Page 46 of To Bed the Bride
Now was the perfect opportunity to tell him that he mustn’t single her out in any way. Doing so would further irritate Michael, and although she was certain that irritating Michael would please Logan to no end, it would only cause her problems.
When she said as much to him, he didn’t say anything for a moment.
Finally, he said, “I’m going to make it my life’s work never to see you again, Eleanor.”
She met his eyes before looking away. Why would he say something like that? He hadn’t seemed like the kind of person who would deliberately hurt someone else.
“Why?” she couldn’t help but ask. Even as she did she knew it was foolish. She was tiptoeing too close to something forbidden. Instead, she should welcome his words, proof that one of them was sensible.
“Why?” He sat back, regarding the canopy of branches above them. “Because you’re a temptation. You make me want to say things that I shouldn’t. Or do things that are unwise. You intrigue me and irritate me and a half-dozen other emotions. It would be infinitely better if I forgot you.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t know whether to be pleased at his words or horrified. He wasn’t sensible after all.
Neither was she.
“I’m surprised that you don’t clash with Herridge, but you don’t, do you? He doesn’t see you as you truly are, does he? You’re an entirely different person in London, Eleanor, than the woman I met in Scotland. What’s happened to you?”
“You can be the most obnoxious man.”
He grinned at her. “There she is. That’s the woman I’ve been missing.”
She frowned at him. She really shouldn’t be here. Nor, if she was honest with herself, should she be enjoying herself so much.
She could almost hear her aunt’s voice, disembodied and sounding too censorious.Eleanor, what do you think you’re doing? Michael wouldn’t be happy if he saw you now. Do you want to jeopardize your engagement?
They really should go back to addressing each other properly, not as Logan and Eleanor. Yet as long as they were alone—another impropriety—did it matter?
Her aunt would say yes. So would her cousin.
So would all of society.
How very strange that she didn’t seem to care.
“Why are you so different here? In Scotland you were animated, interesting, and a fascinating woman.”
“And I’m not now?” she asked, her face warming.
“You’re still fascinating, but not for the same reasons. I’m confused. There’s Scottish Eleanor and then there’s London Eleanor. What happens, you cross the border and you change?”
She didn’t know how to answer him. “I don’t feel like myself here,” she finally said. “I never have.”
“You’re suffering from the same disease I’ve seen in other fellow Scots. You feel inferior to the English.”
“Do I?” She regarded him with amazement. “I don’t think I do, no.”
“Then why are you so different?”
She thought about it for a moment. She knew who she was at home. Eleanor Craig of Hearthmere. Here she was simply Eleanor Craig, transplanted Scot. Of no importance, actually.
When she said that to him, he smiled. “You do feel inferior or you wouldn’t say that you’re of no importance. You’re just as good as any English woman, Eleanor, and perhaps better than most. You’re a Scot.”
“I shall take care to remind myself of that every morning,” she said.
How odd that it was so easy to smile at him. Or feel a rush of pleasure when he smiled back.
Chapter Eighteen
