Page 21 of Oddity of the Ton
Then she looked up and met his gaze. He stepped forward, and she gave a cry, dropping her sketchbook. He darted forward to pick it up, and she retreated, her body seeming to shrink under his scrutiny.
“You’ve nothing to fear,” he said. “You’ve dropped your book.”
Well done, Monty—nothing like stating the bloody obvious.
She remained, unmoving, her gaze fixed to the ground, and he found himself wanting to see her eyes again. Would they be as captivating at close quarters?
“Forgive my incivility,” he said. “If I might introduce myself, my name is Montague—Montague FitzRoy.”
If anything, that discomposed her further. Doubtless, if he’d addedfifth Duke of Whitcombeto his introduction she’d have melted in a puddle of terror.
“Might I be so bold as to ask your name?”
For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she tilted her head to one side and spoke in a barely discernible mumble.
“H-Harriet.”
“Harriet?”
Why didn’t she give her real name?
She looked up, as if she sensed he knew she’d lied, then her gaze returned to the ground.
“Well then…Harriet,” he said, “might you grant me a wish, if I return your sketchbook?”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“Will you look at me?”
She stiffened, and for a moment, he thought she’d refuse. Then she lifted her gaze to his.
But rather than displaying the clear gaze that had captivated him earlier, her eyes were dark and narrowed, almost as if she were in pain. Unwilling to prolong her agony, he held out the sketchbook. She snatched it, bobbed a curtsey, then mumbled her thanks and fled.
Devil’s toes—what extraordinary creatures women were! If they weren’t throwing themselves at him, they were fleeing in terror.
If she couldn’t even look at a man, imagine how she’d react at the prospect of the marriage bed.
She was, without doubt, the veryworstkind of woman a man would want for a wife.
Chapter Seven
The gazebo wasn’tvisible from the house, except from the topmost floor where the servants resided. And it had long since succumbed to the forces of nature. A rambling rose, left to grow wild, curled around the structure, such that Eleanor had to battle tendrils and thorns to enter. But her efforts were rewarded with a tiny haven away from the ornamental garden and manicured lawn, with not a single blade of grass out of place.
Though the air had grown cold, Eleanor had no wish to return indoors to endure the excited chatter about tonight’s party—such as what color ribbon would enhance Juliette’s eyes, or which necklace would best suit Mother’s new gown to outshine Lady Stiles.
She tucked her feet beneath her body, settled back, and opened her sketchbook, tracing the outline of the tree stump she’d sketched that morning, just before she’d seen…
Her stomach fluttered, and she closed the book, her cheeks warming with shame as she recalled the encounter.
Why in the world did she say her name was Harriet—and, of all people to encounter, why did it have to behim?
She leaned back and closed her eyes, but couldn’t dispel the image in her mind’s eye of a savagely handsome face. But though she willed the image to soften and smile, it remained hard and unyielding.
He’d break your heart…
Lavinia was right—any attempt to cling to the hope that he might notice her would end in heartbreak.
“Thereyou are,” a voice said. “Mama’s been calling.”
