The rose garden was small and secluded, her own private sanctuary at her aunt's enormous country estate. She was still in a daze of happiness since her betrothal to Damon was so brand new, only four days old. The house party had just ended, and this was their first chance to be alone together since the guests departed.
Making their escape from the manor, Eleanor brought Damon here to show him her special place, a part of her past that she never shared with anyone.
“This garden was Marcus's gift to me after our parents died when I was ten years old,” Eleanor explained. “He planned to return to university, and when I pleaded with him not to leave me here, he planted a rose bush for me. Then each year on my birthday, he has given me one more.”
She followed the gravel path where ten large bushes of lush pink roses spiraled out in a pattern. Leading Damon to the very heart of the spiral, Elea nor bent to lovingly stroke a velvet rose petal. “This plant was the first one.” Her voice dropped. “Marcus said he would be with me in spirit as long as I had my roses. And I would have something to remind me of his love. I am never lonely when I come here.”
Her heart filled with joy, she turned to gaze up at Damon, drinking in the sight of him. “Love vanquishes loneliness, and now that I am to be your wife, I know I will never be lonely again.”
At first she didn't notice how still Damon had become. “Love?” he asked quietly.
She smiled shyly up at him. “Yes. I love you, Damon. More than I ever thought to love anyone.” Bending again, she plucked a bud and held it to his lips. “I know you don't return my love yet. After all, it has not even been three weeks since we first met. But I hope that will soon change.”
After a long hesitation, he reached up to touch her cheek gently. “I don't want to hurt you, Elle.”
She shivered, wondering at the shadows in his eyes. His response was not the one she wanted, but she would not give up hope. “You could never hurt me, Damon. You would never
Eleanor started awake in the darkness, hearing the echo of her naive, trusting words, remembering her utter devastation the following week after they returned to London, when she'd spied Damon with his beautiful mistress.
Even two years later, the ache still burned inside her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she buried her face in her pillow to hold back the tears.
When she woke again, it was morning. The ache had diminished, but Eleanor was left with a feeling of great sadness, along with an even-greater restlessness. Yet after Damon's vexing visit to her bedchamber last evening, she was more determined than ever to persevere with her plan to employ Fanny's book, Advice to Young Ladies on Capturing a Husband, on Prince Lazzara.
She would redouble her efforts to win his affections, Eleanor vowed, and to elicit a proposal of marriage from him. More crucially, she would do her utmost to fall in love with him. What better way to forget the alluring Lord Wrexham than to bestow her heart on someone else?
The major impediment to her plan, however, was that the target of her designs was missing. Eleanor saw nothing of Prince Lazzara that day, although she received a short note of apology from him, explaining that regrettably he would have to forgo their planned afternoon drive in the park, since he was resting his sprained knee.
Her spirits a little deflated, Eleanor spent a quiet evening at home with her aunt. She was heartened during dinner, though, when they discussed the ball that Beatrix's good friend, the Dowager Countess of Haviland, would be giving the following evening.
“Mary has not held a ball in over a decade,” Beatrix remarked, “since her health is not robust. But she is eager to get Haviland married off, so she is leaving no stone unt
urned in her effort to introduce him to eligible prospects.”
Lady Haviland's handsome grandson, Rayne Ken -yon, had come into the title the previous year upon the death of his father, Eleanor knew. His name had been linked with Roslyn Loring's for a time during the summer, but obviously their suspected romance had come to naught since Roslyn had wed the Duke of Arden.
“The cream of society will be attending Mary's ball, you may be sure,” Beatrix added, “along with a horde of debutantes… At least the ones who did not manage to secure husbands this past Season.”
Eleanor suspected her aunt was correct. Before the wars ended, Haviland had frequently been out of the country. And more recently, he'd been in mourning for his father. But he was available now. And since a wealthy, unattached earl was a prime catch on the Marriage Mart, there undoubtedly would be numerous young ladies trying out their wiles on Lord Haviland-the very sort of audience that Fanny's book was intended for, although Eleanor kept that amusing observation to herself. She did not wish her aunt to think she was interested in pursuing Haviland. One nobleman at a time was ample.
And in any event, Beatrix was too focused on Prince Lazzara at the moment to think of pushing Eleanor into any other match.
“Signor Vecchi assures me that he and the prince will be at the ball,” Beatrix said with satisfaction. “It is a pity that his highness cannot dance with his injury, but even if he cannot, he may watch from the sidelines. We will take care to secure seats beside him, Eleanor, so that you may carry on a conversation with him throughout the evening. It could prove an excellent opportunity for you.”
Eleanor eyed her aunt with curiosity. Having no fondness for dancing, Beatrix usually escaped to the cardroom to play whist with her cronies as soon as the orchestra struck up the opening tune. “Do you mean to sit with us to act as chaperone, Aunt?”
“No, no, you hardly need a chaperone, and my presence could impede your progress with Prince Laz-zara. But I intend to remain in the ballroom. It has been a long while since I have actually enjoyed a ball, and Signor Vecchi has asked me for the first set of dances.”
“Ahh,” Eleanor replied lightly. It was the lure of the distinguished Italian diplomat that would divert her aunt from her long-held habits.
Surprisingly, Beatrix flushed. “I suppose it is absurd at my age to be cavorting like an ingenue, but I confess I feel like a young girl again.”
Eleanor smiled with affection. “I think it is perfectly lovely. Age is not always the best indicator of how young at heart you feel.”
“It is fortunate that we commissioned new gowns for my house party. I had thought to save the lavender satin until then, but I think I will wear it tomorrow instead. And you should take special care with your appearance as well, my dear. You want to look your very best for the prince.”
“I intend to, aunt,” Eleanor said with all seriousness.
* * *