A Beauty So Rare Page 34

  On the other hand, Theodore Garrison Braddock was hardly a man in his right mind—at least for some of the time.

  Marcus guided the thoroughbred down the winding lane toward the mansion, weighing the possibilities. He and Eleanor both had their secrets, and he knew whose were worse.

  They rounded the last curve leading by the conservatory, and moonlight fell across the road like a silver ribbon unfurling in the breeze. The chirrup of crickets abed in the brush blended with the soothing coo of mourning doves in the perfect lullaby. In fact—

  “Eleanor?” he whispered.

  Her head tucked beneath his chin, she didn’t answer. She didn’t move. Telling himself she would have allowed him this privilege if she were awake, and acting quickly before chivalry counseled otherwise, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, the feel of her skin soft against his lips.

  So soft, in fact, he chanced another. But when she stirred, he quickly straightened, the chaste kisses worth every bit of scolding she would dole out if she’d caught him.

  She yawned, stretching. “Oh . . . I’m sorry, Marcus,” she whispered. “I fell asleep for a minute.”

  He smiled. “No harm done.” At least not much.

  She took a deep breath, then exhaled.

  He heard more weariness of heart than of body in the act, and gently squeezed her hand. “Are you certain you’re all right, Eleanor?”

  She said nothing for a moment, then took his hand in hers. Her shoulders started shaking, and her quiet cries awakened a protectiveness within him to shield her. He reined in and touched her shoulder, encouraging her to look at him.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

  She bowed her head. “Something happened tonight . . . with little Maggie.”

  “Is . . . is she all right?” His mind raced, thinking of the sweet little girl.

  “She was so hungry, Marcus. I could see it in her eyes.” She shook her head. “Then . . . she dropped her cup of soup. The whole thing.”

  “Couldn’t you give her more?”

  A soft strangled sound. “There wasn’t enough,” she whispered, voice weak. “She started sopping it up off the floor with her bread, and—”

  He pulled her closer and kissed the crown of her head, telling himself the gesture was more casual than it felt to him. “I’m sure her mother will take care of her.” But even as he said it, he thought of the recently widowed young woman, well along in her pregnancy and overworked as it was—and he wondered. “You can make more food next time. You’ll be better prepared.”

  She shook her head again. “You don’t understand.”

  “I think I do. You had no way of knowing how many people would come tonight. Especially after that . . . silly article today. Next time, you’ll simply be—”

  “I’m out of money, Marcus.” She looked up at him, her brown eyes glistening in the moonlight. “I only have enough for one, maybe two, more meals.”

  Out of money? He eyed her. “But . . . you’re Adelicia Acklen Cheatham’s niece. I thought you—”

  “I know what you thought.” She sniffed. “The same thing everyone else thinks. But my personal finances are in ruin.” She blew out a breath. “So, contrary to what you read in the newspapers”—she gave a humorless laugh—“I am not the wealthy niece of Adelicia Cheatham. I am the all-but-destitute-if-not-for-her-Aunt-Adelicia niece.”

  Marcus didn’t know what to say. He thought back to the few times he’d attended the dinners in recent weeks. He’d assumed she was covering the expenses from the abundance of her wealth—not from more meager coffers.

  “So . . . why did you do it?” he asked, the question out before he realized how revealing it was about himself. And though her expression conveyed no judgment, his own conscience declared him guilty.

  “Because,” she said softly, “they were hungry.” She lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “I’d prayed about what steps to take next. I thought it was what the Lord was leading me to do. I was certain of it. And it’s funny—I still am certain, but . . .”

  Hearing her sincerity, he nodded, while at the same time sincerely doubting the Almighty had been behind that orchestration. He’d seen too many people die of hunger to believe that. No, it was up to mankind—working with what God had created long ago—to provide an answer. To be the answer. It was this woman’s own loving heart that had been the motivation behind the dinners. He knew that full well.

  She looked back at him then, her face pale in the moonlight. “There’s something else, Marcus.”

  Her father. So she was going to share that with him, after all. He wouldn’t have to bring it up. But how would he react? As though he didn’t already know? No, he couldn’t do that, not with her. He’d have to tell her what had happened today, and would show her the book. In fact—he reached into the saddlebag behind him—maybe it would help if he broached the subject first.

  Judging by the worry in her expression, he would be saving her some unease. Though there was little he could do to lessen the embarrassment. “Eleanor, I think I can help put your—”

  “I’ve received an offer of marriage.”

  Marcus stilled—and let the book slide back into the saddlebag. “An offer of marriage?”

  She laughed softly. “Believe me, I was as surprised as you are.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it that way. I—”

  “It’s all right.” She laughed again, but it didn’t sound genuine. “I know I may seem naive, and I guess I am in some ways. But . . . I’ve experienced enough of life to know the likelihood of certain events happening. And my receiving a proposal at my age is highly unlikely.” She smiled up at him, the waver in her lips making the gesture suspect. “I simply . . . wanted you to know.”

  Rarely was he at such a loss for words. “I . . . I appreciate that.”

  “The gentleman’s name is—”

  “Lawrence Hockley.” He said the name out loud before he’d thought the response through.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Yes.” She searched his face. “But how did you—”

  “A guess.” His smile felt tight. “I was there that day your aunt mentioned your dinner with him, remember?”

  She blinked slowly—once, twice—as he imagined she might do when first waking in the morning, still trying to see through the warm haze of sleep.

  “Yes, I remember,” she said softly. “I didn’t think you did.”

  “I remember everything about you, Eleanor Braddock” is what he wanted to say—but didn’t. Because while it would have been true, it wouldn’t have been fair. He’d committed to wanting the best for her, and if Lawrence Hockley was best—which still remained to be seen—then Lawrence Hockley was who she should have. Regardless of how much he wanted her, right now, in this moment. But not only for this moment.

  Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth, and lingered, and Marcus felt his blood quicken with desire. He’d been seduced by women before. He knew the difference between coy and innocent. And the untainted sweetness of this woman, her loveliness and strength, who she was, how she cared about people—not to mention the shapely curve of her waist beneath his hand—filled his head with imaginings. The sweetness of her mouth, the soft hollow at the base of her throat, her—

  “Marcus,” she whispered, her voice earnest, tender.

  “Yes?” he answered, sudden hope overshadowing every reason behind why taking her in his arms and kissing her breathless wasn’t a good idea.

  “Look at the house,” she said, her gaze moving beyond him.

  Glad his own face was cast in shadow to hide his disappointment, Marcus breathed in the cool night air, his body still yearning for the kiss that wasn’t coming. Nor was it his to take. He followed her line of vision up the hill toward the mansion and recalled Armstead’s insistence that Eleanor be brought home promptly.

  “Look at the carriages.” Moonlight played across her slight frown.

  As she’d said, carriages lined the circular d
rive—ten, at least—and lamplight illuminated the windows of the main floor. “Is your aunt hosting a party?”

  “Not that I know of. I think she would have mentioned it. And knowing how she adores music, there would be a stringed quartet on the front lawn if she were.” She turned and looked at him. “Do you think I’m in trouble?”

  “I don’t know.” But one thing was certain. . . . He needed to get off this horse and put some distance between them, or he would likely end up doing something he would regret. Because if he kissed her, that would change things between them. And he wasn’t willing to risk losing Eleanor Braddock being in his life. Even if only for a few more months.

  “The only thing Armstead told me when I asked him if I could pick you up from town was that I needed to bring you home promptly.” He snapped the reins, knowing she wasn’t going to like what he said next. “At your aunt’s firm request.”

  31

  You have greatly disappointed me, Eleanor, and have placed me in a most embarrassing situation. Henceforth, you must leave Belmont immediately. Likewise, your father will no longer be welcome at the asylum and . . .”

  The imagined response from her aunt played over and over in Eleanor’s mind, each time louder than the last. As the mansion drew near and the possible consequences for her involvement with the widows and children took frenzied shape in her mind, Eleanor stubbornly chose to listen to the more practical voice. It was foolish to borrow trouble. This gathering didn’t need to be about her. Her aunt could well be hosting an impromptu party after having been gone so long, or maybe a club meeting that had absolutely nothing to do with the newspaper article that had so thoroughly embarrassed her that morning. And yet . . .

  Why had Aunt Adelicia instructed Armstead to bring her directly home?

  Marcus reined in, and Eleanor stifled a groan, wishing she could tell him to keep riding.

  Hands braced on his shoulders, she accepted his assistance from the horse and tried not to dwell on how wonderful his hands felt spanning her waist, or on the telling quiver inside as her body brushed his. Everything about this man drew her in. A moment ago, when she’d told him about Mr. Hockley’s offer of marriage, he’d acted startled. Which hadn’t surprised her. What had surprised her, though, was that he didn’t ask whether she’d accepted the offer. He hadn’t said a thing. He’d only stared as if not believing something like that could be true for her. Which had been all too revealing.

  Still, for a second or two, she’d dared hope. It occurred to her then . . .

  Why was a man like Marcus Geoffrey—successful, charming, kind, and most assuredly handsome—still unmarried? Everywhere he went, he turned heads. He could have his choice of any woman. So why was he not—

  The front entry opened, and Mrs. Routh appeared in the doorway, hand on hip. Lamplight spilled from behind the woman onto the front porch, followed by a cacophony of female voices, one of them rising over the others, strident and angry sounding.

  The practical voice within swiftly fading, Eleanor glanced over at Marcus. “That doesn’t sound promising,” she whispered.

  He winked. “Would you prefer I wait for you?”

  “Wait for me?” She looked at him, disbelieving. “If I have to go in there, so do you!”

  He gave her the smile that all too often made her knees forget their purpose. “I’m quite certain I am not on the guest list, Eleanor.”

  She slipped her arm through his. “Sie sind jetzt, Herr Geoffrey,” she said with a German accent. And a rather good one, she thought.

  His laughter accompanied her up the stairs.

  As Mrs. Routh closed the door behind them and promptly took her leave, that same strident voice from moments earlier carried over the chatter, and Eleanor paused outside the central parlor to peer through the open doorway.

  When she saw who was speaking, she cringed.

  “As the last founding member of this league, I insist on restating my opinion in this matter!”

  Mrs. Hightower. The woman she’d met at the Nashville Women’s League. And judging by the color in her cheeks, the woman was on a rampage.

  Over a dozen women were gathered inside, discussion thick among them. And heated. Mrs. Hightower stood amongst her seated peers, her shoulders squared as though she anticipated a fight.

  “I do not adhere to this notion,” the woman continued, each word a bullet silencing the conversation around her. “To abandon the idea of the tea hall is absurd! We are entitled to a suitable location in which to gather for our meetings, where we can discuss the important work we already contribute to this community.”

  Having expended her breath, the matriarch drew in another just as the woman seated beside Aunt Adelicia rose, hand upheld in quiet but assuming authority.

  “Mrs. Hightower, your opinion on the matter is greatly appreciated and duly noted. And may I, as president of the Nashville Women’s League, assure you . . . we are not abandoning the plans for the tea hall.” With a subtle but telling glance at the other women in the room, she added quickly, “Which we can never forget, stemmed from your excellent proposal and most generous donation, as well as the work of your daughter.”

  Hushed murmurs of agreement accompanied understanding nods and seemed to appease Mrs. Hightower to a degree. But her daughter remained stoic, though still lovely.

  The silence in the room lengthened.

  Sensing the right timing, if there was such a thing, Eleanor glanced behind her to Marcus, who simply nodded, as if saying, “Best to get it over with.” Wishing she knew what to pray for, she simply asked for God’s presence and smoothed the front of her day dress. She grimaced at the splatters of the night’s dinner that had somehow sneaked past her apron, then nudged the door farther open.

  All eyes moved to her, then quickly skipped beyond to Marcus. And lingered there. Even Aunt Adelicia seemed to sit a little straighter. Eleanor sneaked a look behind her to gauge Marcus’s reaction. But he was looking only at her.

  She found the discovery sweet. And surprising.

  “Ah! Miss Braddock . . .”

  Eleanor turned to see the league president approaching.

  “The very woman for whom we’ve been waiting, and”—the board member glanced at Aunt Adelicia—“the reason behind our impromptu meeting this evening. I’m Mrs. Holcomb, president of the Nashville Women’s League, and these are our current board members.”

  As Mrs. Holcomb introduced the women, each nodded in turn. Eleanor had met a few of them before, at her aunt’s gatherings, but she didn’t bother pointing that out.

  “Finally, may I introduce Mrs. Agnetta Hanson Hightower, the last founding member of our organization. She is also a highly revered member of the Nashville—”

  “Miss Braddock and I have already had occasion to be introduced, Madam President.” Mrs. Hightower’s tone revealed not a trace of pleasure. “She visited the league house one afternoon when my daughter and I were present.”

  “Oh . . . indeed?” Mrs. Holcomb nodded thoughtfully.

  Eleanor appreciated the adept manner in which Mrs. Holcomb handled the interruption, and found it revealing. Not only about Mrs. Holcomb, whom she swiftly decided she would like very much under different circumstances, but also about Mrs. Hightower, whom Eleanor had already decided she didn’t like much at all.

  “I will assume then, Miss Braddock,” Mrs. Holcomb continued, “that you have also met Miss Hightower.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I have.”

  “Very good, then.” Mrs. Holcomb glanced over at the stoic mother and daughter. “Miss Hillary Stockton Hightower isn’t a board member but she often accompanies her mother to the meetings. Which is always a delight.”

  Again, Eleanor detected subtle meaning in Mrs. Holcomb’s tone, even as she noticed Miss Hightower focusing past her, to Marcus. The young woman’s eyes brightened with pleasure—and recognition, it seemed. Did Miss Hightower already know Marcus?

  Eleanor pretended not to feel the spark of jealousy striking like a hot match ins
ide her. “It’s a pleasure both to see you again, Mrs. Holcomb, Miss Holcomb . . . and to meet the rest of you ladies as well.”

  Subdued welcomes and the occasional smile issued from the board members, with the exception of Mrs. Hightower and her daughter, who shared similar glares. Although Eleanor was eager to know the purpose of the meeting, she decided that since she hadn’t been formally invited, it was best she not inquire.

  Only then did she realize she was being remiss in her manners. She gestured to Marcus. “Please allow me to introduce the gentleman with me. This is Mr. Marcus Geoffrey, a . . . friend. He’s an esteemed architect from Austria”—she glanced back at him—“and a gifted botanist as well.”

  Marcus bowed on cue and, as he looked up, shot Eleanor a discreet look she was certain would melt chocolate.

  “Ladies . . . it’s indeed a pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is ours, Mr. Geoffrey,” Mrs. Holcomb offered, glancing back at Eleanor. “But we are already quite familiar with his talents, Miss Braddock. Mrs. Cheatham has seen to that. I am grateful you’re here with us tonight, Mr. Geoffrey. Your presence is most . . . fortuitous, sir.

  “But for the moment, you, Miss Braddock, are the person with whom we would like to speak.” Mrs. Holcomb indicated for Eleanor to sit. “Frankly”—she laughed, yet there was a hint of gravity to it—“you’ve caused us quite a bit of trouble these last few hours.”

  Eleanor stiffened, wishing she could see Marcus in order to read his expression, but he was behind her. Even Aunt Adelicia’s countenance was shuttered. And it didn’t help to have every board member of the Nashville Women’s League staring at her.

  Mrs. Holcomb took her seat again. “Miss Braddock, you have acted in a most, shall we say . . . unconventional manner in recent weeks. Not only have you set propriety for a woman of your status at naught, but as a future member of the Nashville Women’s League, you have opened the league to ridicule and, well . . . frankly, embarrassment.”