Page 151 of Oddity of the Ton
She sat at an easel, engrossed in her work, sweeping her brush over the canvas, then dipping it in a jar at her side,swirling it in the palette in her hand, before working on the canvas again.
Monty’s heart swelled in his chest.
It’s you… Sweet heaven above—it’sreallyyou.
Having endured disappointment after disappointment, week after week, he’d almost been driven mad with having his hopes raised, then crushed. Perhaps his mind was toying with him. Perhaps she was an apparition, formed out of hope—with her softly rounded curves, and the pure white skin of her neck visible as she bent her head, concentrating on her canvas.
Monty blinked and wiped his eyes. But the vision before him didn’t disappear.
She was real—she was here.
And she was even more beautiful than before—perhaps because he now knew the sweet soul that resided within her delectable form. And perhaps because, having experienced the pain of having lost her, he understood the joy of having her in his arms—and in his life.
“Eleanor… My Eleanor.”
Though he spoke in a whisper, she stiffened, as if his mind had reached out to hers. She looked up, a frown creasing her forehead.
I’m here, my love.
She smiled, her face illuminating with joy, and his heart soared. An invisible thread bound them together, uniting their souls. All he need do was call her name and she’d return to him.
Then another figure came into view.
A man—evidently a gentleman, given his apparel—approached her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She tilted her head up, her smile widening, and her eyes filled with friendship, and…
…and—dear Lord!—love.
Monty’s gut twisted. He reached for the wall to steady himself and stepped back. He collided with a flowerpot, knocking it over with a clatter.
“Damn!”
He cursed, stopping to set the pot upright. Then he glanced up and froze.
Eleanor had risen to her feet and was staring directly at him, her companion by her side.
The peaceful smile had gone, and his heart ached to see the pain in her eyes.
Then she shifted her body toward her companion. Almost imperceptibly, but Monty saw it for what it was—an instinctive gesture where she looked to another for comfort.
But the pain in her eyes could not match the pain in his heart at knowing he’d lost her.
Chapter Forty
Eleanor—I’m here, mylove…
The whispered voice, which so often visited her dreams, had never disturbed her waking moments before.
Eleanor glanced up from her easel. But there was nobody there. The landscape stretched before her—the softly undulating sand dunes sloping toward the shore and beyond, the headland jutting out toward the sea.
“Eleanor.”
Mr. Staines—Andrew—appeared before her.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked. “You’ve gone dreadfully pale. Perhaps it’s too cold to sit out of doors.”
“I’m warm enough, thank you, Mr. Staines.”
“Andrew, please,” he said. “There’s no need to observe formalities when Mrs. Fulford’s not here to remonstrate the world over its lack of decorum.”
