Page 105 of Oddity of the Ton
Many young women had entered into hasty marriages with men below their station shortly after having been seen on Dunton’s arm. Or they disappeared from Society altogether.
How many firstborn children had arrived after just such a hasty marriage, with features that bore an inexplicable resemblance to that lecher—an eternal mark of its mother’s ruination?
Dunton often boasted of his conquests when in his cups at White’s. He seemed to take pride in the number of maidenheads he’d claimed—fifty at the last count, if his boasts were to be believed.
Which is what I did five nights ago.
What made Monty any different to Dunton?
Eleanor had consented—nay, she hadasked—in the full knowledge that they would part company. Dunton’s conquests were sordid fumblings. What Monty had shared with Eleanor was far more—it was a union of souls.
Colonel Reid dipped his head in a bow and clicked his heels together. “Miss Howard, a pleasure,” he said. “And Whitcombe, of course.”
The colonel’s features were open and honest. His mouth lifted into a smile, and his eyes—a soft, warm chocolate brown—sparkled in the sunlight. The poor man hadn’t stood a chance with Juliette. Reid might be capable in battle, but in Society, he lacked the predator’s instinct. Any fool would have known that Juliette had encouraged his suit merely to further her cause of attracting Dunton’s attention.
Reid colored under Monty’s scrutiny.
“Colonel Reid,” Eleanor said, stepping forward. “How delightful to see you. It’s a fine day for a walk in the park, is it not?”
Monty smiled to himself. He’d taught her well. She could now break an awkward silence with aplomb. If nothing else, he’d given her the ability to survive a social encounter, even if she’d never completely enjoy it.
“That it is, Miss Howard,” the colonel replied. “It’s the perfect balance of the season and sunshine.”
What the devil was he on about?
“Oh yes!” Miss Howard cried, evidently able to translate. “The summer is drawing to a close, and yet nature is bestowing upon us brighter colors than we could ever hope to see in a hothouse. Just look at that horse chestnut—have you ever seen anything so magnificent?”
“The sunlight makes it look as if it’s glowing from the inside,” Reid said.
She nodded, her eyes sparkling with joy.
Curse the man! He was voicing precisely what Monty himself had been thinking.
“I’ve often wondered what it might be like to paint that tree.”
“You’re an artist?” Eleanor looked at Reid with renewed interest.
“I dabble, nothing more. When a man has a profession, he has little time to indulge in pleasures that are deemed, by his family, to be mere frivolities.”
Had Monty imagined it, or did the colonel cast a look of disdain in his direction? Perhaps he considered a gentleman less worthy of existence than a man with an occupation.
“I assure you,I’malso kept very busy, colonel,” he said.
Reid merely inclined his head.
“I’m sorry to hear you’ve no time to paint, colonel,” Eleanor said. “A man shouldn’t occupy himself with work all the time—otherwise, there’s little point in existing.” Then she colored. “Forgive me. I’m being too forward. Sometimes I let my enthusiasm run unchecked.”
“No, Miss Howard, you’re right,” Reid said. “There’s no shame in having a passion for art. Mankind is nothing without art or music.”
“Is that why you spend much of your time shooting the French?” Monty asked.
It was a petulant comment, which he regretted almost as soon as he’d said it.
“I daresay, Whitcombe, you understand soldiering as much as I understand…whatever it is a duke occupies himself with.”
There was no mistaking the bitter edge to the colonel’s voice. Juliette had done a thorough job in breaking the man’s heart. Monty would almost have pitied Reid, had the colonel not vented his frustration on him—as if Monty and his kind were responsible for all the miseries of the world.
Eleanor glanced at Monty, then back to Reid, a faint blush on her cheeks.
