by Naomi Boom
“That would be an unusual dream to have, my lady.”
That was one thing about Logan that she appreciated. His humor. She quirked her eyebrow at him and smirked. “I would think most ladies dream of His Grace.”
A spark leapt to his eyes, and he leaned forward. “Oh? Even when they have not met him? That seems a touch mercenary to me.”
Mrs. Westfield frowned and glanced from Logan to Eleanor. “Well, my dear niece was raised to be ambitious. It’s not as if she would dream of a baronet.” She placed a hand over her mouth in mock chagrin. “Oh dear. I did not mean to offend, Sir Logan.”
Eleanor scowled. Her behavior today was far from secretive, and her aunt must understand the cause of underlying tension between her and Logan. She would receive a stern lecture later, but such a reprimand meant little.
She coughed and changed topics. “Sir Logan, my dear aunt and I were just discussing what a mystery you are.”
Logan quirked an eyebrow which indicated she should continue.
“It appears my aunt has never heard of you, which seems unlikely if you are as wealthy as you claim.”
He shifted in his chair. “I had not realized I was to be interrogated this afternoon. All I can say is I have no way of knowing why you have never heard of me, Mrs. Westfield.”
Mrs. Westfield nodded her agreement. “That is precisely what I told Eleanor. I am not so acquainted with the landowners so far north.” At this point, she began to discuss her travels in her younger years. She focused on her trips to the northern regions of England. Logan raised a discreet brow at Eleanor, and she almost giggled out loud. Mrs. Westfield could talk at length given a chance.
When her tales slowed, Mrs. Westfield sighed and sat back in her chair with a dreamy expression in her eyes. Eleanor took advantage of the interlude and asked Logan, “So you have very few relations, but what else should we know about you?”
“Well, my favorite treat is apple tarts. They taste divine, especially served with clotted cream as dessert. I am not much of a drinker or gambler, and I would like to have a certain blonde, blue-eyed woman marry me someday.”
Eleanor sent her eyes heavenward and groaned as Mrs. Westfield leaned in with eyes narrowed in hawk-like intensity. “Oh, is it someone we know?”
His eyes went to Mrs. Westfield’s, and he shook his head. “I am afraid I cannot say. The lady does not return my feelings at present.” He added extra emphasis on the word present, and Eleanor scowled at him.
“How terrible,” Eleanor’s aunt murmured. “I always hate to hear of unrequited love.”
His feelings for her did not qualify as unrequited love. He certainly had not said anything to her about love, at least. The only thing he had done to convey his feelings was kiss her. No, she would not countenance the idea of love, not when it would end up disappointing her in the end.
She smiled and leaned toward Logan. She would play along with this game. “Oh yes, Sir Logan. Unrequited love is such a tragedy. You simply must tell us if there is anything we can do to help.”
He took a final sip of his tea and stood. He trained his gaze on her and nodded. “I am afraid there is nothing anyone can do, except hope the lady comes to her senses before it’s too late.” He bowed. “I am afraid I must depart. Thank you for the delightful tea.”
As the door shut behind him, Mrs. Westfield turned to eye Eleanor. “Why do I get the impression the certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed lady is you?”
Eleanor took a sip of her tea and tried to tamp down her annoyance at having orchestrated this entire event. “Does it matter if I am the lady? I already know whom I will marry, and it is not him.”
“I would say he is a great catch for any lady, except yourself. You are wise to say no to him. With your beauty and dowry, you can do so much better.” When Eleanor failed to respond to her aunt’s unsolicited advice, her aunt asked, “Have you heard word of the duke’s health? I do hope he improves.”
With a start, Eleanor realized she had not truly thought of the duke all day. She had pestered Logan with mentions of His Grace to engender Logan’s jealousy, but Logan had remained firmly planted in her mind. What a terrible realization, and what implications did that hold for her?
****
With the end of tea, Eleanor was left with some free time on her hands before dinner commenced. She contemplated taking a nap but quickly blotted out that idea in favor of painting. Normally, she would direct a lesser servant to carry her supplies, but since there was a severe lack of servants she would enlist Olivia’s aid.
Olivia followed Eleanor down the stairs and to the gardens, where the sun beat down and warmed the spring air to a pleasant temperature. With the dazzling array of flowers set out before her, Eleanor settled onto the garden bench to work.
She soon lost herself in visions of purple azaleas and wrought-iron trellises. Without realizing the passage of time, the waning light signaled the end for Eleanor’s session. She sat back and surveyed her work. Although incomplete, the painting showed promise. She would have to return outside once more on the morrow to finish it.
She stood and stretched to relieve the tension in her back. Olivia packed up the supplies while Eleanor secured her canvas. She was always shy about her work, never allowing others to see it until completed and then only if it met her standards. Most did not. After all, her skill was tolerable at best, but she received pleasure from the act of painting which was reward enough.
Upon returning to her room, Eleanor prepared for dinner. The evening air chilled her, especially as the sun dipped below the horizon, so she chose a heavier gown in a buttercream color to warm her. She wasn’t hungry yet, as her home kept to city hours where everyone rose later in the day and consequently ate later. In a duke’s house, however, one did as directed.
Eleanor once again knocked on Mrs. Westfield’s door. Her aunt had a headache and preferred to stay in bed for the night. Eleanor wished her well, and then made her way down to the dining room.
The gentlemen rose as Eleanor entered, and she hurried to her seat across from a peaked Lady Gammon.
“My lady,” Eleanor said with a warm smile before greeting the gentlemen. Taking in the countess’s tired appearance, she asked, “Are you feeling quite all right?”
Lady Gammon shook her head. “They say my sickness might pass soon, but I am not so certain.”
Lord Gammon patted his wife’s hand, while Eleanor said, “I am sure they are right.” Not having been around pregnant women, she hadn’t the faintest idea, but it sounded nice.
Logan smiled at her as her eyes met his. “Will your aunt join us tonight?”
“No. She claims to have a headache and wishes to remain in her room.”
Logan’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward, his lips tensing in a grim line. “The duke’s illness began with a headache. I hope she has not caught what ails him.”
Lady Gammon coughed. “Oh dear. I cannot imagine how she could possibly catch that. The duke has been quarantined.”
“I hope she has not caught anything. I am sure she will be fine, but imagine if you should fall ill!” It could not bode well for a pregnant woman to catch a serious illness.
Lady Gammon shook her head. “I am afraid this illness originated in our household, which is where His Grace caught it. I must be immune to it or something.”
This must be quite the sickness. Eleanor began to connect the dots, and she leaned forward to ask, “Is that why there are no servants here? They are all ill?”
Lord Gammon spoke with a slight smile playing across his lips. “Goodness, no, Miss Ashford.” His voice lowered in a conspiring manner. “His Grace behaves in a most unfortunate manner at times. This is just one of his strange starts, although certainly not his worst.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. She knew of no rumors in regards to such odd behavior, but very little was known of His Grace. How curious.
Lady Gammon chuckled in agreement with her husband. “Yes, he has his quirks. Why, he may not be sick at
all! For all we know, it’s some fabricated illness all in his head.”
Such a trait was not something Eleanor desired in a mate. She lifted her eyebrow and asked, “Why are you friends with him then?”
Logan coughed and frowned at Lord and Lady Gammon. “He is a very good sort of fellow with many redeeming qualities.” His tone turned frosty as he reprimanded the couple. “You two should be ashamed of yourselves for speaking of him that way in his own home.”
Lady Gammon’s eyes twinkled, and she giggled. “We felt Miss Ashford deserved to know the truth about our host, Sir Logan. Do not sound so personally affronted.”
The food was carried in, ending the conversation as everyone’s attention turned to the meal. Eleanor appreciated any information about the duke she could glean, although she had not expected such strange faults. It struck her as odd that Logan would defend him after behaving so jealously, but she supposed they were still friends at the end of the day.
“So,” Lady Gammon asked Eleanor, “did my eyes deceive me, or were you painting in the gardens this afternoon?”
“Why yes, my lady, I simply cannot resist the pull of such splendor.” Although she supposed she might paint anything if she were bored enough.
With a nod of approval, Lady Gammon asked, “Will you be outside again tomorrow? Some fresh air might do me good.”
Eleanor smiled and nodded. She had eaten her meal quickly and was left to nurse her glass of wine while sneaking surreptitious glances at Logan. He appeared engrossed in conversation with Lord Gammon, which left Eleanor to appreciate the view of his strong jaw and other handsome features.
Lady Gammon sipped on her water and then whispered, “You have fallen for him, haven’t you?”
Eleanor’s cheeks heated, and she tried to keep her expression serene. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Your feelings for Logan.” The countess sighed. “Your love for him is written all over your face.”
Eleanor froze as the words washed over her. The notion that she could fall in love was ridiculous, especially since she didn’t believe in its existence. “I can assure you that is not the case, my lady. I do not believe in such nonsense.”
Lady Gammon regarded her with a dubious frown and said, “I can tell you from personal experience that love exists. I am still in love with Reuben as much as the day we first met. You may be in denial, but your feelings are clear. You love Logan.”
Eleanor’s breath ceased as her body failed to work. She sat immobilized in a state of shock at the countess’s suggestion. She sneaked another glance at Logan. Could there be some truth to Lady Gammon’s words?
Logan knew how to make her feel special, but he irritated her to no end. His very presence in the same room as her made her body overheat, all while she wished he would smother her in kisses. If there were anyone she could love, it would be him. Shoving the thought away, she quelled the notion. She still did not believe, and she doubted her opinion would change.
Eleanor rose as a general weariness overcame her. “I think I shall retire for the evening. Good night.” She curtsied and departed from the room while carrying her unfinished glass of wine with her. She entered her room and took a seat in front of the fireplace. As she stared numbly into the burning embers, she took another sip of her wine.
Her mother always swore love did not exist, but her aunt swore it did. Her cousin Laura had married for love, and now Lady Gammon claimed to do the same. Could Eleanor be wrong? If she married the duke and later found out love existed, she would have made an enormous mistake.
She inhaled sharply as the realization came to mind that she no longer valued status above all else. Before meeting Logan, she would never have entertained the idea that marriage to a duke could be wrong for her. What in heaven had happened to her? She closed her eyes. Logan was not good enough for her to consider, but she did not think she wanted to consider anyone else.
A knock sounded on the door, and she rose, crossed the room, and opened it. Shockingly enough, Logan stood in the hallway. Dizziness descended, and her vision blurred from the astonishment of his unbidden presence on her doorstep. She blinked, forcing herself to focus and not swoon. Her constitution was stout under normal circumstances, but these were not normal circumstances. Gentlemen did not show up at a young lady’s chambers. Ever.
Eleanor brushed aside her maidenly sensibilities, leaning out of her doorway and glancing down the hallway. As far as she could tell, they were alone, but she had no way of knowing if someone would come walking by. She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him into her room while shutting the door as swiftly as she could without making a sound.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed as she glared at him for his audacity. “I would be ruined if someone saw you!”
“Relax, my dear. I just wanted to make sure you are well. You left so abruptly after dinner.” His gaze drifted down to the hand still gripping his shirt. He grinned and said, “Judging by the way you pulled me in here, I believe you are rather happy to see me.”
She jerked her hand away from him. He was exasperating and so, so right. She was happy to see him.
She dropped her hand to her side and turned from him as he said, “You needn’t answer me now, Ellie. Not when I know the truth.”
And there he was, using that infernal name again. She growled as she stomped her foot, turning back to him once more. “My name is not Ellie.”
“I think you will always be Ellie to me.”
“Of course I will,” she muttered. “How did you know which room I was staying in?”
“I overheard the butler mention it before you arrived.” He took a step toward her and turned her to him. He brought his hand to her face and skimmed her skin, which caused all manner of butterflies to dance in her stomach. “You look a bit pale. Are you sure you are fine?”
She knocked his hand aside. “I am only pale because you presumed to show up in my chamber. You really should leave.” She inhaled a breath of anticipation as he moved closer yet.
“Just one good-night kiss to assure me you are indeed in good health.” He lowered his lips to hers without giving her time to respond. Her eyes drifted shut, which effectively shut off the voices of propriety suggesting she stop. She did not care how much money he had or that he was a baronet. All she cared for was the way he made her feel, which was intoxicated. Intoxicated by his sweet promises and alluring temptations.
He parted her lips with his tongue, and she allowed him access, despite the knowledge that she shouldn’t. Every time they touched, she found herself entirely at his mercy, wanting, no needing, whatever he would give her. This time was no different. His hand dipped past the small of her back, and she practically thanked him by intertwining her hand in his coarse hair.
Her lapse was broken as a knock rang out. Eleanor jumped away from him as if scalded and drew in a ragged breath. “Hide.” Without a word, he glided into her bed and pulled the canopy shut behind him.
Eleanor took several deep, fortifying breaths before opening the door to find her maid, Olivia. Olivia curtseyed and stepped into the room. “I figured you would like to change, my lady.”
Eleanor surveyed the bed. She did not think Logan was visible, and she nodded. Most of her gowns required assistance to get in and out of, and this one was no exception. “Let’s make this quick.” She moved to the opposite side of the bed where she was almost certain Logan could not see her. Olivia divested Eleanor of her gown, and then Eleanor turned to her, hoping her grateful smile was convincing enough. “I am tired, Olivia. Please just give me my nightgown.”
Olivia quirked her head and pursed her lips but did as bidden. Once the nightgown was on, Olivia asked, “Can I help you with anything else, my lady?”
“That should be all.” Eleanor thanked her and directed Olivia to find her pallet for the night. The door closed behind her, and Eleanor whirled to the bed, throwing aside the canopy to find Logan. “You see! I told you it was a bad idea to come here. What if she had seen
you?”
“What indeed,” he murmured. “What a tragedy if we were forced to wed.”
She nodded in agreement as she waited for him to get out of her bed. When he failed to emerge, she tapped her foot. Removing oneself from another’s bed should not pose this much difficulty. “What are you doing in there?”
“It appears I have caught my clothing on something,” he said from inside the shadowy confines of the canopy.
Eleanor climbed onto the mattress and mumbled, “What could you have possibly been snared on?” She could make out the outline of his prone form in the far corner of her bed, but from what she could see, he did not appear to be stuck on anything. “Are you unhinged? You are not caught.”
He laughed, which only confirmed her fears. “I am caught, my lady, caught by you.” Then he pounced. He rolled her onto her back as he smothered her in his embrace. He laughed as he placed feather kisses on her face. She giggled and tried to roll away, but his arms imprisoned her and she couldn’t escape.
Her eyes met his in the darkness, and she stilled. His dark green eyes held a gravity that belied his laughter, and her heart constricted as she understood that he might have said she had caught him in a jocular manner, but he meant his words with fervent intensity.
The fire crackled, and she placed her hand behind his head. She drew him to her, and he kissed her. Fully, with nothing held back. She abandoned herself to him, without worry of repercussions, just understanding he would always catch her if she should fall. How could she not trust him with every part of her, when he proved himself as the most honorable, thoughtful, and wonderful man she had ever met? No, she was safe with him, safe with this gentleman she had somehow believed beneath her. Safe with a man who set her on fire and burned her to a singed, unrecognizable version of herself. She was safe, yet was she? Her heart said no with every thump. She yearned for him, for nothing but him.
With a final nuzzle, he pulled away and grinned. “See, I told you I am caught. I cannot escape your hold if I tried.”