Chapter Nine

"You'll be all right," Eleanor's father whispered. "The duchess is a kind woman." Then he followed the men out, leaving her alone with the women.

"Well, ladies," their hostess said, "shall we retire to the drawing room while the men congratulate themselves on their prowess?"

Polite titters threaded through the company—the other ladies wishing to ingratiate themselves with the duchess, but only thinly disguising their disapproval. Clearly it wasn't done to say anything critical of the opposite sex. Across the table, Lady Arabella Ponsford smiled, but her eyes remained cold and hard, discontent in their expression. What that unpleasant harpy had to be so dissatisfied with, Eleanor couldn't fathom. Independently wealthy, titled, and with the statuesque figure that elicited the admiration of all who saw her, Lady Arabella was like Juliette in that she always seemed to know where to go and what to say to fit into the world and elicit praise from everyone in it.

And she'd been sat next to him at dinner.

But, rather than appreciate her good fortune, she'd complained her way through the entire meal, wrinkling her pretty little nose while she tasted the soup.

The soup…

A bubble of mirth threatened to burst at what Whitcombe had said. Most likely the footman hadn't relieved himself in Lady Arabella's soup, but wouldn't it have been wonderful if he had?

And—oh my—Whitcombe had heard her laugh, and looked at her. Was he disgusted that she'd understood his meaning? Or perhaps he considered her unladylike laugh unfit for Polite Society.

Their hostess stood, and the ladies followed suit. Eleanor winced as her chair scraped along the floorboards, and Mother shot her a look of irritation. But the duchess appeared not to notice. Lady Arabella approached Juliette, and the two exited arm in arm.

Eleanor folded her napkin, placed it on the table, then approached the door where her hostess stood, waiting.

"Shall we, Miss Howard?" The duchess smiled and offered her arm.

Eleanor nodded her thanks and took it.

"Your sister seems good friends with Lady Arabella," the duchess said as they entered the drawing room, where footmen were already serving coffee to the ladies.

"Y-yes," Eleanor replied. "I believe they're best friends."

"And you?"

Eleanor shook her head. "I have no friends. At least, none here tonight."

"A situation I must remedy."

"Oh no!" Eleanor cried. Then she winced at her outburst as several pairs of eyes fixed their gazes on her. "I-I mean—Forgive me—I've no wish to…"

Her voice trailed away. Propriety dictated that she not complete her sentence.

I've no wish to pursue a friendship with anyone here.

The duchess arched an eyebrow, then glanced about the room. Her gaze fell on Juliette and Arabella whispering together in a corner. Then she nodded.

"Of course, my dear. To consider someone a friend, one must have something in common with them. Next time I include your family in an invitation, I'll make sure your particular friend—Miss de Grande, I believe?—is able to come. Or Lady Marlow, as she is now. My husband is well acquainted with Lord Marlow."

The duchess paused, as if anticipating a reply. But Eleanor couldn't think of anything to say, other than "oh."

The duchess smiled. "Quite so," she said. "I was merely making conversation. A rather odd phrase, isn't it—making conversation—when all one does is utter inane remarks with nothing of any real import to say? I find such a habit tiresome, do you not?"

"Oh, yes," Eleanor said. "I've always failed to understand the necessity of making a bland speech about the weather, who knows whom, who's a member of which ladies' club, or whether private parties are to be preferred over a public ball. Why say anything at all if there's nothing to say?"

The duchess laughed, then led Eleanor toward the coffee table. "Have some coffee." She nodded to a footman, who filled a cup and handed it to Eleanor.

"Thank you," Eleanor said. The footman smiled and gave a stiff bow.

"And…a piece of marzipan?" the duchess asked, gesturing toward the bright array of sweets.

"I don't know…" Eleanor glanced toward her mother, who only that evening had warned her about the damage sweet things could do to her figure.

"Just one won't do any harm," the duchess whispered. "Almonds are known to have restorative properties. I have it on good authority that marzipan does more good than harm. Please, I insist."

"Very well." Eleanor plucked a piece from the display. The surrounding pieces shifted, and one slipped from the arrangement and landed on the floor.

"Oh, forgive me!" she cried. The duchess raised her hand.

"There's naught to forgive, Miss Howard. I know of one member of my family who'll thank you for your consideration." She crouched down, picked up the piece, and brushed it with her fingers. Then she handed it to the footman. "Would you have this sent to Gargantuan, please, James, with Miss Howard's compliments?"

"Very good, Your Grace." The footman bowed, took the marzipan piece, and exited the room.

"Gargantuan?" Eleanor asked.

"My pug. He was the runt of the litter, so I deemed his name something of a consolation, and, as it transpired, it's an appropriate name, given his appetite."

"I love pugs," Eleanor said, "though I've not been permitted…"

She stopped herself mid-sentence. How many times had Mother told her not to speak of family matters in public?

The duchess appeared not to notice her faux pas. She placed a hand on Eleanor's arm and smiled. "A pity," she said. "My instinct tells me you'd be an ideal mistress for a pug."

Footsteps approached, and Eleanor heard a familiar voice.

"Oh, poor thing! Such a misfortune for you, always having these little mishaps."

Juliette stood before her, a consolatory smile on her lips. She turned to her companion. "I was just telling Arabella how you spilled an entire bowl of soup the other week—wasn't I, Arabella?"

"You were," Arabella said. "Most unfortunate for you—and your family."

"You can rest assured, Duchess," Juliette told their hostess, "that I've pledged to help Eleanor in any way that I can. That's a loving sister's duty, is it not?"

"Your sister needs no help, I can assure you," the duchess said, an undercurrent of ice in her voice. "She's delightful as she is."

Before Juliette could respond, the door opened, bringing with it the odor of brandy and cigar smoke and the murmur of male voices.

"Ah!" the duchess cried. "The gentlemen have decided to grace us with their presence."

Eleanor glanced toward the door, her heart rate increasing with a mixture of dread and excitement at the prospect of seeing…him. She took an involuntary step backward, and collided with a body.

"Ouch! You trod on my toe!"

Eleanor turned to see her sister's face contorted with anger, before it smoothed into a smile once more.

"Poor Eleanor! What shall we do with you?"

"It's not my fault if you're in my way, Juliette."

"There's no need for incivility. You should have been looking where you were going, not staring at the men."

Eleanor's cheeks warmed with shame. "Keep your voice down!"

"Don't tell me you've set your cap at someone?" Juliette laughed. "I wonder who? Arabella—what do you think?"

"Perhaps it's Mr. Drayton," Arabella said. "You sat next to him at dinner. He'd do for you. Did you enjoy his company at dinner, despite his being the duke's…natural son?"

What did she mean by a natural son? Was it another term for firstborn, perhaps?

Eleanor returned the smile. "I enjoyed Mr. Drayton's company, yes."

"And, of course," Arabella said, "you're in no position to have any qualms about which side of the blanket he was born."

"Blanket?" Eleanor asked. "What do you mean, which side of the blanket?"

"Ahem."

Eleanor glanced up to see their host, the Duke of Westbury, staring directly at her, cold fury in his eyes. He took a step toward her, and her stomach tightened with fear. Then the duchess placed a hand on his arm. He shifted his gaze to his wife, and his expression softened. Seizing her opportunity, Eleanor fled across the drawing room and slipped through the doors out onto the terrace, willing the darkness outside to swallow her whole.

What the devil had she said—or done—to anger their host?

Why, despite her best efforts, and her promises to Mother, did she always end up making such a fool of herself?