She wondered if she should ask about the earl's health, but that seemed apt to stir painful feelings, so instead she asked about the house—when had it been built, and how many rooms it had.
The topic proved a good one, for Lord Staines seemed to relax and as he spoke, Eleanor smiled to herself to hear the pride and affection that lay in his voice. He pointed out features of the house—the
trompe l'oeil
details on the staircase, the Italian influence brought into the house by his great-grandfather. And he introduced her to various ancestral portraits, almost all of which included a horse or a dog.
"If you like, and if the weather holds good, we could ride over the grounds tomorrow or the day after. There is not much to see, this time of year. But we also host a Christmas hunt, which is quite the local event. You might enjoy that."
"Do you hunt very much?" she asked, a little dismayed.
He glanced down at her. A frown drew his brows together before his face relaxed again. "Let me guess—your sympathies are more with the fox than with the hounds?"
Color warmed her cheeks and throat, but she met his stare, a little irked by the fact that he looked ready to humor her about this. "Yes, they do. Poor animals. How should you like to be chased by a pack of barking, baying beasts three times your size, and run ragged 'til you must go to earth and face your death at the end of their fangs?"
She glared at him, but his eyes only glinted warmer.
"I supposed I should not like that at all, but you might spare a thought for the farmer's poor hens that face a similar fate, only from the fangs of that same innocent fox you champion."
She would have argued the point, for she thought it quite possible to keep foxes from hen houses with proper construction, only he stopped before a set of oak doors and the amusement left his face.
"And now I would urge you to leave behind your sympathies with the hunted. My father was a rather passionate huntsman in his day and will not find such sentiments at all endearing."
She thought back to the portrait of his father, and of all the other family paintings with hunting dogs and horses. Oh, dear, she was marrying into a sporting family. She had not given it much thought in London, for in a family of girls, it had never been much of a topic. But now the thought of Lord Staines coming home to her, blood on his hands from shooting birds and hunting foxes left her queasy.
Feeling slightly ill, she watched as Lord Staines reached for the door knob, and she almost reached out to stop him, to tell him this was all such a mistake, that they were mismatched and would never suit.
Only before she could move or say anything, the door swung open inwards, and an elderly man, stocky and dressed in a crooked white wig and old-fashioned black breeches and coat, stepped into the hallway with them. His watery blue-gray eyes registered surprise and he frowned fiercely at them, his heavy jowls dragging down.
For an instant Eleanor wondered if he could be Lord Herndon, but he looked nothing like the man in the portrait, and nothing like Lord Staines.
"Ibbottson?" Staines said, puzzlement in his voice. "I had not heard you'd been summoned." Eleanor felt tension tighten his arm under her touch. "Good God, he is not…"
"No, he is not," the thick-set elderly man snapped, his voice deep and gravely. A sheaf of papers crumpled in his hands. "A doctor may see his patient, I should hope, and not have the world thinking it is his last call."
Tension eased from Staines's shoulders, but Geoff was left wondering why he had not been told of the doctor's visit.
Ibbottson seems as aware of the breech in protocol, for he shifted on his feet and offered by way of explaining his presence, "Lord Herndon has taken an interest in the hospital I have proposed to build. He may offer an endowment for it."
Startled, Geoff stared at the man. His father funding a hospital? Despite his own illness, the earl had always shown the greatest scorn for the weak and the sickly. He had put himself back in his own bed, in fact, numerous times by overestimating his own strength, but his obstinate will seemed to drive him to cling to life. However, perhaps with his own mortality so close, he had realized that, for some, weakness could not be overcome.
"What a kind thing to do," Eleanor said, her voice soft.
Geoff glanced down at her. He had almost forgotten her presence, and now her words pulled a crooked smile from him. Kind was not a word to associate with the Earl of Herndon. She would soon enough learn that.
Clearing his throat, Ibbottson's deep jowls pulled down into a heavy scowl. "Well, Staines, do you present me, or wish to keep me a family secret?"
"Your pardon. Miss Eleanor Glover, this is Dr. Ibbottson, who has looked after us far longer than we deserve. Dr. Ibbottson, this is my wife-to-be."
A light flickered at the back of Dr. Ibbottson's watery eyes as he glanced at Eleanor, and Geoff had the oddest feeling that the man looked guilty about something. Lord, was he keeping it secret that the earl was in worse condition than his letter had hinted? It would be very like the earl to demand that Ibbottson keep silent—and, as a doctor, Ibbottson would be bound to keep such a confidence.
Fear tightened inside Geoff, and his hands chilled. Ancient memories of his mother's death—the abruptness of it, the fracture it had left in the family, the hole it had carved inside him—started to crawl loose. He shut them off, pushing them ruthlessly aside and locking them away.
Ibbottson was saying something to Eleanor, something about wishing her well and that she must look upon him as an old friend if she ever needed anyone. Geoff scowled. The man's tone sounded so grim that he could be mistaken for comforting the fatally doomed, not congratulating a bride.
"You will stay to dinner?" Geoff asked, his words abrupt. He wanted time to sit with the man and see what he could pry out of the fellow about his father's true condition.
That look flickered at the back of Ibbottson's eyes again, and he shifted on his feet, as if his own weight was too much for him to carry. "Thank you, no. Mrs. Patterson is expecting her third child, and I promised to call upon her today."
"Then tomorrow?" Geoff said, determined. As a precaution against the whims of fate, he had purchased a special license so that he and Eleanor could marry when and where they chose, and not be bound by the laws that kept weddings to morning hours and sanctioned churches. He would prefer not having to rush this affair—was it not already approaching too fast? However, if his father's condition had worsened, he would put forward the wedding to this very afternoon if need be.
Ibbottson had been muttering about patients to see, and the uncertain weather, and not at all acting as if the earl was about to expire.
And Eleanor, her voice shy, added, "Please do come, sir. Is it not a season to share warmth and good spirits?"
Geoff glanced down at her. She had lowered her chin, but she gave the doctor a charming smile that curved her lips and warmed her eyes. With a slight shock, Geoff realized that when she chose to focus that smile of hers upon a fellow it wove a potent allure. The doctor stammered a response, but bowed and gave way before her.
And why the devil has she never turned that particular look upon me? Geoff thought with a scowl.
With another bow, the doctor took his leave.
Eleanor kept her smile in place as she glanced back to Geoff, but the charm she had directed to the doctor was already fading. That irritated him, and it irritated him even more that he cared. After all, what the devil right did he have to demand anything from her? He had set out his terms for a marriage, and now he only waited to hear her terms on that damnable card. And hear them he would. Soon, he vowed.
Opening the door, he swept his arm out for her to enter before him, and he said, meaning to keep his voice light, but unable to keep a touch of irritation from his tone, "Save some of those feminine wiles of yours for my father."
She shot him a puzzled glance, but went into the room. Pulling in a deep breath, Geoff followed, feeling all too like Daniel entering the lion's den.
And he hoped like the devil that the earl was in a decent mood and on his best behavior, or poor Eleanor might well decide she would do better not to marry into this family after all.
Eleanor stepped into a dark, cavernous room. Her courage faltered and she fingered her high-waisted wool gown and wished she had changed into something better than a creased traveling dress. However, the touch of Lord Staines's—Geoffrey's hand—at her back kept her moving forward into the gloom.
Outside, winter had robbed all but a faint haze of light from the leaden sky. It might as well have been midnight in this room. On the far wall, a brace of candles glowed on a side table. Two more candles in wall sconces illuminated wine-colored wall hangings and pooled light around an enormous, carved mahogany, four-poster bed, hung with velvet bed curtains. To her left, a meager fire in the hearth looked as if it too had had its spirits dampened by the gloom.
Thankfully, the room smelled of spices and tobacco. She had dreaded visiting her own grandfather when he lay dying, for he had smelled of sickness and old man, and of death.
As she moved forward—her boots silenced by the thick rugs—she noted the heavy, old fashioned furnishings that loomed up from the shadows as if they had been forgotten here. What a wonderful room for fancy dress, for men in cavalier curls and women in low-cut lace and Queen Anne brocades.
Then her wandering gaze came to rest on the Earl of Herndon.
The earl lay on his bed, motionless, his eyes closed. His shrunken body lay wrapped in fine lawn and a rich, purple brocade robe. Wisps of white hair poked out like cotton from under a nightcap of white linen. His hand lay on the sheet that covered him, and on it, a huge ruby glinted in the candlelight.
Just as she began to wonder if the doctor had been too quick to leave his patient's side, the earl's eyes popped open. Eleanor nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Who is it?" he demanded, his voice far stronger than his appearance would lead anyone to believe. Ice-blue eyes fixed on her, skewering her with their glare.
"I've brought my wife-to-be to meet you," Lord Staines said, moving forward into the candlelight and bringing Eleanor with him.
"Who?" The earl's right hand, which lay on the covers, shook slightly, and Eleanor stared at the wrinkled and age-spotted skin that stretched over long fingers and a wide-backed hand. "Help me sit up," he ordered, as if his son were a servant.
Calmly, Lord Staines replied, "You may help yourself, sir, or you may stay as you are. I am going to help Eleanor to a chair."
Shocked by this seemingly callous treatment of his father, Eleanor turned to protest. But Staines had already dragged up one of those monstrous chairs, as if it were as light as a footstool. She turned back to offer her own assistance to the earl, but he had indeed propped himself up in the bed without any aid.
Confused, she sat down in the high-backed chair, remembering that Lord Staines had said something about how she was supposed to act with his father. Only she couldn't remember what his advice had been. Folding her cold fingers together, she waited to see what would happen next.
The earl stared at her, his white eyebrows bunched together, those impossibly blue eyes snapping fire like the finest sapphires. He did indeed have his son's eyes—or rather, Lord Staines had his eyes from his father.
"So, who is she?" he snapped, narrowing his eyes as if he found it difficult to see. Or perhaps because he disapproved of what he saw.
A touch of irritation rose in her. She was used to being overlooked, but not to being discussed as if she were not in the room at all. "I am Eleanor. Lord Rushton's daughter."
"I know you're one of Edward's gels. Didn't I swear to him one of my boys would marry one of you? With four of you—and three boys myself—why not?"
She could not think of an answer for that.
The earl did not wait for her to answer, but demanded, "So, which are you? You're not the eldest. She's said to be a beauty, or did the gossips get that wrong?"
"Father," Geoffrey interrupted, his voice mild, but also with a touch of warning in his tone. "Do you wish a wedding, or me to be a rejected suitor?"
"Nonsense. She's got your ring."
Eleanor glanced down at her bare hands. "Well, actually…"
"What? No ring to pledge her? Oh, my sweet Amanda, what sons you gave me." The old man rolled his eyes, and clutched at his chest with a trembling hand.
Instinctively, Eleanor started to rise to go to him, but a hard grip on her shoulder stayed her. She turned to look up at Lord Staines, to see if he had held her back so that he could go to his father. But he stood next to her, frowning, his eyes narrowed, his body taut. Did he have no care for his father's health? But he must. She had noticed the distress in his eyes when he had spoken to the doctor. And she could not now mistake the tension that flowed into her from his touch.
But why did he not go to his father's side?
Geoff glanced down at Eleanor's pale, worried face. Lord, she looked a Madonna, with the light falling on her oval face and the rest of her in shadows. However, he knew quite well that this was a test for her—his father was looking for signs of weakness. For signs that she was too feeling, too sensitive. He had seen the earl do this with other relatives. And, to be honest, having his father try his tricks was the best sign he could have asked to have seen. The earl could not be too close to death if he could still think to make others do his bidding by any means, fair or foul.
His tone intentionally dry, Geoff asked, "Father, I would ask you to bid welcome to Eleanor, and then I will take her off to look over Mother's rings and see if any of them suit her. And if they do not, I shall buy her one in Guildford before Christmas comes."
The earl's eyes opened a slit. He gave his son a hard, assessing stare. No, the lad wasn't going to rise to the lure. He could have chuckled at his son's sense and strength, but that was not something a dying man did. So he glanced at the girl. Staines wasn't going to let her jump though any hoops either. But she wanted to. He saw it in the softness in her eyes. In the way she leaned forward against Staines's restraining hand. Bloody all, but he would indeed turn up his toes and have done with it if his son had another fainting lily of a girl.
"I buried your mother with her ring," he said, opening his eyes, and daring his son to offer to open the family vault. He had indeed buried his Amanda with the emerald he had given her—an heirloom that had been in the family since before the Conquest. But he would have thrown the damn thing in the Wey if it would have brought his Amanda back to him.
"Then I shan't trouble her for it," Staines said, unruffled. "There must be a dozen others the family has collected. Come, now, and bid Eleanor a civil good day, Father. Or I won't bring her back to see you again."
For an instant, anger kindled in the earl. Damn, arrogant pup. Did he think he wore the title already? He glared at his eldest, and the boy matched his stare with one just as haughty and twice as indifferent. He gave a cackle of laugher and covered it with a raspy cough, and used his shaking hand over his mouth for good measure.
Glancing up, he saw that Staines remained unmoved and unmoving. But that Glover girl had gone all soft and would have been jumping to his bidding if Staines had allowed it.
She wasn't going to do. Not at all. Bloody all! He'd have to do something about her it seemed.
He waved at them with his shaking hand, slumping back down in his bed. "You're arrogant, boy. But it'll serve you well when you have to wear my coronet. Now, you, gel, come here and give your soon-to-be father a kiss."
The girl froze for an instant, and the earl wondered if he could frighten her into crying off this marriage. He'd wager that he could. He'd find her weakness, and get her swapped for one of her sisters, if any of them had any proper spine in 'em.
She glanced up at Staines once, her eyes huge in her face. Staines's hand relaxed on her shoulder and he gave a small nod.
Ten to one, she makes an excuse not to, the earl thought.
But she surprised him by rising and moving to the bedside. He could see the pulse beating in her throat, but her hands didn't quiver even as she covered his damned palsied one.
Leaning down, she brushed her lips to his cheek. He peered into her face, studying it, wondering if his first impression had been wrong, wishing Staines would go away and let him have at her on his own.
"Not much like my Amanda," he muttered, weighing her. No beauty. No height. But there was something at the back of those dark eyes. Damn, but he wished he could see her better. He would just have to corner her on his own and see if he could take her apart to see if she could breed him strong grandsons or not.
Rousing himself, the earl glared at his eldest son. "Take her off, boy. Find her a ring."
Geoffrey gave his father a dutiful bow. "Yes, my lord," he said, irony heavy in his dulcet tone. His father gave another chuckle, and Geoff relaxed muscles in his shoulders that he had not known to be tense. He took Eleanor out of the room before his father's mood changed. All taken together, it had gone well. Now if only he could continue to spare Eleanor the worst side of his father's manipulations, there might still be a Christmas wedding.
Stepping out into the hallway, Eleanor blinked. She looked a little dazed, and Geoff could only think that she had done well not to run from the room. Herndon had certainly reduced more than one of his female relatives to tears, after luring them into trying to help him and verbally cutting them apart.
When the door was shut behind him, he turned to her. "We do not have to look for a ring just now. Would you rather go to your room and rest? There is, after all, a good fortnight to Christmas."
At the mention of that short time, Eleanor's face turned even more ashen and he could sympathize. Fourteen days until they married. It sounded ominously near.
* * *
Eleanor decided she had never had such an encounter before. Was the earl a dying man, or an invalid who used his illness more like a weapon than a curse? Lord Staines had seemed concerned enough about his father when he spoke to Dr. Ibbottson. But he had not acted as if he cared in the least for his father. Was he a cold-hearted man who did not care, or a wounded one who could not show that he cared? Or a cautious man who knew better than to jump to his father's orders?
All of it was just too confusing.
Rising from her bed where she had lain down before dressing for dinner, Eleanor went to the writing desk in her room. Lord Staines had taken her to a charming room that overlooked the back of the house to the west. The twilight sky showed nothing of the view outside, but the room was done up in cheerful soft yellows, with a bright fire in the hearth and candles enough to hold back the winter's gloom.
Lord Staines had shown her every courtesy, asking her to make use of the house as if she were already its mistress. But Eleanor felt more awkward and out-of-place than she ever had in her life.
Why did the man have to ask to marry me?
she thought, feeling cross and tired and faintly irritable.
Why could he not have asked Emma? She would adore being a countess.
But Emma really was only sixteen, too young to marry, and the stubborn thought persisted in the back of Eleanor's mind that if someone had a magic wand to wave which would remove Lord Staines's proposal, Eleanor would break that wand over her knee.
The sad truth was that she did not want to give him up, but she did not know what to do with him either.
Sitting down at the rosewood table that stood before the drawn, curtained windows with their gold drapes, she pulled out his card.
Geoffrey Frederick Westerley, Viscount Staines, read the careful script.
She turned it over and stared at the very white and very empty back of it. Picking up the quill, she opened the ink pot. She had promised herself to come up with something to write before she reached Westerley. And she had had some excellent ideas. She could ask for a honeymoon trip to...well, to someplace exotic, although she had no particular wish to travel. But it sounded good. Better still, she could ask to set up her own charity. Only she could think of no specific cause to champion.
With a sigh, she let her mind wander. She drew curly-cues in the corner of the card. And drew a pansy. She dipped her quill again, and waited for inspiration.
Her mind drifted until a soft knock on the door and an inquiry from one of the Westerley maids reminded her that it was time to dress for dinner.
She glanced down at the card, and her eyes widened with horror. Her hand had been straying along with her thoughts and she had written something she never could show to Lord Staines.
Dipping her quill again, she blotted ink across the word she had written, crossing it out again and again until only a black stain remained. She thrust the card into the stationary she had brought with her. Rising, she called to her maid so that she could dress and dine, and she vowed to forget about what she had put down on that wretched card.
* * *
"You saw them at dinner. What are we going to do to help?" Emma said. Pulling her dressing gown tighter around her, she tucked her slippered feet more firmly under one of Elizabeth's pillows. Westerley could be a cold, drafty house at night.
Across from her, with her back against one of the four posts on Elizabeth's bed, Evelyn made a face. "I thought Lord Staines treated everyone very well. He even told a funny story about trying to bring home the Yule log by himself one year, and rolling it down a hill and through the drawing room windows."
Evelyn twisted, forcing Elizabeth, who was brushing her younger sister's hair, to pause. "Do you think he shall find us a Yule log this year big enough to crash down the front doors of the house?"
Smiling, Elizabeth started to answer, but Emma's voice cut off her reply. "We are here to speak of helping Eleanor, not Yule logs, and if you cannot keep to that topic, then you ought to go to bed."
Evelyn made a face at her sister, but Elizabeth said, worry etched in her soft voice, "What if Eleanor does not want our help?"
Scowling, Emma grabbed a pillow and hugged it. "We are not speaking of wants, we are discussing needs, particularly the need to ensure Eleanor's happiness in a marriage in which she is loved."