Page 59 of Oddity of the Ton
Whitcombe tightened his grip on Eleanor’s hand. “My dear—may I introduce you to the Duke of Sawbridge. Sawbridge—this is my fiancée—”
“Capital!” Sawbridge cried. “I’m anxious to know the woman who’s tamed the most committed bachelor in England. Youmust possess considerable…talents, Miss Howard. Might you enlighten me as to what they are?”
“Well, I—” Eleanor began, but Whitcombe interrupted.
“There’s nothing about Miss Howard that can interest you, Sawbridge. You should bestow your attentions on a worthier specimen.”
Worthier?Must he insult her so publicly?
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he tightened his grip.
“There’s no need to tell me more, dear boy,” Sawbridge said. “I understand.”
“Understand what?” Eleanor couldn’t help asking, painfully aware of the bitterness in her voice.
Sawbridge leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Have you lifted your skirts yet?”
“Yes, I have.”
He let out a roar of laughter. “Sampled the goods already, eh, Whitcombe?”
Goods? What did he mean? Why did everyone speak in a different language?
She was out of her depth among these people—a drowning woman, weighed down by lack of understanding, in a bottomless ocean.
Tears pricked at her eyes. “I-I don’t understand,” she said.
“Miss Howard was jesting with you, Sawbridge,” Whitcombe said, drawing Eleanor close. “She’s a virtuous woman—not the sort to lift her skirts.”
“B-but I had to, to step over all that horse dung this evening,” she said. “Or I’d have soiled my hem.”
Whitcombe let out a sharp sigh and muttered something to himself.
“It seems the rumors are true.” Sawbridge laughed. “You’re safe from ridicule, Whitcombe. Want of understanding is aquality prized in a wife—there’s no shame in being married to a woman who’s weak in the head.”
With a blur of movement, Whitcombe sprang forward and caught hold of Sawbridge around the throat.
“There’s no need for—Argh!” Sawbridge broke off, and Eleanor shivered at the grim determination in Whitcombe’s eyes as he tightened his grip.
“Say no more, Sawbridge, unless you wish to meet me at dawn,” he said, his voice low and cold. “And believe me, I’m not so gentlemanly as to shoot wide when my opponent has insulted the finest woman in the room.”
Sawbridge opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came.
“Miss Howard is worthtwentyof you, Sawbridge. I insist you apologize—or suffer the consequences.”
For a heartbeat, the two men stared at each other. Then, like a rival bear in the face of the dominant male, Sawbridge lowered his gaze in submission. But Whitcombe continued to hold him, his body vibrating with anger, like a gladiator.
Or a champion.
Eleanor touched his arm. “Let him go, Your Grace.”
“Do you think he deserves it?” Whitcombe asked.
“We’re in a crowded room. Someone might see.”
“I care not if they do.”
“He’s not said anything I haven’t heard before,” she said. “Would you call out every person who says I lack understanding or calls me an oddity? If you do, you’ll be meeting men—and women—at dawn for the remainder of the Season.”
