Chapter Fifteen

"Eleanor, come quick, he's here!"

Mother's voice echoed from downstairs, and Eleanor dropped her hairbrush.

Her maid picked it up. "Here, let me, Miss Eleanor," she said brightly. "You're all fingers and thumbs today!"

"Thank you, Harriet. I can't think what's come over me."

"I can, miss," the maid said as she brushed Eleanor's hair and secured it in a chignon. "There! You look quite lovely."

"I don't—"

"That's enough of that," Harriet said, placing a hand on Eleanor's shoulder. "You're always thinking bad of yourself—but the duke must have a reason for offering for you."

Yes—to deceive his mother.

"Where are you?" the voice cried again. "Tiresome child!"

"Coming, Mother!" Eleanor called out.

She exited her bedchamber and almost collided with her mother in the hallway.

"What is that you're wearing, child?"

Eleanor glanced at her dress—a gown of white muslin with a simple blue sash. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

Her mother let out a sharp sigh. "I told Harriet to set out the pink dress—it's much more feminine than that dreadful thing."

"I like this dress," Eleanor said. "It's more comfortable in this heat, and—"

"Don't answer back! Lord save me, child, why must you always disappoint your poor mother? You want to look pretty for the duke, don't you?"

Before Eleanor could say that the last thing she wanted was to look pretty for anybody, there came a knock on the front door. Her mother took her wrist, ushered her into the morning room, and sat her down just as a footman appeared with Whitcombe.

Eleanor's heart fluttered, as it always did when she caught sight of him. Part of her had hoped he'd not turn up—but another part had yearned to see him again.

"Your Grace!" Mother cried. "How kind of you to—"

"Lady Howard." He inclined his head, a curl of amusement on his lips. "And Miss Howard."

His gaze lingered on Eleanor, and heat bloomed in her cheeks. What if he disliked her gown?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. "May I?"

Eleanor stared at the ring—it was enormous! The central emerald, surrounded by a cluster of diamonds, was huge. Clear-cut facets caught the light, reflecting it outward and shimmering deep inside with notes of blue and turquoise, as if the gem were a living entity.

Surely he wasn't entrusting her with that?

"Eleanor—where are your manners?" Her mother gave her a sharp nudge, and she glanced up to see Whitcombe looking directly at her, amusement in his eyes.

Was she nothing but an object of ridicule?

She lifted her hand and found it enveloped in a strong, firm grip. Then his fingers slid through hers, caressing the third finger of her left hand, before he slipped the ring on.

"A perfect fit!" Mother cried. "It's as if it were made for you, Eleanor."

Eleanor cringed. Why did Mother have to be so overly enthusiastic? What must he think of them?

But a smile gleamed in his eyes, and her heart fluttered with pleasure.

"Perhaps it was," he said.

"You must forgive my daughter, Your Grace," Mother continued. "She has a delightful day dress, which I'd hoped she would wear today—from Madame Chassineux. Do you know her?"

He inclined his head.

"But," Mother continued, "she chose not to wear it."

Irritation sparked in his eyes. "Your daughter's dress is delightful, Lady Howard," he said. "I've always wondered why young women feel the need to wear an overly bright dress merely to take a turn outside."

"A young woman must always look her best, Your Grace."

"Perhaps she already does."

What did he mean by that? Did he see little point in Eleanor dressing herself up in finery, given that she was too plain to carry it off with any success?

"Now, Lady Howard, you must excuse us," he said. "My driver is waiting."

He took Eleanor's arm and led her outside. An enormous barouche bearing the Whitcombe crest waited at the front steps, a liveried driver and two horses, their pelts shining in the morning sun, at the front. The horses moved restlessly, as if they anticipated the exercise, scraping their hooves on the road, and Eleanor caught the aroma of polished leather and the glint of brass, which reflected the sunlight as they tossed their heads.

"Whoa there!" the driver said. "Ready, Your Grace?"

Whitcombe helped Eleanor into the barouche, then he climbed in after her, and they set off.

*

Hyde Park lookeddifferent from a barouche—either due to the elevated position or because Eleanor no longer needed to continually check the ground for obstacles, lest she trip over her feet. But though she tried to lose herself in the beauty of her surroundings, her attention was continually drawn to the man beside her—his broad, masculine form, the faint aroma of wood and spices, and the warmth from his body. Her senses struggled to manage such an onslaught, and she found herself gripping the side of the barouche in an attempt to steady the tremors in her body.

A hand caught hers, and she startled.

"Are you well, Miss Howard? The motion of a carriage can bring about nausea to those unused to it."

"My father keeps a carriage, Your Grace," Eleanor said.

"Forgive me—I meant no offense," he said. "I spoke out of concern for your health. But, in turn, I must admonish you."

Her stomach tightened in apprehension. "What for?"

He stroked her fingers. "I recall asking you to call me Montague."

"B-but…"

"Might you indulge me?"

His tongue seemed to linger on the word indulge.

"M-Montague…" She cringed at the familiar address on her tongue, but she couldn't deny the secret thrill in the pit of her stomach at having his name on her lips.

"Hmmm," he murmured. "I shall have to be content with that. And now, I believe it's time for your first lesson. Modern languages."

"What language?"

"The most puerile language of them all. The language of Society—when one says nothing, but still manages to utter so many words."

"And when one speaks in riddles all the time," Eleanor said. "Will you teach me the riddles everyone speaks?"

"What riddles?"

"The other night, Lady Arabella said something to my sister about the Duke of Westbury's son being born in a—a blanket? I cannot work out her meaning."

His expression hardened. "Do you perchance mean being born on the wrong side of the blanket?"

"That was it—yes! But the duke didn't seem to take the remark with favor. Do you know what Arabella meant by it?"

"It means the lad is Westbury's natural son." He sighed. "No wonder Westbury was angry. He's had men horsewhipped for referring to the boy's birth."

"Well, I see nothing wrong," Eleanor said. "Don't all men wish for a natural child?"

"A natural child is more trouble than it's worth, Miss Howard," he said, his voice stern. "My own father…" He shook his head. "Suffice it to say, my mother never forgave him."

"Now you're speaking in riddles," she said. "You're a natural child, aren't you? As am I."

"I'm no such thing! Do you think I'd be in possession of a title if I were?"

"I don't understand," Eleanor said.

"I'm saying…" he began, his voice laced with anger. Then he stopped and let out a cry. "Of course!" He laughed. "You assume natural to mean a child by birth, instead of, say, a ward."

First he was angry—now he was making fun of her. Could this day get any worse?

"Is there any other meaning?" she asked, blinking back tears.

His expression softened. "The expression refers to a child"—he lowered his voice—"born out of wedlock."

Her cheeks flamed, and she averted her gaze. No wonder Westbury had looked so furious—he must have thought she was insulting his son.

"I-I did not know," she said. "Is that why he's called Drayton, not Westbury?"

"Drayton is the family name," he said, "but the title is the Duchy of Westbury. Master Edward can take his father's surname, but not the title—in that, he's had to defer to his younger brother."

Eleanor shook her head. "You must think me terribly stupid not to know these things."

"The last word I'd use to describe you is stupid, Miss Howard," he said gently, taking her hand again. "The language of Society doesn't come as naturally to you as it does to most. Just as, say, the skills of the artist don't come naturally to most, yet you possess them to a greater degree."

"Me?"

"I hear you're an accomplished artist," he said. "The duchess told me as much the other night. And I saw it for myself that morning, when I encountered…Harriet in this very park at daybreak."

What must he think of her—using her maid's name and creeping about the park at dawn?

He smiled. "Your secret's safe with me. A young woman disposed to adventure in pursuit of accomplishment is to be admired."

"I don't draw for accomplishment."

He assaulted her with his sapphire gaze. "Then why do you draw, Miss Howard?"

Eleanor hesitated. Nobody had asked her that before.

"I suppose it's because I have to, Your Grace"—he squeezed her hand—"Montague."

"There!" he said. "Was that so difficult? Does someone compel you to paint?"

She shook her head. "The compulsion comes from within. Every time I see a blank page, I find myself driven by the urge to cover it with marks, to express what I see around me, and how I feel. It's…it's like I'm filled with water—filled to bursting, sometimes, and the only release I can find is to pour it out onto the page. As I move my hand about the page, creating shapes that are blurred, at first, then come into focus, the more detail I put in. Then, when the picture begins to form, it's like…" Unable to articulate the feeling, she made a random gesture in the air. "It's like I'm forming myself—becoming whole. And I cannot rest until the form is completed, until I've captured it fully on the page. Only then have I eased the ache from within…"

She paused to draw breath. What, in the name of heaven, had compelled her to make such a speech—to expose herself so fully—and to him, of all people? He must think her wits addled.

Or worse…

Unfit for the world. That was what she'd overheard Mother say to Papa one night after a particularly distressing party—the same party when she'd inadvertently trodden on Mr. Moss's toe during a dance, when the harsh voices, bright lights, cacophony of colors, and crowds of people had driven her into herself. One moment she was being crushed by all around her, her mind desperately attempting to withdraw to safety, and the next she was in Papa's arms in the carriage, Mother and Juliette's admonishments filling the air.

Eleanor cringed and lowered her gaze, waiting for the ridicule. But instead, a warm hand cupped her chin and gently tipped her face up.

She looked up, anticipating the discomfort of his gaze. But she saw no contempt, only wonder, and she was reminded of the moment when he took care of her after she'd been overcome by Juliette's taunts.

Finding she'd been holding her breath, she slid her gaze sideways and exhaled.

"There!" he said softly. "You can articulate yourself very well when speaking of something about which you're passionate."

She felt a pulse of longing as he uttered that last word, and tried to withdraw, but he moved closer. Their thighs touched.

"Forgive me," she said. "Mother's always telling me not to rattle on."

"Miss Howard, you can rattle on as much as you like, given that you have something real to say," he said. "What do you like to draw the most?"

"I draw anything in which I see beauty."

"Including a tree stump."

Was he ridiculing her?

"Most would overlook a tree stump," she said. "But that's because they lack the ability to look—really look—at a subject. They're so caught up in what Society deems to be visually pleasing that they fail to look beneath the surface to observe the character within."

"And you find character in a tree stump?"

"Character is to be found in everything if one bothers to look. A tree stump might not conform to the niceties of Society, but I'll wager it has experienced more of life than most. Consider its history—it might have stood, towering over the park for decades, and though the tree is gone, the stump remains. It's only right that the artist gives it due consideration when drawing it, to reflect all that it has been, which can be seen in the texture of the bark, the deep cracks, within which all manner of tiny creatures have made their home…" She shook her head. "Oh dear, I'm speaking nonsense again."

"I applaud your nonsense, Miss Howard. It is much to be preferred over the nonsense one hears in drawing rooms. But I must ask whether you confine your talents to trees, or whether you employ them to draw likenesses of people?"

"I've drawn portraits," she said, "though they're not always appreciated."

"Why not?" he asked. "I find it difficult to believe you lack the talent, though I understand drawing true likenesses can be a challenge."

"I depict people as I see them, not as they wish to be seen."

"Which is entirely consistent with your character."

"You understand my character, Your Grace?"

"I'm beginning to, yes," he said. "Rather than converse in riddles to conform to Society, you speak—and depict—the absolute truth. Whether that gives offense is no reflection of your character, Miss Howard, but that of others."

"Oh!" she cried. "You understand."

He lifted his hand and, with light fingertips, traced a line along the side of her face. Then he plucked a stray tendril of her hair and tucked it behind her ear, caressing her earlobe. Her breath caught, and she closed her eyes, relishing the sensation.

I believe I do understand you, Eleanor, as you understand me.

She opened her eyes to see him looking directly at her, a flicker of need in his eyes.

Had he spoken aloud? Or had she merely dreamed it, as she had dreamed of him so many times before?

Then he lowered his hand, and her heart ached at the sense of loss.

"Would you permit me to see some of your portraits?" he asked.

Heavens!What would he think if he saw her portraits of him? There must be fifty, at least, each one revealing how she saw him—as a demigod. If he thought her soft in the head already, then one perusal of her sketchbook would confirm his suspicions.

"Forgive my forwardness, Miss Howard," he said. "It's not for me to ask such a thing. I merely wish to know you better."

Her heart leaped with hope. "Do you?"

"Of course. Any betrothed couple is expected to be well acquainted with each other. And we must convince the world that we are betrothed—at least until we part."

Eleanor swallowed her disappointment at the blunt reminder of the falsity of their circumstances.

"Yes, I suppose so," she mumbled.

"Excellent!" he said brightly. "And now, rather than continue with my inquisition, I should begin your first lesson in the language of the dim-witted Society miss."

He winked, and she couldn't help smiling. Of course they'd part once their game was over. But, rather than wallow in self-pity over the inevitable ending, she should enjoy the time they had.

"Shall we begin with a few simple phrases, Miss Howard?"

She nodded.

"Good—very good. Now, you must repeat each phrase after me, then I'll explain its true meaning."

He glanced around the park, where people milled about—couples strolling beside the Serpentine, children herded by their governesses, lone gentlemen riding along the path, their horses' tails swishing in the air to deflect the flies.

Eleanor's gaze settled on a small party ahead, Lady Arabella Ponsford together with Lady Irma Fairchild, and—oh my—they were accompanied by Mr. Moss.

"What is it, Miss Howard?" her companion asked, concern in his voice.

"Th-there's someone I know ahead."

"You mean the Ladies Arabella and Irma, and Mr. Moss? You've nothing to fear from them."

"I doubt that," she said. "I once trod on Mr. Moss's toe at a ball, and he's never let me forget—neither has Lady Arabella. She always gets the better of me."

"Then let us remedy that," he said. "Now, on first greeting an acquaintance, you ought to remark on the weather, or her state of health."

"Even if I have nothing of interest to say about either?"

"Precisely," he said. "Society language isn't intended to garner interest. It's merely the steps in a particularly dull dance to navigate oneself from one end of the ballroom to another. So, with Lady Arabella, you could begin your greeting by saying, ‘I trust you are well.' Or, if you wish to elicit a response, you could ask her a question, such as ‘And how are you on this fine day?'"

"Even if I care not one jot how she is?"

He let out a laugh. "The less we care about the person to whom we're speaking, the more we should enthuse over them."

"So, we should say the opposite of how we're feeling?" Eleanor asked. Then she glanced ahead at Lady Arabella arm in arm with Lady Irma.

"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 have you to 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."

Eleanor's courage wavered. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words refused to come.

"I trust you weren't impugning my fiancée's behavior," Whitcombe said, his voice a low growl.

"O-of course not," Mr. Moss said, his cheeks reddening. "I wish her every happiness—and you, of course."

Lady Arabella grimaced, rendering her face quite ugly. "Your Grace, I hadn't thought your antics of the other night to be sincere."

The remnants of Eleanor's courage deserted her. Arabella, and most likely the rest of Society, could never be convinced their engagement was real.

Then Eleanor's companion took her left hand and raised it. Lady Arabella's eyes widened as her gaze settled on the emerald ring.

"How kind of you to express such concern, Lady Arabella," he said. "I acted in haste out of the violence of my affections. But, as you can see, I am now treating Miss Howard with the respect she deserves, and I applaud you for showing her the same respect."

By now, Eleanor had recovered, and she smiled at her adversary. "We both applaud you, Lady Arabella, for your kindness," she said. "Rest assured, the degree of kindness that you have always bestowed upon me is not something I'll easily forget."

Eleanor could swear she heard a small snort from her companion.

Lady Arabella's expression clouded with confusion. "I-it was nothing," she said.

"And now, we must take our leave," Whitcombe said. "My objective in coming to the park today was not to display my ostentation to the world"—Eleanor suppressed a giggle as he glanced pointedly at Lady Arabella's dress—"but to enjoy the company of my fiancée. Drive on!"

The barouche lurched into motion, and Lady Arabella and her companions stepped back to make room.

"Don't look back," Whitcombe said, almost as if he'd read her mind. "They're not deserving of our attention. Now, shall we continue our lesson? What might you say if you were attending a dinner party and the meal was nauseating, but your hostess has asked whether you enjoyed it?"

"Such as Lady Fairchild's ball last month?" Eleanor asked.

He smiled. "Precisely. I swear, I almost lost a tooth on the steak."

"Yes, it was somewhat tough," Eleanor said. "I told her as much when she asked me, though I fear she took offense."

"Ha!" he said. "You said what the whole party was thinking. Bravo!"

Bravo, indeed! Her honest answer had earned her a tongue lashing from Mother.

"What might you say now?" he asked.

"I'd say, ‘Very delicious, thank you, Lady Fairchild.'"

"Oh, you can do better than that," he said. "You must find a way to speak the truth to maintain your integrity, yet utter a socially acceptable response."

"Very well." She pondered for a moment, then nodded. "How about: ‘Lady Fairchild, I have never tasted anything quite like this. Your cook is incomparable.'"

"Excellent!" he cried. "Are you attending Lady Francis's ball next week? We can test the principles you have learned on living specimens."

"And in the most hostile of environments," she said. "A Society party."

He let out a laugh, and her heart somersaulted at the beautiful expression in his eyes.

"I foresee a successful experiment," he said. "I'll make a lady of you yet."

His words, though intended to praise, doused Eleanor's confidence, serving only to remind her of her inferiority. To him, she was merely an experiment—an awkward creature whom he was teaching a few phrases to make her appear socially acceptable.

But to Eleanor—after he'd come to her rescue against her would-be tormentors—he was in danger of making her infatuation grow into something infinitely more dangerous…

Love.