Page 45 of Oddity of the Ton
His gaze lingered on Eleanor, and heat bloomed in her cheeks. What if he disliked her gown?
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. “May I?”
Eleanor stared at the ring—it was enormous! The central emerald, surrounded by a cluster of diamonds, was huge. Clear-cut facets caught the light, reflecting it outward and shimmering deep inside with notes of blue and turquoise, as if the gem were a living entity.
Surely he wasn’t entrusting her withthat?
“Eleanor—where are your manners?” Her mother gave her a sharp nudge, and she glanced up to see Whitcombe looking directly at her, amusement in his eyes.
Was she nothing but an object of ridicule?
She lifted her hand and found it enveloped in a strong, firm grip. Then his fingers slid through hers, caressing the third finger of her left hand, before he slipped the ring on.
“A perfect fit!” Mother cried. “It’s as if it were made for you, Eleanor.”
Eleanor cringed. Why did Mother have to be so overly enthusiastic? What must he think of them?
But a smile gleamed in his eyes, and her heart fluttered with pleasure.
“Perhaps it was,” he said.
“You must forgive my daughter, Your Grace,” Mother continued. “She has a delightful day dress, which I’d hoped she would wear today—from Madame Chassineux. Do you know her?”
He inclined his head.
“But,” Mother continued, “she chose not to wear it.”
Irritation sparked in his eyes. “Your daughter’s dress is delightful, Lady Howard,” he said. “I’ve always wondered why young women feel the need to wear an overly bright dress merely to take a turn outside.”
“A young woman must always look her best, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps she already does.”
What did he mean by that? Did he see little point in Eleanor dressing herself up in finery, given that she was too plain to carry it off with any success?
“Now, Lady Howard, you must excuse us,” he said. “My driver is waiting.”
He took Eleanor’s arm and led her outside. An enormous barouche bearing the Whitcombe crest waited at the front steps, a liveried driver and two horses, their pelts shining in the morning sun, at the front. The horses moved restlessly, as if they anticipated the exercise, scraping their hooves on the road, and Eleanor caught the aroma of polished leather and the glint of brass, which reflected the sunlight as they tossed their heads.
“Whoa there!” the driver said. “Ready, Your Grace?”
Whitcombe helped Eleanor into the barouche, then he climbed in after her, and they set off.
*
Hyde Park lookeddifferent from a barouche—either due to the elevated position or because Eleanor no longer needed to continually check the ground for obstacles, lest she trip over her feet. But though she tried to lose herself in the beauty of her surroundings, her attention was continually drawn to the man beside her—his broad, masculine form, the faint aroma of wood and spices, and the warmth from his body. Her senses struggled to manage such an onslaught, and she found herself gripping the side of the barouche in an attempt to steady the tremors in her body.
A hand caught hers, and she startled.
“Are you well, Miss Howard? The motion of a carriage can bring about nausea to those unused to it.”
“My father keeps a carriage, Your Grace,” Eleanor said.
“Forgive me—I meant no offense,” he said. “I spoke out of concern for your health. But, in turn, I must admonishyou.”
Her stomach tightened in apprehension. “What for?”
He stroked her fingers. “I recall asking you to call me Montague.”
