The Bride (3 page)

“There you are, Eleanor.” Her mother was the first to speak when she and Sir Alfred reached the group, and her tone was brittle. “Mr. Bonner has asked permission to partner you for the next dance but I assured him you already promised it to another.”

Disappointment shot through her so quickly and completely that Eleanor felt faint. Only the thought of how ungraceful she would appear sprawling onto the floor kept her upright. She took a breath, looking first at her mother, then, though she knew it was a mistake, toward Mr. Bonner. Her mouth seemed to open of its own volition.

“Actually, Mother, I have this dance free.” Eleanor hardly recognized the words or the voice as her own. Obviously her mother didn’t either for now
she
looked ready to swoon. And though Eleanor knew she should feel concern, she couldn’t summon that emotion. When Bonner offered his arm she took it readily. From the corner of her eye she noticed her father’s restraining hand clamp over Matilda’s.

Oh, how marvelous to look into a shirtfront rather than straight into her partner’s eye, or worse to count hair follicles. For a moment Eleanor luxuriated in that and the feel of his large hand on the small of her back. She could have gone on like that forever if he hadn’t spoken.

“I don’t think your mother wanted me to dance with you.”

Eleanor glanced up. “Oh, I’m sure that isn’t the case,” she hastened to lie, but could feel the telltale color creep up her neck. Dropping her head she tried to concentrate on his pearl shirt buttons.

“Please, don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Look down. I’d much rather see your pretty face than the top of your head... or worse, this stupid feather.”

It shouldn’t have struck her as funny. It was part of her apparel he was maligning. But she couldn’t help laughing. When she lifted her eyes she saw that he was grinning down at her.

“But you know, of course, the headdress, along with my gown was designed by the Messrs. Redfern, and that they also dress Princess Beatrice?”

“Queen Victoria’s daughter?” John shook his head. “I am impressed.”

“Don’t be. My mother actually requested the feathers. She’s very fond of them.”

“And what about you?”

“I think they’re quite silly.”

She laughed again and John found himself staring. There were dimples beside her mouth that were very fetching. Her entire face was when she smiled. Perhaps she wasn’t as plain as he first thought.

Nor as shy either when she was away from the diamond-encrusted iron fist of her mother.

“Would you care to walk with me onto the veranda?” The music had stopped and John felt his chance of getting to know Eleanor slipping away. This entire process was going much too slowly for him. He wasn’t a patient man. He already decided to marry her and to his way of thinking it was time to do it and move on.

Even his conscience was clear. Though he wasn’t interested in a love match he felt, in all humility, that Eleanor Fiske would be better off married to him than the impoverished Englishman. And she was certain to find more joy than if she continued to live with her harridan of a mother.

So with that conclusion made, and his desire to return to Montana, he was ready to proceed quickly.

Except... etiquette wouldn’t allow it.

Actually etiquette, along with Matilda Fiske, would frown on his request that Eleanor join him for a stroll. It didn’t matter that half the dancers had adjourned to take advantage of the sea breezes, they would still be considered unchaperoned.

John opened his mouth to retract his offer and apologize when she surprised him by laying her hand on his arm. “I would love a breath of fresh air, Charles.”

The moment she said the name Eleanor realized her mistake. But it was too late to pull the word back and it was obvious from the expression on her companion’s handsome face that he heard her call him the name of Linette’s lover from the novel she was reading. Mortification filled her as it never had before. Her hand dropped away from his arm and flew to her mouth.

“Please,” was all Eleanor could utter before she turned and fled the room. She didn’t stop until she had plodded across the half mile that separated the two estates. Once at Oakgate she wrote a note and sent it with a servant to her mother, pleading sudden illness.

She stripped off the jewel-encrusted gown without ringing for her maid, untied her corset, taking her first good breath of the evening and slid into bed. She planned to toss the horrible novel under the intricately carved bedstead, but as soon as she touched the well thumbed pages she couldn’t help opening it.

But as she read of Charles and Linette’s bittersweet love affair, it was John Bonner and herself that she saw.

H
e came to dinner.

The sight of John Bonner standing next to the yellow marble mantel in the drawing room nearly caused Eleanor to turn and flee back up the stairs to the questionable comfort of her bedroom. How she managed to remain calm enough to continue into the room she didn’t know. Especially once she noticed the expression on her mother’s face. It was obvious Matilda hadn’t expected Mr. Bonner. Given the fact that her mother planned every aspect of the family’s social life in Newport as if she were a general waging war, her ignorance was difficult to comprehend.

Especially since tonight was to be an intimate supper. The guest list was limited to a few close acquaintances and Sir Alfred, of course. Eleanor had been instructed to wear a satin gown of royal purple with butterfly bows that held back the skirt’s train. The tiara circling her upswept curls shimmered with diamonds and emeralds. “It will not hurt to show Sir Alfred how well you wear a crown,” her mother said when she stopped by Eleanor’s room to oversee her daughter’s toilette.

Eleanor’s remark that Sir Alfred was far removed from the throne only earned her a sharp look and warning not to spill anything. “And do try to sit as much as possible tonight so Sir Alfred won’t notice your height,” Matilda said as she marched from the bedroom.

Settling onto one of the Louis IX chairs was something Eleanor did now though sitting had nothing to do with Sir Alfred. As she tried to take a few deep breaths, she realized she didn’t even know if he was in the drawing room... nor did she care.

John Bonner, on the other hand, she could describe down to the crooked smile he gave her. And she’d only glanced his way once. Which was part of the reason she jolted when he spoke to her. She hadn’t noticed him move.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” John sat on one of the dainty little chairs facing Eleanor, hoping he wouldn’t break it. It was bad enough that the color had drained from Eleanor’s face when she saw him, and that his greeting had startled her speechless. Not to mention the way she ran away from him last night. It was obvious he wasn’t handling this correctly... no matter how many times he read the etiquette books. He just didn’t have the patience to wait as he should. He’d been in Newport four days and already he felt the strong pull to return to Montana. If he could simply get this wedding business over with quickly—

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Eleanor blundered out, then felt a flush spread up from her high-collared gown. It wasn’t at all proper to question a guest’s appearance.

But Mr. Bonner didn’t appear to take offense. He merely shrugged. “Your father invited me.”

“I see.” Which of course, she didn’t. Father never bothered with any social affairs outside of the Newport Reading Room, which everyone knew wasn’t a reading room at all, but a gentleman’s club, and his passion for yachting. All the rest was her mother’s domain. And she ruled with an iron hand. “Well, I’m very glad you could join us this evening,” Eleanor said, hoping the sentiment made up for her previous lack of manners.

“Are you?”

Was he always going to surprise her so? She was merely being polite, anyone would know that and not press the issue. Anyone other than John Bonner it appeared.

“Of course I am.” With a flick of her wrist, Eleanor spread her fan.

“I thought perhaps you weren’t from your expression when you entered the room.”

“That’s... not true.” The fan fluttered, stirring the pale blond curls that had escaped Eleanor’s fanciful hairstyle. She wished he wouldn’t look at her so boldly or ask questions that he didn’t want to know the answer to. Yet she couldn’t deny being drawn to him.

He merely shrugged the powerful shoulders that even the expensive cut of his evening coat couldn’t camouflage. He was much larger than any man in the room, or any man of her acquaintance for that matter. Tall and strong-looking, with muscles that didn’t appear to come from rowing or trimming the sail on a yacht. And just sitting beside him made Eleanor feel small... almost dainty. Which was ridiculous.

What should he say now? John searched his mind for a suitable topic. He never had a problem communicating with women. At least he hadn’t since he was fourteen and one of his mother’s business associates took him under her wing. But then the desired result of his conversations had never before been marriage. Hell, the desired result had rarely been anything beyond a few hours of shared time between the sheets.

Which wasn’t what he was after this time. Though John had to admit as he watched the pulse beat at the side of her neck that he wasn’t at all averse to the idea. No, he wasn’t averse to it at all.

But wouldn’t Miss Eleanor Fiske go running off to her mama if she knew how he wondered if her skin was as soft and porcelain white on her stomach as on her cheek. Or what her long legs would feel like wrapped around his hips. Purposely changing the train of his thoughts else she somehow read them and swoon dead away, John tried to catch her eye.

She was so intent upon studying the design of the carpet that John wondered if anything could make her look up. “The weather is lovely this evening.”

“Oh, yes.” She glanced up briefly.

“A wonderful breeze off the sound.”

“Yes, wonderful.”

“Perhaps we could walk down by the beach after dinner.” That got her attention. She looked up, her turquoise eyes wide.

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

John didn’t know whether to grimace at his social faux pas or grin at her reaction. “Sorry. It was foolish of me to ask.”

“No.” Eleanor’s hand reached out to cover his. “It’s not that I wouldn’t like to. I mean...” Eleanor paused to take a breath. “My mother would never allow it.”

“But if it were up to you?”

Her lashes drifted down. “I would enjoy walking with you, Mr. Bonner.” It was then Eleanor realized where her hand was. She quickly jerked it off his. She could feel the heat of his skin through the fine kid leather covering her palm.

Women had thrown themselves at him for as long as he could remember. It was merely a fact of his life. One he didn’t usually dwell upon, but did enjoy to the fullest. Eleanor’s shy admission that she would enjoy walking with him was tame indeed to the ribald suggestions many women gave him. So why did her simple words make his stomach flutter? And why in the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about taking her to bed on their wedding night?

Because if he didn’t pull himself together there wasn’t going to be any wedding night. Which meant there would be no society wife, no social acceptance for himself or his children.

John cleared his throat. “Please accept my apology. I didn’t mean to be so bold.”

“There is no need to apologize. I—”

“There you are, Eleanor. Sir Alfred has been looking for you everywhere.”

Which was ridiculous because she’d hardly been hiding, but Eleanor said nothing when she glanced around toward her mother and Sir Alfred.

“Sir Alfred offered to escort me to dinner but I told him we weren’t standing on convention tonight and that I was certain he’d rather sit next to you.”

“Your mother is very gracious,” Sir Alfred chimed in with a smile that Eleanor didn’t think reached his hazel eyes.

“Yes, she is.” Eleanor had no choice but to accept the hand he offered and stand beside him, wishing she could sink back into the chair when she reached eye level with him. With a backward glance at John Bonner who had risen when her mother appeared and now stood looming over the formidable woman, Eleanor led the way across the marble hallway to the dining room.

She sat facing the Venetian mural that covered the east wall of the dining room. The painting was supposedly a masterpiece, undoubtedly worth a fortune or Matilda would never have it in her house; but it had always made Eleanor uncomfortable. The stern-faced Italians seemed to stare down at her and to find her wanting. It was almost as if their expressions warned her to try and appear shorter and not to be clumsy.

If Sir Alfred was good at anything, it was conversation. He was taking his duties as Eleanor’s escort seriously. During the consommé a la royal, he regaled her with stories of a picnic he’d attended planned by Douglas Milner. The partiers had ridden across a farmer’s field, ruining some of his crops. Sir Alfred seemed to find the local farmer’s reaction to this intrusion amusing and Eleanor smiled along with him. But she secretly wondered why the man hadn’t taken potshots at the trespassers.

In any case listening to Sir Alfred helped keep her mind off John Bonner. He sat at the far end of the gleaming mahogany table, nearly thirty feet away, but she could feel his presence as if he were beside her.