Page 115 of Oddity of the Ton
“You must be drunk to think such sentimental nonsense, let alonesayit.”
Swallowing the stab of pain in her heart, Eleanor retreated.
“Why, Juliette?” she asked. “What is it about me that you hate so much? I can’t believe you take pleasure in hurting the feelings of others.”
“Feelings!” Juliette huffed. “Youhaveno feelings. You sit about the place with that perpetually glum expression on your face, never taking interest in anythingIenjoy—always placingme in a position where I have to excuse your eccentricities to my friends. You don’t know what it’s like tofeel.”
“You’re wrong,” Eleanor said. “Just because I hide my feelings, doesn’t mean I don’t have any.”
“Perhaps I should put that to the test.”
“What do you mean?”
A sly smile slid across Juliette’s mouth. A spark of fervor glittered in her eyes, and Eleanor’s gut twisted in apprehension. Then it was gone, as Juliette closed her eyes again, her forehead creasing in pain.
“Perhaps I’ll take my rest,” she said. “Please give my excuses to Mama. Tell her I’ll join the party in a little while.”
She offered her hand, and Eleanor took it.
“Shall I send someone with some hot chocolate or water?” Eleanor asked.
Juliette shook her head.
“Or perhaps a doctor? I’m sure Dr. McIver wouldn’t object to—”
“No!” Juliette pushed Eleanor back. “Why must you be so persistent?”
Eleanor raised her hands in appeasement. “Forgive me, Juliette,” she said. “I’ll say no more.”
With that, she exited the dining room.
*
By the timethe men rejoined the ladies, Juliette had still not returned.
Which was, perhaps, for the best—not only for her own sake, given that she’d looked decidedly ill, but also for Eleanor’s. To see her sister so unhappy had given rise to a turmoil of emotions—a yearning to comfort her, tempered by fear of Juliette’s dislike.
How strange that one could care for someone, yet not bear to be in their company!
“Miss Howard, I am deeply hurt,” a voice said.
Eleanor turned to see Colonel Reid staring directly at her. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. She might feel easy in his presence, but there was only one man whose gaze she completely trusted.
And he was not here tonight—nor was she likely to look into his eyes again.
“F-forgive me, colonel. I’m afraid I was preoccupied.”
“Evidently. I’ve asked three times for your opinion on whether Stubbs or Gainsborough was the better painter.”
“I cannot make an informed comparison,” she said. “I’ve yet to study a Gainsborough in detail. But I consider Stubbs’s work more appealing.”
“Gainsborough was a favorite of the king and queen—and he was a founding member of the academy, whereas Stubbs—”
“Was only an associate of the academy, I know.” His eyes widened, and she laughed. “Just because I’m a woman, it doesn’t mean I don’t read. And Stubbs is something of an obsession.”
“I find his work a little gruesome.”
“His sketches inThe Anatomy of the Horseare exquisitely detailed, but, of course, they were drawn from life, after stripping away the flesh.” She leaned closer, impelled by a wicked urge to shock, and lowered her voice. “Did you know he dissected human cadavers also?”
