LITMIR.BIZ

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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 receiving visitors, as I have already told him,” Eleanor said crisply.

      Bartwell’s lips twitched with satisfaction, and he said, “He won’t like that much, I’ll warrant.”

      “I daresay not.” Eleanor grinned. “But if he is rude to you, you have my full permission to throw him out of the house.”

      Bartwell’s eyes lit up, and Eleanor knew he was hoping that the man would be recalcitrant. There were times when Bartwell considered his present life a trifle too dull.

      After he left, Eleanor listened for sounds of an altercation, but she heard none, so she assumed that his lordship must have left peacefully enough. She wished she could have been there to see his face when Bartwell delivered her message. Indeed, she had been tempted to see Lord Neale just to tell him to his face that she did not care to talk to him. But, of course, that would have defeated the whole purpose of the message.

      After that, Eleanor found it difficult to concentrate on anything. Her mind kept returning to Lord Neale and his unmitigated gall in coming to call on her this afternoon, wondering whether he would attempt to do so again and whether he would be with his sister when Eleanor met with Lady Honoria. Finally she gave up trying to work and went upstairs to dress for her dinner that night with Juliana and her husband.

      After some consideration she chose a half-mourning white dress with a modest black train that fell from the shoulders in back. Her maid dressed her hair simply, winding a black velvet ribbon through her dark curls, and her only ornamentation was a black stone brooch that Edmund had given her not long before he died. Made in the Italian pietra dura style, the center was a cluster of white and pink flowers, each tiny piece inlaid into the dark stone. Though it was not precisely a mourning brooch, as it contained colors, Eleanor had worn it as such because Edmund had given it to her. After he died, she had remembered how he had put it in her palm, folding her fingers over it and saying earnestly that she must wear it for his sake. At the time she had found his solemn manner odd, but also rather sweet and touching. Afterwards, she had wondered if he had suffered some premonition of his death…or, even worse, if he had known that his death would come because he had planned it.

      Eleanor pushed the dark thought away. She would not let it intrude on this happy evening, when she was going to see her friend again after a year’s separation.

      Quickly she pinned the brooch onto her dress and took a last glance at herself in the mirror. She was, she knew, a statuesque woman, far from the ideal of the dainty pink-and-white, fair-haired English beauty. Though her eyes were fine and her skin creamy, her features were too large, her mouth too wide, her jaw too strong. But she looked, she thought, attractive tonight. Simple styles in dress and hair always suited her, and the prospect of an enjoyable evening ahead had put color in her cheeks and brightened her eyes—something that had been missing in her recently.

      Eleanor picked up her fan from the dresser and allowed her maid to drape her light evening cloak about her shoulders, then went down to the carriage that waited outside. Her coachman tipped his hat to her as Bartwell helped her up into the carriage, a task he reserved to himself whenever possible.

      Eleanor settled against the soft leather back of the seat as the carriage rattled away from the house. They stopped at the next corner, then turned onto the cross street, and as the carriage began to move, the door suddenly opened and a man swung inside.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ELEANOR SUCKED IN HER BREATH sharply, her heart pounding, every nerve standing on end. Her mind flew to the pistol that she carried concealed in a compartment beside the seat, but even as she thought of it, she recognized the man who had entered her carriage in such an unconventional manner. Her intruder was Lord Neale.

      She had seen him only one time, but he was not an easy man to forget. Eleanor relaxed. She disliked Neale thoroughly, but at least she felt sure that he had not entered her coach to rob or attack her. The fear that had rushed through her at his intrusion turned in an instant to an anger just as intense. He was, she thought, a perfectly loathsome man. No doubt he had intended to frighten her and thus gain the upper hand.

      Well, he would find out that Eleanor Townsend Scarbrough was made of rather sterner stuff, she thought grimly. Tamping down her anger, she kept her expression cool and unruffled, simply gazing at him with raised eyebrows for a long moment while she gave her heart a chance to stop racing.

      “Lord Neale,” she greeted him calmly. “To what, may I ask, do I owe this unexpected visit?”

      His lips twitched—she wasn’t sure if it was with a smile or in chagrin. Eleanor’s gaze was drawn to his mouth, and she noted the sensually full lower lip, the sharply cut upper lip. His was a very appealing mouth. Quickly, a trifle shocked at her own thought, she pulled her gaze back up to his cool gray eyes. He was a handsome man, she thought, in a hard sort of way, with fiercely jutting cheekbones and an unyielding jaw. She had told herself over the course of the last year that he had not been as attractive as she remembered. But she realized now that he was, if anything, more good-looking.

      “Nothing surprises you, does it?” he asked.

      “Is that what you hoped to do?” Eleanor countered. “Inspire terror in my poor maidenly heart? Is that the reason for your, shall we say, unorthodox entrance?”

      “No,” he replied with some irritation. “The reason for my jumping into your carriage is that you refused me when I asked to call upon you earlier.”

      “I notice that it did not stop you from coming to my house anyway,” Eleanor put in tartly.

      “No,” he admitted without even the semblance of shame. “But it

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