Page 19 of Oddity of the Ton
Eleanor glanced up to see her friend looking directly at her.
“It’s because he mentioned the Duke of Whitcombe—isn’t it?”
Eleanor opened her mouth to voice her denial. Then she nodded. If she couldn’t confide in Lavinia, whomcouldshe trust? Besides—Lavinia had already seen some of her sketches of him, and knew of her affection.
No—not affection.
Obsession. That was what anyone else would say if they knew. But Lavinia was kinder than most—she understood. Or, at least, she didn’t condemn.
“Whitcombe’s not worth it, Eleanor dearest,” Lavinia said. “He’d break your heart—that is, if he’d even notice you. And I don’t mean to be cruel. He cares only for the superficial, and would be blind to your qualities. There’s someone out there who’ll appreciate and love you for who you are. And you’ll find him. Look at Peregrine and me—I never believed we’d find happiness.”
“Inever doubted it,” Eleanor said.
“And I don’t doubt you’ll find your true mate,” Lavinia said. “But it won’t be the Duke of Whitcombe. I doubt a heart beats inside that chest of his.”
That verybroadchest.
I’m convinced he has a heart.
“No, Eleanor. He doesn’t. What you harbor is hope, not conviction.”
Heavens!She’d spoken aloud.
“Forget about him, dearest,” Lavinia said. “Your infatuation is making you miserable. Why not concentrate on your sketches of those tree trunks?”
Lavinia was right.
But Eleanor’s hope could never completely be extinguished, even if she must keep it to herself.
Chapter Six
As Monty descendedthe steps from Mrs. Delacroix’s townhouse, streaks of soft blue light stretched across the sky, heralding the dawn. Daniella—orDoris, as he knew her name to be, but woe betide anyone who uttered it—had begged him to stay for breakfast, doubtless because she thought it would earn her an extra coin.
Why did everyone alwayswantsomething? Men sought him out either as an ear to listen to their boasts of male prowess, or because they wished to associate themselves with a duke. Doxies wanted the gratification he gave in bed, as well as the trinkets he gave them. Single ladies of rank saw him as a title to bag at the altar, and their mamas saw him as a potential son-in-law to provide for them in their dotage when they’d driven their own husbands into the grave.
And his mother saw him only as a stud to maintain the Whitcombe bloodline.
Take, take, take…
Why was nobody willing togive? Did the world believe that, because of his rank and fortune, he was undeserving of a little consideration that came without a price attached?
Even this morning, as he pulled his breeches on after Daniella’s ministrations, she’d initiated a discussion on the quality of silks to be had this Season. At first, she’d remarked on Sir Leonard Howard’s ability to procure the most exoticshades. But soon her soliloquy turned to the price of Madame Chassineux’s gowns and how, in a world where fashions changed at an alarming pace, a woman of her means could no longer maintain her wardrobe.
To extract himself from her twittering, he’d tipped a handful of coins into the jar she conveniently kept by her bedside, thereby concluding the conversation. He grinned to himself at the recollection of the smile of triumph on Daniella’s lips. Did the foolish creature not realize he’d always intended to pay her for their night of continuous rutting? Her tales of woe only served to increase his contempt.
Bloody women—they’re all the same.
Though perhaps they weren’t, if the contented expressions in Thorpe and Marlow’s eyes at White’s last week were to be believed. Even that curmudgeonly old fossil Hardwick had been seen trotting along Rotten Row, a look of bliss in his eyes, his pretty young wife on his arm, unashamedly displaying her delicate state of health. And what had Hardwick said when Monty attempted to ridicule his slavish devotion?
“Whitcombe, my boy—you fail to understand the difference between a loving wife and a mistress. A loving wife wishes to please her husband for his own sake, and she takes her own pleasure from doing so.”
Daniella, for all that she was talented, sought only her own gratification. Even when she’d kneeled at his feet last night, lips parted in anticipation of pleasuring his cock, she couldn’t hide the greed from her eyes—the anticipation, not of pleasure, but of coin.
What it must be like to have awifeperform such a service—willingly, on her knees, reaching her peak purely from the prospect of servicing him? A woman who gladly spread herself for him to feast on…
Where could he hope to find such a creature? Not in Society’s drawing rooms—nor at the Westburys’ damned dinner party, which he’d promised Mother he’d attend tonight.
Perhaps the solution to marital bliss was to choose the veryworstkind of woman for a wife.
