Page 131 of Oddity of the Ton
“You can trust him, miss,” Harriet replied.
“In what way?”
“He’s a good man—and he’s unlikely to judge. He’d do very well for you.”
Eleanor let out a laugh. “He’s pleasant enough, Harriet, and I like him—after all, he was kind enough to purchase one of my paintings. But with three unmarried daughters, I doubt Mrs.Fulford would allow him to pay attention to me—a widow living on her own in a cottage on the outskirts of the village? Hardly an appropriate partner for the second son of an earl.”
“You’re younger than the eldest Miss Fulford,” Harriet said.
“She’s anunmarriedyoung woman, Harriet.”
“And so are you,” Harriet said. “He likes you—I’m sure of it.”
Harriet rattled on, extolling the virtues of the vicar, until they reached Shore Cottage.
“I think I’ll retire,” Eleanor said, interrupting Harriet’s monologue. “I find myself a little tired. There’s no need to tend to me—I can see to myself.”
“Very good, miss.”
Eleanor climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. After shedding her jacket and bonnet, she approached her dressing table and pulled out her sketchbook with its precious drawings. Each day since she’d arrived at Sandcombe, she’d not been able to summon the courage to look inside. But tonight…
Perhaps it was talk of another that brought him to the forefront of her mind—or perhaps it was her conscience, berating her for disloyalty against the man she loved.
She flicked through the pages, feigning nonchalance, even though she was alone in her room, until she reached one of the first portraits she’d ever drawn of him—where he looked out from the page, his beautiful eyes clear and wide, a soft smile on his full lips.
A smile for her.
She traced the outline of his face with her fingertips.
Did he think of her as she thought of him? Or had he forgotten her?
Chapter Thirty-Six
London, December 1815
Monty hunched hisshoulders against the cold.
London, out of season, was a different world. Gone were the bright colors and vibrant chatter of theton. The cold weather had driven them indoors, or to the sanctuary of their country estates.
Snowflakes swirled about him, thickening the air and almost obscuring the buildings at the far end of the street. Monty continued along the pavement, which was already covered with a thick layer of snow, bearing the occasional footprint of other fools who’d chosen to venture outside.
Then his destination came into view—a white-fronted building with steps leading to the main door, flanked by two thick columns. He approached the door and lifted the brass knocker, wincing as the cold from the metal penetrated his gloves to the skin of his fingers.
He waited, but there was no response. Then he stepped back. The windows were unlit. Most of the houses were lit from within by flickering lights visible in the windows, which resembled a row of eyes watching over the world outside.
Except this one.
Footsteps approached, and a bright accent of color emerged from the gray air as a couple approached him.
“I say—Whitcombe!” a voice cried. “What the devil areyoudoing here?”
It was Dunton, his greatcoat barely covering his porcine frame, the buttons stretched almost to breaking point, his multiple chins resting on the scarf about his neck, giving his head the appearance of a blotchy mushroom. Beside him, her hand possessively on his arm, was Lady Arabella Ponsford.
Monty inclined his head. “Dunton, Lady Arabella—a pleasure. I could ask you the same question.”
“I’m escorting Lady Arabella to take a turn about the park,” Dunton said.
He turned and gave her a smile, his eyes glittering with lust. She sneered but nodded, a cold smile on her lips. Monty could swear he saw her shudder.
