No wonder he thought her a suitable choice. A sensible choice. A wife who would not demand a heart already given elsewhere.
Slowly, Eleanor emerged from her hiding place, a curious numbness spreading across her skin as if she had stood for too long in the cold. Why had he not been able to marry the woman he loved? Had she died? She could not imagine any woman being unable or unwilling to return his love.
She started for the servants' stairs so that she could slip to her room unnoticed. And one thought kept repeating itself in her head.
How utterly awful to love someone and know that love cannot be returned.
She knew exactly how awful it did feel.
* * *
By the time dawn lightened to reveal a dull sky and a depressing drizzle that slicked the pavement and streaked the windows of the Glover's townhouse with jagged slashes of wet, Eleanor had made up her mind.
She had thought it over from every angle, and she had decided that Lord Staines—Geoffrey—had been right about this from the start. She would think up something sensible to ask for, and she would settle into a comfortable marriage.
Didn't people do that all the time?
It was a marriage to an earl's heir, after all. A handsome gentleman. A kind man. Most young ladies would regard this as a Christmas wish come true. And that would be how she viewed it from now on.
Today they started for Westerley. So, as of today, she would stop weaving fantasies around him. She would stop reading more into his actions than existed. She would be happy with what she had.
With that attitude fixed in her head, she dressed in a sensible dark blue traveling dress and while her maid laced the back she struggled with what she could ask for that would be so perfectly sensible.
Her imagination proved to be as blank as that card that lay on her dresser, as empty and barren as a snow-iced field.
Eleanor let out a deep sigh.
"Don't you like it, miss?" the maid asked, her voice high and anxious as she finished doing Eleanor's hair into a simple, upswept knot.
"Oh, no, it's fine," Eleanor said with an automatic smile and not even glancing at herself to see if it was, for it never was. Her hair inevitably fell out of whatever form it was put into, falling into straight, stray wisps at some point during the day.
Gathering up her blank card, Eleanor stuffed it into her sleeve, where it rubbed against her skin. She started downstairs.
Perhaps she would ask for his permission to live as she pleased. That sounded just daring enough, and yet not too specific.
And then a thought struck her, and she paused on the carpeted stair, smiling at the utter absurdity of it, even though she knew she could never write such a thing.
But what if she did?
What if she wrote that she wanted his permission to take a lover?
She muffled a giggle behind her hand and slowly started downstairs, weaving the scene that would play when she presented her card. He would forget that other woman. Yes, forget her. And he would be jealous. And stormy-eyed, and it might even drive him to saying,
"So you want a lover, do you?"
And he would sweep her into his arms and…
Ah, but that was not how it would go. He would probably grin, tell her that she was welcome to try, and think himself let off easily with a demand she could never achieve and for which he had to do nothing.
Shaking off the images, she started down the stairs again.
A young lady dressed in a sensible dark blue traveling dress was not the sort who ever asked for a lover. So she vowed to herself, instead, that by the time they reached Westerley she would have something written on her card.
Then they could enjoy this most joyful of seasons. Only she doubted very much if that would happen, either, for that wedding fell right in the middle of Christmas.
Perhaps I ought to ask for a late January wedding?
But his father lay dying, so a delay did not seem a kind thing to request. Stepping into the breakfast room, she greeted her parents, took her place at the table and tried to summons an interest any sort of food.
Around her, breakfast passed in a flurry. Evelyn kept slipping out and back into the high-ceilinged room as she remembered things she had forgotten to pack—her favorite doll, the scarf that matched her riding habit, her traveling backgammon game.
Emma was no better. She did not dash about like Evelyn, but she kept fretting that the rains had made the roads too boggy, and she worried that perhaps she ought to bring her cashmere-lined gloves in case it should snow. Her uneasiness infected everyone, making even Lord Rushton fidget with his newspaper, until he snapped it open and almost tore it at the seam.
Finally, he laid down
The London Times
, drank the last of his coffee and rose, saying, "Well, we had best get a start so we may arrive while there is still light in the sky."
Lady Rushton rose as well, bustling from the room with instructions for the servants who were to stay and look after the townhouse. Already their maids and grooms and Lord Rushton's valet had gone ahead in one carriage, which was packed with most of their luggage.
Eleanor aided her mother by finding Evelyn's lost doll—it had fallen behind a trunk in the nursery. And by keeping herself out of the way of the bustle and excitement that flowed around her like a tumultuous river. All the while that card chaffed against her skin.
She must hit upon something to ask for by Westerley. Doing up the buttons of her full-lined pelisse, she stepped out onto the front steps, her thoughts busy with cards and ideas.
Then she saw that he was there and every thought went straight out of her head.
The rain had stopped, and a bitter, chilling wind blew from the east, tossing aside the clouds so that patches of winter-sharp, blue sky appeared between the billows of gray.
He stood at the bottom step, his tall, beaver hat tucked under his arm and the wind playing delightful havoc with his golden hair, disordering it as if a lover's fingers ran through the silken strands. Next to him, a groom held the reins of a long-tailed gray—his horse, she knew at once, for the animal nosed his pockets, pushing playfully even as Geoffrey dug out a treat for the animal.
With an affectionate smile, he offered up a lump of sugar on the palm of his hand. "There you go, you greedy beast," he said, his voice warm. He stroked the gray's dark forelock, his face relaxed with boyish grace and a faint dimple beside his mouth.
Eleanor's heart turned over.
No. No. No. She did not want this. She was going to be sensible.
A lump rose in her throat and she looked away. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. She wanted to stamp her feet. She wanted to cry. She wanted to laugh aloud.
But most of all, she wanted to go to him and put her hand over his and smile up into his face and tell him that she was starting to fall in love with him.
Geoff glanced up to see Eleanor staring at him, a dazed look on her face and those enormous eyes fixed on him with an intent focus, as if she could see into his heart. Uncomfortable with that look, he tried for a smile and a small joke, and gestured to the two heavy carriages before the house. "Traveling light, I see."
He gave Donegal a pat, and started up the stairs towards her.
She blinked, put a hand up to straighten an already straight bonnet, and said, her voice almost as sharp as the wind, as if his jest had somehow stirred her temper, "Did you expect a bride to come to you in nothing but her shift?"
He paused on the steps, and the image flashed into his mind and into his body—her wearing nothing but a near-transparent shift. Something dainty and as delicate as she. Something that revealed those curves now only hinted at. Something suited to a wedding night between lovers.
Heat rushed through him like fire through straw. As it did, her face reddened more than could be accounted for by the cold breeze. His stare trapped hers and he knew that same vision must have scorched her thoughts.
He sought for a light quip to ease the awareness that now stretched between them like a silken bond. But his usually glib tongue tangled. Instead of finding words, he found himself walking up the steps, drawn to her.
As he reached her side, her lips parted and she stared up at him, eyes wide. And he knew that what he really wanted to do was to add to that fierce blush warming her cheeks.
He wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to pull her towards him and find out if indeed that was a spark of invitation that lay in her eyes.
He started to lean closer.
A booming male voice shook him from his intent. "Hallo, Staines. Shall we have more rain, do you think?"
Pulse still thudding, Geoff straightened and turned as Lord Rushton strode out of the house and onto the front steps. The rest of the Glover family seemed to spill out, and Geoff at once hammered down his impulses of a moment ago.
Devil take it, but he ought to have expected this from himself. He had done all he could these past few months to lust after the ladies, and he'd proven time and again that he was indeed damn near to a devil. And she was far too dainty a lady for him to come rutting after like a stallion after a mare in season. Which meant that after they wed, he had best keep his mistresses discreet and on the side so that she did not have to bear too much from him.
Lord, was that a depressing life stretched out before him.
His glance slid back to Eleanor.
In the sharp air, her skin glowed. A stray wisp of seal brown hair teased her cheek, and she brushed at it to no effect. His gaze traveled down her slender form, and his errant thoughts slipped back to images of her that he ought not to entertain while standing on a public thoroughfare.
Thankfully, Lord Rushton's booming voice rescued him once more from folly. "So, Staines, how far do you go with us?"
Geoff turned to settle the issue of traveling arrangements. He had decided that, as a courtesy, he would ride with Lord Rushton and his family until Kingston. One of Rushton's grooms could ride behind the coaches, leading Donegal. From Kingston, Geoff would ride ahead, so that he could be at Westerley to ensure all was ready for their welcome.
He told himself that it was no more than a matter of being polite to slow his own pace and travel with them. He was not, he repeated to himself, dragging his heels about going home. It did not matter that his last journey on this road had been one at breakneck speed away from Westerley. And it did not matter that he would be within walking distance of Cynthia again.
No. It did not matter. Not the least.
And because it did not matter, he fixed his mind away from those fleeting memories of Cynthia that kept teasing his thoughts, and he watched Lord Rushton sort out who should ride in what coach.
Devil take it, but what a fuss five women could be.
Young Evelyn, it seemed, grew restless when she traveled, and so she would ride in the first carriage with Lord Rushton and Elizabeth, who knew how to best entertain the girl. That left Geoff to ride in the second carriage, with Eleanor, Emma and Lady Rushton.
And so Geoff found himself sitting next to Eleanor, her shoulder pressed to his and her thigh brushing against his as the carriage rocked. She sat straight and still, and Geoff glanced at her occasionally, wondering if she was as aware of him as he was of her. It was odd, this tug of attraction, for she was not the least pretty. But still she drew his gaze, and he could only think it must be because of the contained puzzle she presented.
What was she thinking? Did she admire the view? Would she like Westerley? Her own family came from the Lake District, he knew, with its breathtaking scenery and vast distances. Would she appreciate the snug farm lands and the tidy villages around Guildford?
She tugged at her bonnet ties as if she wanted to pull it off her head and...oh, but be damned, he had to stop thinking about taking off her garments.
His conversation was not much needed on the trip, for Miss Emma talked enough for everyone. She read to her mother from the traveling notes in
Cary's Itinerary
, pointing out Vauxhall and Battersea Rise as they passed. She also had a hundred questions about Westerley and how his family celebrated Christmas, which he answered with polite patience.
Lady Rushton swayed with the carriage, her eyes drifting shut as Emma droned on. Eleanor stared out the window, her gaze fixed on the winter-bare trees and brown, fallow farm lands.
He wanted to ask her a dozen questions, but her sister chattered in such a way that she could make a deaf man thankful for his affliction. For the first time since he had proposed marriage to Eleanor, Geoff thought that perhaps he had chosen well after all. He would have murdered pretty, charming, talkative Emma within a fortnight of being tied to her for life.
By the time the carriage pulled to a stop before The Castle in Kingston, Geoff was heartily glad to alight from the coach. He jumped out as soon as the door was open and before the grooms had let down the steps, and turned to help the ladies.
Eleanor glanced at him as he held her hand, her mouth curving in that mysterious, provoking smile of hers, but she said nothing to him of her thoughts as he steadied her descent.
While the ladies took tea in the best parlor, Geoff stayed long enough to drink a pint with Lord Rushton. The ale was strong and dark, and Geoff almost allowed himself to stay for a second. Finally, he had to admit to himself that now he really was postponing the inevitable.
He had to face the truth. He was going home. He would have to see both his father and Cynthia soon.
Not Cynthia
, he told himself. She was now Mrs. Cheeverly, the vicar's wife.
What the devil would he say to her? Or she to him when next they met? But the perverse desire rose in him, as strong and bitter as the ale, that by bringing home his bride for her to meet, perhaps at last he would hurt her as much as she had hurt him.
* * *
"Which one's your bride, Geoff? Come and point her out so I do not kiss the wrong Glover girl."
Geoff came over to the window where Andrew stood, watching the Glovers arrive in a swirl of gowns, horses, carriages and bustling servants in the green Westerley livery. The second-floor window faced east, to the front of the house and the graveled drive, where two crested coaches had pulled up to discharge their passengers and baggage. A leaden sky and the bare chestnut trees that lined the drive gave the scene a bleak look.
Or perhaps that's more my mood
, Geoff thought.
By rights, he ought to be downstairs to welcome his guests. However, he had wanted to change from his riding clothes, and to speak with his father. He had managed the former but not the latter, for his father's manservant had made it clear that the earl had left word not to be disturbed until after the Lord Rushton and his family arrived. Geoff knew better than to disobey one of his father's orders and risk the old man causing himself a seizure with his displeasure.
"That's her," Geoff said, easily spotting the still, blue-clad figure that stood beside the far carriage. "The invisible one."
"Has no one yet told her that brides are supposed to be the center of all attention?" Patrick said, strolling over to join them.
Geoff gave him a tight smile. "If you tell her that she may well disappear utterly. Eleanor is not fond of crowds."
Patrick lifted an eyebrow, but merely said, "Well, at least one of the Glover girls seems taken with the ancestral home."
Glancing down again, Geoff saw that Evelyn was gesturing up to the house, clutching her bonnet with her other hand as she leaned backwards to admire the building. She looked to be exclaiming over the Jacobean brickwork, and Geoff had to smile at her show of enthusiasm which echoed his own deep love of the house.
He had not realized how much he had missed Westerley over the past nine months until he saw it again. And now he was sorry that he had allowed memories of Cynthia to keep him away so long. However, all that was done with. And ought to be put away.
Turning his attention back to his bride-to-be, Geoff wondered if her eyes, too, glowed with delight, or if she regarded her future home with displeasure. But he found that she had vanished. Completely this time.
Disappointment stirred inside him. And a pang of guilt. He should be in the hall, smiling and offering Westerley's hospitality. She had been so silent earlier. Perhaps she was dreading this? Or nervous at meeting his father. Heavens knew, most people had that reaction to the Earl of Herndon, for he had a well-earned reputation, even from the sickbed, as having a tongue as sharp as a headsman's ax.
Suddenly, Geoff wanted to let Eleanor know that she would find a home here. He wanted to put that shy smile back into her eyes.
Turning on his heel, he started for the stairs, saying to his brothers, "Come on, you laggards. We have guests to attend."
* * *
Eleanor had fallen in love. Deeply. Passionately. Desperately. She had expected Westerley to be some grand house, daunting and aged, large and domineering—something suitable to the Earl of Herndon. Instead she had taken one look up at the time-aged brickwork, at the careful additions to the house that balanced the main hall with rebuilding and tidy wings, at the mullioned windows and the elegant proportions.
Home. My home now.
She knew she could live here.
Inside the cavernous main hall, the Westerley butler—Bellows as he introduced himself—took charge, directing footmen to assist with the luggage and maids to take wraps. Eleanor handed over her bonnet and her gloves, and wandered the hall, taking it all in, still pleased and hugging that pleasure inside herself.
The hall was ancient. The stone floor, vast space and huge hearth set with a cheerful fire told of its once having been the manor hall where past earls dispensed local justice and law to the land. But some earl interested in his own comfort had plastered the walls and painted them a soft cream, and tapestries now hung beside the ancient fireplace. Thick, oriental carpets softened the room and were strewn on the floor in comfortable disarray.
A stairway took up most of the fourth wall, and as Evelyn and Emma flitted around the room to admire the suits of armor placed against either side of the front entrance, the others went to warm themselves by the hearth fire. But Eleanor stopped opposite the fire, before a life-size painting of what she assumed must be the current earl.
Dressed in the cuffed and skirted coat of last century, with his brown hair tied back, the man stood beside a chestnut horse, one hand on the reins as if he was about to turn and swing up into the saddle. He held a tricorn hat in his other hand. In the background, a hunt crossed a hillside, the horses' legs stretched out in full gallop, following running hounds.
Both horse and master looked stiff and awkward, but the painter had caught in the man's blue eyes an intensity of personality that reminded Eleanor strongly of how Lord Staines could look when something displeased him. She gathered, from the man's expression, that he had not enjoyed standing for his portrait.
A shiver chased down her spine. This looked to be an uncomfortable man, demanding and domineering, and not at all an easy sort of father-in-law. But perhaps age and sickness had softened his manner.
From above, Lord Staines's voice carried to her, and with a sense of relief she turned to see him coming down the great stairs that stood opposite the front doors.
"Welcome to Westerley. Forgive me for not being here to greet you sooner."
He came downstairs, his brothers behind him, and Eleanor was pleased to note that Westerley suited him. He looked...well, he looked as homelike as this house.
In country clothes—a faded, brown jacket, breeches and boots, a buff waistcoat and casually tied white cravat—he could almost be taken for a local squire. Of course, he still had those impossible good looks. But she decided she liked him a little rumpled like this, for she did not feel so horribly aware of her own flaws.
She realized he was saying something to her father, and looking at her. "...in fact, I should like to take Eleanor up to meet my father now."
A moment's panic flared in Eleanor. Meet Lord Herndon? Now? With her curls flatted by her bonnet, and her skirts crushed from sitting too long in a carriage?
Before she could protest, Lord Staines offered his arm, and Eleanor glanced at her mother, who gave her a look that plainly said, "Well, go on."
So she came forward and laid her hand upon his arm, and started up the stairs with him.
As they moved away from the others, he said to her, a dry tone softening his words, "He's a dreadful bully, but he will like you better if you don't let him frighten you. And don't be alarmed if he seems ready to expire any second. He has been like that for years. He has said he will live to see me wed, and he is a man who keeps his vows."
Apprehension tightened Eleanor's face. How could a dying man—and one who had been dying for so long—be such a bully? She thought back to that stern face from the portrait and those hard, blue eyes. Why could she have not met him after dinner and a few glasses of wine to fortify her nerves?