Page 75 of Oddity of the Ton
“Thank you, Sam—you may continue with your duties,” Monty said.
The groom tipped his cap again, then picked up the hay bale and disappeared into one of the stalls. Monty took Miss Howard’s hand and hooked it around his arm, as if she belonged by his side, then steered her out of the courtyard.
“You’ve made quite an impression on young Sam, Miss Howard.”
“Oh dear,” she replied. “I suppose most of your guests know a great deal more about horses than I. Perhaps he was just being polite when he said I’d be able to ride her.”
Monty stopped and drew her close. Her eyes widened as she tipped her face up to meet his gaze, and the desire that had been swirling deep within him came to the fore.
“He was not being polite,” he whispered. “And neither am I when I say you’re the most extraordinary woman I know.”
She lowered her gaze. “Your Grace, I must insist—”
“No, Eleanor,” he said, unable to conquer the hoarseness in his voice, and her gaze snapped back up, eyes widening to large emerald pools into which he yearned to dive. “Do not suggest that I’m anything but honest with you when I say that you are a jewel among women, and Rosecombe is all the better for having you here.”
“Your Grace, I—”
“Montague,” he said, his voice a low growl in his throat. “You must call me Montague.”
“Montague…”
His name on her lips was more than his resolve could withstand. Surrendering to his desires, he lowered his head and captured her lips. She let out a low cry of need and parted them, inviting him in. But before he could claim her, a familiar sound echoed through the air.
Curse that bloody gong!
He withdrew and sighed. “That’s the dressing gong for dinner,” he said.
“You have a gong fordressing?”
“I do. It acts as a warning.”
“A warning of what?”
“That if I’m not in my dressing room in five minutes, I’ll be in for a dressing-down from my valet.”
She let out a laugh. “I can’t imagine Harriet being cross with me. Not like…” Her voice trailed off, but she had no need to finish.
Devil’s toes—no wonder she hid behind a thick shell, or always seemed to be searching for a quiet corner in which to melt into the shadows. She seemed to have been underappreciated and misunderstood by everybody, save for a few individuals who looked beyond her eccentric exterior to the pure soul within—such as her maid, Lady Marlow, and now Sam.
And, of course, Monty himself. The more he saw of that pure soul, the more he resolved to ensure she would be placed in safe hands when they came to part—even if those hands were not his.
Chapter Twenty-One
The silence inthe drawing room thickened, until even the ticking of the clocks seemed to fade.
Not even the presence of the Stubbs over the fireplace could temper Eleanor’s discomfort. And though she longed to inspect it, she found herself unable to articulate the words needed to present a proper request.
Not with that black-clad matriarch staring at her like a huge spider assessing her prey.
The butler had been bad enough—all spindly black legs and a hooked nose, reminding her of the long, thin beetles that often worked their way into the house at night, raising their hindquarters aggressively if disturbed. But at least he’d smiled at her. Eleanor doubted if the dowager Duchess of Whitcombe had smiled in the last ten years.
Or at all.
How might she word her request?
Your Grace, may I take a look at the painting?
That seemed benign enough—surely she’d not take umbrage at that. Though she ought to specify which painting.
