Page 30 of To Bed the Bride
Chapter Thirteen
The tea tray had been delivered along with an assortment of pastries. Michael was late, but then, Michael was often late. Eleanor had learned to factor in an extra quarter hour whenever he was expected somewhere.
The only time she’d said something to him about his punctuality, his eyes got that hooded look as if his lids were half closed. He stared at something in the distance and kept his silence longer than was comfortable, giving her the feeling that she’d overstepped. His next comment proved it.
“If I’m late, Eleanor, it’s for an excellent reason. You will simply have to accept that.”
Sometimes when she asked a question, Michael wouldn’t deign to answer. At other times, he would change the subject. It had only taken her a few occasions to learn that it was better to wait until Michael wanted to divulge something than to ask him about it.
Her aunt had added her own coaching. “He’s an earl, Eleanor. You can’t expect him to be like other men.”
Why not? He was human, like other men. What kind of training had Michael received from birth to believe that he was somehow superior to others?
Deborah, in her way, was like Michael. She, too, did not like being questioned, especially when it was a topic about which she knew. Aunt Deborah counted social functions, dress, comportment, and even marriage among her areas of expertise.
Eleanor did not mind ceding some of the details of her wedding to her aunt. After all, Deborah had more experience in those matters. However, she was adamant about one issue. She’d brought her mother’s wedding dress, still wrapped in the blue fabric that had protected it for years, with her back to London. She wouldn’t budge on that; she was going to wear her mother’s dress.
She glanced down at Bruce, sleeping in the little nest she’d made for him out of a cast-off blanket. He was already a favorite among the staff. More than one maid had come to her and asked permission to offer him a bit of a treat. At the rate they were going Bruce would not only grow, he would get fat. Perhaps it would be wiser for her to say no, but it was the first time she’d ever talked to some of the staff.
When they had moved into Hamilton’s home, she’d tried to establish some type of rapport with the servants, only to be chastised by her aunt.
“One does not socialize with the staff, Eleanor,” she said after finding her in the kitchen chatting with a new maid. The poor girl was barely more than a child and had seemed miserable. Surely a kind word was not out of the question?
After that episode, however, she’d kept her conversation with the servants topleaseandthank you. Yet because of Bruce, a few of the maids started sharing tales of their own dogs with her.
Had Logan known that Bruce would be a link to other people? No, it wouldn’t do to think of Logan right now, especially when she was waiting for Michael. Was Logan punctual? She had a feeling that he was. How very odd that she was guessing at a stranger’s behavior. She didn’t know him. Yet their short conversation was one of the most honest she’d ever had.
Riding away from the cottage that day she’d felt two uncomfortable emotions. First, she missed her father with a surge of grief so powerful it was as if he had just died. If he’d been alive, she would’ve gone to him and told him about the strange shepherd who wasn’t a shepherd. The second emotion was another type of grief, perhaps. She kept looking down at the empty basket, missing Bruce.
Had Logan known that she would miss Bruce? Was that why he’d brought the puppy back?
She was, perhaps, giving too much weight to a chance encounter. Or perhaps Logan McKnight had been wiser than she’d given him credit for being.
Perhaps she should write him to say that she appreciated the gift of Bruce, after all. That would be the polite thing to do. Or even call upon him since he lived here in London. She didn’t have her own maid, but Aunt Deborah was beginning to interview candidates for the post. Evidently, a countess must have a lady’s maid. Until someone was hired she could surely borrow one of the upstairs maids to accompany her to Logan’s lodgings. That way, the visit wouldn’t be considered shocking. Merely two Scottish neighbors calling on each other. That’s all.
“You’re looking well,” Michael said from the doorway. “That color flatters you, Eleanor.”
She stood, clasping her hands together.
“Thank you,” she said, wondering if she should tell him the blue dress was new, then decided against it. “You’re looking well, too,” she added, before sitting again.
Michael was an exceedingly handsome man, blessed with a smile that lit up his blue eyes and made him seem even more charming. His black hair was thick and often tumbled down on his brow. His features were perfect as if God himself had arranged each one to fit in his aristocratic face. He was tall and broad-shouldered, possessed of a grace demonstrated in any of his activities, from walking to dancing to simply standing, allowing the rest of the world to look their fill.
If she were viewing him dispassionately, she wouldn’t be able to find anything about him to criticize.
He could be kind. Witness the time he’d asked Jenny Woolsey to dance after she’d been sitting along the wall for nearly an hour. Since he didn’t enjoy dancing himself, it had been a nice gesture. When Eleanor had been distraught over the treatment of a draft horse, Michael had intervened.
If he was sometimes autocratic, perhaps it was an adequate counterbalance to his perfection.
When he’d first made an appearance at a dance, she’d been impressed by his charm. He’d greeted numerous people by name, was complimentary to the young women he met, and seemed to sincerely like those men who came up to him.
When he’d initially asked her to dance, she’d been stunned. Michael Herridge was askingherto dance? Of course she said yes, only to catch the looks of several of the girls with whom she shared her season. It was the first time in her life that she’d ever incited jealousy in anyone, and she had to admit it was a heady experience.
Their conversation was somewhat muted by her awe of him. She couldn’t remember what they’d talked about at first. Not horses, certainly, even though she knew more about them than anything else. Certainly not the breeding program at Hearthmere. In addition, she’d been given strict instructions by her aunt not to discuss politics. Men, Deborah claimed, were put off by a woman who espoused a political viewpoint. Any political viewpoint.
From that night on, Michael made a point of singling her out, and she’d been flattered by the attention and a little bemused. Her aunt was overjoyed and heaped praise on her—something that had never happened before.
When Michael told her that he’d already spoken to Hamilton and her aunt and that he would very much like her hand in marriage, she’d been dumbstruck. It hadn’t occurred to her until later that it meant she’d be the Countess of Wescott.
