Page 36 of To Bed the Bride
Her cousin was coming closer, advancing in that way of hers that looked like she was gliding, as if her feet didn’t quite touch the floor. Despite the fact that she had given birth to two children—both of them darling creatures—Daphne was as slender as when she was a debutante.
Her complexion was pale and flawless. Her blond hair was always arranged in an elaborate style flattering her oval face. Her blue-green eyes, a rare shade Eleanor had never seen in anyone other than Deborah, were her most arresting feature.
She exuded something that only recently had Eleanor identified as confidence. Did all attractive people have it?
Perhaps it was knowledge that they’d been better served by nature than the rest of humanity. Perhaps, every morning, after looking in the mirror, they were reassured as to their worth. Eleanor didn’t know, because she didn’t possess such confidence. The closest she came to feeling it was the time she spent in Scotland, where she was surrounded by things she loved and memories of a father who loved her. Was the confidence beautiful people felt provided by the people around them instead of their physical appearance? Was it the adoration of others that fed their self-esteem?
Another question for which she had no answer.
Daphne spoke, words Eleanor couldn’t hear. No doubt something along the lines of asking him to escort her into dinner. Just as easy as that, Logan was gone, offering his arm to her cousin, turning and leaving Eleanor without another word spoken. It felt as if he should have said something.
“I’ll keep your secret. I won’t tell anyone that I stole a kiss from you and you didn’t protest.”
He didn’t say anything at all.
How surprising to feel disappointed.
He didn’t understand how the hell Eleanor Craig was here in London, in this house. Let alone that she was engaged to be married, to a man who elicited only contempt from him. Herridge was a poseur, someone who spouted all the right words, but rarely followed through with his promises. Nor did Herridge know what the hell he was talking about half the time. He understood only about a tenth of the topics of his frequent lectures. The only saving grace was that the man was easily bored. He took up his position in the House of Lords periodically, but not as often as he should have. As far as Logan was concerned, the fewer times he attended Parliament, the better.
That was the man Eleanor was going to marry?
He couldn’t decide if he was angrier about the omission of her engagement or the fact that she was going to marry Herridge. The man was a puffed-up idiot. She wasn’t. Unless he’d totally misjudged her.
“...in Parliament?”
He realized that he hadn’t been paying attention to his companion’s question. No doubt Mrs. Baker was not used to being ignored. She was a beauty with white-blond hair and piercing green eyes. In certain parts of the world she would probably be worshiped as an idol come to life. Here in London she’d no doubt been feted as the toast of the season.
Seen beside Eleanor, however, she was a gaslight next to a candle. He’d never liked the glare of a gas lamp, preferring candlelight where feasible.
To her dismay, Eleanor was seated next to Logan.
“You two will have a great deal to discuss, both being from Scotland,” her aunt said sotto voce as she passed Eleanor.
Evidently, her aunt had forgotten that she’d lived in Scotland for the past two decades, given birth to two half-Scottish children, and raised them there.
Of course, Eleanor couldn’t say anything of the sort, so she sat, prayed that Logan would direct his attention to anyone but her, and hoped that the rest of this evening would not prove to be interminable like most of the social events she had been commanded to attend.
She hadn’t wanted a season, but she’d known there was little chance that she could escape one. Daphne had been the toast of London a few years earlier. Aunt Deborah was hoping that Eleanor could make some kind of mark, if only to continue the family reputation. Unfortunately, that first year Eleanor fell short. The nightly ritual of having to explain everything to her aunt had been tiresome. When they attended the same function she was relieved, on one hand. It meant she wouldn’t have to recount who was there, what they wore, and who said what. On the other hand, it meant that Aunt Deborah gave her a narrow-eyed glance most of the night.
Just as she was right now.
Aunt Deborah was probably going to be disappointed in her tonight, too.
Eleanor was, frankly, at a loss when it came to social functions. She didn’t, despite the fact that she had diligently practiced, have the ability to laugh in that tinkling way some women possessed. Her laugh came out as a guffaw which had the effect of startling her companion.
She was bored when talking about the weather or other acceptable topics at the dinner table such as traffic in London, the erection of the newest statue, or the play currently being performed.
What she wanted to talk about would shock all the guests. Women did not discuss breeding in any form and definitely not when it came to horses.
To Eleanor’s left was Logan. To her right was Daphne, and she sat across the table from Michael. The seating arrangement was commonplace. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for their guest. He was most definitely not the normal kind of visitor.
She took Logan’s presence to mean that Hamilton was becoming more involved in politics. Was he going to contribute more? Or did he simply see himself as an elder statesman, someone who could give younger men advice on how to run the country?
Logan leaned closer to her. His sleeve brushed her wrist, making it tingle. What would she do if he actually put his hand on top of hers? Everyone would look. Not only would behavior like that be unacceptable, but it would cause everyone to speculate.
Thankfully, he didn’t touch her.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in a soft voice as he concentrated on his soup. “You’re supposed to be in Scotland.”
