Page 25 of To Bed the Bride
Her father had paid attention to her, but when he died it was as if she’d become invisible. How strange that she only realized that now. Or the fact that people noticed her once more when she’d become engaged to an earl.
She didn’t know what to do about the situation, which was why she went to her room, changed to her riding skirt, and headed for the stable.
Only to encounter Mrs. Willett.
She’d forgotten about the inspection of the storerooms, always done when she arrived at Hearthmere for her month. The housekeeper was set for doing that now and Eleanor couldn’t think of a justifiable reason to delay. Her foul mood was not an adequate excuse for failing to do her duty.
Therefore, she was three hours past the time she wanted to go riding before she got to the stable. There must’ve been something in her expression because Mr. Contino didn’t say a word to her, merely waved her toward Maud’s stall. After the stable boy assisted her in saddling the mare, she was finally away. She deliberately rode in a new direction, unwilling to go near the cottage or accidentally see Logan McKnight.
Fred Steering stood at the open door of the crofter’s hut and stared inside. One side of his lip curled slightly and there was a contemptuous look in his eyes.
Strange, how some people instantly disliked certain individuals or situations. What Logan always thought ironic was that the object of their dislike was someone similar to themselves. He’d noticed that plump women were critical about other plump women. Cutthroat politicians identified that trait in their contemporaries. In this case, Fred was sneering at the obvious poverty in the cottage. The man had grown up in one of the poorest parts of London and had educated himself through a series of happy accidents, namely that he’d nearly been run over by the Duke of Montrose’s carriage. The result was that the duke himself had taken on the care of young Mr. Steering.
Logan had hired him as his secretary and he’d been well pleased with the young man’s ambition, knowledge of people, and common sense.
Logan sat there watching, his finger in a book, taking note of where Fred’s eyes lit. He examined the small kitchen, the wooden dowel where Old Ned hung his coat. The sofa sagged. The chair next to it, where Logan sat, was surprisingly comfortable. Ned had built it himself and had carved wolves and other animals on the arms and back. No sheep, however.
“Sir?” Fred said, finally seeing him. “Are you ready to leave?”
“I am. And you, as usual, are right on time.” He motioned to his valise and the briefcase where he’d kept those papers that he needed to read in the past two weeks.
“Yes, sir.”
“I take it you’ve brought me more work,” he said, glancing at the leather case under Fred’s arm.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Disraeli has some documents that he would like you to look over and give him some input on. Some things to do with Scottish law, sir.”
“Immediately, I take it?”
Fred nodded.
At least he’d been able to get away for a while. The respite had allowed him some time to think, to examine the path his life was taking. Like Fred, he’d been guided by the Duke of Montrose. Now he was a member of Parliament, duly elected and expected to serve.
He’d often had the thought that life wasn’t predestined like some religions believed as much as the result of an ongoing battle. Maybe angels were on one side and Fate on the other. The angels decreed that a man be kind. Fate gave him an enormous inheritance. The result was a benefactor lauded by society for his generosity.
In his case he thought that the angels might have given him the ability to talk someone into anything. In turn, Fate decreed that he should believe wholeheartedly in Scotland. Therefore, he was an evangelist of sorts destined to clash with his peers in Parliament on an ongoing basis.
He’d taken his nationality for granted until he’d gone to London. There, it had been pointed out to him, at every possible turn, that he was slightly less acceptable than an Englishman. While he’d always thought being a Scot gave him an advantage, it was all too obvious that some Englishmen—including a few of his fellow members of Parliament—didn’t feel the same. Disraeli had been cunning enough to have figured out his irritation. The man didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it on an ongoing basis. Therefore, he asked Logan for a Scottish point of view on any proposed legislation remotely involving Scotland.
When he stood, Bruce, who’d been sleeping next to the chair, stretched and yawned.
Fred stared. “You have a dog, sir.”
“Actually, he’s more of a puppy at the moment, Fred.”
“Are you taking him to London?”
“No,” he said. “We’re going to take him home.”
He hoped Eleanor would understand. She’d named the puppy, which was a sign that she didn’t dislike him as much as she said. Plus, Bruce needed a home. Perhaps raising the puppy would help her overcome her fear of dogs. If nothing else, Bruce would create a bond between Logan and Eleanor Craig.
He didn’t want to forget her, an unusual reaction since it had never happened to him before. He hadn’t the time for relationships of any sort, let alone one with a woman living in Scotland. Perhaps they could begin a correspondence, one with her castigating him and him teasing her.
Eleanor Craig interested him.
She seemed entirely without artifice or vanity. She hadn’t worn a hat. Therefore, she didn’t have any concerns about deepening the shade of her complexion. Her riding habit, altered to allow her to ride astride, was old, and he doubted it was in fashion. She hadn’t seemed to care whether her thick brunette hair had come loose from its bun. Nor did she fiddle. She didn’t look for a mirror or constantly press her hands against her clothing, face, or hair. She didn’t simper. Yet Miss Eleanor Craig was not apathetic by any means. She almost vibrated with emotion, especially when challenged. Her blue eyes had flashed at him, her anger not difficult to interpret.
Bruce would serve as a bond between them. If not, then a wall. One way or another he wasn’t going to let Eleanor Craig slip out of his life.
