The Bride (The Wedding Series) - By Christine Dorsey Page 0,2

the marriage if there is to be one. But you can hardly blame me if Eleanor didn’t fall madly in love with you at first glance.”

“I’m not after your daughter’s love, Franklin. Just her hand in marriage”

~ ~ ~

“Who is that man, Eleanor?”

“I... I don’t know.” Eleanor hurried to keep up with her mother as they walked across the lawn toward the marble statue of Neptune spouting water from his mouth. Eleanor always found it amusing, though knew better than to laugh.

“Well, certainly your father had enough manners to introduce you to him.” Matilda Fiske turned to face her daughter. “Do try not to stand so tall,” she said as she fluttered her hand across Eleanor’s skirt.

“His name is John Bonner and he’s from Montana.”

“Montana.” Matilda pursed her lips. “I wish your father would consult me before adding people to our guest list.” Matilda took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t imagine we shall have to bear his company again.”

Eleanor wasn’t too certain about that. She had the impression—though she wasn’t certain why—that her father planned to include John Bonner in many of his invitations this summer, but she didn’t mention that to her mother. For one thing she had no wish to provoke her mother’s wrath. For another, her mother had already moved onto her favorite topic.

Sir Alfred Farnsworth.

A proposal of marriage from the English baronet for her tall, plain daughter, was Matilda’s goal for this summer season. She wanted to plan a proper wedding. Eleanor knew it and had pretty much resigned herself to the inevitable. When Matilda made up her mind, there was no stopping her. The only problem with this plan was Sir Alfred himself. But Matilda had already explained to Eleanor that could be handled.

“He may flirt about and wish for other women, Eleanor, but by August you shall have your proposal. He will not pass up your trust fund.”

“But Alice Maitland also has a trust fund,” Eleanor pointed out in what she thought was irrefutable logic. Alice’s father was easily as wealthy as Eleanor’s, and petite, blond-haired Alice was Sir Alfred’s obvious choice in dancing partners.

“Don’t be obtuse, Eleanor. Alice would never settle for a near penniless Englishmen.”

Unlike you, she doesn’t have to. There are many suitors for Alice’s hand.

The unspoken words hung between them and Eleanor realized how correct her mother was. She was stupid. And tall and plain. And what in the world was she supposed to say to Sir Alfred?

He stood by the fountain as her mother had said, but he obviously wasn’t looking for her. Alice Maitland and two other women stood beside him. They were all laughing at something clever he’d said and Alice had her hand resting on the sleeve of his natty, cutaway coat.

Eleanor bit her lip and dutifully marched forward, her mother by her side, dreading the moment Sir Alfred looked up at her, wishing she could go back and listen to John Bonner talk about his copper mines.

Two

“No.” she whispered. “You mustn’t.”

Linette tried to pull her hand from his but couldn’t.

“Say you love me,” he demanded. “You know it is true”

Before she could protest Charles swept her into his arms. The feel of his lips was—

“Eleanor, what is taking you so long?”

Slamming the novel shut, Eleanor jammed it beneath the pillow, clutching her hands together as her mother marched into the bedroom. The older woman stopped near the large unadorned marble mantel, her expression as dark as the boiserie paneled walls.

“I sent Nellie for you nearly a quarter of an hour ago,” she accused.

“Yes, I know you did. But I... I had something to do.” Feeling a blush creep up her neck Eleanor hoped the light from the high casement windows was too dim for her mother to notice. Though she probably wouldn’t think it unusual even if she did. After all, blushing was just one of Eleanor’s myriad faults Matilda felt her God given duty to eradicate.

“Well, do come on. Your father is waiting to escort us to the Longs’ ball.”

“Yes, Mother.” Eleanor gave a final wistful glance toward the rumpled pillow, wishing she could stay home and read the scandalous French novel. How wonderful it would be to lose herself in the pages, for a time to see herself brave and beautiful and adored by the handsome Charles. To feel passion—

“Do come along, Eleanor.” Matilda paused at the top of the yellow marble staircase, and turned an appraising eye on her daughter. “Try not to look so tall,” she said, her lips thinned