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“I know you’re not much for apologies,” he said quietly. “Especially mine, but Eloise, I did not want to hurt you. That’s a promise. I enjoy teasing you, but I’m not teasing now.”
She leaned away, and she glanced around the room before looking back at him. “Why did you call me Eloise?”
“It’s your name.”
“Yes, but no one calls me Eloise, not even my parents.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t like it.”
“They gave you a name they don’t like?”
“Yes. I’d like to think they’d been drinking but they weren’t. They just couldn’t agree on a name, and had been arguing about it for days, and were at an impasse. So, my dad suggested they rip up a baby book with girl names, crumple them up, put them in a hat. Whatever name Mom drew that would be my name.”
“Now you’re pulling my leg.”
Her smile deepened and she shook her head. “No. And Eloise it was. Neither of them liked the name all that much so it quickly became Ella and I’ve been Ella ever since.”
“But Eloise is a perfectly nice name.”
“It is, if you’re a German warrior.”
Baird found her smile impossibly infectious. “Well, I like it. And even if it meant German cheese, I’d still like it.”
Ella shook her head, but she was smiling, and in that moment, it meant everything to Baird.
“Do you think we should join them?” Ella asked, nodding at the three having tea together.
“Probably. I’m hoping there might be some shortbread today.”
“Shall we go check out the tea tray?”
They crossed to the couch where everyone was sitting and pulled up chairs. Dorothy poured tea for both of them, and Emma asked Ella a question which allowed Baird to just listen and watch.
Ella was wearing a pale pink blouse, the shade almost the same pink as the bridesmaid dress she wore for the wedding. He’d liked her in blue at the cocktail party, but pink was her color. She looked ethereal, like a woodland fairy in the gauzy dress with wisps of fabric at her shoulders, the deep v-neckline setting off her pale skin and delicate shoulders. With her long red hair, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her small, straight nose, and that mouth of hers—his imagination ran riot, picturing all the things he wanted, and all the things he shouldn’t want. She was Alec’s sister-in-law, she was young, she lived on a different continent… but that didn’t seem to matter.
He’d done his best to avoid her during the weekend. He’d been at her side when circumstances required him to be present, but otherwise he did everything within his power to avoid her, hoping she’d lose some of her magic, that sparkle and vivacity that made him think she was from another world. But the magic didn’t fade. The sparkle deepened, becoming a glow, light surrounding her, golden light illuminating her. And when she looked at him, her vivid sea blue eyes finding his, holding his, he felt as if he’d known her forever.
Was it possible he’d known her in a past life? Were there such things as past lives? The awareness and familiarity baffled him. He’d never had such a strong bond with a stranger.
But desire was a funny thing, it had no rules, no reason, no answers. It just was.
Baird’s control snapped during the reception. He’d been on the dance floor one minute and then he was leading her out of the ballroom the next. Neither of them spoke as he drew her into the shadows of the boathouse, kissing her, forgetting everything but her.
Baird set his teacup down, harder than he intended. The cup rattled against the saucer and all eyes were on him.
“What’s wrong?” Ella said, her smile faintly teasing. “Missing the shortbread?”
His pulse felt heavy. His body felt strange. If there weren’t elderly aunts and an uncle watching, he might pull her onto his lap and kiss her, just to see if kissing her here would be as intense, and as consuming as it had been in the summer.
“I don’t think Mrs. Johnson makes a lot of shortbread,” Dorothy said. “But I can bake some later. I am very fond of my grandmother’s recipe.” She glanced around the room. “I made it last year with Emma and Cara. It didn’t last long. I could double the recipe this year.”
“I’d love to help if I could,” Ella said. “I’ve never had homemade shortbread and it would be fun to see how it’s made.”
Dorothy nodded, pleased by Ella’s offer. “I’ll ask Mrs. Johnson if there’s a good time we could use her kitchen.”
“And maybe some American fudge,” Frederick suggested. “Or am I the only one who enjoyed Cara’s fudge last year?”
