Chapter Seven

The gazebo wasn't visible from the house, except from the topmost floor where the servants resided. And it had long since succumbed to the forces of nature. A rambling rose, left to grow wild, curled around the structure, such that Eleanor had to battle tendrils and thorns to enter. But her efforts were rewarded with a tiny haven away from the ornamental garden and manicured lawn, with not a single blade of grass out of place.

Though the air had grown cold, Eleanor had no wish to return indoors to endure the excited chatter about tonight's party—such as what color ribbon would enhance Juliette's eyes, or which necklace would best suit Mother's new gown to outshine Lady Stiles.

She tucked her feet beneath her body, settled back, and opened her sketchbook, tracing the outline of the tree stump she'd sketched that morning, just before she'd seen…

Her stomach fluttered, and she closed the book, her cheeks warming with shame as she recalled the encounter.

Why in the world did she say her name was Harriet—and, of all people to encounter, why did it have to be him?

She leaned back and closed her eyes, but couldn't dispel the image in her mind's eye of a savagely handsome face. But though she willed the image to soften and smile, it remained hard and unyielding.

He'd break your heart…

Lavinia was right—any attempt to cling to the hope that he might notice her would end in heartbreak.

"There you are," a voice said. "Mama's been calling."

Eleanor opened her eyes to see her sister's elegant form through the foliage.

"Aren't you coming out? I'm not crawling through the undergrowth."

"Hardly undergrowth, Juliette," Eleanor said. "It's a rosebush."

"There's no need to be uncivil. The carriage leaves in an hour."

"I won't need an hour to get ready."

"You would if you tried harder, Eleanor. You could be attractive if you made an effort."

Eleanor sighed. Her respite was over. She uncurled her legs and pushed her way through the rosebush. A thorn caught on her skirts, and she brushed it aside, pulling a loose thread in the muslin.

"You've torn your gown," Juliette said.

"I can see that."

"It'll need to be mended."

"I know that."

"I'm just saying," Juliette retorted. "What's wrong with you? You've been out of sorts all day."

"Nothing's wrong."

"I don't want you being your usual miserable self tonight. Mother worked hard to secure our invitation."

"Oh?"

"It's not just any party. It's the duke's grandmother's hundredth birthday. Can you imagine what it feels like to have lived for a hundred years?"

"Yes," Eleanor said. "I can."

Juliette frowned, then glanced at Eleanor's sketchbook. "Have you been drawing again? Show me."

Eleanor opened the sketchbook. Her sister stared at the page, and Eleanor caught a flicker of admiration in her expression.

"Would you like it?" she asked. Juliette didn't respond, and Eleanor tore the page out and handed it over. "I drew it this morning. I thought the shape was interesting."

Juliette sighed, then, before Eleanor could stop her, she crumpled the page in her fist.

"Why can't you draw something pretty? Nobody wants to see that. You should draw a flower, or a portrait—that's what people like."

"It's not what I like," Eleanor said.

"You'll never attract a suitor if you draw dead trees."

"It's not dead!" Eleanor cried. "It's—"

"Oh, spare me!" Juliette huffed, tossing the paper aside.

"I don't want a suitor," Eleanor said.

"You're only saying that because nobody would have you."

"Better that than leading a man to believe I'd accept his suit before tossing him aside for another."

Juliette's eyes flashed with fury. "What did you say?"

"That's why you've been encouraging Colonel Reid, isn't it—to make the Duke of Dunton jealous?"

Juliette's nostrils flared, and a pang of shame needled at Eleanor. Her arrow had hit home.

"Forgive me, Juliette. I didn't mean to offend," she said. "I—"

"Spare me!" Juliette huffed. "I only came to tell you to get ready. Mother wants us to look our best, and nonsense such as that"—she gestured toward the discarded drawing—"won't do you any favors."

She turned and walked away.

Once Juliette was out of sight, Eleanor retrieved the drawing.

"Sorry," she whispered, smoothing out the page and slipping it back inside her sketchbook. "I like you." Then she returned to the house and made her way to her bedchamber.

Once safely inside, she flicked through the book to the sketch she'd drawn that afternoon using her imagination.

It was him—not as she recalled him, but as she wished to see him. His features were sharp and masculine as ever, but with a few additional strokes of her pencil, Eleanor had softened his expression, depicting a gentle upward curve of his full, sensual lips, and small creases around the corners of his eyes, which twinkled with joy.

She traced the outline of his features with her fingertip. Then she closed the sketchbook, slipped it into a drawer, and rang the bell for her maid.