Page 39 of Oddity of the Ton
“Perhaps she needs a doctor,” Monty said.
“No!” the maid cried. Then she colored. “I mean—begging your pardon, Your Grace, but a doctor won’t help. And you mustn’t speak of this to anyone—not even the mistress.”
“Lady Howard? Why ever not?”
The maid glanced at Miss Howard, distress distorting her features. “I-I can’t tell you.”
“Surely Miss Howard’s mother will know what’s best for her.”
The maid shook her head.
“Does Miss Howard suffer from some sort of affliction?” he asked.
“Of course not!” the maid replied, a flare of anger in her tone. “Begging your pardon—she just gets a little overwhelmed, often when something’s distressed her, or when there’s too much going on around her. She’ll be fine in a moment.”
“Then why can’t her mother know?”
“I-I shouldn’t say.”
“But youshall.”
The maid flinched at his tone. “Miss Eleanor cannot help herself,” she said. “I wonder what happened to upset her today—whenyouvisited.”
A servant had no right to take that tone with a duke. But he found himself admiring the love she evidently had for her mistress.
“I find myself admonished,” he said.
“My duty is to Miss Eleanor,” the maid said. Then she reached for the bracelet around Miss Howard’s wrist, slipped it off, and placed it into her mistress’s hands. Miss Howard blinked, then curled her fingers around the bracelet.
“The last time she had such a turn, Lady Howard demanded that a doctor be sent for—a veryparticularkind of doctor.”
“A particular kind of doctor?”
The maid nodded. “The master, Sir Leonard—he’s an easygoing man ordinarily, when it comes to her ladyship. But that day, he stood firm, and insisted Miss Eleanor remain here rather than be sent away.”
“Sent away?” he asked. “You mean…”
The maid glanced at Miss Howard. “Please—don’t speak of it in front of her.” Tears glistened in Harriet’s eyes. “She’s the kindest young lady in the world, and she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s quieter than most, but that’s for the good—and she may not seem to have feelings, but that’s because she keeps them hidden. She feels a great deal more than she shows.”
She met Monty’s gaze, determination in her eyes. No servant had ever looked at him so directly before, except perhaps for his butler when he’d arrived home just after dawn, disheveled, reeking of the cologne of the women he’d been rutting all night.
“Miss Eleanor feels more than most, Your Grace.”
Monty glanced at Miss Howard. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I rather suspect she does.”
Miss Howard seemed to react to his voice. Her eyes opened fully, and she lifted her head.
“Harriet?”
“I’m here, miss,” the maid said. “Would you like some tea? I’ve made it good and sweet for you. It’ll make you right in no time. Here—let me help you.”
“No,” Monty said. “Let me, if Miss Howard has no objection.”
He placed his arm about her shoulders and helped her to sit upright while the maid held the teacup to her lips. She took a sip, and her expression uncurled—almost like the hedgehog that he’d set down in a secluded corner of Westbury’s garden, where it had remained curled up for several heartbeats before gradually unfurling, then moving across the lawn and disappearing in the hedgerow.
Except he had no wish for Miss Howard to disappear.
“Y-Your Grace,” Miss Howard said. “You’re still here.”
