of course. Now go and take yourself off to your bedroom. It’s a good thing Michael isn’t here. If he saw you looking as you are right now he would immediately regret his offer.”

  Eleanor stood and left the parlor without another word. Once in her room she sat at her secretary and wrote a letter to Mr. Babbage. Her father’s solicitor had called upon her from time to time, even after she moved to London with her aunt’s family.

  “Your father was a friend of mine,” he’d told her during their last meeting a year ago. “I consider it a sacred duty to ensure that you are well and happy, my dear.”

  She had hastened to reassure Mr. Babbage that she was both, even though she would much rather have remained in Scotland.

  “Your aunt has not proven difficult, has she? She’s still kept to the letter of our agreement, I hope. You return home a month each year, don’t you?”

  “I do. Thank you for that, Mr. Babbage. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t go back to Scotland for a little while.”

  His gaze had been compassionate, but he hadn’t said anything further about her visits. Thankfully, he’d always understood her love for Hearthmere.

  The man was getting up in age. Would he agree to meet her in London once again? She didn’t feel as though the question she needed to ask him could be conveyed in a letter.

  For the next week she kept her normal schedule, including her visit to Bruce. Each week it was more difficult to leave. Each week she wanted to stay at Logan’s house. If nothing else she wanted to leave him a note and ask him to meet with her. She missed their interludes in the park. They seemed to be her happiest times in London.

  Fortunately, she had no social events during the week. She didn’t know how she would have been able to bear being in Michael’s company for even one minute, let alone an entire evening.

  One of the maids delivered the post on the following Thursday. In it was a letter not from Mr. Babbage, but from his son, who had followed in his father’s footsteps and was a solicitor as well. He would be willing to meet with her at her convenience. To her
surprise he included a London address for her to respond.

  She sent Liam there an hour later, asking if the solicitor could meet with her soon. Thankfully, he agreed on the following day.

  The Royal Meadows Hotel was only three years old, but its tearoom was reputed to be the most popular in London. She’d heard that unescorted ladies were welcome there, even accompanied by young men. No one would think anything of her meeting Mr. Babbage’s son.

  The walls of the tearoom were decorated in a soft peach color while the tables were covered in a pale gray cloth. Each table was adorned with silver place settings and a small bouquet.

  She stood at the entrance, wondering if she should take a table or wait for the solicitor where she was. She’d never met Mr. Babbage’s son. How was she to recognize him? Thankfully, she didn’t have to concern herself with that problem. A young woman, attired in a dark blue dress with a white apron, approached her.

  “Are you Miss Craig?”

  Eleanor nodded.

  “If you will come with me, Miss Craig.”

  She followed the woman across the tearoom to a table by the window. The man sitting there stood and greeted her with a smile. She shouldn’t have worried about recognizing Mr. Babbage. He was the image of his father, down to his receding hairline and round face.

  “Miss Craig?”

  She nodded again.

  “You look exactly as my father described you.”

  He introduced himself as he pulled out the adjoining chair. Eleanor sat, spending some time arranging her skirt. A delaying tactic since she wasn’t entirely certain how to begin this conversation.

  “How is your father?” she finally asked.

  “Exceedingly well, thank you, except for a touch of gout. It was only happenstance that I was visiting him when your letter arrived. I hope you don’t mind my being here in his stead. He doesn’t travel lately, because of the gout.”