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Eleanor donned her pelisse and grabbed her reticule without any thought, as if a puppeteer controlled her. She followed Portia out to the carriage in the same way. Two words and one image crowded her brain, allowing room for nothing else.
Octavius smiled.
And the image—his bitter face transformed! He’d looked years younger and...more, well, human than she’d ever seen him. All this after that huge row with his sister, on a night when they had to parade their charade of a marriage before the ton. Octavius had smiled. Because Eleanor teased him. The tiniest ball of warmth sprouted in her belly and spread throughout her body.
The carriage hit a dip and Portia crashed into her. The girl mumbled an apology and then resumed her silent survey of the passing city. Eleanor said nothing.
Octavius was watching her. Watching as Henry sometimes observed frogs at the pond—with trepidation, unsure of the creature’s next hop. Her husband’s scrutiny threatened to push that budding warmth in her stomach all the way up to her cheeks, so Eleanor strove to slow her heartbeat and maintain her equanimity.
It was difficult. Besides the smile, he’d complimented her. She wasn’t the silly young girl she’d once been, eager to collect any scrap of flattery she could, but still... Who didn’t like to hear nice comments sincerely offered? She drew in a further steadying breath then made the mistake of glancing across the carriage again. Octavius filled a large portion of the bench, his grey-clad thighs stretched wide. Those brown eyes, which had lost a fraction of their hardness over the last few days, were still upon her.
Dear Lord. Even at his harshest, she’d always stupidly hungered for her husband. Now? Now that he sat there looking... unmonster-like? Now that there was a speck of heat in those eyes...? She had to get away from him. He was too changeable to trust.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Grillion’s Hotel. The Robsons would join them soon, and they would all travel together.
Portia huffed out a burdened sigh. When Octavius stiffened and turned a gimlet eye on her, Eleanor’s plan increased: She had to get herself away from Octavius and split up the siblings. Or at least reconcile them.
Octavius cared for Portia, at least a little bit. She had glimpsed it earlier, when he’d insisted Semple wasn’t good enough. He simply didn’t know how to relate to his sister, how to show her what he felt. And while mediating between the two should feel like a burden, Eleanor didn’t mind the role. The siblings were both so alone, so isolated from the world. If she could bring them closer together, her time here in London wasn’t completely squandered.
The Robsons clambered in, and whereas the carriage had suffered a close, heavy silence for the first half of the journey, the second half knew no silence at all. Justine was as excited as Portia should be, while Mr. Robson turned Octavius into a prattle-box by asking a question about the arsenal. This unexpected animation—another sign of her husband’s humanness—left Eleanor a bit breathless, and out of necessity she turned back to the ladies in time to hear Portia at last respond to Justine’s enthusiasm.
Tonight could be fun, Eleanor allowed. She had the camaraderie of Justine and the chance to introduce Portia to the delights of Society. Her breath came easier.
Then Octavius secured her hand and helped her down from the carriage. His grip was strong, and as her slippers hit the pavement, he pulled her close.
“Will you allow me to escort you in to supper later?”
Goodness, with those lowered eyelids and husky voice, he sounded as if he were issuing an invitation to his bed. She didn’t know how to respond. Over the last few days, she never knew which Octavius was going to surface: the ogre or the almost-human.
The brazen woman hiding within her wanted to lean into his ear and whisper, Of course, darling! Possibly even give that ear a nip before withdrawing. Her rational self wanted to rip her hand away and say scornfully, You needn’t bother. I’m certain I can find someone else.
In the end, she decided to simply keep him equally off balance. She smiled, squeezed his hand and replied, “As you wish.”
She hooked her arm around Portia’s, and the two climbed the steps to the townhouse. Their hostess, Mrs. Ardmore, expressed delighted surprise at receiving the “elusive” Earl of Lexden. Everyone behaved perfectly through the introductions, though Octavius’s eye twitched when Mrs. Ardmore addressed Eleanor as Lady Lexden. For the sake of not marring her own enjoyment of the evening, Eleanor chose to ignore it.
The soiree was spread out over four rooms, much how Justine had suggested Eleanor arrange her ball. One room held tables for cards, another was laid out for supper, the third had all the furniture removed to allow for dancing, and the fourth simply held a crush of people talking, gesticulating, and laughing.
Eleanor’s party gathered near the threshold of the dancing room. Perfect for her purpose. She widened her eyes at the sight of twirling ladies and gallant gentlemen, and said, “Oh, I can’t wait to dance!”
The look of horror on her husband’s face almost made her laugh out loud. Just as she’d thought, he had no love of that amusement. In the quiet first months of their marriage, they’d not danced even once together. At the time, her romantic twenty-year-old self had been devastated by the omission, though she made up for it by dancing with others. Now, she was almost afraid he would change his mind.
“Me too,” said Portia, more animated than before. That, too, was perfect. Dancing with other gentlemen would take her mind off Mr. Semple.
“However,” Eleanor with the tiniest hint of wistfulness in her voice, “we should do our social duty and circulate first.” She blinked up at Octavius. “Perhaps you and Mr. Robson should see what the card room has to offer before you are obliged to enslave yourselves to our every dancing desire?”
“Excellent idea.” He clutched at the suggestion like a lifeline.
Mr. Robson lifted an eyebrow in his wife’s direction, and Justine smiled teasingly. “Have fun with your cards, but don’t blame us if, in your absence, we are swept off our feet by dashing lords.”
Her husband winked and turned to leave. Octavius simply gave a stiff nod.
After they were gone, Eleanor dragged in a refreshing breath. “Well, ladies, I’m not certain I’m acquainted with anyone here, but let’s plunge in and see what happens.”
The three women linked arms and set off on a stroll around a room where everyone seemed to know each other. Even before her hasty marriage and subsequent six-year absence, Eleanor hadn’t exactly moved in the upper echelons of the ton. Her family had been too poor and insignificant to merit invitations such as this, so she wasn’t quite as confident as her words might sound, but, flanked by Portia and Justine, she wasn’t as intimidated as she thought she’d be, either.
They made a tour of the room and then settled in the corner nearest the open entrance to the dancing room. Eleanor and Justine turned a keen eye on their surroundings and began to plan more details of their own affair. Nearby, the crowd shifted and moved, voices rose and fell. No one approached.
After ten minutes, Portia’s expression turned mulish. “This isn’t—”
At that moment, Mrs. Ardmore bore down on them with a resoundingly beautiful woman by her side. When she’d greeted them earlier, Mrs. Ardmore had shown only the barest of politeness to Eleanor, who was a countess, but a countess of very little consequence. Her smile was almost brittle now.
“Ladies, I do hope you are enjoying yourselves.” She turned to the small blonde beside her. “Duchess, may I present Lady Lexden, Lady Portia Mayne, and...” She stared at Justine, concentrating. “Mrs. Robson. Indeed yes.”
Eleanor sank into a deep curtsy. Thank goodness Portia and Justine followed suit. A duchess! How...mystifying.
Mrs. Ardmore nodded and continued, “Ladies, the Duchess of Burnham.”
Oh. Eleanor shriveled inside. Right now, rather than meet this woman, she would prefer to be clad, in front of all these people, in shift and stays. Anything would be better than standing before the Duchess of Burnham in one of that lady’s very own castoffs.
Justine, bless her, spoke over Eleanor’s mortified silence. “What a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”
Eleanor nearly bit her tongue stifling a groan. The American woman meant well, of course, but the correct address was Your Grace. Poor duchess, surrounded by people clearly lacking in sophistication.
Mrs. Ardmore was frowning her disapproval and no doubt wishing she hadn’t included the Earl of Lexden on her guest list when the duchess said, “And you, Mrs. Robson? Are you enjoying the delights of this wonderful soiree?” She was smiling, showing achingly straight white teeth and a graciousness that made Eleanor’s heart skip a beat.
The two of them were of a height and obviously had similar figures if they could wear the same dress, but there the comparison ended. The duchess’s golden hair was exquisitely arranged in a froth of curls and plaits with tiny crystals woven throughout. Blue eyes shone merrily from a perfectly symmetrical face of flawless pale skin, and pert, bowed lips completed the pretty package. And her dress! Goodness, but it was gorgeous. Ice-blue lutestring shimmered in the candlelight, while a string of glass crystals sewn around the empire waist winked whenever the duchess moved the slightest bit. Eleanor felt cheap and secondhand. Just like the dress she wore.
Justine was explaining how she’d recently arrived from America, and the duchess appeared to be listening. Someone sashayed by and reached out for the arm of Mrs. Ardmore, who left their small group with an unapologetic, “Do excuse me.”
Her Grace and Justine chuckled over something. Eleanor should’ve join the conversation, but she knew nothing about the Duchess of Burnham other than she’d cast off the gown Eleanor now wore.
“Eleanor.” Justine squeezed her arm. “The duchess knows the perfect shop from which to order pastries for the ball.”
Eleanor found her tongue. “How kind of you to make a recommendation.”
“I can do even better.” The duchess waggled her eyebrows in a manner so inconsistent with her elegant appearance, Eleanor had to swipe her fingers over her mouth to cover a giggle. “Come to the garden party I’m hosting the day after tomorrow. You can taste the pastries and see for yourself how good they are.”
“Oh, th-thank you.” Eleanor smiled, though she wasn’t certain how much feeling to put into the expression. The duchess seemed gracious, but Eleanor was all too conscious of their shared apparel. Was the woman just waiting for the right moment to make a disparaging comment?
“Lady Portia, the invitation includes you as well. I know how bored you young ladies can get with us matrons, but I promise this garden party will be overflowing with my nieces and all the eligible young gentlemen they can think to invite.”
A spark of excitement flared in Portia’s eyes. Just as quickly it was gone, stamped out by her willfulness. She inclined her head more regally than Eleanor could have imagined and said, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Justine threw open her fan and waved it so energetically that Eleanor’s hair fluttered. “It’s very close in here. Portia, would you come with me to the refreshments table? I would love a lemonade.”
“I’d prefer ratafia.” The girl seemed set to leave it at that until Eleanor pursed her lips. Then she added, “I’m sure we’ll find both—and perhaps a cheesecake or two.”
“Your Grace? Eleanor?” Justine had cleverly discerned the correct address for the duchess through their conversation.
The duchess asked for lemonade, and Eleanor requested the same. And then they were alone. Which terrified her.
The notes of a rousing reel floated in from the next room, while guests around them chattered as if they were longtime friends. Which undoubtedly they were. A second later, Her Grace leaned in.
“That gown looks a thousand times better on you than it did on me. It is such a beautiful garment. I felt guilty refusing it. You don’t know how happy I am to see you wearing it this evening. It is so much better suited to your coloring.”
Eleanor would have been less astonished if the lady spoke of a ducal estate on the moon.
Her nerves fluttered one last time then settled down. The duchess was just a woman, after all. A gracious and friendly woman much like herself. Yes, a lot like herself. Eleanor was a countess, she reminded herself. That detail was so easy to forget, especially when her husband nearly choked every time she was called addressed by her title.
“I am so sorry.” The duchess took a step back on a dainty, crystal-encrusted slipper. “I’m blathering on and saying all manner of inappropriate things.” Her fingers wisped across Eleanor’s wrist. “Do forgive me. I just... I don’t know anyone here, and when I saw you in that dress I thought ‘I’ll have something to talk to her about.’ But of course I shouldn’t have—”
“Duchess, please.” Eleanor took her hand and squeezed. “You’ve been nothing but warm-hearted and kind.” Goodness, she had more in common with this duchess than she ever would have thought. “I, too, am a stranger to most here. I couldn’t be happier to make your acquaintance.”
They stood grinning at each in the silliest way until Eleanor couldn’t hold back an outright laugh. A few people turned to look, but she didn’t care. “I do believe we’ve just started a Mutual Admiration Society.”
The duchess giggled. “I don’t know about you, but I am sorely in need of such a membership.”
You don’t know the half of it.
After a pause, Eleanor decided she could be at least partially honest with her new friend. “I’ve lived in Essex these last six years, so I am unknown to most of London society. Coming here tonight was at least a trifle less terrifying since I was accompanied by my sister-in-law and Mrs. Robson.”
“You are indeed lucky.” The duchess lowered her voice. “If you haven’t heard already, and you surely will, I’m a bit of...a bit of a scandal.”
“Oh, Duchess, that can’t be true.” She was such a beauty wrapped in a good-natured personality. What could this woman have possibly done? Eleanor didn’t want to believe anything negative about someone who had been so nice to her.
Someone jostled the other woman, but Eleanor didn’t think that was the source of her grimace.
“Please, may I ask that you not call me Duchess? You see, I’m not supposed to be the Duchess of Burnham. And everyone knows it. They practically sneer when they say the word. Call me Alice, if you will.”
“Of course, but—”
Luckily Eleanor was spared having to finish that sentence by the return of Justine and Portia, the former handing over two glasses of lemonade. “Here we are! We didn’t have enough hands to bring back any tidbits, but Portia and I can attest that the cheesecakes are divine.” To this Portia nodded agreeably enough. “And there are strawberries, Eleanor. I highly recommend a trip to the refreshments table. More specifically, get there before I go back.”
Eleanor laughed, glad to hear Justine was having a good time. Now that she’d met Alice, she was glad to be here, too.
“No. It can’t be.” A jocular masculine voice sliced through their feminine gaiety. “The prodigal countess has returned? The Lord hath shone His light on me today.”
“Mr. Drummond!” Eleanor’s smile stretched even farther. Another friend. Her only friend from the past, in fact. This was a good day. “How wonderful to see you.”
The man bowed before them all, barely making a crease in his exquisite black evening kit. William Drummond had always been an up-to-the-minute dresser, but more importantly he was a merry wag and had befriended Eleanor from her earliest days as a countess. When no one else would deign talk to her, Mr. Drummond was there. She’d taken to seeking him out first at every event she attended and had been thrilled by the attention he paid her.
He took her hand and kissed the back of her glove. “Please, you must introduce me to this bevy of beauties surrounding you.”
Yes, he was an outrageous flirt too. But it was all in good fun.
Eleanor waved to each of the ladies in turn. “Her grace, the Duchess of Burnham, my husband’s sister, Lady Portia Mayne, and Mrs. Robson, recently arrived from America. May I present Mr. William Drummond?”
He greeted each of them charmingly, not even hinting that he knew anything salacious about Alice. He had met Mr. Robson the other day at Octavius’s arsenal, he claimed, and his praise of the older man had Justine smiling.
“We’ve missed you, Lady Lexden,” Drummond said, turning, his blue eyes warm and friendly.
Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “You and who else? The king’s least favorite spaniel?”
He gave a laugh, and the five of them settled into a conversation about the poor king and his ill health, a subject upon which even Portia made a remark or two. Eleanor hadn’t missed that her sister-in-law brightened considerably when the handsome Mr. Drummond entered their circle. She wished she could somehow encourage the man to ask her to dance, but no such idea came to mind that wasn’t forward or rude.
Then, it was almost as if he read her mind. He tipped his head to the side and said, “Mrs. Ardmore seems to have employed a fine orchestra. Lady Lexden, surely you will not keep this young lady from dancing?”
“Never.” Triumph surged through Eleanor’s veins as Portia blushed prettily and her eyes shaded from sulky midnight to carefree cerulean. “But I will not do your work for you, Mr. Drummond. Half the pleasure of dancing is in being asked.”
The man winked at her and then turned to Portia. “Will you do me the honor, my lady?” Dropping his voice to a whisper, albeit one they could all hear, he added, “I know I am not worthy, but please do not allow me to be disgraced in front of these distinguished ladies.”
Portia tried to hold back a giggle and just managed. She swallowed before saying, “I will gladly dance with you, sir.”
She slipped her gloved hand into the crook of Drummond’s arm, and off they went to the next room.
Justine shook her head. “That one is a bit too much.”
He was. But Eleanor had learned that when the rest of polite society—and your own husband—couldn’t spare you a glance, let alone a word, having someone like William Drummond around was a godsend. “He’s harmless. Portia won’t be able to do anything but have a fine time with him.”
“Oh, look.” Justine’s eyes shone just as brightly as Portia’s. “There are the gentlemen now. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to dance too.”
Alice peered over at the men. “That’s your husband?”
Much as Eleanor would like to deny the connection... “Yes, that’s Lord Lexden. Do you know him?” Oh God, what if the duchess was his mistress? Was that possible? Of course it was. He hadn’t lain with Eleanor in six years; he probably had a score of mistresses littered throughout the ton.
“No, but I’ve heard... I’m just surprised...”
Alice couldn’t seem to finish a sentence. Her dithering made Eleanor suspicious, but she did not want to feel that way. She liked Alice.
While Octavius spoke to a portly gentleman, Mr. Robson arrived to claim his wife for a dance. Eleanor glanced at her husband to be certain he was still distracted, and she saw his tête-à-tête with the other man was surprisingly animated. They must be discussing rifles.
She decided to be direct. She’d rather lose Alice’s friendship now than after they’d solidified it. “Do you know my husband?”
Alice blinked but didn’t hesitate to answer. “No, as I’ve said. I just—”
Eleanor softened her tone. “If there is gossip about my husband, I would prefer to be prepared for it. Please, tell me the truth.”
The duchess shifted her gaze to Octavius then turned back. “I do owe you that much. I’ve...I’ve heard your husband referred to as ‘The Monk.’ I was astonished to see him here and see that he’s... Oh, this is most untoward of me. I was surprised he’s a normal-looking, handsome man.”
There were so many things clearly left unsaid, Eleanor’s head spun. Surely the ton called her husband The Monk in jest because of his sexual appetite, not because of any perceived celibacy, the same way large men were sometimes called Tiny as a nickname. And what was Alice really thinking? That Eleanor should be ashamed for living apart from Octavius?
A frown tugged down Alice’s pretty features, while guilt yanked on Eleanor’s conscience. She shouldn’t have such horrible thoughts about the duchess. She was normally more charitable.
Drawing in a breath she said, “Thank you for your candor. I apologize for bullying it out of you.”
“You did no such thing.” The duchess smiled sweetly. “I had best find the duke. He doesn’t like me to be out of sight for too long.”
Now there was another mysterious statement.
“Alice—”
The duchess squeezed Eleanor’s hand. “I must go. But please, do say you’ll come to the garden party. I’ll have the invitation sent over tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course. We would love to.”
“Goodbye then.” And the duchess slipped into the crowd just a moment before Octavius appeared from it.