Chapter Three

Eleanor's lover presented her with a rose. Then warm, strong arms circled her waist and drew her into an embrace. She leaned against his broad chest, relishing the faint heartbeat against her body.

"Eleanor—my darling!"

"Montague…"

"Beautiful creature," he murmured. "So unlike the others."

"Why do you pay court to them?"

"Because it's expected. But when the time comes, I'll declare our love to the world."

She tipped her face upward and met his gaze, relishing the softness that he revealed to no one.

Except her.

A smile curled his lips, then he lowered his head and kissed her mouth.

An unfathomable sensation bloomed in her center—a fluttering inside her stomach, followed by a warmth in her bones.

He lifted his hand and caressed her hair, and she closed her eyes, reveling in his touch.

He kissed her again, and she waited, in his arms, as scenes flashed before her mind—the two of them entwined in passion, declaring their love…

The scene faded. Frost crackled in the air, and his body grew cold and hard, icy contempt replacing the softness in his eyes.

"Just look at you!" His voice, sharp and high-pitched, bore a resemblance to Lady Arabella's nasal tones.

"My love?"

He threw back his head and laughed, his mouth a gaping black hole. "As if I could love you—a creature not fit to be seen!"

He pushed her away, then rose from the bed and strode toward the chamber door. He flung it open to reveal a crowd of onlookers, bedecked in bright silks and twinkling jewels.

"Look at her!"

They laughed at her ungainly form sprawled on the bed. A crowd of women—beautiful women who knew exactly what to say, and to do, women who were never in want of a partner at a ball, who would never face rejection.

"What would he want with someone like you?" A female form stepped forward. Tall, willowy, and exquisitely beautiful.

"Juliette…"

Laughter thickened the air, and giant wings flapped at Eleanor. She raised her hands to fend them off, but invisible chains held them in place. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came.

Then her world shattered in an explosion of light.

"Miss Eleanor!"

The wings retreated, and Eleanor opened her eyes.

She was lying on her bed. But, rather than a mocking crowd, a lone woman stood in the doorway.

"H-Harriet? Is that you?"

"Of course it is, miss." The maid approached the bed and regarded her with soft brown eyes. "Oh, Miss Eleanor, you look terribly pale. Didn't you sleep well?"

"Not really."

"And I've gone and woken you up early! Forgive me—I hadn't meant to disturb you, but it's such a fine day, and I know you like to draw when it's sunny outside. Shall I return in an hour, ready for breakfast?"

"No, thank you, Harriet," Eleanor said. The last thing she wanted was to return to the world she'd just left, where her fears had come to fruition—where he mocked her as much as everyone else.

"I'll fetch you some tea."

"There's no need…" Eleanor began.

"There's every need, miss. A cup of tea, good and hot, will set you right."

Before Eleanor could protest, Harriet exited the bedchamber.

The last thing Eleanor wanted was to be waited on, but Harriet was always so kind, so eager to help, that she hadn't the heart to deny her. And if Mother believed Harriet to be anything less than what a lady's maid ought to be, she'd turn her out.

Harriet knew how to keep garments clean, how to fix Eleanor's hairstyle so it stayed in place for more than ten minutes, and how to keep the bedchamber in the manner that Mother expected it—neat and tidy. Harriet had an innate ability to know where everything needed to be.

In short, Eleanor didn't know how she'd survive the tedious little day-to-day rituals of a young lady of Society without Harriet.

She slipped out of bed and padded across the floor to the window overlooking the garden. Her gaze fell upon a rosebush, the soft pink blooms reminding her of a pair of lips. Then she gave a start, as the full extent of her dream crashed into her consciousness.

Heat warming her face, she retreated, as if she feared he would materialize in the garden to mock her from below.

Montague…

She'd called him Montague.

And he'd called her my darling—before humiliating her in front of everyone.

Perhaps it was best to be invisible. For as much as she yearned for him, she couldn't bear to look at him. Not the real thing—not yet. It pained her to look into anyone's eyes—not the physical pain when she scratched herself on a thorn bush, or stubbed her toe. Mother regularly admonished her for her clumsiness. It was a different pain—an unfathomable agony that burned in her soul, as if she were laid bare before the onlooker, exposing herself to ridicule and rejection. Or hanging from a precipice, doomed to fall.

Ridicule was something she weathered and had accustomed herself to. But rejection…

Rejection was something she could never survive.

At least while she admired him from a distance—from the safety of obscurity—she was spared the pain of admitting that, to him, she was nothing.

And she was spared the pain of the rest of the world knowing of her childish infatuation for a man who didn't even know she existed.

By the time Harriet returned with the tea, Eleanor had managed to don her undergarments without tearing anything, and was holding up her gown to the light.

"Here, let me." Harriet placed the teacup on the dressing table and plucked the gown from Eleanor's hands. Eleanor raised her arms while Harriet slipped the gown over her head. Then she stood, like an obedient child, while her maid fastened the ties, adjusted her lace tuck, and smoothed the dress into place, her soft, delicate hands caressing the fabric. Then she led Eleanor to the dressing table, sat her down, and proceeded to brush her hair.

Eleanor closed her eyes and let her body relax. This was her favorite part of the day, when the house was quiet, save for the distant sounds of activity as the servants set about their tasks, and she could relish Harriet's tender care—the smooth, repetitive motion of the brush running through her hair at just the right amount of pressure, unraveling the tangles that always seemed to amass overnight.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder, and she opened her eyes to see Harriet's warm, kind ones looking at her in the mirror.

"Drink your tea before it gets cold, miss. I made it how you like it."

Obediently, Eleanor lifted the teacup and inhaled the aroma of cinnamon and honey. "Cook didn't see you with this, did she?"

"No, miss. I was careful not to get caught."

According to Mother, young ladies were only supposed to take milk or lemon with their tea, and Eleanor's eccentricities in taste reduced her already limited prospects for making a successful match.

As if a man would take heed of how a woman took her tea!

But perhaps they did—yet another custom everybody but her seemed to understand. Eleanor took milk with her tea in Mother's presence to avoid disapproval, but the taste and sensation—the way the liquid coated her throat—always brought about such nausea that she had to fight not to expel it. On one occasion, while taking tea with Mother at Countess Fairchild's, Eleanor had, under the pretense of admiring their hostess's aspidistra in the orangery, tipped her tea into a plant pot.

Houseplants were obliging in that respect. If only she'd been born a houseplant, she could sit quietly in a corner, accompanied only by her thoughts, with no expectations to mingle, make friends, or make herself look presentable to attract a suitor.

She let out a small sigh.

"Are you well, miss?"

Eleanor glanced at her maid's reflection. "I was wishing I were a houseplant, Harriet."

Rather than returning the ridicule or disapproval she'd earn from her family—even Papa, if he were in Mother's presence—Harriet merely smiled. "Is that because they aren't required to attend parties?"

Eleanor nodded.

"What about the poor plants that reside in a ballroom?" Harriet asked. "They're forced to endure a party. And, unlike you, they lack the means to leave the room."

"Then I wish I were a houseplant with legs."

Harriet let out a laugh. "How would you carry the pot with you, if you were to leave the room?"

"I'd find a way—anything to avoid a party."

"You didn't enjoy the ball last night?"

"No," Eleanor said. "But, nevertheless, I'll be required to relive the experience over the next few days while Mother and Juliette talk about how successful it was. Did you know Colonel Reid danced with Juliette twice? He asked a third time, but Mother forbade it."

The maid shook her head. "Poor colonel. He can't have appreciated the rejection."

"Poor colonel, indeed," Eleanor said. "Juliette has no intention of marrying him. She's set her sights above the younger son of an earl. But he thinks she's the most delightful creature in the world—I overheard him say as much."

Harriet finished brushing Eleanor's hair, then styled it into a plain chignon. "Did you dance last night, miss?"

Heat bloomed in Eleanor's cheeks, and understanding shone in her maid's eyes.

"Mother was furious," Eleanor said. "But what was I supposed to do—ask them to dance?"

She winced at the memory of the carriage ride home last night, when Mother told Papa how much of a burden Eleanor was, while Juliette looked on.

"There's plenty of other parties where you'll find partners, miss."

"No man would look twice at me when Juliette's around," Eleanor said. "Not that I'd want the attention of the whole room. But…"

She hesitated, unwilling to divulge her obsession—for obsession it was. Instead, she picked up her teacup and took a sip.

"Did someone catch your eye?" Harriet asked. "I'm sure there'd be some disposed to pay you attention."

Perhaps—buthe wouldn't.

"Who's he?"

Oh, heavens!She'd spoken that aloud.

"Nobody of consequence," Eleanor said. "At least, I'm of no consequence to him."

"Then that's his loss, miss. What man wants a vain wife who'll plague him morning, noon, and night?"

Harriet lowered her voice, and a wicked gleam shone in her eyes. "What man could withstand your sister's temper?" Then she blushed. "Forgive me—I meant no disrespect."

"But you're right," Eleanor said. "Papa always says that if you want to look at a woman's true nature, you only need observe how she treats her servants—and her husband—behind closed doors. But from what I've seen, Lady Arabella is the worst culprit. She's reduced many young women to tears with her put-downs, not to mention how she treats the servants."

"The orphaned heiress?"

"How do you know that?"

"Gossip travels below stairs as well," Harriet said. "We know more about the upstairs folk than they do. Your friend Lady Marlow's maid once said Lady Arabella was taking advantage of everyone's sympathy over her orphaned state, to behave like a harpy."

Eleanor smiled at the mention of her friend. Dear Lavinia was returning from her honeymoon tomorrow. Which meant there'd soon be one person in London who didn't look down on her.

"Now," Harriet said crisply. "What will you do today? Some sketching before breakfast? Lady Howard won't be up for an hour, at least, so you'll not be disturbed."

"I could draw you again," Eleanor said.

"Don't bother yourself with the likes of me, miss. You've already drawn a beautiful likeness—I don't need another."

"I didn't get the shape of your nose right."

"It's the best likeness I'm ever likely to be given," Harriet said. "It's like looking in the mirror."

"Not quite," Eleanor said. "Your reflection isn't how you really look."

"Don't we see ourselves in the mirror?"

"Yes, but the other way around. The left side of your face isn't identical to the right. So when you look in the mirror, you don't see your true self." Eleanor gestured toward the mirror. "See the mole above your mouth? It's on the right side of your face. But the person you look at in the mirror—it's on her left."

Harriet lifted her hand to her lips. "Can you tell the difference?"

"Not at first," Eleanor said. "I have to study a face a few times. But once I've committed it to memory, it's like the face lives in my mind. Even if I close my eyes, I can see it. I-I can't explain it."

"It's a gift."

"Or a curse. Mother believes there's something wrong with me. Perhaps she's right."

"Now, don't go saying bad things about yourself, miss. You're just gifted—and you don't rattle on like other folk. That's what Mrs. Minks says."

Heavens—it was worse than Eleanor had imagined. So the housekeeper gossiped about her as well?

Soft in the head. That was what she'd overheard Mother say after her disastrous first Season. Papa had defended her—but only after Mother's soliloquy cataloguing all Eleanor's faults had culminated in a suggestion she be sent to an asylum, where she could no longer taint the family name and threaten Juliette's chances of success.

A gentle hand touched Eleanor's shoulder.

"Is anything the matter, miss?" Harriet asked. "I didn't mean to upset you. Mrs. Minks is fond of you—she told me so. She's seen your sketches."

Panic swelled in Eleanor's body. Sweet Lord. Had she seen…him?

"S-sketches?"

"She saw the sketches for your portrait of Miss Juliette. Ever so good, despite what the mistress thinks—that's what I overheard her saying to Mr. Minks." The maid colored. "You won't tell, will you? I'd get a thrashing if they knew I'd eavesdropped. But I couldn't help it, given how kind they were toward you."

"Of course I won't tell," Eleanor said. "You keep my oddities from the rest of the world. I'm sure if Mother knew half the things I told you, she'd send me away. She despairs of me quite enough, given my poor marriage prospects."

"Then she's mistaken, begging your pardon," the maid said. "You don't need a husband. You could earn a living with your portraits, as good as any man's." Then she shivered. "Forgive me, miss—I do rattle on! Mrs. Minks often chides me for notions that have no place in the world."

"What—notions that a woman can be valued in the world as much as any man?" Eleanor laughed. "Outrageous, indeed! And while it may be a disgustingly modern sensibility, I'd much rather earn a living doing something I love than being beholden to a man. Sadly, it's not what Mother or Papa want for me."

Which was only partly true. Papa would, most likely, support Eleanor's wish to earn her living as a painter if it were up to him. But he had little say on the matter. While it was true as a rule that a wife was subservient to her husband, Mother was the exception. She couldn't help it—she was a product of the Society in which she'd been raised, and of her own mother's expectations. And a woman in Society was expected only to do one thing.

Find a husband.

Eleanor rose and exited her bedchamber. Then she made her way to the small attic room at the back of the house where she kept her paints—a room she treasured, for it gave her respite from the world and its expectations.

Once inside, she slipped on the apron hanging on the back of the door, and approached the desk where her materials were arranged in a specific order—paintbrushes according to size, lumps of charcoal in order of texture, and a basket containing tubes of paint that Papa had procured from one of his business associates, in exchange for several bolts of silk. She sat at the desk and retrieved a key concealed underneath a jar containing dried grasses. Then she unlocked the top drawer and pulled out her sketchbook.

Her heart pulsed faintly against her chest as she placed the sketchbook on the desk and ran her hands across the smooth surface.

Hewas inside.

She opened the book and flicked through the pages. The earlier sketches lacked depth—as a child, she'd attempted to draw a subject literally. But the later sketches, when her pencil strokes had grown in boldness, began to convey the essence of the subject when her old governess had once made a throwaway remark about needing to see—really see—the subject before being able to capture that subject on the page.

Had Miss James realized that her casual remark affected Eleanor in the manner of a stone dropped into the center of a lake, sending ripples across the surface that magnified and reflected off each other until the entire lake boiled with life? From that moment, Eleanor had set about watching each subject she painted, committing every detail to memory until she only need glance at a person to imprint them on her mind.

She flicked through the pages, pausing at her favored sketches—a pencil drawing of dearest Lavinia, a series of charcoal studies of tree stumps—until, her heart racing, she reached the page she sought.

There you are.

The subject stared out from hooded eyes beneath strong, dark brows set in a frown—a face framed by thick waves of hair, with sharp cheekbones and a firm, square jaw. His throat was straight and strong, the tendons casting a shadow across the skin, leading toward a silk cravat, tied in a perfect knot, framed by a stiff collar.

He conveyed a savage strength, yet there was a softness around the mouth—full, rounded lips, slightly parted, as if about to declare something magnificent. Or perhaps he was on the brink of claiming his mate and kissing her into oblivion.

She traced the outline of his lips, taking care not to smudge the charcoal marks. What might it be like—to feel those lips against her skin?

Dare she meet his gaze?

Swallowing her apprehension, Eleanor let her gaze follow the contours of his face, until she reached the lines she'd drawn depicting the lower lashes. Then she looked into his eyes.

Though he was a mere drawing, the familiar fear rose within her—as if she bared her soul.

You cannot harm me—you're only a drawing.

Footsteps approached. Heat warming her cheeks, Eleanor closed the sketchbook and slipped it into the drawer. The door knocked and her father entered.

"Up early again, Ellie," he said. "Are you visiting the park today? Your mother and sister will want to take their usual walk to meet friends and discuss last night's party."

"I'd rather not, Papa."

He placed a hand on her arm. "I'd like it if you joined us."

"Us?"

"I thought, today, I'd indulge in the life of an idle gentleman, given that it's such a fine day. You'd be company for me if you came. You can show me the trees you've been sketching in the park."

Eleanor's breath caught, and she met his gaze. Did he know of her illicit dawn visits to the park, to indulge in the scenery unhindered by other people?

His eyes crinkled with a smile.

"Papa—do you mind that I didn't dance last night?"

"No, my precious child," he said. "You're not suited to the life of a debutante. But you needn't worry—we have Juliette for that. She can bear the burden of a brilliant match. You can concentrate on being happy."

"And if I don't make a brilliant match—or any match?"

"Then we'll blame the world of young men," he said. "Truth be told—I never expected you to find a suitable match."

Tears pricked her eyes, and she looked away.

"You don't ask why," he said.

"Is it because I'm inferior to other women? Or because I'm a…" She broke off, unable to say it.

Burden.

Oddity.

"No, my Eleanor," he said quietly. "You could never be a burden. You see the world with different eyes to the rest of us." He placed a fatherly kiss on the top of her head. "The reason I never expected you to find a match is that I doubt a young man exists in the world who could ever come close to deserving you."

At that moment, a metallic clang echoed downstairs, repeating six times, each louder than the last.

Papa offered his arm. "Charles is exhibiting his usual enthusiasm for the breakfast gong. Shall we? I swear I could smell kedgeree earlier."

Eleanor took his arm, and they exited the box room, making their way toward the breakfast room.

Perhaps there did exist a man out there who would value her as she was, and strive to make her happy. After all, Papa was such a man.

But her rational mind told her that such a man would be the very opposite of the one she craved.