To Bed the Bride Read online

  If she were viewing him dispassionately, she wouldn’t be able to find anything about him to criticize.

  He could be kind. Witness the time he’d asked Jenny Woolsey to dance after she’d been sitting along the wall for nearly an hour. Since he didn’t enjoy dancing himself, it had been a nice gesture. When Eleanor had been distraught over the treatment of a draft horse, Michael had intervened.

  If he was sometimes autocratic, perhaps it was an adequate counterbalance to his perfection.

  When he’d first made an appearance at a dance, she’d been impressed by his charm. He’d greeted numerous people by name, was complimentary to the young women he met, and seemed to sincerely like those men who came up to him.

  When he’d initially asked her to dance, she’d been stunned. Michael Herridge was asking her to dance? Of course she said yes, only to catch the looks of several of the girls with whom she shared her season. It was the first time in her life that she’d ever incited jealousy in anyone, and she had to admit it was a heady experience.

  Their conversation was somewhat muted by her awe of him. She couldn’t remember what they’d talked about at first. Not horses, certainly, even though she knew more about them than anything else. Certainly not the breeding program at Hearthmere. In addition, she’d been given strict instructions by her aunt not to discuss politics. Men, Deborah claimed, were put off by a woman who espoused a political viewpoint. Any political viewpoint.

  From that night on, Michael made a point of singling her out, and she’d been flattered by the attention and a little bemused. Her aunt was overjoyed and heaped praise on her—something that had never happened before.

  When Michael told her that he’d already spoken to Hamilton and her aunt and that he would very much like her hand in marriage, she’d been dumbstruck. It hadn’t occurred to her until later that it meant she’d be the Countess of Wescott.

  Jenny pulled her aside and asked her what she’d done to attract—and catch—Michael.

  “I don’t know,” Eleanor said honestly. “I just danced with him.”

  “I saw you two talking a great deal.”

  Michael was actually the one who talked. She had just listened about his plans for Abermarle, his position in the House of Lords, or his mother.

  When news of their engagement filtered through society, she’d been alternatively viewed with irritation or surprise. She understood why. She wasn’t one of the season’s beauties. She didn’t have a sparkling laugh. Nor was she exceptionally witty. If she was able to talk about the subjects that interested her she might have seemed a great deal more captivating.

  As it was, she was simply the Scot, the woman who’d convinced the Earl of Wescott to marry her. No one could understand why Michael had picked her. Nor could she.

  They hadn’t fallen in love. Such things were not expected in a society marriage. It was fortunate if both parties liked and respected each other, but even that wasn’t necessary. A girl with enough attractiveness and a good family was expected to find a marriageable male from a good family and with an income substantial enough to support her and any future children. That was the way of the world.

  For the great blessing of becoming a countess and carrying Michael’s name she would be amiable, bear him children, and not shame him in any way. That, too, was expected.

  They attended events as a couple now. Because they were engaged they didn’t dance or even converse as much. When they did talk the conversations were mostly one-sided. As long as she listened, didn’t interrupt, or ask questions they did very well together.

  He was still charming and she was still bemused.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said. “It seemed to be a very long two weeks.”

  She cleared her throat. “I understand that you and my aunt have come to a decision as to a wedding date,” she said.

  “We have. Does that not meet with your approval?”

  She poured him a cup of tea, fixing it the way he liked before handing it to him.

  “Could you not have waited until I returned? I would have liked to be consulted.”

  “Your aunt led me to believe that she had your approval in making arrangements.”

  “It’s my wedding day, Michael. Not hers.”

  “Is this what traveling to Scotland does to you, Eleanor? Makes you bold and difficult?”

  She looked at him. She’d thought about her words and moderated her tone of voice, yet he still considered her comments bold and difficult?

  “Is the date not convenient to you, Eleanor?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Just fine? I was hoping that you would think the date too far away. That you might be a little more eager to be a bride.”

  “Of course I am,” she said, hoping that sounded agreeable enough.

  For long minutes they didn’t speak. When Michael resumed their conversation it was to tell her of improvements he was making to his London house.

  “I have to prepare for a wife, after all,” he said, smiling at her.

  He truly did have the most charming smile, but the expression disappeared a moment later.

  “What is that?” he asked, looking down at the floor.

  “Bruce. My puppy.”

  “What’s he doing in the parlor? He should be left outside.”

  “He’s been very well behaved.”

  “Take him out of here, Eleanor.”

  She looked at him. “Why?”

  “Why? Because I told you to.”

  “He hasn’t done anything, Michael. He hasn’t even barked since you arrived. I’d prefer that he stay where he is.”

  “And I prefer that you take him out of here.” His look was direct and strangely uncomfortable.

  “Do you not like dogs, Michael?”

  “The question isn’t my likes or dislikes, Eleanor, but why you’ve become defiant. Is that what going to Scotland does to you?”

  He was, perhaps, right to be surprised at her behavior. She’d never questioned anything he said before today.

  “Men don’t want to be around disagreeable females,” her aunt had told her.

  Was she considered disagreeable simply because she objected to his order about Bruce?

  “I insist, Eleanor.” He had that narrowed-eyed look that warned her he wasn’t pleased.

  Bending down, she slipped the lead around Bruce’s neck before standing. Michael stood, too.

  “I have to leave.”

  She was probably supposed to plead with him to stay. Or apologize for offending him. She did neither.

  When he bent and kissed her cheek she forced a smile to her face.

  “Defiant women aren’t very feminine, Eleanor.”

  Her aunt would have been proud of her. She kept her smile in place as she walked Michael to the door, waiting until he got into his carriage. When he gave her a wave, she returned it, then took Bruce upstairs to her room, closed the door, and sighed in relief.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ever since leaving Scotland, Logan had been inundated with paperwork and intensive reading for Disraeli. He had so many projects that he hadn’t made time to stop in Edinburgh and see his sister and her family.

  After everyone in his office left for the day and before he readied himself for the political dinner that evening, he spent several moments composing a letter to Janet, explaining why he hadn’t visited.

  Janet would understand. Janet always understood. Dylan would be a little less forgiving. His brother-in-law was protective of his wife, which was just the way Logan wanted it. In addition, Dylan had few family members of his own. Therefore, he counted Logan’s appearance as even more important.

  The bad thing about ambition was that you occasionally associated with people who had the same upward trajectory. Benjamin Disraeli had been named Prime Minister only a few months earlier and had already accomplished a great deal. He’d succeeded in passing several key pieces of legislation that amended the Scottish legal system, expanded the Post Office, and ended pub
lic executions.

  According to the Prime Minister, one of his greatest achievements was the defeat of Tewodros II. Logan knew all about the Battle of Magdala. He’d been asked to accompany Robert Napier’s forces to report firsthand to the Prime Minister.

  Next time, however, he was going to demur when the man suggested that he observe a military expedition. Abyssinia had been educational, but grueling. He’d learned a great deal about himself, military strategy, and how to ride and command an elephant. He’d also learned how to kill his fellow man and be a witness to wholesale brutality.

  The battle had been a bloodbath: thousands of men armed with nothing but spears being decimated by hundreds of Englishmen and Indian infantry equipped with the latest rifles. The Abyssinians hadn’t stood a chance against their firepower yet they’d kept coming, sent to their deaths by their emperor.

  Logan wouldn’t have been fit company for Janet and her family straight after Abyssinia. It had been better for him to wait, but he was planning on seeing them all soon.

  His niece and nephew were delightful children. Jennifer and Alex were bright and perceptive and with enough will and personality to remind Logan of him and his sister growing up. He and Janet had been close ever since their parents died and they’d been taken in by a relative.

  Luckily, the rest of their childhood had been blessed. They’d been given affection, attention, and were surrounded by the knowledge that they were important for their own sakes, not simply because of who their parents had been.

  Alexander was having a birthday in a month, and Logan penned a note to his secretary to remind him of the event a week ahead. He would do everything in his power to arrange time away from his work to travel to Edinburgh. In the meantime, hopefully his letter would mollify Dylan and his sister.

  When he was done writing them, he picked up another sheet of stationery. Fred normally handled his correspondence, but not his personal communications. Logan would never turn over this particular task to his secretary.

  After some trial and error he finally worded the letter to his satisfaction. Perhaps it would take some time for her to respond. Or perhaps she never would.

  He leaned back in his chair, thinking of Eleanor. He saw her face, the dawning smile when she looked down at Bruce. Her loneliness had struck him then, a thought that was both immediate and surprising. It had been the primary reason he’d brought Bruce back to her. Would she deny it or would she, with defiant honesty, admit it and throw the question back at him?

  Because of the press of his work he didn’t have time to be lonely. A partially honest answer, but not the whole of it. The truth, both difficult and newly born, was that there were moments, especially in the middle of the night, when his isolation gnawed at him.

  He’d never been lonely before Abyssinia. He’d never questioned himself as much as he did now, either. Perhaps one had something to do with the other.

  The time in Scotland had been a respite. He’d needed those weeks to recuperate. Yet he’d still felt unlike himself when he returned to his offices. Some of that could be laid at the feet of Eleanor Craig. She’d been in his mind constantly, ever since leaving Scotland.

  Would she be surprised to hear from him? In addition to maintaining a connection with her, he genuinely wanted to know about Bruce. The fact that she’d named the puppy was a good indication that she felt something for him.

  If Bruce proved true to his parentage, he’d be a medium-sized dog with superior intelligence and a sense of loyalty as well as protectiveness.

  Perhaps when he went to Edinburgh he could make a side trip to Hearthmere, just to see how the two of them were getting along. The idea of seeing her again was intriguing. The give-and-take of their conversation had made him feel alive in a way that startled him. He wasn’t given to impulsive gestures, yet that’s exactly how he’d acted around Eleanor.

  Before he sealed the envelope, he added a few sentences to his letter, then re-read his words:

  Dear Miss Craig,

  I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I hope, as well, that Bruce is heeding your instructions.

  I realize that my actions in bringing Bruce back to you might have struck you as arbitrary. I can assure you that they were anything but that. I sincerely believe that Bruce is better served in your household than anywhere. He needs a home, as do we all. I think that you can provide an excellent one for him.

  You have been in my thoughts a great deal ever since I returned to London. I have replayed our meetings many times. I can say with honesty that I have never enjoyed a conversation with another woman as much as I have with you.

  I will be in Scotland shortly and would like to see you once again. Please let me know your thoughts on this matter.

  He signed the letter, declining to use his title, preferring to address her simply.

  Would she agree to see him or would she wish him to perdition? Either was entirely possible. Until he heard from her he’d occupy himself with the tasks at hand, answering Mr. Disraeli’s inquiries, getting through the reams of paperwork he needed to read and/or sign, and attending all the various functions Fred had already placed on his calendar.

  Logan had a raft of questions about Eleanor Craig and none of them could be answered by anyone but her. She wasn’t married. Nor was she right out of the classroom. He guessed that she was in her mid-twenties. Why was Miss Craig on the shelf? What would she say to him if he had the temerity to ask her that question?

  He liked a mystery, as long as there was a chance of solving it. Would she let him get close enough to do so?

  If the dinner tonight proved to be as boring as most of those dinners were, he’d occupy himself with thoughts of Eleanor. A dangerous pastime, perhaps, but an enjoyable one.

  Eleanor wanted to escape tonight’s dinner. Two things stopped her. First, her aunt’s announcement that the guest was a Scot. Second, Michael had been invited to attend and had accepted the invitation. She certainly couldn’t fail to appear when her fiancé was here.

  Consequently, she dressed with the help of her aunt’s maid, who lent her skills in taming Eleanor’s hair. The style was extremely flattering. She stared at herself in the vanity mirror. She looked well rested. Her eyes were clear. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. Even her hair was cooperating, curling exactly where Barbara wanted it to curl.

  The blue evening gown was new, a present from her aunt and uncle to celebrate her engagement. The silk exactly matched the shade of her eyes. Tonight she almost looked like a countess. In time, perhaps, the gold of her earrings would be replaced by diamonds. Did a countess wear a tiara? She sincerely hoped not. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrible than having even more pins in her hair, or trying to balance something heavy on her head throughout dinner. She wished there was someone she knew who might answer that foolish question without a bit of derision.

  Michael’s mother was alive, but she was quite elderly. She’d borne him late in life and was now being cared for by a series of protective nurses. Eleanor had only met her once, and the poor woman had to be reminded of her name three times. She was not going to be a source of information or comfort in her marriage.

  Michael had already informed her that his mother’s care would be her responsibility. Or at least ensuring that there was adequate staff on hand to always look out for the elderly woman. Evidently, he considered that task beneath him.

  No doubt it was that way in most marriages: the wife was responsible for the family’s well-being. How strange that she’d never considered such a thing. However, she’d never really thought about marriage. As a child, playing with her dolls, she’d fantasized a romance, a wedding, but nothing beyond that. She had never once considered what living with a husband might be like.

  How strange that the woman in the mirror didn’t look panicked.

  “There, Miss Eleanor. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s beautiful, Barbara. Thank you.”

  The maid nodded once in response.


  “You look lovely, miss.”

  That was a surprise. Normally Barbara never unbent long enough to say anything complimentary. Or perhaps she had misjudged the woman. Barbara had been with Deborah ever since Edinburgh. The maid had taken to London and evinced no homesickness or yearning for Scotland. In fact Eleanor had often heard Barbara complaining about Auld Reekie, the nickname for Edinburgh. She had other criticisms of their native land. Some were justifiable. The winters in Scotland were cold, making it feel like you were chilled down to your bones. Even in the summer there were cool breezes hinting of winter.

  What about the sunsets, however? Or the dancing northern lights in the winter? Or the kindness of almost every Scot you met? What about Edinburgh being a city of learning, history, and culture? Or the advances that Scots offered the world? Barbara never spoke about those things and the omissions were glaring.

  Eleanor could be as critical of London. Sometimes the smoke hung low in the sky like an ever-present fog. The air was so thick that you could taste it. It was necessary to hold a handkerchief over your nose and mouth when running from the door to the carriage.

  There were times when it felt like the entire world had come to London. The streets were congested and even walking from your carriage to one of the shops was difficult.

  What good did it do to complain? It didn’t make your circumstances easier. Calling to mind all the difficulties only seemed to make the situation worse.

  Tonight she would greet their guest and be as hospitable as possible. From what her aunt had said, he was an up-and-coming politician. A bit of a rabble-rouser, known for his staunch defense of Scottish politics and his friendship with the Prime Minister, Mr. Disraeli.