Chapter Seventeen

"Sit up straight, Eleanor!"

Eleanor jerked upright—a not inconsiderable feat, given that the carriage kept lurching sideways.

"No one can see me, Mother," she said.

"Why must you always answer back?" her mother retorted. "Leonard, tell her."

Eleanor's father raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"I was only stating a fact, Mother," Eleanor continued. "Can't I relax while we're not in public?"

"No. We must be wary at all times of being seen—especially now our family is connected to nobility."

"I'm not married yet," Eleanor said. "I—Ouch!"

Her mother rapped her across the arm with her fan. Eleanor drew her cloak around her and sat back.

"Eleanor, I told you not to slouch. I don't want the Fairchilds upstaging us because of your lack of decorum."

"Leave her be, Grace!" Papa said. He gestured to the carriage window, where raindrops battered the glass, forming rivulets that ran in jagged lines toward the sill. "The weather will ensure we're all on the same level tonight. We'll be soaked as soon as we step outside the carriage." He winked at Eleanor before resuming his attention on Mother. "Not to mention the horse dung underfoot from all the carriages. Knee deep we'll be, before we've even reached the front door."

"Not if our carriage arrives first."

Of that, there was little chance, given how long Juliette had spent fashioning her hair—an intricate array of ringlets and pearls that overshadowed the corsage of wild grasses Harriet had placed in Eleanor's hair.

The carriage drew to a halt, and Eleanor caught sight of a myriad of lights flickering in the evening air, and a crush of activity, that made her stomach churn.

So many people! Why did they take such joy from congregating in crowds?

Carriages lined the road, and footmen ran to and fro, carrying umbrellas and torches, as they escorted the guests toward the sanctuary of Lady Francis's front door.

If Lady Francis's house could be considered sanctuary.

Eleanor would have preferred to remain outside in the rainstorm. Outside, she could savor the fresh, clean water on her face, together with the unmistakable aroma of dust in rain—a veritable heaven compared to the chattering crowds with their sharp voices, shrill laughs, and bright colors that always tortured her senses.

"Oh, Mama!" Juliette cried. "The weather's ghastly—and we'll have to walk past all those carriages! Why didn't we leave earlier?"

"We would have done had your sister consented to wear the dress I'd chosen for her." Mother gave Eleanor a sharp glance. "I wanted you to look your best tonight—and you won't in that hideous thing."

"I like this gown," Eleanor said.

"Pink is a la mode this Season, not green. And you wore that dress at Lady Stiles's soiree last month. People will notice."

"Nobody will notice me," Eleanor said.

"Everyone's eyes will be on you tonight."

Eleanor suppressed a shudder.

"Which is why," Mother continued, "you must not let the family down. For Juliette's sake."

"For Juliette?"

"You mustn't take all the attention, Eleanor," Juliette said. "That would be selfish."

"Quite so," Mother added. "Juliette must not be without a partner tonight."

"The Duke of Dunton has asked to partner me for the first two dances," Juliette said.

"Excellent," Mother said. "But we mustn't grow complacent."

"You want to be courted by Dunton, do you?" Eleanor asked. "But he has a reputation for—"

"If you can secure a duke, why can't I?" Juliette said.

"Quite right, darling," Mother said. "You're the prettiest girl of the Season. Lady Fairchild says you're prettier even her Irma."

"What about Lady Arabella?" Juliette said. "Some say she's the prettiest."

"Ah, but she lacks your sweet disposition."

Eleanor met her father's gaze and bit her lips to stifle a giggle. Papa, unable to show similar restraint, let out a bark of laughter, which he disguised with a cough.

"Are you unwell, Leonard?" Mother asked.

"No, Grace, my love. The air's a little dry, that's all."

Mother glanced at the rain, which was forming a mist as it splashed off the pavement. She glanced at Papa and opened her mouth, but before she issued a reprimand, a face appeared at the window.

Montague.

Eleanor's stomach somersaulted. He was handsome enough in the middle of a ballroom, dressed in finery. But here—outside, his hair windswept and disheveled, with an undercurrent of primal savagery—he was breathtaking.

The door opened, and she was met with the full force of his gaze.

"Miss Howard, what a pleasure," he said. "Sir Leonard, Lady Howard—and Miss Juliette. Do you require assistance? This weather's not for the fainthearted."

"That's most kind, Your Grace," Mother said.

Whitcombe glanced over his shoulder. "My man!" he cried. "We're in need of assistance. You too, if you don't mind?"

Two footmen appeared. "Yes, Your Grace?" the first asked.

"Would you assist Sir Leonard and Lady Howard, and you"—Whitcombe turned to the second—"please attend to Miss Juliette."

Then his gaze returned to Eleanor. "I shall take Miss Howard."

A curl of desire licked through Eleanor's body at the possessive tone of his voice.

He barked orders to the footman as her parents and sister climbed out of the carriage. Then she found herself alone, with her betrothed, standing in the doorway. He reached out a hand, and she stared at it.

"Why the hesitation, Miss Howard? Were you not expecting me to attend you this evening?"

She continued to stare at his hand—his ungloved hand—and her body warmed at the anticipation of his touch.

Then he curled his fingers around her wrist. "Did you think I'd abandon you because our attachment is a sham?"

Must he remind her so brutally of their arrangement?

"In truth, I didn't know what to expect," she said, unable to disguise the bitterness in her voice. "I find myself unwilling to play the role of the happy guest merely for the sake of appearance."

"You wound me, Miss Howard, if you imply that you're incapable of enjoying my company."

"I'm sure you'd say the same about my company," she said, "and I understand that."

The mirth in his eyes died, and he lifted her hand to his lips. "How can you say such a thing, Miss Howard? I've been very much looking forward to spending the evening with you."

"Y-you have?"

"You think so little of yourself that you find it impossible that I'd find your company agreeable?"

"Most people—"

"I'm not most people," he said. "And, before you lay an accusation of falsehood at my door, I give you my word that I shall never deceive you."

Eleanor's cheeks warmed under his scrutiny. How in heaven's name had he known precisely what she was thinking?

Then his expression softened. "You've every right to mistrust me, Miss Howard. But over the course of our…arrangement, I shall strive to earn your trust. Now, shall we?"

He helped her out of the carriage. She slipped on the bottom step and fell forward, but he caught her and held her close. Then he issued an order, and a footman ran toward them, holding an umbrella aloft.

"Take my arm, Miss Howard," he said. "It's treacherous underfoot."

Eleanor glanced at the road, slippery with the rain and laden with piles of horse dung, above which wisps of steam arose.

"The horses are insensitive to the guests' needs," Whitcombe said.

"Bravo to the horses," she replied. "They can act in any manner they choose without fear of admonishment."

"Nevertheless, I'd implore you to step carefully. Our equine friends seem to have been overly enthusiastic in depositing their—ahem—gifts."

She let out a giggle, while he picked a route toward the house. A cry of disgust rang out, followed by a sharp voice issuing a reprimand. A very familiar voice.

"I fear Lady Arabella Ponsford has suffered a calamity," Eleanor's escort said. "But, at least, it means we'll have early warning of her approach, even if we cannot see her."

"Early warning?"

"The odor of horse dung can be rather pungent indoors. I'll wager her shoes are smothered in the stuff."

"Perhaps I should step in a pile, if it'll ward off company," Eleanor said.

"I shall not be deterred," he replied. "I'd weather anything for the pleasure of your company."

"You promised not to flatter me, Your Grace," Eleanor said.

"What I promised was to be truthful," he said. "Now have a care—the ground is more treacherous near the steps."

Eleanor grasped her skirts and lifted them while she tiptoed over the piles of dung, taking care to ensure the hem was clear. Her companion helped her toward the steps, and when she glanced at him, she saw him staring at her ankles. Then she let her skirts fall, and he looked up and smiled.

"You're out of danger," he said, his voice hoarse, "from dung, at least."

Her blood warmed at the hunger in his eyes. Then he offered his arm and escorted her inside.

What had he meant, danger? A small voice whispered in her mind that it was a danger to be relished.

*

After the initialcloud of terror dissipated, Eleanor found herself enjoying a ball for the first time in her life. Whitcombe's presence wasn't as stifling as she'd expected, and she managed to conquer her body's instinct to flee from such a predatory male.

Then the musicians began tuning their instruments, indicating that the dancing was about to begin.

Couples lined up, forming sets of six, the ladies chatting gaily as if they'd been looking forward to the prospect of dancing all day.

Eleanor's partner led her toward the dance floor, and fear curled inside her stomach.

"Miss Howard, are you well?"

"Are you expecting me to…dance?"

"Is that not the principal reason for attending a ball?"

"Yes, b-but I…"

"Do you trust me?"

"I…" She hesitated, then he caught her chin in a firm, but gentle, grip.

"Look at me when you give me your answer…Eleanor."

He tilted her face, and she lifted her gaze. The bright sapphire of his eyes had darkened to the color of a midnight sky, and in their depths, she saw a flicker of desire.

He slid his fingers along her skin and stroked her cheek with his thumb. The air filled with the masculine scent of him, and she fought to contain the raw need curling through her body, but her legs crumpled beneath her.

Then, before she collapsed in a pile of undignified shame, he caught her in his arms and swept her onto the dance floor with the practiced movement of the expert seducer.

How many other women had he rendered helpless with a single touch?

Or was it just her—weak and unsophisticated as she was—unable to withstand such an assault on her senses?

She clung to him as he steered her toward two couples set apart from the rest. Her cheeks warmed with shame as she recognized the Duke and Duchess of Westbury, and the duke's eldest son. She didn't recognize the other woman.

Would Westbury rebuke her for having insulted his son's birth?

But, rather than frown, he smiled warmly.

"Miss Howard, how delightful to see you," he said. "You know my wife and son, of course."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Eleanor said. "And Mr. Drayton, I'm so pleased to see you again."

"As am I." The young man bowed, then gestured to his partner—a slender, sweet-faced woman in a pale blue gown. "Do you know Mrs. Trelawney?"

"I-I'm afraid not," Eleanor said, dipping into a curtsey. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, Miss Howard. I believe your father, Sir Leonard, conducts business with my husband—Mr. Ross Trelawney?"

"Oh, the wine merchant!" Eleanor said. "Papa speaks very highly of him, but I've never met him. Is he here tonight?"

"Alas, my husband is working tonight, of all things."

"So, poor Mrs. Trelawney must make do with me," Mr. Drayton added.

"If you're as accomplished a dance partner as you are a dinner companion, then Mrs. Trelawney is sure to elicit the envy of every woman in the room," Eleanor said.

"Ha!" Westbury said. "A pretty speech, Miss Howard. But I fear you've wounded poor Whitcombe. You're supposed to extol the virtues of your dance partner—not another's."

Oh, heavens, I've done it again!Why could she never think of the right thing to say?

"F-forgive me," Eleanor stammered. "I meant no offense."

"None was taken," Whitcombe said. "Westbury—don't be a tease. A man incapable of weathering the truth is no man at all. But I believe that, of all those dancing here tonight, we must pity Mr. Moss the most."

Eleanor turned and caught sight of Mr. Moss leading Lady Arabella Ponsford onto the dance floor.

Mrs. Trelawney let out a giggle, then suppressed it. "Whitcombe, for shame!" she cried. "Lady Arabella's an accomplished dancer."

"But perhaps less desirable with feet covered in horse dung," Westbury said. "I swear she's surrounded by a cloud of flies. But Moss always reeks of cologne, so is unlikely to notice the stench."

"Henry!" Westbury's wife admonished him. "If you continue, I'll insist you partner Lady Arabella for the next two dances as penance."

"Then I shall desist, to elude such a punishment." Westbury winked at Eleanor. "Ah!" he cried, as the musicians struck up a melody. "I've been saved by the music."

He led his wife toward the center of the dance floor, followed by his son and Mrs. Trelawney. Whitcombe steered Eleanor in their wake.

"I trust you'll not find the dancing unduly objectionable, Miss Howard," he said. "I've ensured we're among friends for this dance, at least."

"I don't understand."

"The Westburys are good company," he said, "and Mrs. Trelawney has the sweetest disposition. If I am to place you in that most hazardous of environments—the Society dance floor—then I must ensure you're surrounded by allies, rather than hostile forces."

"Hostile forces such as Mr. Moss and Lady Arabella?"

"Exactly!" he said. "Now, if you're unfamiliar with the steps, you'll pick them up soon enough. The pattern repeats itself, and you're in safe hands with me."

*

True to hisword, Eleanor's partner steered her through the dance, issuing gentle instructions and soft praise throughout. Even when her ungainly body did not move as her mind intended, he guided her through the steps with his hands. And when the dance necessitated a change of partners, his replacements—Westbury, and then Westbury's son—displayed equal gallantry. Eleanor was almost ready to be persuaded to declare that she liked dancing.

When the dance concluded, Whitcombe steered her toward the edge of the room.

"Would you take a seat while I fetch you a drink?" he asked.

Eleanor glanced at the empty seats—each one surrounded by chattering misses and their enthusiastic mamas—and shuddered.

"Or perhaps you'd prefer to accompany me on my quest for refreshment?" he suggested. "If we're on foot, we can avoid the necessity of being engaged in conversation with others by simply walking away."

"I live in dread of finding somewhere quiet to sit, then being joined by someone who wishes to engage in conversation," she said. "I always feel obliged to say something back when people talk at me. I'd rather they left me alone, but I fear I'd offend them if I said as much."

"What would you do if Lady Arabella sat beside you?" he asked, mischief in his eyes.

"I wouldn't know what to say."

"Miss Howard, have you learned nothing from our tutorial in the park?"

"Very well," she said. "I'd say, ‘Lady Arabella, what an unusual cologne you're wearing—most distinctive. I'm quite overcome.'"

"And to Mr. Moss?"

"I might ask him how he's able to hold a conversation with Lord Francis—and maintain his composure."

"Why Lord Francis?"

Eleanor lowered her voice. "Mr. Moss is indulging in liaisons with Lady Francis."

He glanced about the ballroom, then shook his head. "You must be mistaken. They're at opposite ends of the room."

"And have been all evening," she said. "Diagonally opposite ends of the room."

"Does that make a difference?"

"Of course," she replied. "A diagonal is longer than a straight edge. Therefore, by placing themselves at diagonally opposite ends, they maximize the distance between them. Now—why would a couple maintain the maximum distance apart for most of an evening?"

"Coincidence?"

"Perhaps if it happened occasionally, but I noticed it at Lady Fairchild's party—and again at the Westburys' ball, where…"

Her voice trailed away at the memory of that particular evening.

"They've never danced," she continued, "and they're never sat close to each other at the dinner table. I've only noticed two interactions between them all Season."

"Which are?"

"At Lady Fairchild's ball, they arrived at the same time, exchanged a glance, then moved rapidly away from each other—as if they were afraid of being seen in close proximity."

"And at the Westburys' ball?"

"Lady Francis paused to wipe a speck of dust from Mr. Moss's sleeve as she was walking past him."

"What's so unusual about that?" he asked. "Certain fabrics are notorious for attracting fluff. My valet is always brushing my jackets."

"Your valet, yes, but would you expect a guest at a ball—a married lady—to perform such a personal service?"

"What's so personal about brushing a man's jacket?"

"Think about it, Your Grace," Eleanor said, emboldened by her conviction. "Why should a woman care about a man's jacket? Most ladies might remark on a man's appearance, or utter some witticism at his valet's expense. But what woman would do something about it—and in such an absent-minded manner that implies a degree of familiarity? Can you think of an act more intimate?"

"As a matter of fact, I can, Miss Howard—a very intimate act indeed."

Eleanor's cheeks warmed at the low growl in his tone.

"You can hardly expect them to engage in—in…"

"Intimate acts?" he asked, a slow smile curling his lips.

"Not in the middle of a dance floor."

"No—I find a hallway infinitely preferable for such an act, where all manner of delicacies can be savored."

Eleanor swallowed, overcome with shame at the indecipherable urge deep within her body at the notion of intimacy. Once again she was reminded of how much more…sophisticated he was, and how he would, most likely, laugh at the prospect of finding her even remotely attractive.

"Yes, Miss Howard. I believe you're right," he said.

Sweet heaven!Had she spoken aloud?

Eleanor blinked back the moisture in her eyes. "I-I am?"

"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.

"You believe?"

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 a Stubbs? 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 it is a 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.

Whitcombe tightened his grip on Eleanor's hand. "My dear—may I introduce you to the Duke of Sawbridge. Sawbridge—this is my fiancée—"

"Capital!" Sawbridge cried. "I'm anxious to know the woman who's tamed the most committed bachelor in England. You must possess considerable…talents, Miss Howard. Might you enlighten me as to what they are?"

"Well, I—" Eleanor began, but Whitcombe interrupted.

"There's nothing about Miss Howard that can interest you, Sawbridge. You should bestow your attentions on a worthier specimen."

Worthier?Must he insult her so publicly?

She tried to withdraw her hand, but he tightened his grip.

"There's no need to tell me more, dear boy," Sawbridge said. "I understand."

"Understand what?" Eleanor couldn't help asking, painfully aware of the bitterness in her voice.

Sawbridge leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Have you lifted your skirts yet?"

"Yes, I have."

He let out a roar of laughter. "Sampled the goods already, eh, Whitcombe?"

Goods? What did he mean? Why did everyone speak in a different language?

She was out of her depth among these people—a drowning woman, weighed down by lack of understanding, in a bottomless ocean.

Tears pricked at her eyes. "I-I don't understand," she said.

"Miss Howard was jesting with you, Sawbridge," Whitcombe said, drawing Eleanor close. "She's a virtuous woman—not the sort to lift her skirts."

"B-but I had to, to step over all that horse dung this evening," she said. "Or I'd have soiled my hem."

Whitcombe let out a sharp sigh and muttered something to himself.

"It seems the rumors are true." Sawbridge laughed. "You're safe from ridicule, Whitcombe. Want of understanding is a quality prized in a wife—there's no shame in being married to a woman who's weak in the head."

With a blur of movement, Whitcombe sprang forward and caught hold of Sawbridge around the throat.

"There's no need for—Argh!" Sawbridge broke off, and Eleanor shivered at the grim determination in Whitcombe's eyes as he tightened his grip.

"Say no more, Sawbridge, unless you wish to meet me at dawn," he said, his voice low and cold. "And believe me, I'm not so gentlemanly as to shoot wide when my opponent has insulted the finest woman in the room."

Sawbridge opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came.

"Miss Howard is worth twenty of you, Sawbridge. I insist you apologize—or suffer the consequences."

For a heartbeat, the two men stared at each other. Then, like a rival bear in the face of the dominant male, Sawbridge lowered his gaze in submission. But Whitcombe continued to hold him, his body vibrating with anger, like a gladiator.

Or a champion.

Eleanor touched his arm. "Let him go, Your Grace."

"Do you think he deserves it?" Whitcombe asked.

"We're in a crowded room. Someone might see."

"I care not if they do."

"He's not said anything I haven't heard before," she said. "Would you call out every person who says I lack understanding or calls me an oddity? If you do, you'll be meeting men—and women—at dawn for the remainder of the Season."

"Then I shall rise before dawn, each and every day, until I've dealt with them all."

He released Sawbridge, who clasped his throat.

"I believe you have something to say to my fiancée."

"I apologize unreservedly, Miss Howard, for any offense caused," Sawbridge said. Then he clicked his heels together and bowed his head before retreating.

Whitcombe lifted Eleanor's hand to his lips. "I also apologize on Sawbridge's behalf," he said. "And I should apologize on behalf of every creature who's looked at you and seen an oddity, as opposed to the truth."

"And what is the truth?" she asked.

A smile danced in his eyes, and their dark expression softened into tenderness.

"The truth, I'm beginning to realize, is that of all the company here tonight, I find yours the most agreeable."

She turned away, but he cupped her chin, and a thrill rippled through her body at his touch.

"No, Eleanor," he said, and her stomach flip-flopped at the way he curled his tongue round her name. "Don't look away from me in disbelief. I will never be untruthful where you're concerned."

The finest woman in the room…

That was what he'd said to Sawbridge not a minute before. Which meant…

No, you fool! He'll never love you back—the sooner you accept that, the better.

No matter how deeply she ached to be loved by him, or how vehemently he championed her—she needed to heed the voice of reason. When they parted ways at the end of the Season, he'd forget her within a sennight.