by Karen Ranney
She glanced around surreptitiously, wondering if anyone had overheard. Everyone was concentrating on their fish course. Everyone but her aunt, who was seated at the foot of the table and looking over everything with an eye to any imperfections.
“No.”
“No, you aren’t? Or no, you didn’t say?”
“Must you discuss this now?” she whispered. “You didn’t tell me you were a member of Parliament, either. You let me think you were a shepherd, of all things.”
“I almost confessed that day in the cottage. I was afraid, however, that you would be so impressed that you would turn into every other female I’ve met.”
She stared at him. “What kind of female would that be?”
Perhaps her voice was a bit louder than she intended, because Thomas, Daphne, and Hamilton glanced at her.
Logan, however, only smiled.
Had he done that on purpose? She had the idea that he was goading her deliberately and that it was some kind of payment for not telling him she was engaged.
Annoying man.
“I understand you’ve recently returned from Abyssinia,” Hamilton said.
She sensed Logan’s instantaneous reaction. How foolish. Yet she knew, somehow, that he was wishing that the conversation would take a more comfortable turn.
“Yes,” he said. Just that and no more.
The terseness of his response would have been a signal to anyone not to continue that line of questioning, but Hamilton had never been intuitive or even mildly aware.
“I understand the campaign was a success. Good thing we beat the barbarians back.”
Logan put down his fork and sat back in his chair.
She didn’t know how she knew, but the next words out of Logan’s mouth would not be suitable for the dinner table. He was going to spear Hamilton with a few well-chosen words. Or he was going to regale the entire table with details too ghastly even for nightmares.
“I’ve recently returned from Scotland,” she said brightly, holding up her glass of wine. “Have you recently traveled to Scotland, Mr. McKnight?”
He looked at her for a long moment. Perhaps he could read the pleading in her eyes. Or maybe rational thought broke through the fog of his anger.
“Indeed I have, Miss Craig. I was taking a sabbatical in the Highlands.”
“Truly?”
She gripped her wineglass too tightly, wondering if she’d made a terrible mistake by mentioning Scotland. Was he about to divulge everything, including their kiss? Daphne looked entirely too interested in their conversation and Michael was frowning.
“It’s a backward country,” Michael said.
Eleanor nearly closed her eyes and moaned aloud. The very last thing she needed was for Michael to toss hot coals onto a dry bale of hay.
Logan leaned forward, addressing Michael. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
Evidently, he could be a politician after all.
“Of course Scotland isn’t a backward country, Michael,” she said. “In fact, I would be willing to wager that we’ve given the world more inventions and discoveries, not to mention advances in medicine and science, than England or the rest of the Commonwealth.”
Michael looked surprised at her comment, as did the rest of the people at the table. The only person who was smiling was Logan.
As she sat back, allowing a servant to replace her fish course, she realized that Logan had done it to her again.
Chapter Sixteen
Unfortunately, the end of dinner didn’t mean the end of the evening. The gentlemen did adjourn, leaving Aunt Deborah, Daphne, and Eleanor to go to the drawing room. As usual, Daphne played the piano. Her cousin was accomplished in a great many things. She could paint as well, and several of her landscapes adorned the walls of the townhouse. She also sang beautifully and had often entertained guests.
Eleanor could stumble through a selection of tunes, but she couldn’t sing. Nor did she recite poetry with any great skill. Her talents were those things that had no place in the drawing room. She could ride like the wind, since she’d been on horseback nearly before she could walk. She could run a household, and make bread, scones, and a selection of biscuits whose recipes she’d learned from Hearthmere’s cook. In addition, she was a prodigious reader, having educated herself by beginning at the first bookshelf in Hearthmere’s library and continuing on. She was currently at the P section and was determined to finish the entirety of the library one day.
None of those skills seemed to have a place in the life she led right now. Nor would they in her future.
The gentlemen were, no doubt, involved in interesting discussions while she was pacing the drawing room.
What a pity that she couldn’t participate in those conversations, but she was not supposed to know anything about what went on at Parliament. She would wager that she was as well informed as any man, with the exception of Logan perhaps. Yet because she was a woman, she was expected to only want to discuss housekeeping matters or fashion. The only exceptions to those topics were children and sometimes a man’s peccadilloes.
Michael was never a subject during the all-female sessions in the drawing room. Nor, she suspected, would Logan ever be. There was something about both men that prevented them from being an object of gentle teasing. In Michael’s case it was his title. With Logan it was the way he carried himself, as if he and the world had come to an agreement of sorts. It had already taken his measure and not found him wanting.
Thomas, however, was an endless source of ridicule, the comments initiated by his wife. Daphne had a razor-like wit and didn’t hesitate to use it on anyone. Nor was Hamilton exempt. Despite the fact that he’d welcomed Deborah’s family and was exceedingly generous to all of them, he was regularly lampooned by both women for one thing or another.
Eleanor was certain that she was the subject of ridicule the minute she was away from her aunt and cousin.
It was much harder, on the whole, to find things about each person to celebrate than it was to discover flaws or failings. Just as it was easier to be sad about a circumstance than it was to force yourself to look for something good in every situation.
She was standing in front of the fire, still cold although autumn had begun chilling the air. Daphne was at the piano while Deborah sat at the window in her favorite chair. The room was the most popular public room in the townhouse and decorated in shades of blue and green. It was a lovely room if a bit blowsy with all the flower patterns on the upholstery and occasional pillows. It flattered her aunt and cousin’s coloring, leading Eleanor to believe that’s why these particular shades had been chosen. She doubted that Hamilton had any input into the new decorations.
“Michael looked exceptionally handsome this evening,” her aunt said.
Eleanor nodded.
“You will be a very attractive countess,” Deborah added. “His equal in appearance.”
Her aunt had been fulsome in her compliments ever since Michael had spoken to Hamilton. Eleanor wished she had as much confidence as Deborah did.
“If I am, it’s all due to you,” Eleanor said. “And your training. Although I’m not feeling up to being a countess.”
“What do you mean?” Daphne said, hitting a discordant note on the piano. “What a ridiculous comment, Eleanor. You had better feel up to being a countess. From the moment you’re married you’ll be the Countess of Wescott in any function you attend. The honor of the family will be yours to uphold.”
Eleanor stared at her cousin. She’d rarely heard Daphne so passionate.
“Not to mention all the duties you’ll be expected to perform. You’re to oversee the annual spring fair. You’re to preside over the inspection of the servants once a month. You must ensure that the grounds of Abermarle are immaculate at all times, the perfect home for Michael. You are to meet with the head of the church which is on the grounds of Abermarle. There are a great many functions that require your presence. For example, the Wescott School for Girls. You are their sponsor
. As such, you must address them at the beginning of term and award academic prizes at the end of every school year.”
“How do you know all of that?” Eleanor asked, amazed.
Daphne stood and walked away from the piano, heading for the sofa near her mother.
“All you have to do is ask a few questions, Eleanor. Talk to people who know his mother, ask what she did. It’s very simple.”
Except that she’d never considered investigating her duties with the battle planning of a general. She’d obviously underestimated her cousin. Nor had she ever considered that Daphne had once set her cap for Michael.
Michael had been a bachelor for some time. That was one of the first things she learned about him, along with the notion that he was unattainable. The longer she thought about it, the more sense it made. Of course Daphne would have set her sights on an earl. Perhaps that’s why she’d been so out of sorts ever since the engagement had been announced. Did she think that the life facing Eleanor should have rightfully been hers?
More than once before tonight, Daphne had made some kind of disparaging comment about Eleanor’s ability to take on the role of countess with equanimity.
“You’ll have to learn how to address everyone and heaven forbid if you make a mistake. No one forgets something as important as that.”
According to Daphne, the peerage was a coven of gorgons, dragon-headed and spouting fire, eating those who dared to mingle among them. Since she didn’t want to embarrass her family or herself, Eleanor had been determined to learn everything she needed to learn. Yet secretly she doubted that everything would be as dire as Daphne predicted.
Instead, Eleanor suspected that her life was going to be remarkably similar to how she was living now. Her residence would be lovely, large, stately, and impressive. The servants would be numerous, except that they would call her Your Ladyship. She’d have different stationery and perhaps more people would wish to call on her. Otherwise, she would be doing exactly what she was doing now, waiting on Michael, questioning her life, and wishing she was in Scotland.
Logan couldn’t get past the fact that Eleanor was engaged to be married. She’d conveniently left that information out of their conversation. Not only was she engaged, but she was going to be Michael Herridge’s wife.
The man was an ass.
Worse, he was an arrogant, autocratic ass. Logan hadn’t liked him from the minute he’d met the man during one of his uncle’s social events. Thankfully, they didn’t have the occasion to meet all that often.
Herridge had a reputation of being a womanizer. Rumor had him with a selection of mistresses, most of them former actresses. Logan honestly didn’t care about the man’s morals—at least, he hadn’t until he’d been faced with the fact that Herridge was Eleanor’s fiancé.
He’d been surprised, and not in a good way, by the change in her. Except for that one comment about Scotland, she’d been subdued and silent during dinner.
What had happened to the woman he’d met in Scotland?
That woman was nowhere in evidence tonight. The disappointment he felt was tangible. He wanted to talk to her, to figure out what had changed so drastically in such a short time.
Fear had something to do with it. He noticed her glance around the table beneath her lashes, as if afraid that someone might have overheard his remark. Was she treated badly?
Why was she living in London and not Scotland? Why wasn’t she home at Hearthmere? All this evening had provided him was another mystery, but this one annoyed him. He wanted to understand all the facts. Right at the moment, all he had was conjecture.
“You were instrumental in helping Disraeli with the voting act,” his host said, passing him a snifter of brandy. Logan took it and nodded.
“It seemed a good step. We’re not there, completely, but it’s more than where we were. A million new voters were added to the rolls.”
“What do you mean, first step?” Herridge asked. “What the hell do you want? For everyone in the Commonwealth to be able to vote?”
“Why not?” Logan asked. “If a government is going to have any control over your life, shouldn’t you be able to choose it?”
“Next you’ll be saying that women should be able to vote.”
“There is already some talk about that,” Logan said. “Don’t be surprised if it happens down the road.”
“Are you insane?”
Logan sipped from the snifter. Like everything tonight, the brandy was the best money could buy.
“I’m not saying it will happen next year or the year after that, but it’s inevitable.”
Logan couldn’t decide who looked more disturbed by that information: his host, Herridge, or the other two men.
“I’ve known a great many women who were as well versed in matters as were men. Some perhaps more so. Why should they be denied the vote simply because they are women?”
“Don’t be a fool, man. Because they’re women, that’s why. Everything is emotion to them. They have no ability to reason.”
From what Logan had seen, Eleanor Craig wasn’t overemotional, had the ability to discern a problem and its solution, and was the most determined woman he’d ever met. Of course, that was the woman in Scotland, not her pale shadow here.
Perhaps he should hold Herridge responsible for the change. That decision ratcheted up his dislike of the man. Herridge should stick to his actresses and leave Scottish women alone.
“You’re wrong,” Logan said. “But if that’s your opinion of women, I pity the females in your life, including your fiancée.”
Herridge took a few steps toward him and was restrained only by Richards grabbing his arm. The older man said something to the earl, but the words were so low that Logan couldn’t hear.
As for Logan, he was tired of being polite. He only had a certain tolerance for arrogance and stupidity, and he’d reached his for tonight. He placed the almost full snifter on the sideboard, then turned to his host and said, “If you’ll pardon me, I think I should leave. I see no good coming from any further discussion.”
“Perhaps that would be for the best,” Richards said.
If Richards had wanted to influence him in some way, the evening had been an abysmal failure.
Logan opened the door of the study with a feeling of relief.
Before Eleanor could comment on Daphne’s revelations, they were interrupted by the men returning. She hadn’t expected them so soon and it was evident that something had happened. Hamilton looked distressed, enough that Deborah stood and went to her husband’s side. Michael’s face was splotched with color. Jeremy looked less bored than usual. Even Thomas, usually the most amenable of men, wore an expression she’d never seen. There were twin lines above his narrowed eyes and his mouth was pursed as if he was holding back words that weren’t acceptable for mixed company.
Only Logan appeared calm, wearing a half smile which made her suspect he was responsible for the other men’s anger.
“I must take my leave, Mrs. Richards,” Logan said, coming to stand in front of Deborah. “Thank you for a delicious dinner and for your hospitality.”
He glanced at Eleanor. “If you would walk me to the door, Miss Craig, I would be appreciative.”
What was he doing? Everyone looked as surprised as she felt. Such a request was out of the ordinary. She should refuse, but that would probably only make the situation worse, or she could simply do as he asked.
She nodded, preceded him out of the drawing room, down the hall, and to the foyer.
Once at the door, she turned to him. “You shouldn’t have asked me to walk you out.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not done.”
“Now you sound like Fred.”
“Who’s Fred?”
“My secretary. My campaign advisor. My calendar watcher. My mother, in a great many ways.”
She folded her arms and stared at him. “He certainly wouldn’t have been happy with you tonight.”
He smiled at her, th
at smile that had the ability to wipe the thoughts from her mind. He really shouldn’t have that effect on her. Her fiancé was in the drawing room. The majordomo was lurking somewhere. Any moment now he’d pop around the corner.
“What happened in there?”
Logan smiled. “Meet me tomorrow and I’ll tell you.”
“What?”
“Meet me tomorrow,” he repeated. “I’d like to talk to you without so many eager ears about.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “But I’d like to see Bruce again. Could you arrange that?”
“I walk him three times a day in Queen’s Park,” she said, opening the door and standing aside.
“I’ll be there.”
She watched as he descended the steps and signaled to his driver. Only then did she close the door, knowing that she had to turn and go back to the drawing room. She glanced up at the steps longingly, wishing she could retreat to her room now. First, however, she’d have to make whatever excuses she could to her relatives and Michael.
It was obvious that she was the topic of conversation when she returned to the drawing room. Everyone stopped talking at her appearance.
Michael was standing there with Daphne and Thomas. Deborah was seated next to Hamilton, whose face was flushed. His white muttonchops were still quivering with outrage.
What had Logan said to them?
“What was that all about, Eleanor?” Daphne asked.
Eleanor hated it when Daphne assumed that superior attitude, as if she was somehow the arbiter of everything that was right, proper, and just. Especially when Eleanor was without a valid explanation.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Why did McKnight want to talk with you?” Michael asked, his face expressionless. She’d learned to gauge his mood by the look in his eyes, however, and right now he was irritated.
“I don’t know,” she said again, wishing she wasn’t being forced to lie.
The truth would be too difficult to explain at the moment. The time for doing that was when she and Logan had first encountered each other tonight. She should have said something to the effect of, “Oh, yes, I remember you, Mr. McKnight. We met in Scotland.”
