Page 65 of To Bed the Bride
She could swear that Bruce nodded.
One of the woman’s hands fluttered in the air while the other patted her chest.
“And here I am, not introducing myself properly. I’m the housekeeper for himself. Mrs. Campbell.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Campbell.”
The housekeeper smiled at her, such a bright and cheery expression that Eleanor couldn’t help but smile in return.
“And I you, miss.”
The drawing room was another surprise. The walls were a pale yellow, the furniture upholstered in dark blue. The tables were mahogany and less cluttered with statuary than those in her aunt’s house. One wall was filled with paintings of Scottish scenes from Ben Hagen to Edinburgh, each framed in gold. The fireplace surround was black stone that reminded her of slate, but it was carved with thistles and vines. Overall, the impression was of a masculine, welcoming room honoring Scotland.
Soon enough she was tucked into an overstuffed chair, one of two in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Campbell pushed an ottoman close to her. “You go and put your feet up right there. I’ll be bringing you some tea and some biscuits we made this morning.”
“That really isn’t necessary, Mrs. Campbell. I don’t want you to go to any extra effort on my account.”
“Don’t be silly. The only guests we ever have here are politicians, gruff sorts all. It’s a pleasure to entertain a young miss. A Scot by the sound of it, too, am I right?”
Eleanor nodded. “I am,” she said. “I was born at Hearthmere, in the Highlands.”
“Ah, not far from the Duke of Montrose’s home. That’s how you know himself, then.”
Before she could answer, she heard a door close not far away. Bruce began to wiggle and whine, a sure sign that Logan was coming. In less than a minute he appeared in the doorway.
Mrs. Campbell glanced toward him, her broad smile making her face appear even rounder.
“There he is, then. Himself. And here I thought I was going to have to make you stop reading all those papers of yours and come and visit your guest.”
“What would I do without you, Althea?”
To her surprise, when Logan reached the housekeeper he bent and kissed her on the cheek. Mrs. Campbell’s face reddened in response.
“Oh, get away with you now,” she said, obviously flustered. “I’ll go and get that tea.”
“And whatever you were baking this morning,” Logan said. “It smelled delicious.”
“Just a bit of shortbread with some currants. Sweet enough for you, I’m thinking.”
“Do you have a sweet tooth?” Eleanor asked after Mrs. Campbell left the room.
Logan came and sat on the adjoining chair. “I do. Luckily, Mrs. Campbell does as well. Cook keeps us both well supplied.”
Bruce forgot his manners and tried to crawl into Logan’s lap. He only laughed and pushed the puppy down to the rug again.
“He’s grown a great deal in two weeks,” he said.
“A little over two weeks,” she answered. “Fifteen days.” With a little time she could probably calculate the hours.
He held her gaze for a minute before glancing down at Bruce again. “Yes, fifteen days.”
He looked tired, but from the newspaper reports there was reason for it. There was speculation that Mr. Disraeli would not be reelected as Prime Minister. Mr. Gladstone had more support. When she said as much to Logan, he smiled.
“You’re remarkably well informed, Eleanor. I think you read more than one newspaper every day.”
She had, at least in the past fifteen days. Because of him she’d taken to reading everything she could find. She wanted to know what he was doing during the day, what he thought, and what he said.
Her father would’ve liked him, and her uncle as well. Logan was a man of convictions and sometimes fervently defended them. He never forgot that he was a Scot or that his loyalty was owed first to his homeland. Occasionally, he went toe to toe with an English politician who made no secret of his disdain for the other members of the Commonwealth: Wales, Ireland, or Scotland. According to the newspapers, Logan lost no time or opportunity excoriating the man. He’d gotten a reputation for being fiercely defensive. Some reporter had labeled him the Savage Scot.
