Page 1 of Oddity of the Ton
Chapter One
London, May 1815
He was, withoutdoubt, the handsomest man she had ever seen.
And the most terrifying.
The atmosphere shifted as he entered the ballroom—tempering the incessant female chatter as the desperate debutantes and their even more desperate mamas caught sight of the object of their desires, and engendering a reverential hush from lesser gentlemen who recognized a superior rival.
And hewassuperior. To every other creature alive.
He need only crook his little finger to bring forth a rush of devotees eager to worship his superiority in everything that mattered—rank, fortune, and potency.
As he strode across the floor, the crowd parted with the fluidity of movement displayed by the most elegant members of Society.
Unlike me—I’d trip and fall flat on my face.
Eleanor slipped her bracelet off her wrist, then twirled it around her forefingers, seeking solace in the rhythmic motion and the cool, smooth metal against her skin. Her heartbeat steadied, and she allowed herself a smile as a riot of gaudy feathered headdresses nodded in unison as the ladies’ gazes followed him. In the animal kingdom, he—the dominant male—incited his rivals to lower their gazes in deference, and thefemales to submit and offer themselves, like mares in season desperate to mate…
Heat flared in her cheeks, and she suppressed a little pulse of need. The mere thought of intimacy paralyzed her with fear. But she couldn’t deny the magnificence of the notion of being claimed by him.
His gaze swept across the room, as if he were surveying his territory. Eleanor stiffened. Would he notice her? Dread and anticipation warred with each other, and, for a moment, she willed him to look. Then the anticipation of pleasure succumbed to terror and she shrank back, lowering her gaze to her bracelet, which she tilted until she could read the inscription inside.
To my darling daughter, on the occasion of your debut.
Papa had presented it to her three years ago. But now, on her fourth Season, the bracelet was, in Mother’s eyes, a symbol of Eleanor’s failure to secure a husband. But Eleanor cherished the bracelet because it had been given with love. A simple gold band, it lacked the ostentation of the necklace Mother had presented to Juliette on her come-out. But Eleanor’s younger sister outshone her in every aspect—why shouldn’t her jewelry do likewise?
“My pride and joy.” A familiar, sharp female voice cut through the air. “We’re confident she’ll secure a husband before the Season is over. Eleanor’s proven to be a disappointment, of course, but we can weather one spinster in the family when her sister’s destined for a great match.”
Eleanor glanced up to see her mother talking to Countess Fairchild. As if she sensed her watching, Mother glanced toward Eleanor and frowned. Eleanor slipped her bracelet on, concealing it beneath her sleeve, then resumed her attention on the man who’d entered five minutes before.
Montague FitzRoy, fifth Duke of Whitcombe.
Her stomach somersaulted, followed by a flash of shame, as if he were so far above her that it was a transgression to evenlookat him. There was a savagery about his features—a strong, furrowed brow beneath which sapphire eyes glittered darkly. Sharply defined cheekbones, as if carved from marble, and a strong, square jaw completed his features.
As for his mouth…
His lips were full and sensual—implying a softness that belied the rest of him. But an air of cruelty lay beneath the surface. Perhaps that softness gave rise to temptation—a promise of tenderness to entice a woman to offer herself to him, only to be devoured at the point of surrender.
The musicians began tuning their instruments, and Eleanor caught sight of her younger sister arm in arm with Colonel Reid. As the son of an earl, anyone might consider him a suitable dance partner. But he was ayoungerson, therefore, despite his obvious attraction to Juliette, he had no hope of securing her hand. Juliette was merely using him to elicit jealousy in the Duke of Dunton—a man whose title, if not his unsavory person, she’d set her cap at.
Eleanor glanced toward the object of her own desires. Whitcombe was staring at Juliette, and Eleanor’s heart sank at the hunger in his gaze—the darkening of his eyes that signified interest in an attractive female.
And Eleanor’s sisterwasattractive. With honey-blonde hair, clear cornflower-blue eyes, and a perfect rosebud mouth, Juliette was the prettiest girl in every room she entered—the epitome of female perfection, which, together with a respectable dowry, compensated for her lack of a title.
Whitcombe moved toward a group of young ladies, and they turned their hopeful gazes on him. He bowed toward one, and Eleanor recognized Lady Arabella Ponsford. The elegant creature nodded graciously, as if to convey humility, but her eyesglittered with spiteful triumph in contrast to her companions’ frowns of resentment.
Lady Arabella was Whitcombe’s perfect match—in all likelihood, they’d announce their engagement before the end of the Season.
But what if he were merely performing an act? What if, beneath the disdain and savagery, lay a tender soul, who yearned to be loved for himself, rather than his title?
What if, despite his having never looked at Eleanor twice, he secretly dreamed of holding her in his arms—as she secretly dreamed of him?
Stop being a lovesick fool!
She shook her head to dispel the childish dream.
Whitcombe existed at the peak of Society. Whereas she was nothing—a plain, awkward creature who could never begin to understand thetonand its absurd rituals, speeches, and customs, and who never knew what to say until it was too late to say it.
