Page 28 of To Bed the Bride
Daphne’s white-blond hair was so pale a shade that, by candlelight, it looked like a halo around her head. Her eyes, like her mother’s, were bluish green, a shade likened often enough to ocean waves that the compliment sounded trite and mundane. She was tall and willowy, exceedingly graceful, an excellent dancer, and, according to Aunt Deborah, a sparkling conversationalist.
In comparison, Eleanor’s hair was brown. It was simply brown with no redeeming features like red or gold highlights. Her eyes were blue, but not a remarkable shade of blue. She had her father’s eyes. Her eyelashes were long and curled of their own accord, not requiring any torturous devices to make them do so. Her hair, too, curled on its own, a little too much from time to time.
She didn’t have Grecian features or a delicate classical beauty. She was just herself with a chin that was perhaps a little too stubborn and a high forehead that required she wear her hair in a fashion to compensate. Her nose was just a nose, but her cheekbones were rather high, giving her an intriguing appearance when she turned just so.
Her teeth were good, white and straight. Even Daphne’s were not as straight as hers. Her voice was, perhaps, not as breathy as her cousin’s. She didn’t want to force people to lean forward in order to hear her. Plus, it seemed rather ridiculous to pretend to be so fragile, especially after coming off the dance floor. If a woman was really that delicate she would have fainted during a waltz.
She detested dancing and no amount of teaching would make her more competent at it. Last year she’d had a dancing master who came to the house, parading her through the upstairs ballroom while pretending to hear a nonexistent orchestra.
“I can do wonders, madame,” he had finally announced to her aunt, “if the student wishes to avail themselves of my talents. Unfortunately, your niece has no such wish. She has announced on several different occasions that she thinks dancing is ridiculous. Ridiculous, madame. How is anyone to contend with that kind of attitude?”
Her aunt, however, had prevailed upon Monsieur Lejeune to return. That’s one of the things Eleanor had to look forward to when she went back to London. The man had garlic breath and clammy hands. Beyond that, he had a love of dance that she was doomed never to share.
Fortunately, Michael felt the same way. Therefore, she doubted they would dance all that often in the future.
Her aunt, enlivened by the thought that Eleanor was going to be a countess, was determined to do what she could to expand Eleanor’s talents.
“You are to be a countess, my dear girl. A countess! I had thought that you might marry a tradesman or perhaps someone Hamilton brought home for you to meet, but this? This is the opportunity of a lifetime. You must present your best side at all times.”
She and her aunt had, ever since coming to London, ignored each other for the most part. The difference between then and now in terms of how Deborah treated her was disconcerting. Every time the wedding was mentioned her aunt smiled brightly at her.
So she was treated to dance lessons, comportment lessons—which concentrated on her walk, how to sit, stand, and move—lessons on etiquette, including being quizzed on how to address everyone from the Queen on down, and generally being shaped into Deborah’s idea of a countess.
She caught Hamilton’s look occasionally and knew that while he commiserated, there would be no rescue from that quarter.
No, she was going to have to save herself, but she didn’t know how. Perhaps letting Deborah handle all the arrangements for the wedding was one way. At least she wouldn’t have to be involved with all of that. Her aunt was nothing if not determined. Look at what she had accomplished in her life. She’d gone from being a poor but proud London woman to marrying a Scottish poet. Her second husband was a fabulously wealthy soap magnate and her current home was a mansion in the loveliest part of London. Those feats were not accidental. Deborah Craig Richards was a woman with an iron will.
Eleanor would have to return to London shortly even though she didn’t want to go.
Only two weeks. The first week was nearly over. Time had flown by and part of that should be laid at the feet of a certain Scot by the name of Logan McKnight. She really should write the man, if nothing else, and tell him how she didn’t appreciate his bringing Bruce back to her. Except... she looked down at the puppy, now playing with a leaf. Except that he was the sweetest thing. He’d been a joy to have around for the past few days.
Oh, bother. The man still needed a dressing down. What a pity that she wasn’t going to deliver it.
Chapter Twelve
“Tell her to get rid of the bloody dog, Mother.”
“Such language, Jeremy. We don’t talk that way in this house.”
“Sorry, Mother. But she’s been a stubborn idiot about that dog. She stopped the carriage and insisted on returning to Hearthmere just because I told her I didn’t want to travel with him all the way to London. She took her own carriage here. We were a damn odd caravan. We lost sight of them several times, whenever she insisted on letting the cur out to wander on the side of the road.”
“How very odd. Eleanor doesn’t like dogs.”
“Something happened in Scotland, then. She likes this one.”
Eleanor glanced down at Bruce in her arms. He licked her chin. She stroked his ears in response.
She really should make her presence known instead of lurking in the butler’s pantry. She hadn’t meant to listen. She’d been on her way to the kitchen door.
They’d only been back in London for two days. Her aunt hadn’t said anything about Bruce. Eleanor had been very careful to take him to the small backyard every few hours, so he hadn’t had any accidents. She didn’t make a fuss out of asking for minced beef and vegetables for him. She’d been more than willing to share her meals with him if the cook had refused. She hadn’t. Instead, she’d petted the puppy, telling Eleanor that he reminded her of a dog she’d had as a girl.
All she had to do to keep Jeremy happy and mitigate any future problems with her aunt was to announce that she had every intention of getting rid of Bruce. After all, she had Logan McKnight’s address. It would be easy enough to call on him and give Bruce back.
Except that she wasn’t sure she wanted to relinquish the puppy.
Most of her life she’d been alone, a feeling she had even when surrounded by people. Although her uncle, aunt, and cousins had moved to Hearthmere, she’d never felt part of their family. She hadn’t considered Daphne or Jeremy to be her siblings. Nor did they treat her as if she was their younger sister. She was simply Eleanor, someone to ignore if possible and barely tolerate if not.
Bruce was a companion she hadn’t even known she needed. Logan was right. The puppy did seem to have an affinity for her. Plus, she had a growing affection for him.
