Under the Kissing Bough

Revised edition copyright © 2012 by Shannon Donnelly

http://coolgus.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of fictional characters to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author and publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

eISBN: 9781621250241

It was worse that she expected—he was not only young, he was handsome. Devastatingly so. Eleanor stood in the doorway to the drawing room, her hand cold on the brass doorknob. She could not force herself to step into the room where her parents—Lord and Lady Rushton—and her husband-to-be waited. Oh, she could not marry him. Not him. For he would never be happy with her.

No one in the room had yet noticed her entrance, but the drawing room—the finest room in the house—was a cavern of a place, with the chairs and fireplace at one end and the doors at the other. The room took up the entire front of the house, overlooking Berkeley Square. Faint light drifted in from behind the gold velvet curtains that stretched from plastered ceiling to polished floor. She looked down the distance, the windows to her right and portraits of intimidating ancestors to her left, and wished herself anywhere else.

She had always dreaded this place, with its stiff furniture, its cold drafts, and the demanding expectations that its use placed on her. Small as she was, she disappeared in this room. Elizabeth had always teased that it was the print muslin dresses in fashion which made every young lady appear far too similar to the surrounding wallpaper. Eleanor had laughed, but she also noted that the tall, sophisticated Elizabeth—even in sprig muslin—never could be called a wallflower. No, it was not Eleanor's dress which made her a person whom gentlemen looked past and ladies glanced at with little interest. Not in this room, nor in any other.

She was simply not a remarkable person.

For the most part, Eleanor had found it a relief to be so overlooked. She liked to overhear the gossip and observe the follies of those deeply involved in their lives. She liked being a spectator. It was so much...safer.

Only today she was to be put firmly into the center of everything. Today, she was to become engaged. Her parents had arranged everything with Lord Staines. This meeting was merely to confirm that she and her husband-to-be did not take an unreasonable dislike to each other.

But Eleanor knew already that she was no match for this gentleman—the heir to an earldom, and a handsome one at that.

He had golden hair, a thick cap of it that gleamed in the weak November sunlight that slanted in to pull a fair halo from his head. The shining strands lay in casual, curling disorder.
How on earth does he keep his hat from flatting it?
Eleanor thought. Self-conscious of her own appearance, she reached up to touch her own bonnet-flattened brown curls.

His dark blue coat stretched broad over his shoulders and nipped in at his waist, and hung open to show a yellow waistcoat. He did not seem vain, for his cravat was neatly tied but not with great flourish, and his shirt-points were no higher than to his square, firm chin.

His buckskin breeches formed a second skin over long, muscular legs. He stood a shade taller than her father—and Eleanor knew she would forever be craning to look up at him. Would he also step on her feet with his much larger ones when they danced? Would they dance? And what would it be like to have his so much very larger hands on her?

A treacherous heat flashed across her skin, and she looked down to hide it. She was a lady, and ladies were not supposed to think about a gentleman's hands upon their person. But no one looked at her to see the longing that she knew must be apparent on her face. And why should anyone glance at her, when he was so much easier on the eyes?

She looked up again.

He had his profile towards her, and she noted the perfectly straight nose, the clean jaw line, the arch of golden eyebrows that rose arrogantly over eyes as blue as a perfect summer sky.

Her heart sank into her stomach. He needed a tall, dark beauty on his arm to make a striking contrast, or a golden-haired nymph who would match his own burnished looks. He did not need a brown mouse such as her. He must have wanted Elizabeth, really.

Looking up, her mother smiled and rose, calling out, "Ah, Eleanor, come and meet Lord Staines, my child."

Eleanor tried to smile back, but her face seemed unable to hold any expression and she could only pray that her eyes did not—as Emma often said they did—look as large as a frightened owl's. She turned to shut the door behind her, using that instant to pull in a breath and smooth the front of her best sprig muslin gown. Oh, how he must be regretting that he had ever allowed his father—and hers—to make this match.

Turning, she came into the room, trying to glide as Evelyn—the youngest of them all at fourteen—could already manage. Eleanor's own bouncing step had been the bane of their governess, despite every effort Eleanor made to control herself. Her father had never understood it and had always complained that it came from her striding about the countryside so much, but even after a season in London, Eleanor could not seem to manage a smooth, delicate step. She had to take long steps simply to keep up with everyone else.

However, even with her stride, it seemed to take years to reach the small group gathered beside the fire. When she did, she did not know where to put her hands or if she should sit or stand, so she bobbed a curtsy and shot a terrified glance at her mother.

Her mother's eyes glowed with sympathy, but her expression also held its usual touch of exasperation, and Eleanor could almost hear her mother sigh that long-echoed phrase,
"Oh, Eleanor, whatever will become of you?"

Instead of speaking the words aloud, her mother smiled until it strained her face and said, "Lord Staines, may I present my second daughter, Miss Eleanor."

His lordship bowed and said nothing, and his sky-blue eyes glanced at her and away. Obviously, he was not delighted.

Eleanor smoothed her damp palms along the sides of her gown and struggled to think of something clever to say—something that might spark some life into his eyes. Something that might actually make him really look at her. Elizabeth, as the eldest, rightly held the title Miss Glover, and Eleanor wished now that she could be introduced as such. It would make her feel so much more adult to be Miss Glover, not Miss Eleanor.

Her silence earned a frown from her father and a small, distressed sigh from her mother.

"How do you do?" Eleanor finally managed, grimacing inside at how vapid she sounded. Now he would think her hen-witted as well as plain. It was such a shame that burning mortification could not actually kill one, as one so often wished it could.

Eleanor's father smoothed his graying side-whiskers with a finger and tugged his waistcoat down over his thickening stomach. "Yes, well, we'll leave you to it, Staines. Come along, Evangeline."

Alarm shot through Eleanor as her father moved to escort her mother from the room. She sent a stricken glance to her mother, but that lady merely offered another of her encouraging smiles and let her husband bear her away.

When the heavy door clicked shut, Eleanor fixed her stare on Lord Staines's boots and listened to the soft hiss from the coal fire.
How amazing
, she thought, heart hammering and mouth dry.
I can see my reflection in his boots. Mine are never so shiny. Doesn't he ever step in mud?

"Miss Eleanor?"

Startled at his voice, so much lower than a moment ago, she risked a glance at him. The sight of him, perfect and handsome, stopped her spinning mind and for an instant she could only stare at him, her breath caught in her chest and a warm tingle on her skin.

Reality intruded in a small voice that whispered,
You have nothing to interest the likes of him—save for a large dowry and a well-connected family.
He had chosen her only because of the ties between their families. She must accept that.

"Miss Eleanor," he began again. Raking a hand through his golden hair, he turned aside. She heard him mutter something unsuitable for a lady to hear, so she pretended not to have heard.

Sudden impatience flared in her. Was he going to mutter her name all afternoon and hedge his way around this whole matter? Now that he had seen her, he must be wishing for an escape. Well, she would offer him one.

She sought at first to find some soft words to hint him away, but then, with her tone far too aggressive for any young lady, she blurted out, "You don't have to do this."

He looked at her. Really looked at her, and her heart sank even lower, because the fire smoldering in his eyes came from pure irritation.

"I am quite aware of what I am doing. Or is this your way of saying you find my..." His chin lifted. His eyes narrowed. "...my reputation not to your taste?"
She opened her mouth to tell him that was it, exactly.

Like anyone in London, she had heard the stories. How could any man so sinfully handsome not have left a trail of broken hearts behind him? He was not quite a rake, but she strongly suspected it wasn't from not trying. However, he was young, and he had a title. Eleanor could not imagine that any of those elderly ladies who set Society's rules—and who chose the acceptable guest lists—would ever really brand this man too wild for the polite world and cast him out, like Lucifer thrown from the pearly gates. Not unless he did something really, really awful.

But she had heard enough stories over the past few months, during the spring and through summer, to know that some thought him fast. Some said he'd had his heart broken by another lady. Others whispered that any lady would be a fool to fall in love with such a reckless fellow.

And I am far too wise to be so foolish, Eleanor told herself.

So she opened her mouth to lie to him and tell him that she did object to his reputation. But, as with any time she tried to lie, the truth tumbled out before she could stop it.

"I don't think...I mean, you're not... well, it's just that I know you're supposed to offer for one of us, and with Elizabeth taken and me the next oldest, I..."

"I must marry someone," he interrupted, scowling at her, as if irritated by this delay to whatever other plans he had had for the afternoon.

"You must?" Eleanor repeated, feeling very dull and stupid. "But why now?" And why me? she thought, but did not have the courage to say.

Impatience twisted his mouth. For an instant he hesitated, and then said, "Because my father is dying and it is his wish to see me married before this year is done, and him with it."

Those blunt words took the breath out of her. He didn't even want her family connections, or her dowry. He simply wanted some...some female. And, of course, why should she—such a plain snip of a girl, such an obedient daughter as her—refuse him? Her nose tingled and her eyes blurred.

She looked down at the carpet again. She would never forget its rose pattern. Nor would she forget the faint pine scent of his cologne, which tickled her nose with its pleasant difference from everything else she had ever known. And she would never forget how awful he had just made her feel.

How stupid. Of course he had to marry. And of course he would think her the type who could not refuse him, for she did not have it within her to inspire love in a man. His offer was the best she could ever hope for. Of course she must accept.

She wanted to cry.

"I see," she said, mumbling the words, because she really did see all too clearly how it was.

He went on, his voice gruff and a little daunting. "We're to marry at Westerley as soon as they've finished calling the bans. My father can't travel, so your family must come there, and will stay over Christmas. Afterwards...well, I've discussed the settlements with your father, and he's pleased. You'll have a London house, as well as apartments at Westerley. And..." he hesitated the merest second, and Eleanor wondered what to make of that break in this terrifying description of her future. "I expect, you'll be a countess before too long."

"I don't want to be a countess," she muttered to the floor, unexpected rebellion rising inside.

"What's that?" he asked, his voice sharp.

She looked up. Such a mistake. She met the blue eyes, wary now and stormy, and words disappeared from her mind and her tongue. She fell into those eyes, and suddenly she knew how any lady could be too foolish when it came to him, for she wanted to do something to coax a smile from him, to thaw the sudden ice in his glance.

"Damnit, Eleanor, we might as well get this straight from the start."

She didn't wince at his swearing, though she knew that a well-bred girl such as herself ought to at least gasp at his language. However, he looked to be in such a temper that he had not even realized what he had said, and she thought it wiser not to pour oil on his fire by bringing it to his attention.

"Your father says you're a sensible girl," he went on, his words raspy and rapid. "I need a marriage, and I would rather get myself a sensible agreement with a sensible girl. Now, I know da...dashed well I don't need to make good on that silly pact my father made with yours to have one of his sons marry a Glover, but if it gives him some satisfaction in his dying days, then I shall do it. I'd rather not pick one of your sisters—I've...well, let us just say that by what your father tells, you seem the most likely to be satisfied with an arranged marriage. So, do we have an agreement, or not?"

He stood glaring at her, his hands clenched at his sides and his expression almost daring her to decline. He sounded far too much like a man who always got what he wanted. However, the problem was that he really didn't want her. He simply wanted someone sensible. And he thought her sensible.

She stared at him, at those intense eyes, and things—not very sensible things—popped into her head. But he would never want to hear any of them from her. They were fleeting thoughts. Momentary indulgences of the fantasies that she had woven around how it would be someday when someone asked her to marry him. They danced through her mind like dust motes in sunlight, mere glimmers of undefined longing that vanished before she could wrap words around them.

This was nothing like anything she had ever imagined. This was her choice. Take him, or send him away to find a truly sensible woman? Only she did not want to send him away.

It was his eyes, she decided. Or rather, it was what she had glimpsed for an instant deep within those eyes, lurking like some fabulous beast at the bottom of a crystal lake.