was impeccable, her father had died when she was young, leaving her and her mother penniless. They had lived ever since on the generosity of their relatives, and Juliana was at the school only to look after her cousin Seraphina.
Eleanor and Juliana had quickly found in each other a similar streak of independence—even, at times, of rebellion—as well as a common sense of compassion and a lively sense of humor. They had become inseparable, and in the years since they had left school, they had maintained their friendship, despite periods of separation. Juliana had stayed with Eleanor now and then; Eleanor would have welcomed her to live in her household, but Juliana had been too proud to accept Eleanor’s generosity. Instead, she had worked as a paid companion for several years. Then, six months ago, just after Eleanor and Edmund had gone to Italy, Juliana had married Lord Barre. Eleanor had met Lord Barre, and though she did not know him well, she liked what she had seen of him. She was looking forward to seeing both of them again soon.
After she wrote to Juliana and sent the note off with a servant, Eleanor started on the mail that awaited her. As she was working, one of the footmen brought in a piece of paper, folded into a square and sealed with the wax imprint of some sort of heraldic device, just delivered, he explained, by a liveried servant.
Eleanor’s eyebrows went up. Her friends and acquaintances were generally less formal—and less monied—than the sort who sent liveried servants with missives. Moreover, it seemed strange that anyone could know that she was once again in residence. Juliana had known that she was returning at some point, but even she would not know that Eleanor had actually arrived until she received the note Eleanor had only just now sent her. It seemed unlikely, if not impossible, that her friend could have already received it and sent her a reply.
She took the envelope from the silver salver that the footman extended to her and broke the seal. Her eyes went immediately to the signature at the bottom, a bold scrawl that took her a moment to decipher. Anthony, Lord Neale.
Eleanor set down the piece of paper, startled. She felt suddenly flushed, and her pulse sped up. The reaction irritated her, and she grimaced. Just the sight of a person’s name should not affect her so, she told herself. Other people had been rude and condescending to her—she had, after all, dealt with the English ton since her days at school—and she had learned to shrug off their snobbish attitude. Besides, she was quite aware of the fact that the man’s dislike of her stemmed from his own self-interest. He was Edmund’s uncle, Lady Scarbrough’s brother, and Eleanor suspected that he had relied on Edmund’s generosity to supplement Lady Scarbrough, so he could maintain a hold on his own fortune for his own amusements, whatever they might be. Or perhaps, even worse, he, too, had lived off Edmund’s fortune and had intended to use Edmund’s own money to bribe her. It was little wonder that he had reacted poorly to the news that Edmund had married Eleanor.
When he had come to see her a year ago to forbid her to marry his nephew, she had been disappointed. Until that point, she had harbored some hope that Lord Neale would welcome her to the family. After all, Edmund obviously admired his uncle and had assured her that Anthony would like her. But when she saw Lord Neale waiting for her in the entryway, she had quickly relinquished all such illusions.
He was, she had been surprised to see, not the older gentleman she had expected, but a tall, virile-looking man no more than a few years older than she was. Obviously, he was the much younger brother of Sir Edmund’s mother. He was not what one would call handsome, exactly; his face was too square, his features too hard, for that. But there was a strength in him that drew her gaze and held it. His brows were straight, dark slashes across his forehead, and the eyes beneath them were cool and gray, defined by thick dark lashes.
In other circumstances, Eleanor would have labeled his face compelling, and she had felt a startling and distinct attraction to him, a reaction so unusual and so unwanted that she had come to a sudden halt, feeling oddly girlish and unsure. But then she had noticed the cold, polite set of his attractive face, and she had known that this man was her enemy. She had seen the expression on his face too many times before—the cool hauteur of an English gentleman, convinced of his own superiority over everyone else in the world. She had known that he would not be pleased at the idea of his nephew marrying an American who could not trace her ancestors back to the Norman conquerors, and even less pleased at the idea of her putting an end to Edmund’s easygoing habit of giving money to his relatives.
She had been right, of course. Lord Neale had told her bluntly that she must not marry Edmund, and she had been pleased to inform him that his was a lost cause, as she and Edmund had married the day before by special license. This last announcement had come after a sharp exchange of words during which Lord Neale had accused her of being a fortune-hunting harpy. By the time he left, Eleanor had been trembling with fury and filled with a deep, passionate dislike of Lord Neale.
Clearly, she thought, a year’s absence had not lessened that feeling. Just remembering their meeting filled her with a nerve-jangling irritation. Taking a calming breath, she began to read. His note was short and peremptory, a terse request to call upon her to discuss matters.
Eleanor’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. She had a good idea what “matters” the man wanted to discuss. Edmund, despite his love for his mother, was well aware of her spendthrift qualities, and he had wanted to make sure that his sister had enough money to make her independent. His faith in Eleanor was as deep as his trust of his mother was not, so he had appointed Eleanor trustee of the money he left to Samantha.
No doubt Lady Honoria had kicked up a fuss when she had learned the terms of her son’s will, and that would be the reason for Lord Neale’s wish to speak to her. Eleanor took out a sheet of fine vellum and quickly wrote a note equal in length to the one Lord Neale had sent her, informing him that she was not receiving visitors. Her spirits somewhat lifted by this exercise, she signed and sealed the missive, and handed it to one of the footmen to take to Lord Neale. She sat back in her chair, a smile playing on her lips, envisioning the man’s face when he got the letter.
Her spirits were further raised an hour later when she received an answer from her friend Juliana, who, thrilled to have Eleanor in London again, invited her to dinner that evening. It would be, Juliana assured her, a private dinner, quite suitable even to one in mourning.
Eleanor immediately sent back her acceptance. Even if she had still been in full mourning, she would have gone to visit Juliana. As it was, after six months of wearing all black, she had gone into half-mourning. There were those who insisted on a full year of mourning after the death of a loved one, but neither Eleanor nor Sir Edmund had been sticklers for such traditions. Love and respect, as well as missing someone, were not, in her opinion, things that could be measured by the cloth one wore nor the length of time one wore it.
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, a little after tea, Eleanor’s butler stepped into the room, saying, “There’s a gentleman here to see you, miss.”
Eleanor raised her eyebrows, surprised. “Who?”
“Master Edmund’s uncle, miss.” Bartwell’s scowl left little doubt as to how he felt about the man, a fact that was confirmed by his ensuing words. “I left him waiting in the entry and said I’d see if you wanted to speak with him.”
Eleanor smothered a smile. She could imagine how well the proud Lord Neale would have taken that snub. She doubted if he was ever left to cool his heels in the hallway when he called on someone, much less was told bluntly that the butler would check to see if he would be received.
Of course, Lord Neale was no stranger to rudeness. He had shown quite a bit of it himself by calling on her only a few hours after she had sent him a note expressly telling him that she was not receiving visitors. Obviously he was not accustomed to people turning him down.
“Please remind Lord Neale that I am not
