A Duke of Her Own(116)

At precisely two of the clock, Eleanor was ready. In truth, the muslin was so delectable that it was hard to feel miserable while wearing it. It had a cream background, sprigged with tiny cherries. The skirts were puckered around the bottom with cherry-colored gauze; the same gauze was tucked into the bosom, which would have been indecently low without it. The ensemble was completed by a supremely fashionable cabriolet bonnet with gauze ribbons that fluttered behind.

"You look quite good," her mother said grudgingly. And then, rather surprisingly, "You needn't feel that Mr. Ormston is your only resort, Eleanor. Your beauty means that you can certainly marry where you wish. Witness the two dukes begging for your hand. I know I have been snappish on the subject, but I have no doubt but that you'll take at some point."

Eleanor brushed her mother's cheek with a kiss. "Thank you, Mama."

Anne was standing at the window, most improperly peering through the drapes. "He's got a perfectly lovely landau," she reported. "It looks to be painted on the sides with cupids, or something like that.

I can't quite see. And he has a footman. Really, Mr. Ormston was not jesting when he said his uncle left him a living."

"That is vastly unseemly of you," the duchess scolded. "You look like a housemaid at the window.

What do you see of the man himself?"

"The footman is coming to our door and blocking my view. Oh! Mr. Ormston is wearing a wig à Grecque. Very fashionable of him! His coat is black. Quite plain. I don't see any large buttons."

"A Grecque?" Eleanor asked, pulling on her gloves.

"You know...two curls on each side, and a long tail behind. It's quite smart." She turned around, smiling. "He looks to have broad shoulders as well. I expect you'll remember him the moment you enter the carriage." She danced over and gave Eleanor a kiss.

Eleanor followed Mr. Ormston's footman to the landau, lecturing herself the whole way about second, nay, third chances.

Mr. Ormston had descended from the carriage to meet her, of course. She raised her eyes just enough to see that he was wearing a coat of black cloth. Very respectable and sober. He bowed, taking her gloved hand and kissing it before handing her into the landau.

Eleanor sat down and looked up, prepared to smile.





Chapter Thirty-two


London residence of the Duke of Montague

August 8, 1784

"I am honored that you accepted my invitation," Mr. Ormston said quietly. "It is a true pleasure to meet you again."



Eleanor could feel heat rising in her cheeks. "Indeed?"

"You are not the sort of woman whom any man could forget," he said.

"And what have you been doing in the intervening three years since we last met?" Eleanor inquired.

"Unless it is a matter of great national import that you cannot share with me? A delicate matter, perhaps?"

"Oh, this and that," Mr. Ormston said. "I do a great deal of work with orphans."

His dark eyebrows were quite dramatic beneath his snowy wig. His shoulders were remarkably broad, but something about his unadorned black coat made them look even broader. "Indeed,"

Eleanor said. "And how are your orphans, Mr. Ormston?"

"Quite well. We have occasional problems, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"I don't have children," she said pleasantly. "I know nothing of raising children."

He cleared his throat and said, very low, "You know more than I do."

Eleanor looked down at her hands, clenched together in her lap. "I think I should like to return to my house now." By some miracle her voice was quite steady.

"But we are here, at Kensington Gardens," Mr. Ormston said. The carriage glided to a halt and he leapt out and stood, holding up his gloved hand.

Eleanor sat for a moment. She felt as empty as a vase without flowers or water. She had no emotion, not anger, grief, or even longing. So there could be no harm in taking a brief stroll, she thought.

She numbly put her hand in his, and dropped it the moment she descended. Then she opened her parasol at such an angle that it entirely shielded her face from that of her companion.

"How lovely," she said. "The fuchsias are in bloom."

"Yes," he said. "Shall we rest for a moment, Lady Eleanor? There seems to be a suitable bench overlooking the Round Pond. I thought you might like to feed the swans."

She glanced to the side. He was holding a cotton bag, presumably filled with bread crusts. That was rather interesting. Mr. Ormston, alias Leopold Dautry, alias the Duke of Villiers, did not appear to be the sort of man whom she imagined carrying bread around.

They sat down next to each other and in total silence threw crusts at the swans. There were seven of them, counting a mated pair and five cygnets. The parents curled and bobbed their long necks, pushing their offspring out of the way in order to gobble bread.