Free The Bride by Christine Dorsey

took a deep breath and noticed the butler flinch. “All right,” he said, looking away momentarily before meeting the older man’s eyes. He even thought he recognized a spark of sympathy before the butler’s expression glazed over and his body assumed a statue quality. “Would you tell her I was here?” John’s voice lowered. “And that I’m leaving tomorrow for Montana.”
    Without even waiting for a response, John turned away and began walking down the broad expanse of carriageway toward Bellevue Avenue.
    The day was balmy with a crisp breeze off the ocean, but he didn’t notice. He set out this morning determined to see her and explain himself, but the truth was, he had no explanation.
    He used her, plain and simple. And Eleanor didn’t deserve that. Though Lord knew she should be accustomed to it by now. Her father had sold her off to pay for his mistake. John considered sending a telegram to his lawyers telling them not to hand over the second payment to Franklin Fiske. No goods, no payment. And John sure as hell didn’t have Eleanor.
    But he didn’t do it. Not that he wasn’t plenty angry with Fiske. Franklin apparently folded under wifely pressure, spilling his guts, then hightailing it to New York till the smoke cleared. So in John’s mind, he had plenty of reason to cause Franklin problems. The only thing was, that would also be a hardship on Eleanor. And John found he couldn’t do that.
    Her mother was enough of a burden for her to bear. John shook his head. The old harpy would have Eleanor married off soon to someone she didn’t love.
    John hurried his pace, trying not to think about that. He forfeited his right to worry about Eleanor Fiske. Because he used her like everyone else.
    The only difference was that she’d trusted him. She’d loved him. And he’d let her down.
    “Whoa there!”
    John barely heard the shouted command above the startled whinny as a horse was pulled up short.
    “My God, man. Look where you’re going” There was a pause, then, “Good God, Bonner, is that you?”
    John suddenly discovered he was in the middle of Bellevue and had been nearly run down by a phaeton driven by Douglas Milner, a social dandy John met during his stay in Newport. John thought this heir to a railroad estate puffed up and arrogant, but generally benign. Douglas considered himself a “swell.” When he drove around in his buggy, Douglas, along with all the other “whips,” wore a silk topper and a bright green coat over a yellow striped waistcoat. The coat was decorated by a large boutonniere and gilded buttons.
    Now John found himself looking up at Douglas somewhat sheepishly because he apparently stepped from the curb right into the path of a set of matched bays.
    “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Douglas called down good-naturedly. He’d managed to calm his team. “For if you are, I can tell you some better ways.”
    “That’s all right,” John said with a grin. He shook his head to clear it and decided he needed to concentrate more on what he was doing.
    “Climb up and I’ll give you a ride. By the by, where is your buggy?”
    “Left it in the carriage house. And no thanks, I think I’ll walk.”
    “And step in front of someone else? I insist you hop up here.”
    In the end it seemed easier to accede to Douglas. With a sigh, John settled back against the leather seat.
    “Don’t blame you for being upset, you know. This can be a sticky business.” Douglas gave a flick of his wrists and the bays pranced off down the street.
    It took a moment for John to realize what Douglas said and that he expected a response. Since he knew why he was upset, but doubted anyone else did, he didn’t know how to respond. John’s eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”
    “The Fiskes,” Douglas said with a shrug. “It’s a good thing duels are no longer the thing. It would be a shame to have to kill old Franklin.”
    “Kill Franklin?” Admittedly he was extremely angry with the