by Karen Ranney
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.
He still ate as though he was starving, which meant that she sometimes fed him at noon in addition to mornings and evenings. It didn’t seem possible, but he’d grown in the past dozen days. His paws were just as large, but he seemed longer and something was happening to his tail. It was growing increasingly fluffy.
“What are you going to do about it?” Jeremy asked now.
“As long as the dog’s not a problem I don’t see that there’s anything I need to do about it,” her aunt answered.
“I don’t want a dog in the house,” he said.
“That really isn’t your concern. This isn’t your house. When you have your own establishment you can dictate the rules.”
Eleanor could just imagine Jeremy’s expression at that comment. Her cousin had completed his education, but had not yet settled into an occupation. Her aunt’s husband had offered Jeremy at least three separate positions in one of his companies, but Jeremy was still “mulling over his options.” However, he had not yet moved out of his stepfather’s house and was supported in all ways by Hamilton Richards.
She might have considered him spoiled, but for one thing. Her aunt was not overly maternal to her son. When she spoke to him—or about him—she did so in a distracted, almost offhand manner.
Daphne, however, was a different matter. Daphne might be married, with her own establishment, but she was often here. It wasn’t a rare sight to see Daphne taking tea with her mother or even being here for breakfast. As far as Deborah was concerned, Daphne was a perfect being. From the very beginning of her season Deborah believed that her daughter’s ethereal beauty would capture a title. For that reason Deborah spent a fortune on new clothes, a dancing master, even a French teacher to make Daphne seem more polished and cosmopolitan, the perfect wife for a duke or an earl.
As a child Eleanor had often imagined what her mother might’ve been like if she hadn’t died in childbirth. A common tragedy, she’d been told when she was o
ld enough to get the correct answer as to why she didn’t have a mother. She’d told herself that it was foolish to wish for something she’d never had, especially since she was lucky enough to have warm and tender memories of her father. As a little girl she’d often perched on top of his shoulders as they walked from the house to the stable complex. Her first memories of him were punctuated by his laughter. People liked Archie Craig.
In that way her Uncle William had been like his older brother. He’d been a gentle man, one with a soft voice and a retiring manner. She often found it difficult to believe that he had attracted the lively Deborah.
Hamilton Richards seemed more her aunt’s type of partner. His voice was loud, his character boisterous. He commanded rather than asked. She couldn’t imagine Hamilton ever pleading for anything, even Deborah’s hand in marriage. Their union had been a surprise to everyone; they’d only been back in London a matter of months before her aunt announced the upcoming nuptials.
Her cousins had been ecstatic to move into the mammoth townhouse in a fashionable square. As for Eleanor, she hadn’t cared. She’d trailed along, almost as an afterthought. It was only at Hearthmere that she felt she belonged.
“She’s fixated on that dog, Mother. It nearly bit me the other day.”
Bruce did no such thing. Jeremy was exaggerating again.
She really needed to step out and announce herself. Bruce had not, thankfully, found anything to bark at, although Jeremy wasn’t one of his favorite people. When Jeremy had returned from Edinburgh, the puppy had greeted him by lifting his leg and relieving himself on Jeremy’s shoe. She’d been so startled that she hadn’t apologized to her cousin. Then, the look on his face had been so amusing that she’d burst into laughter. He’d been angry ever since.
“But you won’t do that again, will you?” she whispered to Bruce. He licked her chin again in agreement.
She’d made the decision to take a Hearthmere carriage to London because she hadn’t wanted to spend all that time with Jeremy sulking or glowering at her. She hadn’t sent Liam home yet. The driver had expressed a wish to see a bit of London, so both he and the carriage would remain here for a little while. Thankfully, Hamilton hadn’t objected.
Eleanor backed out of the butler’s pantry, nodding to several of the maids who knew quite well that she’d been eavesdropping. The servants in London had a rigid hierarchy and considered themselves better than most people, including their employers. She had the feeling, however, that they occasionally commiserated with her. Aunt Deborah could be fearsome in her expectations. When any one of the servants failed to meet her standards, she didn’t hesitate to dress them down wherever she found them. Consequently, the entire household was privy to her irritation.
Now Eleanor slipped out the side door to the back of the house, past the square of lawn, and into the alley. Only then did she put Bruce down on the ground, making sure that his lead was secure.
She’d heard Hamilton say once that he’d purchased the property because of the park. A short distance away from the back door was a wrought iron gate. She lifted the latch and entered, Bruce following eagerly.
This area of Queen’s Park was secluded and, for the most part, private. Because Queen’s Park had no statuary, lakes, or buildings—unlike Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park—it was rarely crowded. People chose other places to walk or ride. Eleanor preferred the magnificent, fully grown trees and wide gravel paths here.
Even in the midst of a sunny day, the canopy of branches overhead shaded the area. When it was drizzling it was still pleasant, the leaves sheltering her and creating almost an intimate and shadowed space.
Yesterday was the first time she’d brought the puppy here, but Bruce already seemed to anticipate the outing. Queen’s Park had always been a respite from her London life and it looked like Bruce felt the same.
After consulting her watch, she found her favorite iron bench and sat, allowing the lead to play out a little. In less than an hour she was meeting with Michael. He’d asked to call on her today, the visit their first since Eleanor had returned from Scotland.
She and Bruce went through their training. She had a few pieces of liver one of the maids had slipped her earlier wrapped in a handkerchief in her pocket. In Scotland Norma had told her how important it was for dogs to be trained. Having no prior experience she’d taken the maid’s word for it and had learned what she needed to teach him.
When he sat, she praised him and gave him a piece of liver. Standing, she walked to the other side of the path, watching as he obeyed the command to stay. The one she thought was most important, however, was a command for him to come to her. Otherwise, she’d never be able to let him off his lead.
She dropped the lead, took four steps away, and said, “Come.”
He came to sit in front of her, a fluffy ball of fur with large paws and a strange-looking tail. She could swear he smiled at her when she bent down and gave him another piece of liver.
They practiced for another fifteen minutes. When the liver was gone they walked down the wide road for another few minutes, Bruce investigating the grass, the gravel, and the falling leaves. Finally, when there was no more time to spare, she led him back through the gate.
Bruce seemed as reluctant as she to head to the townhouse. She reassured him that they’d return later, just before it got dark. For now she had to talk to her fiancé.
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 to please and thank you. Yet because of Bruce, a few o
f 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.
