Page 83 of Oddity of the Ton
Then the parlor door opened and Whitcombe entered. Eleanor could have wept with relief at the sight of him, which marked the end of her ordeal.
“Miss Howard, Mother,” he said. “Shall we set off?” He extended his hand to Eleanor.
The maid plucked the dog from Eleanor’s lap, then Eleanor rose and took the proffered hand, drawing comfort from his presence. He pulled her close and dipped his head, and she felt his warm breath caress her neck.
“Did you survive?” he whispered.
She nodded, aware of the pair of cold sapphire eyes watching them.
She may have navigated her way through one ordeal and emerged alive, if not unscathed. But the dowager was not a woman to be trifled with—or readily deceived.
Chapter Twenty-Three
There was nothingpleasanter than spending a day outside, in the country, away from the expectations and demands that came with a dukedom.
Monty drew in a lungful of air, relishing the sweet scent of summer blossom and the sounds of the countryside—the whisper of the wind in the trees, the distant lowing of cows, and the gentle ripple of water. Near the edge of the lake, Marlow and his wife strolled side by side, she leaning on his arm while he held a parasol above them both.
Was there ever a couple so much in love? Last night, Marlow couldn’t have been more attentive to his wife. But while a few weeks ago Monty might have sneered at Marlow’s gallantry, last night his heart had swelled at the notion of two people caring so deeply for each other that the happiness of their loved one ranked above their own.
It was certainly not a state his mother had enjoyed. Her marriage with Father had been the grandest match of their Season—a perfect union by Society’s standards. But Father’s philandering had turned Mother into a resentful wife, an aloof parent, and now a bitter widow.
As Monty looked across the landscape, his gaze settled on Miss Howard sitting on a blanket, her sketchbook on her knees while she worked away, occasionally glancing up at her subject—the horse chestnut tree stump.
Eccentric, unfathomable—even awkward—she may be, but she was a woman who could never be deemed bitter, aloof, or resentful. She would never fit into the world’s ideal of a Society marriage. She would either rise above it or…
Or she would be crushed beneath it.
Miss Howard’s prospects for a match might increase once their arrangement was concluded, but she needed to be matched with the right man, if not one who appreciated her for what she was—but at least a man who would not confine her or stifle her personality.
“Montague.”
Monty glanced across to where his mother sat beneath a canopy, a footman beside her holding a parasol—though, unlike Lord Marlow, he was doing it out of a sense of duty, rather than love.
“Are you hungry, Mother?” he asked, reaching for a plate of sandwiches.
She shook her head, then gestured toward Miss Howard. “What in the name of the Almighty do you think you’re doing, Montague?”
“Having a picnic.”
The stoic expression on the footman’s face almost disintegrated into a smile.
“You know perfectly well what I’m asking, boy.”
Boy?Was he a child to be admonished, then sent to bed with no supper?
“Enlighten me, please, Mother,” he said.
“I’m asking why you’re trying to deceive me?”
“Deceive you?”
“Me—and perhaps the whole of Society. Do you take me for a simpleton?”
“What do you mean?” Monty asked.
“That your engagement is a sham!”
This time the footman lost his composure. He drew in a sharp breath and stared at Monty open-mouthed.
