Page 127 of Oddity of the Ton
“It was a ruse,” he said, eyeing her knuckles, his cheek still smarting. “I cannot bear to touch another woman. I left Eleanor in the care of another—a man more deserving of her.”
“You think her love for you was so shallow that she’d transfer it to another?”
Heavens!What an outspoken creature she was! Perhaps that was due to her upbringing—raised by straight-talking villagers with little time to school her into a simpering Society miss.
No other woman had granted him such honesty and made him look at himself with clear eyes unfettered by the self-importance brought about by his savagely handsome looks, his fortune, or his title.
None except Eleanor.
Why did every train of thought—or, come to that, every waking moment—begin and end with her?
Then the door opened, and Monty’s heart sank at the announcement.
“Her Grace, the dowager Duchess of Whitcombe!”
Shit. That’s all I need.
The last time he’d seen his mother, they’d parted on bad terms—he fueled by his anger at her cruelty toward Olivia, and she filled with indignation at the disgrace he brought to the family name by elevating agrubby little bastardto the status of a lady.
Olivia stiffened, and Monty took her hand—the same hand that had struck him moments before. But now, they faced a common enemy.
“Mother, what brings you here?” Monty asked.
She swept past the footman, her black silk gown rustling. “Do I now require an invitation to enter my home, Montague?”
The room fell silent as the children, with their innate sense of danger, turned to face the newcomer. One of the younger ones began to sniffle and was quickly silenced by Miss Akroyd.
Olivia, who seemed to recover first, slipped her hand from Monty’s and clapped.
“Stand up please, children!” she said in a singsong voice.
After they scrambled to their feet, Olivia turned to Monty’s mother.
“Children, this is tonight’s guest of honor—the dowager Duchess of Whitcombe. We mustn’t forget our manners, must we?” She dipped into a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said. “Happy St. Nicholas’s Day.” She gestured to the children.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace!” they chorused. “Happy St. Nicholas’s Day!” Then they bowed and curtseyed.
For a moment, Monty feared Mother would turn her back and stride out of the room—or worse, issue a comment about allowing peasants onto the hallowed grounds of Rosecombe.Instead, she merely inclined her head. She cast her gaze about the room until it landed on Jenkins, who’d leaped to his feet, little Lottie clinging to his breeches. Though he stared straight ahead in the manner of the staid butler, he’d placed his hand on his granddaughter’s head—a tender gesture of comfort that pricked at Monty’s heart.
“Don’t let me disturb the children’s party, Miss…?” Mother asked the young woman.
“Miss Akroyd, Your Grace.”
“Farmer Akroyd’s girl?”
“Aye, Your Grace. I teach at the school.”
“Very good,” Mother said. “Do your charges give you trouble?”
“No, ma’am. They’re ever so keen to learn. I cannot thank you enough for all you’ve done for the school.”
Mother arched an eyebrow then glanced toward Monty. “I daresay it’s my son who deserves the credit—but your appreciation is welcome. Please”—she gestured toward the children—“don’t stop the merriment on my account.”
She crossed the floor toward Monty, her gaze fixed on Olivia.
Olivia curtseyed again. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“What for?” Mother asked.
