Under the Kissing Bough by Shannon Donnelly Page B

had robbed all but a faint haze of light from the leaden sky. It might as well have been midnight in this room. On the far wall, a brace of candles glowed on a side table. Two more candles in wall sconces illuminated wine-colored wall hangings and pooled light around an enormous, carved mahogany, four-poster bed, hung with velvet bed curtains. To her left, a meager fire in the hearth looked as if it too had had its spirits dampened by the gloom.
    Thankfully, the room smelled of spices and tobacco. She had dreaded visiting her own grandfather when he lay dying, for he had smelled of sickness and old man, and of death.
    As she moved forward—her boots silenced by the thick rugs—she noted the heavy, old fashioned furnishings that loomed up from the shadows as if they had been forgotten here. What a wonderful room for fancy dress, for men in cavalier curls and women in low-cut lace and Queen Anne brocades.
    Then her wandering gaze came to rest on the Earl of Herndon.
    The earl lay on his bed, motionless, his eyes closed. His shrunken body lay wrapped in fine lawn and a rich, purple brocade robe. Wisps of white hair poked out like cotton from under a nightcap of white linen. His hand lay on the sheet that covered him, and on it, a huge ruby glinted in the candlelight.
    Just as she began to wonder if the doctor had been too quick to leave his patient's side, the earl's eyes popped open. Eleanor nearly jumped out of her skin.
    "Who is it?" he demanded, his voice far stronger than his appearance would lead anyone to believe. Ice-blue eyes fixed on her, skewering her with their glare.
    "I've brought my wife-to-be to meet you," Lord Staines said, moving forward into the candlelight and bringing Eleanor with him.
    "Who?" The earl's right hand, which lay on the covers, shook slightly, and Eleanor stared at the wrinkled and age-spotted skin that stretched over long fingers and a wide-backed hand. "Help me sit up," he ordered, as if his son were a servant.
    Calmly, Lord Staines replied, "You may help yourself, sir, or you may stay as you are. I am going to help Eleanor to a chair."
    Shocked by this seemingly callous treatment of his father, Eleanor turned to protest. But Staines had already dragged up one of those monstrous chairs, as if it were as light as a footstool. She turned back to offer her own assistance to the earl, but he had indeed propped himself up in the bed without any aid.
    Confused, she sat down in the high-backed chair, remembering that Lord Staines had said something about how she was supposed to act with his father. Only she couldn't remember what his advice had been. Folding her cold fingers together, she waited to see what would happen next.
    The earl stared at her, his white eyebrows bunched together, those impossibly blue eyes snapping fire like the finest sapphires. He did indeed have his son's eyes—or rather, Lord Staines had his eyes from his father.
    "So, who is she?" he snapped, narrowing his eyes as if he found it difficult to see. Or perhaps because he disapproved of what he saw.
    A touch of irritation rose in her. She was used to being overlooked, but not to being discussed as if she were not in the room at all. "I am Eleanor. Lord Rushton's daughter."
    "I know you're one of Edward's gels. Didn't I swear to him one of my boys would marry one of you? With four of you—and three boys myself—why not?"
    She could not think of an answer for that.
    The earl did not wait for her to answer, but demanded, "So, which are you? You're not the eldest. She's said to be a beauty, or did the gossips get that wrong?"
    "Father," Geoffrey interrupted, his voice mild, but also with a touch of warning in his tone. "Do you wish a wedding, or me to be a rejected suitor?"
    "Nonsense. She's got your ring."
    Eleanor glanced down at her bare hands. "Well, actually…"
    "What? No ring to pledge her? Oh, my sweet Amanda, what sons you gave me." The old man rolled his eyes, and clutched at his chest with a trembling