Page 78 of Oddity of the Ton
“Y-Your Grace—I mean, Duchess,” Eleanor said. “Forgive me. I meant no—”
“I’m sureyoudidn’t, my dear,” the dowager said. “That particular charge, I’ll lay at the feet of Mr. Rivers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s a painter,” the dowager said. “The wretched man charged me a small fortune to restore the painting after it was damaged.”
“Damaged—how?” Whitcombe asked.
This time it was the dowager’s turn to blush, and she looked away. “That matters not. What matters is that the restoration was clearlynotof the standard I paid for.”
Whitcombe leaned toward the painting and inspected it. “It seems good enough to me.”
The dowager let out a snort. “Perhaps if you spent more time looking about, and focusing on your duties here rather than your pleasures, you’d notice many more things around here.”
“Mother, this is hardly the time…”
“No,” the dowager said. “I suppose it’s not.” She glanced at Eleanor. “You’ve a sharp eye, my dear. You must take tea with me tomorrow, after breakfast.”
“We cannot visit you tomorrow, Mother,” Whitcombe said. “I’ve arranged a picnic.”
“I wasn’t askingpermission, Montague,” came the reply, and Eleanor winced inwardly at the sharpness in the dowager’s voice—she was a woman used to barking orders and having them obeyed instantly and without question. “We can picnic once tea is finished.”
We?Surely the dowager wasn’t going.
“Mother, we’re going for a ride tomorrow. And Artemis is in season.”
“I can ride Persephone.” The dowager set her mouth into a firm line. “That’s settled. We can leave once Miss Howard and I have finished our tea. I’ve no objection to Miss Howard visiting me in her riding habit.”
“I have no riding habit, Your Grace,” Eleanor said.
“No?” Another eyebrow arched. “I suppose that can’t be helped. I’ll see you at nine.”
Eleanor dipped into a curtsey. “Yes, Duchess.”
“And now, I find I’m rather tired,” the dowager said. “Montague—walk me to the dower house.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Had her stomach not been fluttering with terror at the notion of taking tea with the dowager, Eleanor would have laughed at Whitcombe’s monotonicYes, Mother, not unlike how she responded to her own mother when she knew she’d lost the battle, and wished to give an appropriate response that did not elicit further salvos.
The dowager barked an order to one of the footmen, then glided toward the door. Whitcombe moved closer to Eleanor and took her hand, and her breath caught as he slid his fingers between hers.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For accepting Mother’s invitation.”
“That was a royal decree, not an invitation,” Eleanor said. Then she let out a gasp. “Oh, forgive me! I didn’t mean to say that—I only meant tothinkit.”
“There’s nothing wrong with saying what’s on your mind, Miss Howard,” he replied. “I find it refreshing.”
“Montague,” his mother called from across the room. “I’m ready.”
He rolled his eyes then kissed Eleanor’s hand again. “Please excuse me. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Montague! Now!”
