Page 28 of Oddity of the Ton
“Oh, poor thing!Sucha misfortune for you, always having these little mishaps.”
Juliette stood before her, a consolatory smile on her lips. She turned to her companion. “I was just telling Arabella how you spilled an entire bowl of soup the other week—wasn’t I, Arabella?”
“You were,” Arabella said. “Most unfortunate for you—and your family.”
“You can rest assured, Duchess,” Juliette told their hostess, “that I’ve pledged to help Eleanor in any way that I can. That’s a loving sister’s duty, is it not?”
“Your sister needs no help, I can assure you,” the duchess said, an undercurrent of ice in her voice. “She’s delightful as she is.”
Before Juliette could respond, the door opened, bringing with it the odor of brandy and cigar smoke and the murmur of male voices.
“Ah!” the duchess cried. “The gentlemen have decided to grace us with their presence.”
Eleanor glanced toward the door, her heart rate increasing with a mixture of dread and excitement at the prospect of seeing…him. She took an involuntary step backward, and collided with a body.
“Ouch! You trod on my toe!”
Eleanor turned to see her sister’s face contorted with anger, before it smoothed into a smile once more.
“Poor Eleanor! Whatshallwe do with you?”
“It’s not my fault if you’re in my way, Juliette.”
“There’s no need for incivility. You should have been looking where you were going, not staring at the men.”
Eleanor’s cheeks warmed with shame. “Keep your voice down!”
“Don’t tell me you’ve set your cap at someone?” Juliette laughed. “I wonder who? Arabella—what do you think?”
“Perhaps it’s Mr. Drayton,” Arabella said. “You sat next to him at dinner. He’d do for you. Did you enjoy his company at dinner, despite his being the duke’s…naturalson?”
What did she mean by anaturalson? Was it another term for firstborn, perhaps?
Eleanor returned the smile. “I enjoyed Mr. Drayton’s company, yes.”
“And, of course,” Arabella said, “you’re in no position to have any qualms about which side of the blanket he was born.”
“Blanket?” Eleanor asked. “What do you mean,which side of the blanket?”
“Ahem.”
Eleanor glanced up to see their host, the Duke of Westbury, staring directly at her, cold fury in his eyes. He took a step toward her, and her stomach tightened with fear. Then the duchess placed a hand on his arm. He shifted his gaze to his wife, and his expression softened. Seizing her opportunity, Eleanor fled across the drawing room and slipped through the doors out onto the terrace, willing the darkness outside to swallow her whole.
What the devil had she said—or done—to anger their host?
Why, despite her best efforts, and her promises to Mother, did she always end up making such a fool of herself?
Chapter Ten
As Monty enteredthe drawing room, his senses were assaulted by the pitch of female voices. Ye gods—no wonder gentlemen sought solace in their clubs. Women might believe gentlemen’s clubs existed to assert their mastery over the world. But, in reality, they were sanctuaries from nagging wives.
And nagging mothers.
He cast his gaze over the drawing room and caught sight of his own mother deep in conversation with Westbury’s grandmother, as if they plotted something.
Which didn’t bode well.
The duchess gestured toward the coffee table, and, with murmurs of appreciation, the gentlemen milled about while footmen busied themselves pouring coffee and plucking sweets of eye-wateringly bright colors from the display in the center of the table.
