Page 23 of Oddity of the Ton
“That’s why you’ve been encouraging Colonel Reid, isn’t it—to make the Duke of Dunton jealous?”
Juliette’s nostrils flared, and a pang of shame needled at Eleanor. Her arrow had hit home.
“Forgive me, Juliette. I didn’t mean to offend,” she said. “I—”
“Spare me!” Juliette huffed. “I only came to tell you to get ready. Mother wants us to look our best, and nonsense such asthat”—she gestured toward the discarded drawing—“won’t do you any favors.”
She turned and walked away.
Once Juliette was out of sight, Eleanor retrieved the drawing.
“Sorry,” she whispered, smoothing out the page and slipping it back inside her sketchbook. “Ilike you.” Then she returned to the house and made her way to her bedchamber.
Once safely inside, she flicked through the book to the sketch she’d drawn that afternoon using her imagination.
It washim—not as she recalled him, but as she wished to see him. His features were sharp and masculine as ever, but with a few additional strokes of her pencil, Eleanor had softened his expression, depicting a gentle upward curve of his full, sensual lips, and small creases around the corners of his eyes, which twinkled with joy.
She traced the outline of his features with her fingertip. Then she closed the sketchbook, slipped it into a drawer, and rang the bell for her maid.
Chapter Eight
As Monty escortedhis mother through the hallway, he caught sight of their hosts. The Duke and Duchess of Westbury stood by the drawing room entrance to greet their guests. Occasionally the duchess met her husband’s gaze, and they smiled, as if sharing a delicious secret, and Monty could discern a sheen of excitement in her expression—the unmistakable look of a woman well pleasured—which matched the look of repletion in Westbury’s eyes.
Lucky bastard.
The duchess, despite her origins, was a woman to be admired—accomplished, intelligent, and utterly devoted to her husband. She’d even taken Westbury’s natural son into her embrace, treating him as her own. The boy had everything a young man could want, a life, love, doting parents—everything but the title. But perhaps the lack of title gave him more freedom than his younger half-brother. Standing beside the duchess, he was the image of his father, and Monty found himself envying the easy affection between him and his stepmother as she introduced him to each guest, pride and love in her eyes.
How might Monty’s life had been had his own mother accepted his father’s natural child into the family? But perhaps Mother was to be forgiven her bitterness. Westbury had fathered his natural child ten yearsbeforehis marriage, rather than ten yearsafter. Unlike Monty’s father, Westbury was that rare beast—a husband who kept faith with his wife. The man had it all—a prosperous estate, an adoring wife, and a brood of children.
Bloody lucky bastard.
Then Westbury glanced to his right and stiffened, as if he were a young lad caught transgressing, destined for a dressing-down from the family matriarch.
And what a matriarch!
Westbury’s grandmother, tonight’s guest of honor—dowager duchess, survivor of wars, riots, and at least two plagues of influenza—stood at the end of the line, her arachnid gaze sweeping over the guests while they bowed, curtseyed, and showed due deference. As each guest passed, she lifted a single eyebrow, then gave a slight nod, before turning her attention to the next disciple come to worship.
And now it was Monty’s turn.
“Augusta, darling!” his mother cried. “How well you’re looking.”
“Did you expect otherwise?” the dowager replied, and Monty smiled inwardly at his mother’s look of discomfort.
“I meant no offense, Augusta, I was merely making—”
“A bland social nicety, rather than a truthful observation. You should know by now, Matilda, I’d rather hear the truth from one of my dearest friends. The crow’s-feet around my eyes are deepening with the passage of each year, and my bones creak every time I move. Yet this incorrigible boy”—she gestured toward Westbury—“sees fit to parade me about the place to applaud himself on having preserved my life to the point where the family received a personal letter of congratulation from that vain fop, the prince regent.”
Westbury blushed.
“Grandmama Augusta,” his wife said, “do you recall what we discussed earlier today about how few people in Society appreciate your unique style of frankness?”
“Of course I do, Jeanette!” the dowager huffed, though a spark of affection shone in her eyes. “But I deem it a privilege, now that I have lived a century, to be permitted to say precisely what I think without recourse.”
“Oh, no!” The duchess laughed. “That simplywon’tdo in a world where we’re expected to be civil even to those we dislike.”
“Then Society had better prepare itself for an onslaught from my tongue.”
“Nothing the world isn’t already used to, Grandmother,” Westbury said. Then he addressed Monty’s mother. “Duchess—it’s a pleasure to see you. My grandmother has been looking forward to seeing you again.”
