Page 58 of Oddity of the Ton
Eleanor blinked back the moisture in her eyes. “I-Iam?”
“About Lady Francis,” he said. “One can often form conclusions based on what goes unnoticed rather than what is meant to be seen.”
“There’s merit in going unnoticed, Your Grace.”
He drew her close. “Did I not ask you to call me Montague?”
“M-Montague,” she breathed, savoring his name on her tongue.
“That’s better,” he said, his breath fanning her cheek. “I like hearing my name on your lips.”
The hoarseness in his tone suggested some kind of impropriety, but what, exactly, she couldn’t fathom.
“I find myself wondering if there’s anything else that’s caught your eye, but is invisible to others.”
There it was again—the suggestion in his tone of something wicked.
“I suppose…” She hesitated, then glanced about her until she caught sight of their hostess. “There’s the painting.”
“What painting?”
“In the hallway—we passed it earlier.”
“Ah,” he said, the gravelly tone returning to his voice. “Are you inviting me into the hallway because you have something in particular to show me?”
His eyes darkened, and Eleanor was once again besieged by the notion that he was speaking in an entirely different language—a language she could never hope to understand.
“There’s a painting in the hallway that I presume is meant to be a Stubbs,” she said. “The painting of the horse.”
“Stubbs is supposed to be a master, isn’t he?”
“Was,” she said. “He died in the year 1806. I’ve always wanted to study one of his paintings. But I haven’t had the opportunity.”
“There’s one at my country seat, I believe,” he said.
“Youbelieve?”
He shrugged. “I may be mistaken—there’s a painting of a horse in the drawing room. Commissioned by my grandfather, if I recall, when he owned racehorses.”
How could he not know whether a painting he owned was aStubbs? But, perhaps, in having so much, he placed no value on what he owned.
A warm hand took hers. “My betrothed is disappointed in me.”
“O-of course not,” she said, averting her gaze, lest he employ his uncanny ability to read her thoughts.
“You’d be justified,” he continued. “I’ve had no need to appreciate what I have. But no man appreciates what he has until he’s in danger of losing it—or has lost it altogether. Would you like to view my Stubbs? Assuming itisa Stubbs—you can tell me whether it’s genuine or not. In fact, I’ve been wondering whether to invite you to—”
He broke off, his expression hardening.
“Whitcombe!” a voice cried. “I thought it was you—why the devil are you not dancing? The ladies will be disappointed!”
Eleanor turned to see a tall man approaching. With thick blond locks, strong facial features, and an athletic frame that filled his perfectly tailored jacket to perfection, he might have been the handsomest man in the room were it not for Whitcombe.
“Sawbridge,” Whitcombe said.
The man glanced at Eleanor, his eyes widening. He lowered his gaze to her feet, then followed a path along her body, as if devouring her form. Her cheeks warmed as his gaze settled briefly on her neckline. Then he met her gaze, and she looked away.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, old chap?” he asked.
