The Bride (The Wedding Series) - By Christine Dorsey Page 0,7

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.

The one time she gave in to desire and looked his way she was so unnerved by his stare that she knocked over her wineglass. The servants cleaned the spilled liquid quickly and none had dripped onto her gown or Sir Alfred’s coat. Eleanor was so upset she refused to look toward Mr. Bonner again.

But she couldn’t help thinking about him.

Though she ate sparingly of the remaining courses of broiled quail and filet de boeuf pique, Eleanor felt the knot in her stomach grow tighter as the meal wore on.

Sir Alfred continued to prattle on about this escapade and that, often lapsing into long soliloquies about England and his house