The Bride (The Wedding Series) - By Christine Dorsey Page 0,22

want your sympathy.” John glanced out toward the sea, then back toward her. Their eyes met. “I just want you to understand why I did what I did.”

“I do,” she said and John couldn’t deny the sense of relief that washed over him. But it was short lived. “I understand. I really do. But that doesn’t change the fact that you used me.” Her smile was sad. “You made me fall in love with you, and you made me think you loved me too. That,” she said as she skirted around him, “I don’t think I can forgive.”

Eleanor pulled open the door and walked back through the house. And John stood where she’d left him. Wondering how he could have made such a blunder. And why he cared so much.

Nine

“Miss Fiske is not receiving visitors.”

John stood on the shaded porch of Eleanor’s house and stared at the stiff-lipped butler. He wanted to wrap his fingers around the scrawny neck sticking out of the royal purple livery and refuse to budge until he was taken to her. And he would have, too. It he thought it would do any good.

This was the fifth time in the last two days he’d been here insisting upon seeing her. And the response was always the same.

She didn’t want to see him

Yesterday he sent the butler scurrying toward the marble stairs when John refused to leave until a message was delivered to Eleanor. John had grabbed an envelope from his pocket and scrawled a quick note, begging her to listen to him for just five minutes.

She declined.

So he was back again today hoping for a change of heart. And to tell her goodbye.

John took a deep breath and noticed the butler flinch. “All right,” he said, looking away momentarily before meeting the older man’s eyes. He even thought he recognized a spark of sympathy before the butler’s expression glazed over and his body assumed a statue quality. “Would you tell her I was here?” John’s voice lowered. “And that I’m leaving tomorrow for Montana.”

Without even waiting for a response, John turned away and began walking down the broad expanse of carriageway toward Bellevue Avenue.

The day was balmy with a crisp breeze off the ocean, but he didn’t notice. He set out this morning determined to see her and explain himself, but the truth was, he had no explanation.

He used her, plain and simple. And Eleanor didn’t deserve that. Though Lord knew she should be accustomed to it by now. Her father had sold her off to pay for his mistake. John considered sending a telegram to his lawyers telling them not to hand over the second payment to Franklin Fiske. No goods, no payment. And John sure as hell didn’t have Eleanor.

But he didn’t do it. Not that he wasn’t plenty angry with Fiske. Franklin apparently folded under wifely pressure, spilling his guts, then hightailing it to New York till the smoke cleared. So in John’s mind, he had plenty of reason to cause Franklin problems. The only thing was, that would also be a hardship on Eleanor. And John found he couldn’t do that.

Her mother was enough of a burden for her to bear. John shook his head. The old harpy would have Eleanor married off soon to someone she didn’t love.

John hurried his pace, trying not to think about that. He forfeited his right to worry about Eleanor Fiske. Because he used her like everyone else.

The only difference was that she’d trusted him. She’d loved him. And he’d let her down.

“Whoa there!”

John barely heard the shouted command above the startled whinny as a horse was pulled up short.

“My God, man. Look where you’re going” There was a pause, then, “Good God, Bonner, is that you?”

John suddenly discovered he was in the middle of Bellevue and had been nearly run down by a phaeton driven by Douglas Milner, a social dandy John met during his stay in Newport. John thought this heir to a railroad estate puffed up and arrogant, but generally benign. Douglas considered himself a “swell.” When he drove around in his buggy, Douglas, along with all the other “whips,” wore a silk topper and a bright green coat over a yellow striped waistcoat. The coat was decorated by a large boutonniere and gilded buttons.

Now John found himself looking up at Douglas somewhat sheepishly because he apparently stepped from the curb right into the path of a set of matched bays.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Douglas called down good-naturedly. He’d