The Stolen Bride. Brenda JoyceЧитать онлайн книгу.
from the countess’s hothouse gardens. The earl sat at its head, the countess at its foot. Eleanor saw that her father was smiling.
He was a handsome, silver-haired man in his early fifties with the demeanor of a man born to privilege and power. But then, his entire life had been dedicated to serving the earldom, his country and his family. His blue eyes were warm and benign as he looked down the long table, first at his family and then at their guests. Finally his gaze returned to her.
She could not quite look him in the eye. He was so pleased that she was marrying Peter, and she did not want him to guess that she had remained nervous all day—just like the witless debutante brides she scorned. Her earlier conversation with Ty had not had a lasting effect. Peter sat beside her. He had been attentive all evening, and he was very handsome, too, in his dinner clothes. At first, it had been so hard to smile and laugh and pretend that nothing was wrong when she was still so uneasy. Eleanor didn’t care for the taste of wine and more importantly, its effect on her mind, but tonight she’d had not one but two entire glasses of red wine. Miraculously, it had calmed her down.
She had instantly enjoyed Peter’s every single word and had been laughing for most of the night. She hadn’t realized how amusing he was. And she wondered why she had never realized how extremely handsome he was, too.
Those ridiculous, marriage-mad debutantes with whom she’d had to spend so much time during her two Seasons would think that Peter was more than a premier catch—he was the catch of all time. Why hadn’t she invited Lady Margaret Howard and Lady Jane Nettles to her wedding? They would be green with envy. Pea-green with envy, in fact. She had heard their husbands were fat.
If it wouldn’t be remarked upon, she would have another glass of wine, never mind that supper was over. Then she would simply float through the rest of the evening.
Peter murmured, so no one else might hear, “Are you all right?”
She smiled at him. “It has been a lovely evening.”
His brows arched in mild surprise. “Every evening is lovely if I share it with you.”
She felt herself melt, oh so pleasantly. Had she really been in doubt of their union? “You are a romantic, Peter.” She laughed, playfully poking his arm.
He started. “I have always been a romantic when around you.”
She fluttered her lashes at him. How fortunate could one get? Why had she been so upset earlier? She could not quite recall.
The countess was seated at the foot of the table. Lord Henredon, Peter’s father on her right. Mary said softly, “Darling? We are all waiting.”
The earl cleared his throat, his gaze going from his daughter back to the table of expectant faces. “I cannot begin to say how pleased I am that my dear, beautiful daughter has finally decided to marry. I am even more pleased that she is marrying young Sinclair. Obviously her change of heart required the right man. I do not think I have ever seen her happier. To the bride and groom. May your future be filled with love, peace, joy and laughter.” He raised his glass.
Eleanor smiled at her father, not able to decipher what he was talking about, and she looked at Peter, who was looking at her as if she were a goddess from Mount Olympus. His eyes were shining. Or was her vision dancing? Maybe Tyrell was right. Maybe this man was in love with her and she would one day find herself in love with him. Eleanor smiled at Peter. Maybe she was falling in love, then and there. Maybe she was already in love. Hadn’t she agreed to marry him because he was the right man for her?
Her father had said something about a change of heart. She frowned. How could her heart change? She had found the right man, obviously—although he did not have gray eyes.
She felt confused. Peter’s eyes were blue, not gray. Maybe she needed more wine. If she were not already in love, another glass would certainly do the trick.
“I would also like to thank Lord and Lady Henredon for their aid in planning this monumental wedding, and I want to thank all of our guests for being here. I especially want to thank Mr. and Mrs. McBane, Lord and Lady Houghton, Lord and Lady Barton, for being here with us tonight, on this first of hopefully many more joyous family occasions. And finally, I want to thank young Sinclair. Peter, thank you for making my daughter so happy.” He sat down, glancing at Eleanor again with a fond smile.
“I should like to second that toast and add one of my own,” Tyrell said, smiling as he stood. “To the man who dares to marry my sister. Keep her happy or you will have to account to all five of her brothers,” he said.
Sinclair smiled. “I will live to keep Eleanor happy,” he said gallantly. Then he seemed perplexed. “I beg your pardon—Eleanor has four brothers, does she not?”
Eleanor felt her smile fade. She had three brothers and two stepbrothers. Everyone knew that. Didn’t Peter know it, too? But Sean was gone, missing—and he was the one who had gray eyes.
“Did I say something wrong?” Sinclair asked in bewilderment. “Cliff has not arrived yet, but he would make four.”
Eleanor stared at the linen table cloth, suddenly sad in spite of the wine. Where was Sean? Why wasn’t he here? Didn’t he want to come home?
The wine had made her a lackwit. Sean wasn’t there, so how could she get married? There couldn’t be a wedding without Sean, because he was the one she was supposed to be marrying. Suddenly Eleanor felt a surge of panic.
“I am sorry, Eleanor,” Tyrell murmured.
She looked at him, the effects of the wine gone just like that, like being thrown in a tub of frigid water. She was marrying Peter, not Sean. She loved Peter—or she almost did—and she had to have a third glass of wine before the evening was ruined.
Devlin O’Neill spoke. Once an infamous captain in the British Royal navy, he remained bronzed, his hair sun-streaked. “I am sure you have heard the rumors, Peter. I have a younger brother but he disappeared four years ago. No one has seen or heard from Sean since.”
Sinclair started. “No, I hadn’t heard. Good God, I am terribly sorry, Sir Captain!”
There was no wine left in her glass. Eleanor stared at the crystal, almost wishing that she had never met Sean, because he was ruining what was supposed to be the happiest day in her life. And she was happy, wasn’t she? She liked the way Peter looked at her and the way he smiled. She had been happy a moment ago! She was going to miss Sean forever—she missed him now—but she was marrying a wonderful man, the most perfect man, even if he was English.
And she was overcome with confusion. She liked Peter very much; sometimes she thought she loved him. Missing Sean—who had gray eyes—had nothing—nothing—to do with her wedding.
“Peter?” She smiled at him. “I should like another glass of wine. Very much,” she added, but he was not given the chance to respond.
“To Sinclair,” Rex de Warenne said. He had lost his right leg in the war and now he reached for his crutch and pushed to his left foot. “The perfect husband for our sister, as he will dedicate his life to her. Eleanor, no bride could be as fortunate.”
Eleanor just stared at Rex, wondering if he was mocking her. He had changed so much since he had come home from the war. “I am the most fortunate woman in Ireland,” she said with the heat of utter conviction.
Everyone looked at her.
Eleanor wondered, aghast, if she had just slurred.
Rex’s dark brows lifted in skepticism. “Really?”
Eleanor met his dark, penetrating gaze and thought he might know exactly how she was feeling. But then, he was very fond of wine—and brandy—especially since he had lost his leg. Maybe he would get her another glass of wine—discreetly, just in case she had committed the terrible faux pas of becoming foxed in polite company.
Ladies don’t get foxed, Elle.
Eleanor