Page 79 of Oddity of the Ton
“Coming, Mother.”
He bowed and escorted the dowager out.
Alone with Lavinia and Lord Marlow, Eleanor felt her body lift, as if a great weight had now been removed.
But her respite would be short-lived with the prospect of an audience with the dowager in the morning. The woman might have remarked on Eleanor’s powers of observation, but Eleanor doubted if anything got pasthersharp eyes. Like a pig hunting for truffles, she’d root out every flaw, every eccentricity in Eleanor’s character, stripping back her layers until she’d exposed the weak soul within.
It wasn’t as if her engagement to Whitcombe was permanent—it was, after all, due to end as the Season drew to a close. But one audience with his superior, disapproving mother would extinguish even the faintest glimmer of hope that she harbored in her dreams. The tiny voice that whispered of her dream—that he might sweep away convention, defy his pledge to break off their engagement at the end of the season, and declare his love for her—would, by tomorrow morning, be killed stone dead.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The parlor inthe dower house had the air of a mausoleum, with dark furnishings and mahogany-paneled walls that absorbed the light.
But the most imposing item in the room was the black-clad figure sitting across the table.
Tea was always an occasion to be feared—cups rattling against saucers, plates to balance on one’s knee. Not to mention biscuits and cake to contend with. Biscuits always seemed to disintegrate as soon as Eleanor picked them up, often dropping into her tea and splashing her gown. Cake stuck in her throat, giving rise to a tickling sensation that necessitated all her efforts to prevent a coughing fit. All undertaken under Mother’s disapproving stare.
But tea with the dowager presented horrors at an entirely new level, with more challenging obstacles to negotiate. A silver tea set gleamed in the sunlight, which she was bound to smear with her fingerprints, and two cups and saucers fashioned from a delicate porcelain decorated with roses and gold leaf. A matching cake stand dominated the center of the table, in two tiers, filled with brightly colored cakes, biscuits, and pieces of marzipan—colors bright enough to induce a megrim, or worse, stain the bone-white tablecloth when Eleanor inevitably dropped crumbs onto it.
That was, if she hadn’t dropped one of those fragile-looking teacups first.
Two liveried footmen stood to attention beside the table—doubtless watching to see what transgressions she’d commit.
The dowager leaned forward. “Tea?”
Eleanor nodded. Her hostess then nodded at one of the footmen, who poured a measure of tea into a cup. Then he glanced at Eleanor and arched an eyebrow.
“I prefer not to have milk,” Eleanor said. “Or sugar.”
“Then what would you like in your tea, miss?”
Eleanor hesitated. Was this a test?
“Miss Howard?” The dowager leaned forward. “How do you take your tea at home?”
“With milk and sugar—but that’s not how I prefer it.”
“Why the devil do you take it so if you don’t prefer it?”
Eleanor hesitated. What was the right way to respond without causing offense?
“Infuriating girl,” the dowager muttered. “How do you prefer your tea? James can fetch whatever you need—can’t you, James?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the footman said.
“So? Spit it out, girl!”
“I prefer a spoon of honey, and a little cinnamon,” Eleanor said.
“How very odd!” came the reply. “Can you satisfy my guest, James?”
“I think so, ma’am. I’ll speak to the cook.”
The footman bowed and disappeared, while the second footman poured the dowager’s tea.
“So—you’re betrothed to my son.”
Eleanor nodded.
