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  “Please send him my best wishes.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  He poured her some tea from the pot already on the table. She occupied herself with adding sugar to her cup. There was no delicate way to broach this subject. She was simply going to have to be blunt.

  “Are you familiar with my father’s will?”

  “My father and I have discussed its particulars. Do you have some concerns about your inheritance?”

  “I am engaged to be married, Mr. Babbage,” she said after taking a sip of her tea. “Unfortunately, my soon-to-be husband believes that he has the right to sell my horses.”

  He turned his gaze to the crowd. The tearoom was filled with well-dressed women and some men. Consequently, it was noisy, the conversation often punctuated by laughter.

  When he directed his attention back to her he said, “You do not wish the horses to be sold, I take it?”

  She shook her head. “I do not. I’ve done everything I can to continue my father’s legacy. Yet my fiancé, who knows nothing of racing and cares even less, wants to sell the bloodline. Does our marriage give him the right to dismantle another man’s dream?”

  “I’m afraid it does,” he said, his voice soft and laced with compassion. “He cannot sell Hearthmere or do anything with the property or the land without your consent, but the contents? Yes.”

  “Contents?”

  “The furniture, any items of decorative value, and unfortunately the horses.”

  She stared at him for a moment. A cavern opened up in her chest. The echo of her heartbeat seemed to come from far away.

  “Is there nothing I can do?” she asked finally. “Is there nothing you can do? Have I no power as my father’s only heir?”

  His eyes darted left to right, and lit on the china, then the window. Finally he settled on the tip of one shoe peeping out beneath the tablecloth.

  She waited with some impatience for him to speak. When he did, she almost wished he’d kept silent.

  “As a woman you have no standing. Upon your marriage, your father’s estate essentially becomes the property of your husband, without the right to sell the structure and the land, as I mentioned. That’s simply the law.”

  Her stomach was queasy. “You’re quite sure?”

  “I am, yes.”

  She couldn’t help but wonder if the elder Mr. Babbage might’ve had a different answer for her.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, his son added, “My father would’ve told you the same thing, Miss Craig. It’s settled law.”

  In other words, Michael could do anything he wished and she couldn’t stop him. He could empty Hearthmere of all the antiques, the French furniture her great-great-grandmother had purchased, and the paintings her grandfather had so enjoyed. He could decimate the Clan Hall and sell all the volumes in Hearthmere’s library.

  She waved away the tray of pastries she was offered. She wasn’t hungry. There was a terrible taste in her mouth, like ashes or dust. She wanted to apologize to her father for being unable to protect his legacy.

  Picking up her reticule she clutched it with both hands on her lap. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Babbage? There’s nothing I can do? Nothing at all?”

  He smiled at her, an expression that was oddly charming, making him seem boyish.

  “Do not marry, Miss Craig. That way no one will have any say in your inheritance.”

  “Except my aunt,” she said.

  “Your aunt has no legal standing in regard to your inheritance. Nor could she keep you from Hearthmere,” he added, surprising her. “The arrangement for you to visit Scotland for one month out of the year was a social concession more than a legal one. As a single woman you would have autonomy over your inheritance.”

  Was she willing to go that far? Was she willing to be a pariah to her family?

  Family is everything.

  What about her father, though, and his life’s ambition? Didn’t that count for anything at all?

  She thanked Mr. Babbage for meeting with her, stood, and made her way to the front of the hotel where Liam was waiting.

  “Back home, Miss Eleanor?” he asked before she got into the carriage.

  “No, Liam. Take me to Mr. McKnight’s house, please.”

  She couldn’t bear to return to her aunt’s home. Or hear more gushing praise about Michael.

  Her family had heralded this marriage. At first she’d been bemused about the engagement. As it continued, she began to feel the first twinges of unease. The situation with Bruce had crossed a line. Now the prospect of selling Hearthmere pushed her onto the edge of a cliff.

  Michael cared nothing for what she thought was important. All he’d demonstrated since they’d become engaged was that his wishes and wants were important, but hers were to be ignored.

  For the great honor of making her his wife, his countess, she was to understand that she was only a vessel, a woman who would give him heirs but nothing more. She wasn’t to have an opinion. She wasn’t to have a dog. She wasn’t to disagree. She wasn’t to own anything. She was to turn her back on her country, her inheritance, and see Michael as an object of adoration, nothing less.

  How could she marry someone like that? How could she consider a future with someone so selfish and insular?

  She couldn’t.

  Gain a husband, lose her inheritance.

  Even worse, marry and be miserable.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  To Eleanor’s surprise, Mrs. Campbell didn’t open the door. Logan did. He stood there, attired not in his customary suit, but in a white shirt and dark trousers. He was also not wearing shoes.

  He was the one she’d come to see, but she was startled at his appearance at the door. So much so that she looked down, then back up at him, then down once more, uncertain what to say.

  Thankfully, Bruce’s arrival made it unnecessary for her to comment. She bent and petted him, smiling as he wriggled and whined in response.

  “Where’s Mrs. Campbell?” she finally asked, straightening.

  Bruce was truly learning his manners because he sat between them, looking first at Logan and then at her.

  One of Logan’s eyebrows arched upward as he answered. “It’s her day off. In fact, most of the servants are out this afternoon. If you’ve come for tea and biscuits, I’ll have to provide them.”

  She told herself to say something. Anything but stand there staring at him like a dolt.

  “I haven’t come for tea or biscuits or to see Mrs. Campbell. I came to see you. I was hoping you would be here. I needed to see a friend.”

  His face didn’t change. He didn’t look any happier to see her, but he did step back and open the door wider.

  She entered the house, knowing that if Mrs. Campbell wasn’t here and the servants were gone then she shouldn’t be here, either. She kept silent.

  He led the way down the corridor. She’d never come this far into his house before. He entered a spacious and sunny kitchen. Herbs in green pots lined two large west-facing windows. The windows on the opposite wall revealed his closest neighbor, bushes planted between them to afford some privacy.

  She hesitated at the doorway, looking around her. The cupboards were painted white, as was the long table in the middle of the room. She could imagine a dozen or so people working away, companionable and earnest in their tasks. Laughter would occasionally punctuate the conversation because Logan’s home was a happy place. The fireplace at the other side of the kitchen looked large enough to roast a boar beneath its arched bricks. A half-dozen wrought iron trivets and pulleys held pots, now empty and ready for the next meal.

  A white ten-plate wood-burning stove with two ovens took up most of the space against another wall. A pump and sink area were not too far away. All in all there was enough room in this kitchen to prepare meals to feed a small army.

  After filling the kettle with water, he placed it back on the stove, but didn’t turn to look at her.

  “Why do you need a friend?”
r />   She wandered over to the window.

  “Michael is going to sell the Hearthmere bloodline.”

  He had his back to her and it seemed like he was staring down at the stove, anything but look at her.

  “Are you angry?” she asked. “If you are, I can’t blame you. You’re right, you did ask me to come only on Wednesdays. Forgive me. It’s just that I wanted someone to talk to and I knew you’d understand how important the horses were to me.”

  He turned and faced her. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “According to my solicitor, there’s nothing I can do. A woman has no rights to her inheritance after she marries. I have two choices: to marry Michael or to never marry.”

  The idea occurred to her that maybe she wasn’t here to get his observation and opinion after all. She wanted to feel valuable and important to someone. She wanted someone to think she was worth caring about. Logan always had.

  He walked toward her slowly, almost as if giving her time to escape. She didn’t want to be anywhere but here.

  She walked into his embrace and when his arms went around her she felt as if she were home. A foolish thought, one that was compounded by the knowledge that she was behaving in a shocking manner. She shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be placing his hand against her cheek or tilting up her head to look into her eyes.

  He was the answer to every prayer she’d ever had, and that thought was both sacrilegious and foolish.

  Joy spilled through her because he was holding her and she was returning the embrace. He might kiss her, and that was part wish and part anticipation.

  If she was doomed to perdition by her behavior, at least let it be for something that she truly wished to do. Being here was what she wanted, what she’d always wanted.

  She pulled back, then stepped away. Not because she wanted to, but because she didn’t want to put him in a difficult position. Logan was an honorable man, and being with an engaged woman would test that honor.

  The words were difficult to say, but they must be said. “I should leave.”

  He nodded. “Have tea at least.”

  Logan walked back to the stove, reaching for something between it and the cabinet. It turned out to be the large round tray she’d seen every Wednesday. In the next few minutes he equipped it with two cups and saucers, a large white teapot, and a dark blue knitted cozy. In addition, he cut them both a piece of clootie dumpling, explaining that he liked it as much as plum pudding.

  “It reminds me of my childhood,” he said. “I used to tell myself that when I was grown I would eat as many clootie dumplings as I wanted. And if I grew fat as a stoat, no one could tell me no.”

  “You haven’t grown fat as a stoat,” she said.

  “That’s only because Cook refuses to make it that often, for my own good.”

  “I suspect you have a great many people who care about you, Logan. And only want good things for you.”

  She was one of them.

  The fact that he knew where the cups and saucers were and where the teapot was stored impressed her. If Hamilton ever wandered into the kitchen—an accident, to be sure—she was entirely certain that the man would be confused. Logan, however, acted comfortable in the space. And Michael? She didn’t want to think about him right now, especially here in Logan’s house.

  “You gave me tea in Scotland,” she said.

  “In a shepherd’s cottage. I will guarantee you that this tea is better.”

  “Do you ever cook your own meals?”

  “Occasionally. Why do you look so surprised?”

  She shook her head. “No reason.”

  “What about you? Would you die of hunger if your cook suddenly quit?”

  “No, but I doubt if I could make a lot of the complicated dishes she does. I can bake bread, scones, and I have a few recipes I memorized from the cook at Hearthmere.”

  “I can make a great oatmeal,” he said. “And a venison steak.”

  “I could add boiled potatoes. And maybe a few greens. Or buttered squash.”

  “See, the two of us wouldn’t starve.”

  The idea of fending for themselves, alone, without anyone interfering, was an idyllic notion, one that she tucked away to think about later.

  They moved into the drawing room, Bruce following. When Logan set the tray on the table, the puppy sat patiently between the chairs, waiting.

  “Mrs. Campbell always brought him a treat, too,” she said.

  Logan smiled. “Then a treat he shall have.” He left the room.

  In his absence she noticed the stack of papers beside one of the chairs.

  “I’ve interrupted you,” she said when he entered the room again, closing the door behind him. “You were working.”

  “I was reading and I was bored. You came at just the right time.”

  He gave a bone to Bruce, but only after he showed off his manners.

  They sat, each in one of the chairs before the fire. Logan spoke about his sister, Janet, and how she could never take her tea without cream.

  “Her husband only drinks coffee and I think it’s a testament to their love that she accepts his choice. Otherwise, I’m sure she would have forced him to drink tea and like it.”

  “Some days I prefer coffee,” she said. “Today it’s tea.”

  “For me it has a lot to do with the weather. For some reason, on cold and rainy days, tea is perfect. Maybe that’s why England has so many tea drinkers.”

  They spent nearly an hour talking about subjects great and small. Legislation that Mr. Disraeli was intent on getting passed, the election, and how Logan was coping now that someone else had been elected PM.

  Bruce seemed utterly content to sit on the floor between them, occasionally raising his head when his name was mentioned. Today she saw a hint of what he would be like fully grown, his intelligent brown eyes seeming amused.

  She could imagine sitting here like this every day. Logan would discuss his work. She would share the advances to the breeding program at Hearthmere. Mr. Contino had recently written her about his need for an addition to the stables and she was predisposed to agree to his idea.

  Yet that was foolishness, wasn’t it? Logan had never told her that what he felt for her was something special and unique. Nor had he ever once mentioned that he wanted her in his life on a permanent basis.

  What she wanted and what was going to happen were two entirely different things.

  Chapter Thirty

  Her tea done, Eleanor stared down at her cup. She’d come and told Logan what choice faced her. Staying longer would only hint at scandal.

  Eleanor knew she should leave. Right now, before she said something foolish. Telling him how much she’d needed to see him these past weeks wouldn’t be wise. Those words were better kept to herself.

  The emotion she was feeling, the same one that kept her awake at night and summoned her tears too quickly, had its roots in friendship and respect. Yet it was so much more.

  She loved him. She adored him. This man was the most important person in the world to her.

  Keeping silent didn’t diminish the power of what she felt.

  She bent and spent some time petting Bruce, who rolled onto his back, asking for a belly rub. She missed the puppy, missed having him in her life. He was a four-legged friend, a companion, and a warm and funny reminder of Logan.

  What a wonderful person he was, offering both her and Bruce a haven.

  A strange time to begin to cry.

  “Eleanor, what’s wrong?”

  Logan moved to sit on the ottoman, reaching out and taking her hands in his. A minute later, when she still couldn’t stop her tears, he startled her by standing and pulling her into his arms.

  “Eleanor, stop.”

  She couldn’t. It was as if all the sadness she’d felt since giving up Bruce had accumulated in a well deep inside her. Whether she wished it or not, the well was emptying.

  He gently put his arms around her. “Please, Eleanor.”
/>   She nodded, but it didn’t seem to have any effect on her tears. They continued. Resting her cheek against his chest felt like coming home.

  “I hate to see you cry.”

  “I never cry in front of other people,” she said, her voice sounding watery.

  “What would you call this?”

  She pulled back, swiping at her face with her hands. “Do you think this is funny?”

  His smile evaporated. “This is the least amusing situation I’ve ever been in.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For crying. For coming here.” For needing you. “Thank you for giving Bruce a home.” And me a haven.

  “I like having him here. He reminds me of you.”

  She’d thought the same thing. Logan had annoyed her, then become a friend. Now he was so much more, but she couldn’t say that, could she?

  Every Wednesday when she’d come to see Bruce, she’d hoped he would be here. To see, to touch, to talk to. She hoped he’d be waiting for her. When he hadn’t appeared, she sat in his house and accepted his hospitality. It had both comforted her and made her miserable.

  They were standing too close. She placed her hands on his chest. He covered her hands with his.

  Her arms went around his waist. He lowered his head, the warmth of his breath causing shivers down her back.

  His hands were suddenly on her waist and then upward on her sides, almost at her breasts. She could feel them through her clothing, as if his fingers were on her bare skin.

  She should move. Now. Before anything else happened, she should step back, apologize for coming, and leave. This visit had already been too long. At least on Wednesdays, Mrs. Campbell was here. Now no one stood between them and scandal. They were bending, if not breaking, all the rules of propriety.

  It was so hard to move. She wanted to remain exactly where she was, friended and protected, safe and valued.

  The tick of the mantel clock measured the moments. Still, she didn’t step back and walk toward the door. His arms were still around her, his stance as immobile as hers.