Chapter Twenty-Nine

Of all the delights of London, he'd miss Hyde Park the most. As summer drew to a close, the park became a riot of color—the leaves of the trees, ranging from green, to orange, to vibrant red, illuminated by the sunlight until they looked as if they were on fire.

He checked himself. Since when had he become so damned poetic?

Since Eleanor.

He glanced at the woman on his arm, but she was too preoccupied with the view across the Serpentine to notice. Her face was in profile, wisps of hair dancing about her face in the breeze; her eyes shone in the sunlight, their vivid green reflecting the leaves that were yet to succumb to the onset of autumn. A soft smile curled her lips—lips he now knew tasted of honey and cinnamon, the sweetness of innocence with a spicy undertone of uniqueness.

Would he ever taste lips as sweet?

In fact, would his life ever be the same, or would it forever be divided into two?

The time before, and the time after, Eleanor.

The Time After Eleanor would begin tomorrow, when he would parade about this very park with Daniella and Cerise on his arms, before he left for the country to spare Miss Howard too much humiliation.

They approached the water's edge, where a man in regimentals stood, reading a booklet. He turned as they approached, and Monty recognized Colonel Reid. The man's eyes widened as his gaze fell on Eleanor. Then he looked to one side, toward the rest of Eleanor's family ahead on the path, where Juliette Howard was walking arm in arm with the Duke of Dunton.

Juliette was a fool, casting Reid aside for that lecherous old fossil! And she was an even greater fool if she believed she had a chance of becoming Dunton's duchess. Dunton used his title not only to open doors to the best clubs in London, but also to open the thighs of every debutante desperate to wed a title—only to cast them aside.

Many young women had entered into hasty marriages with men below their station shortly after having been seen on Dunton's arm. Or they disappeared from Society altogether.

How many firstborn children had arrived after just such a hasty marriage, with features that bore an inexplicable resemblance to that lecher—an eternal mark of its mother's ruination?

Dunton often boasted of his conquests when in his cups at White's. He seemed to take pride in the number of maidenheads he'd claimed—fifty at the last count, if his boasts were to be believed.

Which is what I did five nights ago.

What made Monty any different to Dunton?

Eleanor had consented—nay, she had asked—in the full knowledge that they would part company. Dunton's conquests were sordid fumblings. What Monty had shared with Eleanor was far more—it was a union of souls.

Colonel Reid dipped his head in a bow and clicked his heels together. "Miss Howard, a pleasure," he said. "And Whitcombe, of course."

The colonel's features were open and honest. His mouth lifted into a smile, and his eyes—a soft, warm chocolate brown—sparkled in the sunlight. The poor man hadn't stood a chance with Juliette. Reid might be capable in battle, but in Society, he lacked the predator's instinct. Any fool would have known that Juliette had encouraged his suit merely to further her cause of attracting Dunton's attention.

Reid colored under Monty's scrutiny.

"Colonel Reid," Eleanor said, stepping forward. "How delightful to see you. It's a fine day for a walk in the park, is it not?"

Monty smiled to himself. He'd taught her well. She could now break an awkward silence with aplomb. If nothing else, he'd given her the ability to survive a social encounter, even if she'd never completely enjoy it.

"That it is, Miss Howard," the colonel replied. "It's the perfect balance of the season and sunshine."

What the devil was he on about?

"Oh yes!" Miss Howard cried, evidently able to translate. "The summer is drawing to a close, and yet nature is bestowing upon us brighter colors than we could ever hope to see in a hothouse. Just look at that horse chestnut—have you ever seen anything so magnificent?"

"The sunlight makes it look as if it's glowing from the inside," Reid said.

She nodded, her eyes sparkling with joy.

Curse the man! He was voicing precisely what Monty himself had been thinking.

"I've often wondered what it might be like to paint that tree."

"You're an artist?" Eleanor looked at Reid with renewed interest.

"I dabble, nothing more. When a man has a profession, he has little time to indulge in pleasures that are deemed, by his family, to be mere frivolities."

Had Monty imagined it, or did the colonel cast a look of disdain in his direction? Perhaps he considered a gentleman less worthy of existence than a man with an occupation.

"I assure you, I'm also kept very busy, colonel," he said.

Reid merely inclined his head.

"I'm sorry to hear you've no time to paint, colonel," Eleanor said. "A man shouldn't occupy himself with work all the time—otherwise, there's little point in existing." Then she colored. "Forgive me. I'm being too forward. Sometimes I let my enthusiasm run unchecked."

"No, Miss Howard, you're right," Reid said. "There's no shame in having a passion for art. Mankind is nothing without art or music."

"Is that why you spend much of your time shooting the French?" Monty asked.

It was a petulant comment, which he regretted almost as soon as he'd said it.

"I daresay, Whitcombe, you understand soldiering as much as I understand…whatever it is a duke occupies himself with."

There was no mistaking the bitter edge to the colonel's voice. Juliette had done a thorough job in breaking the man's heart. Monty would almost have pitied Reid, had the colonel not vented his frustration on him—as if Monty and his kind were responsible for all the miseries of the world.

Eleanor glanced at Monty, then back to Reid, a faint blush on her cheeks.

"I understand little of soldiering," she said. "Is it very frightening?"

"No, Miss Howard." The colonel smiled. "There's order, an honor, in soldiering," he said. "I trust my men with my life, and in turn, they place their trust in me. And while those with limited understanding view our occupation as one of violence, we are merely striving to ensure the freedom Society takes for granted."

"Such as freedom to enjoy art?"

"Precisely! And while I'm unable to partake in the arts in the manner in which I have always wanted, I can, at least, savor the efforts of others." He held up the booklet, and Monty read the front page.

THE

EXHIBITION

OF THE

ROYAL ACADEMY,

M.DCCCXV.

THE FORTY-SEVENTH

"Oh, the Academy Exhibition!" Eleanor cried. "Colonel, have you seen it? I've always wanted to go. Is it as wonderful as I've always imagined it to be?"

Reid smiled again. "It's remarkable—though, knowing you so little, Miss Howard, I'm unsure whether it would meet your expectations."

"Are there any pieces you particularly like?" she asked. "I overheard Lady Fairchild mentioning a portrait of the Marchioness of Stafford, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence. Have you seen it?"

"Yes. Sir Thomas has several pieces exhibited this year, including portraits of the Bishops of London and Norwich. Do you like portraits, Miss Howard? I hear there's a rather scandalous painting by a young artist by the name of Etty." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "A nude—would you believe it?"

She cast a glance at Monty, her eyes flaring with need. "I-I enjoy looking at some portraits, but I confess to having little interest in viewing a portrait of someone, unless I know or care about them."

"And you care little for bishops or marchionesses?"

"Do you care for them, colonel?"

"Only insofar as they present a challenge for the artist. I can appreciate the effort and natural ability that has gone into producing a painting, even if I wouldn't choose to have it on my wall."

"Was there anything that you would hang on your wall, colonel?" she asked.

He smiled, and Monty caught a flicker of love in his eyes.

"Aye," he said. "I'm fond of paintings of ordinary folk going about their daily business—natural, honest depictions of honest, hardworking people."

"Is there such a painting?" Monty asked.

The colonel glanced at him and widened his eyes, as if he'd forgotten Monty's presence.

"There is. A painting by William Collins, depicting young boys at Cromer."

"What would boys be doing at Cromer?" Monty asked.

"Catching shrimp, I imagine," Eleanor said. "That is—if they're working. Am I right, colonel?"

"You are, Miss Howard," Reid said, smiling. "I find myself ashamed."

"Of what?" she asked.

"Of all the times I came to visit—to take tea with your family. Not once did I speak to you. To think of the conversations we might have enjoyed about art! In fact, I hardly noticed you, perhaps because…"

His voice trailed off, and he glanced across the park to where Juliette was leaning on Dunton's arm, her laughter filtering through the air.

Reid had only been guilty of the same crime as any other man—he'd overlooked the plain elder sister in favor of the beautiful younger one. There was no denying that Juliette Howard was a beautiful creature. But Eleanor's beauty shone from within, because it was ingrained in her heart, and in her soul. Few were privileged enough to glimpse her beauty—and now, it seemed as if Reid had joined their ranks.

"Perhaps some things are best left unsaid," Reid said. "But whatever happened in the past shouldn't preclude me from inviting you to accompany me to the exhibition, Miss Howard. That is, if Whitcombe has no objection. Or"—he turned his gaze to Monty—"he could accompany us, if you prefer."

"Oh." Eleanor blushed and met Monty's gaze. This time tomorrow—as per their agreement—their engagement would be over. But he could leave Eleanor in good hands.

"I'll be otherwise occupied, Reid," Monty said. "But I've no objection to Miss Howard accompanying you. She would testify to my ignorance in relation to the arts—I was even fooled into believing a fake Stubbs was genuine."

"You mean the one that graces Lady Francis's hallway?" Reid laughed. "The horse is out of proportion."

"Isn't it just?" Eleanor giggled. "I wondered whether to tell her, but decided against it."

"You're quite right," Reid said. "A lady would rather be deceived into purchasing a fake painting than be proven wrong by a lady of greater intelligence."

Could the man be any more obvious?

"Do you attempt to flatter me, colonel?" Eleanor asked.

"It's not flattery when I speak the truth, Miss Howard."

Devil's toes!Was she to fall for that ruse? It was what Monty himself had said to her often enough. But his words had come from the heart.

Maybe Reid's words were genuine, too. As Monty cast his gaze over his rival, he couldn't help but notice the sensitivity around the mouth, the kindness in the man's eyes—so totally unlike the hard-edged, rakish expression that glared back at Monty each time he looked in a mirror.

Reid was not the sort of man to break a young woman's heart.

"You simply must see the Collins painting, Miss Howard," Reid said. "Perhaps I might call on you next week? I have no engagements on Monday."

"You seem particularly keen for me to see the painting," she replied. "Is Mr. Collins an acquaintance?"

"Before I enlisted in the army, William and I studied together," Reid said. "We were to enter the Royal Academy, but my father wanted me to distinguish myself in the militia." He let out a sigh. "Father, of course, was right. I have found—and still find—soldiering a worthy occupation. I often wonder how I'd have fared had I pursued my love of art. But I lacked William's talent. I could never dream of having any of my meagre little drawings hanging on the academy's hallowed walls. But what about you, Miss Howard? If you're a painter, you might see one of your works exhibited one day."

"I'm a woman, colonel," she said. "Such opportunities are denied me."

"That's where you're wrong. Here…" Reid flicked through the booklet, then stopped, his finger on the page. "See? Exhibit 111, by Miss Geddes."

She peered at the page. "A study—I wonder what it's a study of?"

"We'll have to see when we visit, won't we? And there are plenty more works by women. Your sex shouldn't prevent you from doing anything you want."

She smiled, her eyes shining with hope.

"Eleanor!" a voice hailed, and her demeanor changed.

"Forgive me, Colonel Reid—my mother's calling," she said. "We're due to take tea with Lady Francis."

"In which case, you have my sympathies," Reid said, offering his hand and giving her a wink.

She took it, and he brought her hand to his lips.

"Until Monday, Miss Howard." Then he lifted his chin at Monty. "Whitcombe."

"Reid."

Monty steered Miss Howard toward the path where her family stood waiting. As he caught sight of her father's stern gaze, then looked over his shoulder at Colonel Reid, who was watching them intently, his concerns for Miss Howard lessened.

Tomorrow she might suffer humiliation, but she would emerge triumphant and, in all likelihood, would end up in better hands than his—as the wife of Colonel Reid.