Page 143 of Oddity of the Ton
He placed a hand on Monty’s arm. “Then leave her be, Whitcombe. It broke my heart to say goodbye to Eleanor—but I let her go because I love her.”
The older man’s gentle plea pierced Monty’s heart more deeply than his earlier words of anger—for it was motivated by love.
And while Monty may have been able to argue against anger, or vengeance, he could never argue against an honest man doing what he thought best for his beloved daughter.
Admitting defeat, Monty bowed and retreated.
If he were to find Eleanor, he’d have to search elsewhere. What had Sir Leonard said?
A place she used to love, filled with dreams and memories.
Not much to go on, but it was a start.
*
The carriage drewto a halt outside Marlow’s townhouse. The building, which Monty had expected to be empty, was ablaze with light.
Marlow was at home.
Monty opened the carriage door and climbed out. Then he leaped up the steps to the front door and knocked. Moments later, a footman appeared.
“Is your master in?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman ushered him into a parlor. “I’ll tell the master you’re here.”
“And your mistress?”
“Lady Marlow is resting, on account of the baby.”
“Shit.”
The footman arched an eyebrow in disapproval.
“Is she in the country?”
“No, sir—she returned to London for her confinement, but she’s not receiving visitors.”
“I particularly wish to see her on an urgent matter.”
“Perhaps the master can relay a message.”
“I’d rather speak to her myself.”
“Very good.”
The footman bowed then retreated into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
Damn—Monty had forgotten Lady Marlow’s confinement. She’d looked ready to give birth any day at Rosecombe, and it was the height of incivility not to congratulate a new parent.
Though he’d not cared about such things before…
Before Eleanor.
Too restless to sit, Monty paced about the parlor, taking in the décor, which had a decidedly more feminine touch than he recalled. But the last time Monty had visited, Marlow was abachelor. Gone were the heavy colors that absorbed the light—gone was the reek of cigars. They had been replaced by warm, welcoming colors and the gentle aroma of lavender.
Monty’s gaze fell upon a picture on the wall, nestled among a series of watercolor landscapes. A simple pencil sketch, with very few lines, but the likeness was unmistakable—as was the artist.
The subject looked out from the picture, a smile of bliss on her lips. Her hands were placed on her belly, and an expression of the purest love shone from her eyes.
