Beauty So Rare, A (A Belmont Mansion Novel Book #2) (39 page)

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 drive—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 

Y
ou
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 inside 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.”

Eleanor’s face went warm. Now she wished she’d let Marcus wait outside. Dare she attempt to defend herself to these ladies? But how could she not? Heart pounding, she sat straighter. “If you would allow me to—”

Mrs. Holcomb raised a hand, her sigh holding truce as well as consternation. “And yet, Miss Braddock, you have single-handedly done what we, as an organization, have attempted to do since the war concluded. We exist to do good within this community. Time and time again, we have invited less fortunate women to come to the league’s building in town for a meal on Saturday mornings. We provide the finest food. Many of the ladies here have donated their own family china, table linens, and crystal. We wanted the experience to be one that makes the women feel special, that makes them feel welcome.”

“We’ve passed the word through neighbors and friends,” another woman said. “But only a handful of women ever attend.”

“And most times they ask to take the meal with them,” yet another woman volunteered. “Then they leave, quickly as they came. And rarely do they return.”

“Even though we know they could benefit from the assistance,” a third woman added.

Eleanor recalled the wording of the plaque that hung beside the front door of the league building.
“. . . women from Nashville’s finest families . . .
dedicated to social betterment . . .”
No wonder the widows hadn’t felt comfortable visiting there. She hadn’t either.

She listened as the women continued to lay out their
complaint
. And, gradually, she realized they didn’t sound angry with her so much as confounded as to why she’d succeeded at something when they had failed. And slowly, understanding dawned. . . .

She wasn’t in trouble. At least not in the sense she’d initially thought. She looked around the room. All of the women were dressed in the finest, most fashionable garments. Jewels on their fingers and dangling from their earlobes, hair neatly arranged, not a thread out of place. Then she glanced down at her own state of dress and—oddly—wasn’t bothered by it anymore. Because she knew in that moment that she’d happened upon something more valuable, more precious than anything money could buy. Even though—the irony of her next thought tempted
her to smile—it
did
take money to do what she was doing. And these women had
that
in abundance. They had the heart to help too. They simply didn’t know how. But neither had she. Until God had shown her, in a very roundabout way—one she never could have anticipated.