Page 73 of To Bed the Bride
Now she knew it was nothing that decent.
Michael Herridge was simply a bully. An attractive, well-dressed, wealthy, charming, and titled bully.
A strange place to have such an epiphany, but perhaps it was fitting after all. They were always on their way to some social event or another. They rarely sat and talked. She’d spent more time with Logan than she ever had with her fiancé.
Even worse, she would have gladly traded one man for the other.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Eleanor was on her way back up to her room when her aunt called her into the Ladies Parlor.
“What is the matter with you, Eleanor? You’ve been sulking all morning.”
She hadn’t felt like speaking to anyone and had retreated to the park for a few hours. If she’d still had Bruce she would’ve cuddled with him for a little while or even told him about this aching feeling of betrayal. Her conversation with Michael still replayed in her mind.
“Are you ill? You were out very late last night.”
“Michael wanted to remain at the party.”
He’d been in an expansive mood, greeting people with a smile, exerting all the charm she knew he possessed. As for her, she’d been in a daze most of the night. She remembered meeting some people, but couldn’t recall either their faces or their names. All that she could think about was what Michael was planning.
“Well, then, that’s understandable.”
Was anything Michael did acceptable to her aunt? Could he do nothing wrong?
Eleanor came and sat on the chair opposite the couch where her aunt was sitting. There was a book on etiquette on Deborah’s lap. No doubt she was going to impart some knowledge to her later on how to be a countess.
“Tell me you haven’t quarreled with him.”
“No, I haven’t quarreled.”
“I sometimes think the man is a saint to put up with your disposition.”
“My disposition?”
“Such as right now. You’re acting almost sullen. When I ask what’s wrong, you won’t answer me. Are you ailing?”
“I’m not ill, Aunt Deborah. I’m heartsick. Michael’s going to sell my horses. My father’s horses. The Hearthmere bloodline.”
Deborah shook her head. “The worst thing your father ever did was leave Hearthmere to you. You’ve become fixated on it. If Michael thinks it’s best to sell them, then of course that’s what you must do. I’m certain it’s a wise decision on his part.”
“It’s my inheritance. He has no right to sell them.”
“Of course he does. He’s going to be your husband.”
“Does that mean he can do anything he wishes and I have no say?”
“Of course. Now go and take yourself off to your bedroom. It’s a good thing Michael isn’t here. If he saw you looking as you are right now he would immediately regret his offer.”
Eleanor stood and left the parlor without another word. Once in her room she sat at her secretary and wrote a letter to Mr. Babbage. Her father’s solicitor had called upon her from time to time, even after she moved to London with her aunt’s family.
“Your father was a friend of mine,” he’d told her during their last meeting a year ago. “I consider it a sacred duty to ensure that you are well and happy, my dear.”
She had hastened to reassure Mr. Babbage that she was both, even though she would much rather have remained in Scotland.
“Your aunt has not proven difficult, has she? She’s still kept to the letter of our agreement, I hope. You return home a month each year, don’t you?”
“I do. Thank you for that, Mr. Babbage. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t go back to Scotland for a little while.”
