Page 34 of Oddity of the Ton
“Sit up straight, Eleanor dearest,” Mother said, “and stop fiddling with that thing. Youmustbehave properly when the duke arrives.”
Eleanordearest? Had securing the hand of a duke rendered her worthy of Mother’s affection at last?
Juliette sat beside Mother, a sour expression on her face. “Perhaps he made a mistake last night,” she said. “I’ll wager he won’t come.”
“That’s enough, Juliette!” Mother snapped, swatting Eleanor’s sister with her fan. “Your sister’s triumph is cause for celebration. Of course he’ll come. But we must ensure your sister does not disgrace herself. Her peculiarities, which we endure in silence at home, will be subject to much scrutiny now she’s betrothed. You must help her, Juliette.”
Why did Mother always speak as if Eleanor was either absent or lacking in understanding?
“Iamin the room, Mother,” Eleanor said. “I can speak for myself.”
She flinched as Mother turned her gaze on her, but before any admonishment came, she heard a loud knock in the distance.
“He’s here!” Mother cried.
Footsteps approached, then the parlor door opened to reveal a footman. Standing behind him was…
Eleanor’s breath caught as she caught sight of him.
My fiancé.
She could hardly bring herself even to think the words. Standing in the doorway, filling it with his powerful frame, he looked even more majestic than he had last night, surrounded by his own kind. His jacket clung to his frame as if it were a second skin. His breeches, a rich cream color, seemed to caress the muscles of his thighs, and his boots gleamed in the morning light, polished to perfection, most likely, by his valet until he could see his face in them. His hair, a little longer than might be considered respectable, formed thick, dark waves that seemed to absorb the light. And his eyes, the color of a deep summer sky, looked first at Mother, then Juliette, until, finally, settling on her.
His nostrils flared and he parted his lips, flicking the tip of his tongue out to moisten them.
Sweet heaven!She drew in a sharp breath to suppress a cry of need.
The footman ushered him in. “His Grace, the Duke of Whitcombe.”
Whitcombe bowed to Eleanor’s mother. “Lady Howard, a pleasure,” he said, though his tone implied it was anything but.
Eleanor’s mother rose to her feet, and Juliette followed suit. “Your Grace.” Mother dipped into a curtsey. “Welcome to our humble home. I cannot tell you what an honor it is.”
He arched an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth lifted a little—not a smile, but a sign of wry amusement.
“Eleanor!” Mother snapped. “Where are your manners?”
Her cheeks flaming, Eleanor rose, then curtseyed and almost lost her balance.
The amusement in his eyes turned to disdain. What must he think of her?
“Forgive my daughter, Your Grace,” Mother said. “She—”
He raised his hand, curtailing her apology. “There’s nothing to forgive, Lady Howard. I came to see your daughter—not to critique her ability to curtsey.”
“You’re most kind, Your Grace,” Mother said. “Is he not kind, Eleanor?”
Eleanor struggled to contain the tremors in her body, but managed a passable “Yes, Mother” in response. Her mother cast a sharp glance in her direction, while Juliette’s mouth curled into a sly smile.
“May I beg an audience with your daughter?” he continued. “After all, that’s why I’m here.”
There was no mistaking the irritation in his tone. Mother curtseyed, deeper than before, then held out her hand. “Juliette, my dear, come with me.” Then she fixed her gaze on Eleanor. “Remember what I told you.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Her mother held out her hand and stared expectantly at the duke. He hesitated for a heartbeat, took it, and withdrew almost immediately. Then Mother exited the parlor, Juliette in her wake.
For a moment, Whitcombe remained standing. Then he gestured to the two-seater sofa beside the window.
