The Bride (The Wedding Series) - By Christine Dorsey Page 0,3
in exasperation.
“I shall try, Mother. But do you suppose it would be better if I didn’t wear such large feathers in my hair?” It appeared to Eleanor that her elaborate headdress only added to her height. But her mother didn’t seem to agree. She simply pursed her lips tighter.
“Nonsense. Messrs. Redfern designed your ballgown. Princess Beatrice wears his creations.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“He should know more about what is appropriate to wear than you.”
“Of course, Mother.”
Something about Eleanor’s tone must have caught Matilda’s attention for she stopped halfway down the wide staircase and sighed. “Do try to show some enthusiasm, Eleanor. Sir Alfred is sure to notice your melancholy mood.”
Actually, Eleanor doubted Sir Alfred would notice anything about her. He would be much too busy committing every smile of Alice’s to memory. Not that Eleanor really cared. She knew she should, and for the sake of stopping her mother’s harping she must work toward extracting a proposal from him, but then as her mother was quick to point out, Eleanor’s money would handle that.
The ride to the Longs’ cottage, Fountainhead, was blessedly short. The Longs’ property adjoined Oakgate. If not for the fact that everyone else arrived in their most splendid coach and four, the Fiskes could have walked the distance without disturbing the stable boys or the coachman and footmen who wore liveries of Matilda’s signature purple.
Fountainhead was not quite as large as Oakgate, having only forty-five rooms and not nearly the tonnage of marble. But it still sported an entrance hall that rose three stories and led to a grand double staircase lined with darkly veined marble. The Louis XV ballroom was alive with music and filled with people when Eleanor and her parents were announced.
“I knew we would be late,” Matilda said in the direction of her husband, but Franklin was already moving away from her and didn’t respond. “The opening quadrille is about to begin and Sir Alfred is nowhere in sight.” Matilda spread her fan and pretended not to be searching the room.
It didn’t matter for Eleanor had already noticed the young marquis leading Alice onto the end of the dance floor. Without realizing, Eleanor took one, then another step back. She would have taken a third but she bumped against someone.
“Oh, excuse me.” She turned, flustered to stare at a crisp white shirtfront. Slowly she lifted her eyes knowing there was only one man of her acquaintance tall and broad shouldered enough to wear that shirt and evening jacket.
“Miss Fiske, I assure you it was all my fault.”
“But I stepped on you, Mr. Bonner.”
“I didn’t feel a thing, Miss Fiske.” John smiled before continuing. “Actually I was seeking you out.”
“Me?”
Her eyes widened and John was struck again by their color... and how lovely they were. But he managed not to stammer as he assured her it was true. “I realize I’m remiss in not asking earlier, but I wonder if I might have this dance.”
“You wish to dance with me?” It was not as if she lacked partners. Etiquette demanded that no one as wealthy and socially prominent as Eleanor sit out the endless round of dances. But John Bonner was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, with his dark brown eyes and hair and there was no reason that he should feel compelled to partner her. Still, he stood there staring down at her as if he wished to do just that.
Eleanor took a deep breath, at least as deep as she could take with her waist cinched as it was. “Thank you, Mr. Bonner, I would be—”
“Eleanor, come with me.”
Her mother’s tone seemed to pierce her skin like a thousand hatpins. Eleanor stiffened even before her mother took her kid-gloved arm. “Mrs. Astor has just sent word that we are to join her. Do come on.”
The look she threw him was apologetic but she walked away nonetheless. John watched the swish of her deep green skirts and told himself he was just as glad. He’d spent most of the afternoon trying to learn the intricate steps of the quadrille and wasn’t at all confident that he’d mastered it. Besides, he decided as he wound through the cream of Newport society, a waltz was better suited to his purpose.
John found Franklin Fiske in the green marble billiard room. He knew several of the other men from dealings on Wall Street and spent a few minutes talking of the latest scare. Franklin didn’t join the conversation. He barely acknowledged John until the younger man approached him.
“I