Page 49 of Oddity of the Ton
“With that in mind,” her companion said, “what might you say to greet Lady Arabella?”
Eleanor paused, watching the lady in question glide across the lawn, her pretty little nose stuck in the air as if the world around her elicited a particularly bad smell, and her dress a megrim-inducing riot of color.
Then the words came to her. “Good morning, Lady Arabella,” she said. “How delightful to see you today.”
“Excellent!” he said. “Though you might wish to place more emphasis on the ‘delightful.’ Perhaps you could remark on her dress.”
“She looks like a peacock that’s exploded.”
He let out a laugh. “However marked her likeness is to disintegrated wildfowl, you must never speak the truth.”
“Won’t she know I’m being false?”
“Falsity is akin to social acceptance,” he said. “All you need do is look her in the eye and speak firm. Come—we’re nearing them. I insist you try.”
Eleanor’s heart gave a little jolt. “I don’t know…”
“I have every faith in you,” he said. “And, rest assured, I’m on your side in this particular battle.”
“You are?”
He nodded. “I’ll be here, as your faithful soldier, to catch you lest you fall. But you must win the battle. The trick is to be the one to fire the opening salvo.”
He squeezed her fingers, and she drew strength from his firm grip.
Then he rapped on the side of the barouche, and they drew to a halt. Lady Arabella glanced up. Her dark eyes widened as she caught sight of Eleanor, and her lips parted in surprise. She really was one of the most beautiful creatures to walk upon the earth. Eleanor could never hope to get the better of her.
She glanced from Lady Arabella to Lady Irma, who wore an identical expression of surprise and disdain. Then she turned her gaze to Mr. Moss, who leered at her, eyes the color of ice glittering in the sunlight.
Whitcombe whispered in her ear, his warm breath tickling her neck.
“Courage…”
Lady Arabella opened her mouth to speak. It was now or never.
“Lady Arabella!” Eleanor cried, with as much force as she could muster. “What an utter delight to see you—and your charming friends. Lady Irma—and Mr. Moss, of course.”
Arabella’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. And with good reason. Eleanor had scarcely spoken more than ten words to her in her entire life.
Then she inclined her head in greeting. “Miss Howard—likewise,” she said.
“I trust you’re well,” Eleanor continued. “It pains me that I missed the opportunity to speak with you during the Westburys’ ball. I was most concerned for your health.”
“My health?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, suppressing the urge to laugh. “As the evening drew to a close, I fancied you were looking a little pale.” She turned to her companion. “Did you not think so, Your Grace?”
“Lady Arabella always looks the picture of beauty,” Whitcombe said, and Arabella threw Eleanor a look of spiteful triumph. “But,” he continued, “I confess you looked out of spirits later in the evening. Some disappointment, perhaps?”
Arabella’s mouth twisted into a scowl.
“Perhaps Lady Arabella was disappointed not to haveyouto accompany her, Mr. Moss,” Eleanor said. “You’re always so sprightly on your feet.”
“I’m not flat-footed, to be sure,” Mr. Moss replied. “Miss Howard, you’re the last person I expected to see at large. I thought you were averse to company.”
“I’m merely particular about the company I keep,” Eleanor replied.
“But not averse to indulging in the hunt for a title.”
