To Bed the Bride

by Karen Ranney

  Instead, she left the park, knowing that the day of reckoning had finally come. They couldn’t meet like this again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Logan finished packing the papers into his valise before returning to his desk. He’d already dismissed Fred for the night, sending his driver to take his secretary home.

  This final task was the one he dreaded the most. He needed to write Eleanor.

  Tomorrow morning he’d be on his way to Edinburgh. His nephew’s birthday would be in a few days, and that was one of the reasons he was going. The other was to call on his uncle.

  Both visits were necessary, and timely as well.

  Tomorrow, before he left, he was due to give a speech on taxing units and he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. The words wouldn’t come. He always wrote his own speeches. Sometimes he conferred with Fred if his secretary had done additional research. Mostly, however, what he said was what he thought. Unfortunately, he was unable to think about anything but Eleanor.

  His conscience was screaming at him to do the honorable thing. The time had finally come. No, he should have done this weeks ago but he wanted to keep seeing her. He needed to see her.

  Perhaps with a little practice he wouldn’t recall the sight of her face. If he concentrated, he would forget what it had been like to kiss her. He could banish the sound of her laughter given enough hours. Gradually, he’d be able to erase her from his thoughts. Finally she’d become only a fond and distant memory.

  Except that he was certain he was lying to himself.

  She couldn’t marry Herridge. She couldn’t be anyone’s fiancée. She couldn’t become some other man’s wife.

  He should tell her about his uncle. Would she break off her engagement if she learned about his family? If she did he’d forever wonder if she wanted him for himself or for another reason.

  He would miss her, more than was wise.

  He’d told her things he’d never divulged to another person. He wanted to explain himself, to have Eleanor know him in a basic, elemental way. He wanted her to be so in tune with his thoughts that she could understand what he was thinking. He wanted to be open and direct, holding nothing back. In the past he’d always withheld something of himself, feeling that it was important to maintain his privacy. All that had gone to hell with Eleanor and it shocked him.

  Soon she’d be a bride. He might even be invited to her wedding. He would be expected to sit and watch her repeat her vows to a man he detested.

  He stared at the blank sheet of stationery for long moments before he finally picked up the pen.

  That evening Eleanor spent an hour preparing for a function she and Michael were attending. In addition, Aunt Deborah and Hamilton would be sharing their carriage. Jeremy was off doing whatever Jeremy did during the week, a little gentlemanly gambling with his stepfather’s money or carousing with his friends.

  Or perhaps Jeremy led a secret life, not unlike she had recently.

  After dinner they were all herded into a drawing room that was enlarged by opening up a second room. There they listened to a succession of women playing the piano. Their hostess introduced a woman with an Italian name who was evidently famous for her operatic voice. For a quarter hour Eleanor managed to sit and pretend an interest in a tale of spurned love in Italian, but the aria was simply a backdrop to her own emotions.

  The past few weeks had been the most enjoyable she’d ever spent in London, yet at the same time she’d felt a series of emotions. Some guilt, of course, that she was meeting Logan in secret. Confusion, that she could be so attuned to one man even as she was pulling away from another. Her conscience vied with her wish to be with Logan all the time. Perhaps that’s why she was angry, because she knew it could never happen.

  When the entertainment was blessedly over the guests milled around the room, talking. She sat against the wall, listening as two older women made a game of guessing which husband was faithful to his wife and which wife had strayed. Eleanor was surprised at the venom of their comments, then wondered if she would be a target for their speculation after her wedding.

  The rest of the evening was as hideous as most social events. When they arrived back at the townhouse she waited until her aunt had left the carriage to address Hamilton, then asked him to go on ahead so that she could speak to Michael.

  “What is it, Eleanor?” Michael asked once they were alone in the carriage.

  “Will you be a faithful husband, Michael?”

  “What kind of question is that, Eleanor?”

  His tone was annoyed, but she noticed that he didn’t answer her.

  “Am I not allowed to ask?”

  “I don’t like what has happened to you, Eleanor, ever since you returned from Scotland.”

  The veneer of London Eleanor was fading through constant use, and soon only the real Eleanor would be visible.

  That wouldn’t please him, would it?

  “You’ve been different ever since your visit to Hearthmere. It’s a good thing those visits won’t happen again.”

  She wasn’t surprised by his words. Nor was she startled by his tone of voice. Michael had become more and more autocratic the longer they’d been engaged. What would he be like as a husband?

  “I’ll leave you here,” he said. “I’m not coming in.”

  Nor did he say anything further.

  A footman helped her exit the carriage. Once on the pavement she turned back to the open door and said her farewells.

  “You will not ask me questions of this nature again, Eleanor. I will not be harangued. Not now. Not ever. Is that understood?”

  She nodded, then turned and mounted the steps.

  At the door the majordomo handed her a letter. She instantly recognized the handwriting. Just as quickly she knew what it was.

  She didn’t join her aunt and Hamilton in the drawing room. Instead, she walked upstairs, thanking the maid for watching Bruce in her absence.

  “I took him out, Miss Eleanor, and he was a good boy.”

  He greeted her with a hundred kisses, sniffing her feet, her hands, and anywhere there was a different smell about her.

  She readied herself for bed, and once she’d donned her nightgown and pulled down the covers, she sat on the edge of the mattress, the letter in her hands.

  For nearly a quarter hour she sat there holding the letter, refusing to open it. If she didn’t open it she wouldn’t read his words. If she didn’t read his words it wouldn’t be real. He would be in the park tomorrow with his smile, his laughter, and that beautiful voice of his.

  Bruce began to snore from the end of the bed.

  Finally, she opened the letter, taking care not to damage her name written in Logan’s distinctive hand.

  She told herself that she’d be able to bear whatever he’d written. She’d survived the loss of her father and being taken from Scotland. She would live through this, too.

  My dearest Eleanor,

  I want so much for you. Happiness and joy, laughter and purpose, friends, and to be surrounded by those who love you. Your life will be a rich tapestry of experiences and moments, none of which I will share.

  We met at the wrong time, you and I.

  Yet I will never forget you, even as I counsel myself that I should. I must. I will forever wonder about Eleanor of Scotland, the woman with laughter in her eyes who looks on the world with quiet wisdom. I will see the rain and wonder if it falls on you, witness a sunset and question whether you see it, too.

  I will never be quite as lonely as I was before meeting you because I know you’re in the world.

  I will not be back to Queen’s Park. I will not see you again.

  Logan

  She carefully folded the paper, placed it beneath her pillow, then thought better of it and tucked it into the Bible on her bedside table. She got beneath the covers, rearranged her pillow, and slid her feet around a sleeping Bruce.

  Only then did she cry.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Elea
nor began to avoid Queen’s Park. Instead, every day she took a well-worn path near the lake and over to Hyde Park. The distance was greater, of course, but at least she didn’t have to be reminded of Logan’s absence.

  She saw his name in the newspaper nearly every day. Someone was always writing about him, either complimentarily or scurrilously. She wanted to trim the complimentary articles and keep them safe somewhere and deface the scurrilous ones. What did they know about his character? How could they possibly judge him so harshly?

  She missed him and thought that Bruce did, too, because he always pulled her toward the wrought iron gates. She would always correct him and tell him that they were going on an adventure of sorts.

  Bruce was the only bright spot in her day. Somehow, Logan had known that he would prove to be a great companion.

  One morning about two weeks after receiving Logan’s letter, she was coming in from the park, hoping to make it up the back stairs and to her room before anyone saw the two of them. Unfortunately, Daphne called out to her from the small Ladies Parlor adjacent to the back hallway.

  Reluctantly, Eleanor entered the room, Bruce following.

  Daphne did as Daphne always did, gave her a sweeping inspection that ended with a curl of her lip.

  “Have you no sense of decorum, cousin? You have leaves on the bottom of your skirt and your hair is a disaster.”

  Eleanor didn’t respond. Doing so would only make her more of a target for Daphne’s withering criticism.

  “What if the earl sees you in such a state?”

  That’s how her entire family referred to Michael—the earl. As if she might somehow forget his rank.

  “I do not doubt that he would regret his offer immediately,” Daphne added.

  Eleanor blew out a breath. Perhaps she would never, even if she practiced every day, attain the degree of sophistication that Daphne effortlessly demonstrated. Yet she’d never be as rude as Daphne, or behave as badly to a member of her family.

  Her father had taught her that family was everything.

  Not to Daphne.

  She knew quite well that Daphne’s comments were a result of jealousy. Like it or not, Eleanor was engaged to an earl—a man who would always rank higher than Thomas in the hierarchy of London society. No doubt Daphne thought that such a thing was basically unfair, especially since she was so much prettier and more accomplished than Eleanor.

  What her cousin didn’t understand was that Michael’s rank or status or even his title didn’t matter to her. This whole countess business was beginning to be a chore more than anything else. She would much rather have been a simple missus without all the pomp and circumstance she was having to learn.

  “I’m going to my room.”

  “The earl’s here,” Daphne said. “He’s been waiting for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps you should ask him, Eleanor.”

  “Why aren’t you with him?”

  Daphne never lost an opportunity to ingratiate herself with Michael. The fact that she wasn’t entertaining him was curious.

  “He’s not in the mood for company.”

  That was not good news.

  Eleanor should change, fix her hair or wash her face, if nothing else. Yet there was a chance that, if Michael had been waiting for a substantial time, he might grow annoyed at a further delay. Instead of going upstairs, she turned and led Bruce into the small parlor Michael preferred.

  Had Michael learned of Logan’s letter? Worse, had he somehow learned of their meetings in Queen’s Park?

  Her aunt’s style of decorating was to choose a color, then use it to excess in that particular room. There was a Green Parlor where you felt as if you were walking into a spring bower. The dining room was yellow, such a bright shade that her eyes always had to adjust. A bluish green was the predominant color in the main drawing room and a pleasant shade of peach for the hallways on the second floor.

  This room was gray, a masculine color, which was probably why Michael preferred it. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in a patterned silk that matched the walls and curtains. The only spots of color were the lush emerald ferns hanging in the window, supported by gray ropes from the ceiling.

  Michael was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, a heavily carved wooden box on the table beside him. Although his face was expressionless, she could tell he was angry. It showed in the flatness of his eyes and his stillness. He didn’t move, even when she entered the room. He didn’t stand or greet her. She was invisible to him, which meant that she would have to begin this meeting with an apology.

  “Forgive me, I didn’t know you were going to be here today.”

  He inclined his head slightly, but didn’t respond.

  She came and sat on the adjoining chair, Bruce at her feet. She should have taken him upstairs, but she didn’t want Michael to have to wait any longer.

  The maids loved Bruce and went out of their way to pet him or slip him some treat during the day. Aunt Deborah and Hamilton were noncommittal about the puppy. Michael, however, always demanded that she put the dog up somewhere, saying that dogs belonged in a kennel, not a parlor.

  To her surprise he didn’t immediately tell her to remove Bruce. Instead, he handed her the wooden box.

  “Inside is the ancestral bridal ring worn by all the Herridge wives. It will be placed on your finger during the wedding ceremony.”

  She opened the lid cautiously. There, on a small silk pillow, was a ring at least an inch and a half wide, decorated with a selection of amethysts, emeralds, rubies, and diamonds. A large black stone in the middle had been engraved with the Wescott crest.

  It was the most horribly gaudy thing she’d ever seen. All she could think was that she’d have to wear gloves constantly.

  “I need to make sure it will fit you.”

  He took the box, plucked the ring from its pillow, and grabbed her hand.

  Bruce growled at him.

  Michael drew back, frowning.

  “Don’t be afraid. He won’t bite you,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely certain of that. Bruce rarely growled except at leaves and squirrels. Granted, the puppy was showing signs of being a large dog, but he was gentle and sweet, not fearsome.

  “I’m not afraid,” Michael said. “Get rid of him.”

  She stood. “I’ll take him to my room.”

  “No, get rid of him.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve put up with this situation long enough. Get rid of him, Eleanor. If you want, I’ll do it. Have a maid take him to my carriage.”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean, you’ll do it?”

  “Exactly that. He’s a nuisance and needs to be dispatched.”

  “Dispatched?”

  He just looked at her.

  She bent down and picked up Bruce. He was growing so large that it wasn’t as easy to do as it had been a month earlier.

  “I’m not asking, Eleanor. I’ve given you a direct order. I don’t expect you to disobey me. Not now and not when we’re married.”

  Did Deborah have that kind of marriage? Not from what she’d observed in Scotland. Her Uncle William had been a kind and generous man. Deborah sometimes seemed to be the stronger person in that marriage. Nor was Deborah’s marriage to Hamilton that sort of relationship. Thomas adored Daphne and nearly worshipped her.

  Her marriage with Michael would be different. She’d be little more than a servant in his eyes.

  “Do you understand?” he asked, his voice holding an edge of coldness.

  “Yes,” she said. “I understand.”

  “You’ll get rid of the animal, then?”

  When she didn’t respond he said, “I insist upon it.”

  “Is this the way our marriage is to be, Michael? You issuing orders and me obeying them without question? Am I never to have an opinion?”

  “This new rebellion of yours is not attractive.”

  “Why did you ask me to be your wife, Micha
el?”

  He frowned at her. Quite an impressive scowl at that. She was probably supposed to be quelled into silence by his look.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  A rational one. An explainable one. A commonsensical one. A normal one.

  “Please,” she said. “Allow me a little curiosity on this one matter. I would truly like to know.”

  She forced herself to face him, to meet his gaze and endure his study of her.

  “You were biddable, Eleanor. Of all the women I’d met you were the most manageable.”

  It wasn’t her looks, then, or her personality—although she doubted if he’d had a chance to learn who she truly was before asking her to be his wife. Not her possession of a lovely home in Scotland. Nor the fact that she was related to Hamilton Richards. Michael had selected her from all the other women because she barely spoke in his presence, because she listened to him rather than demand he do the same.

  She’d been a ghost of a woman, easily manipulated and ordered about. A timid, frail wisp of a creature who would never dare stand up for herself or espouse her own thoughts and beliefs. The woman he’d met during her season had been that person, a London persona she donned because she had to, because it was necessary in order to survive in this world she disliked so much. That wasn’t who she truly was, however.

  Logan was the only person who knew the real Eleanor.

  “Your aunt assured me you would be a dutiful wife. I don’t know what happened to you in the past weeks, Eleanor, but I don’t like the change.”

  Michael’s words made so much sense. Of course that’s why he’d chosen her. What would he say if she told him that it had all been a lie, that the woman he’d known was dying a little each day?

  She had her answer and it didn’t solve anything. Instead, it made the situation even worse.

  She fell back on old habits, arranging her face into a calm facade, a half smile curving her lips. She willed her gaze to show nothing of her thoughts. Not her anger. Not her fear. Nothing.