Chapter Twenty-Two

The parlor in the 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.

"Hmmm," the dowager muttered. The footman placed her teacup in front of her, and she stared at it.

Silence fell once more, swelling into a bubble of discomfort until the urge to lance it was more than Eleanor could bear.

"We're enjoying very fine weather."

She turned, slowly, toward the window and back again.

Eleanor tried another phrase. "This seems a pleasant room."

"Are you here to discuss the weather and my furnishings, child?"

"N-no—" Eleanor hesitated. "I-I'm sorry."

"Must you apologize all the time?" The dowager let out a huff. "Why do people always feel the need to apologize when they've committed no transgression?"

"Because they believe they have committed a transgression," Eleanor said. "Not necessarily in their eyes, but in the eyes of another whom they f—"

She broke off, her cheeks warming.

"Whom they fear? Was that what you were going to say?" the dowager demanded. "Why might you fear me?"

Because you have the demeanor of a spider and the manners of a tyrant.

The dowager arched an eyebrow, almost as if she'd read Eleanor's mind. And, with a glare that could tear down walls at fifty paces, in all likelihood, she could.

"Is it because you believe I disapprove of your marrying my son?"

"We're not married yet."

"What an extraordinary response! Is it because you ensnared him through nefarious means, and fear that he'll eventually see reason?"

"I didn't ensnare him, Duchess," Eleanor said. "A man such as the Duke of Whitcombe…" She shook her head. "I cannot begin to imagine how that might be done by even the most perfect debutante—let alone one such as I."

"Then how did you persuade him to offer for you in such a public manner?"

Despite her discomfort, Eleanor found herself having to suppress the little devil inside her mind that roared with laughter at the notion of her having the power of persuasion over anyone.

"You give me more credit than I deserve, Duchess, if you believe me capable of influencing your son."

"Yet you succeeded."

"I did nothing," Eleanor said. "Until he offered for me, I don't believe he even knew I existed."

"Yet you do exist, child—here and now, in my home, taking tea."

What right did this woman have to insult her?

"I'm here at your invitation, Your Grace," Eleanor said, smiling inwardly as the dowager flinched at her incorrect address. "And I'm engaged to your son at his invitation."

"You're a fool if you believe his motives to be honorable. My son's notorious for his want of feeling, his lack of any sense of duty toward his family or others. He's the very last man with whom a woman should entangle herself."

"You seem to have a low opinion of him."

"He's a man."

"Not all men are evil," Eleanor said. "Your son least of all."

"You say that because you don't know him."

"But I do," Eleanor said, untangling her hands and leaning forward. "Our acquaintance might be short, but he's shown me more kindness in the past few days than I've experienced in a lifetime from others supposedly closer to me. Beneath the imposing exterior is a man with the capacity to be so kind—but he's unwilling to show it to others."

The dowager leaned back, her eyes widening.

Eleanor glanced down, noticing that she'd been gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening.

Sweet Lord!Most likely the dowager would have her sent back to London in disgrace. Eleanor held her breath, awaiting admonishment.

But it never came.

The door opened, and the footman returned with a dish of honey and a small jar containing a russet-colored powder.

"How do you take your tea, Miss Howard?" he asked.

Eleanor glanced at her hostess, who nodded. "Go on, Miss Howard."

"Half a teaspoon of cinnamon and a teaspoon of honey, please."

The footman obliged, and the aroma of spices filled the air as he stirred the cinnamon in.

"Thank you," Eleanor said. "You're very kind."

The dowager's eyes widened, and Eleanor silently cursed herself for committing yet another faux pas. She braced herself for an admonishment about how well-bred young ladies didn't thank the staff.

"Miss Howard, I believe you've shocked my footman."

Here it comes…

"Oh?" Eleanor glanced at the footman, who stared straight ahead.

"James isn't used to compliments. Most of my guests refrain from speaking to him with any degree of cordiality, lest they run the risk of him getting ideas."

"Such as a belief that members of Society treat their servants with consideration?" Eleanor couldn't help saying. "I doubt he'd ever be at risk of harboring such outrageous views."

"Should we ask him, Miss Howard?"

"I'd advise against it. Such a direct question would place him in a dilemma where he faces two choices, neither of which are acceptable."

"And they are?"

"To be truthful or tactful."

The dowager turned to the footman. "Which are you, James? Truthful or tactful?"

At that moment, the door burst open and several small furballs raced into the parlor, yapping excitedly.

A maidservant raced in after them. She stopped on seeing the dowager and dipped into a curtsey. "Begging your pardon, ma'am—the dogs escaped again."

"I can see that for myself," the dowager said.

One of the animals approached Eleanor and sniffed at the hem of her gown. Thankful for the opportunity to remove herself from the dowager's direct gaze, she leaned over to stroke the creature's head.

A pug—somewhat overindulged, given its portly frame.

"Careful, miss!" the maid cried. "She doesn't take to strangers. She's been known to bite."

But the little creature seemed far from dangerous. Eleanor stilled her hand, and the dog whined and nudged her fingers with its nose. She scratched behind the animal's ears, and it stretched out a hind leg, which began to twitch. Then, with another grunt, the dog rolled sideways and settled on Eleanor's foot, its body warmth seeping through to her skin.

"Aren't you a friendly lady?" Eleanor whispered.

"Unlike her mistress?"

Eleanor glanced up to see the dowager looking directly at her.

"Oh, Your Grace—I mean, Duchess—I meant no offense. I was merely saying—"

"That Ariadne is a more congenial hostess?" The dowager's mouth twitched into a smile. "I doubt Lady Fairchild would agree with you. Last time she visited, Ariadne bit her hand."

"What had she done?" Eleanor asked.

"Ariadne?"

"No. Lady Fairchild. An animal doesn't bite without reason. Most animals are quiet if left to their own devices, and only when threatened."

"Rather like unusual young ladies, then," the dowager said. "You said not one word during dinner last night."

"I had nothing in particular that I wished to say."

The pug at Eleanor's feet rolled onto its front, then nudged her with its nose again. She glanced down to see a pair of dark brown eyes staring at her from beneath a wrinkled brow, their soulful expression enough to melt the coldest heart. Eleanor reached down to pick the animal up, then hesitated.

"Go on," the dowager said. "She'll not rest until she has satisfaction."

Rather like her mistress, then.Though Eleanor wasn't about to voice that thought.

She scooped up the pug, and the little dog settled onto her lap, curling up with a contented sigh.

"Be gentle, miss!" the maid cried.

"I think we can trust Miss Howard if Ariadne does, Millicent," the dowager said. "Are you fond of pugs, Miss Howard?"

"I love all animals," Eleanor said. "They must make wonderful companions."

"Then, my dear, when Ariadne's litter comes, you shall have a puppy."

"Oh!" Eleanor cried, then she tempered her joy. "I'd love a puppy, but I'm afraid I cannot."

"Why ever not? Are you sensitive to animals? I had a cousin who sneezed every time he so much as looked at a dog."

"It's not that. It's just… My mother would never permit it."

"But you'll soon be mistress of your own home," the dowager said.

"I will?"

"Aren't you engaged to my son?"

"Oh—of course," Eleanor said.

How could she have been such a simpleton?

"In which case, the only one from whom you must seek permission for anything is my son. He'd have no objection, I assure you."

"Oh."

"Then that's settled, yes?

Eleanor nodded, then picked up her teacup, focusing on the pattern around the rim of the cup—anything to prevent her from having to meet the duchess's gaze.

The front door was knocked upon, and Eleanor startled, almost spilling her tea. The pug lifted its head and gave her a reproachful stare.

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.