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CHAPTER1
“Of course, Lord Coddington,” Anastasia, the Dowager Countess of Barrow cooed. She dipped her head toward her shoulder and fluttered her eyelashes. “My daughter would love to share the next dance with you.” Eleanor found her mother’s constant meddling irritating. Even worse, she was humiliated by the way her mother simpered and smirked at the men of theton.
The gentleman returned her mother’s sickeningly sweet smile with one of his own, his white teeth flashing in the candlelight. He extended his hand to Eleanor, and she reluctantly took it. “Thank you, My Lord,” Eleanor said through gritted teeth.
In truth, she found the man to be insufferable. They had shared plenty of dances with one another over the course of the season, and despite her mother’s assurances that she would come to like the gentleman, Eleanor found she was barely able to tolerate him. He was clumsy and as they danced, he trod upon her foot many times. Part of his ungainliness sprang from the fact that he was so consumed with recounting his latest exploits on the falconry range that he didn’t bother to watch where he was going.
Eleanor shuddered at the thought of spending another ten minutes with Lord Coddington. She hated hearing about his falconry hobby, for she believed animals were meant to be loved and cherished, not forced to do the bidding of their master by hunting down other animals. But, as her mother reminded her daily, beggars could not be choosers. Since Eleanor’s debut at the age of eighteen, she had struggled through the tedious London seasons. Now, in her fourth year in the marriage market, speculation swirled that she was bound for spinsterhood.
“You should see the new red-tailed hawk I have acquired,” Lord Coddington said as he spun Eleanor out onto the dance floor.
“Oh, yes?” Eleanor replied.
“Indubitably,” Lord Coddington answered with a grin. “I understand that you are fond of birds, and I was thinking of you when I purchased it.”
Eleanor had to resist the urge to stomp on his foot. Her mother had scolded her thoroughly for feeding the ducks yesterday morning, saying that the people of thetonwere appalled by her behavior. She had tried to dismiss what her mother said but looking at the smug look that was etched across Lord Coddington’s face now, she felt as though he were making fun of her. Eleanor met his eyes and lifted her nose in the air. “I do like birds, Lord Coddington. They are gentle creatures that deserve our adoration.”
“Yes, well. . .” Lord Coddington paused to clear his throat. . . “some birds are more majestic than others, you know. My red-tailed hawk, for instance, is quite the specimen.” He continued to rattle away, and Eleanor let him. She felt her eyes glaze over, as she found it difficult to feign interest in the subject. Besides, she knew that Lord Coddington was only trying to make his point. If she was to be his wife, she would need to learn how to properly handle her pets.
Eleanor huffed out a short puff of air.
“Did you say something, Lady Eleanor?” Lord Coddington asked, and then he stepped on her toes. She winced and then shook her head.
“No, I was just listening to what you were saying. Please continue,” she replied, thinking that the dance number could not end quickly enough. Eleanor knew it was right and expected for her to make her match soon, and she was sure that Lord Coddington might have been a pleasant fellow, if she gave him a chance, but Eleanor didn’t want to give him a chance. She didn’t wish to be married.
As shocking as that might seem to someone like her mother, Eleanor was quite comfortable with the prospect. She did not wish to kowtow to her husband’s whims, nor did she think she should agree to marry someone just because they offered her their hand. Not that Eleanor could claim she had occasion to reject any offers. Somehow, she managed to drive away all her eligible suitors, and so now, she was stuck with the blustering Lord Coddington.
Her eyes drifted about the room as they swayed back and forth. She longed to find someone who might appeal to her in even the remotest fashion. She didn’t have an ideal match in mind. She just wanted to find someone with a shared interest. This person didn’t have to love her especially well, but he must be willing to see her for who she was and allow her just a modicum of freedom. As she gazed upon the faces of her fellow revelers, her heart sunk in dismay. There was no one among them who would ever satisfy her simple needs.
And it seemed, she might be very close to losing Lord Coddington as well. “Lady Eleanor, I must say. . .” the gentleman began, “you seem to be in rather ill-spirits tonight. Is something the matter?”
“No,” Eleanor replied swiftly.
He furrowed his brow and the smile that was once plastered across his face collapsed. “I rather think something is amiss, my lady, for I have asked you the same question thrice, and you have neglected to answer.”
“Forgive me, My Lord. Do ask the question again.” Eleanor smiled at him encouragingly, but he must have detected the lethargy behind her eyes. She was just going through the motions, and he could clearly see it.
“I do believe our dance is set to conclude, Lady Eleanor. Perhaps we shall continue our conversation later in the evening,” Lord Coddingtonreplied. He dropped his hand from her waist and without waiting for her to answer, he turned on his heel and walked away, snootily pointing his nose in the air.
“Or perhaps not,” Eleanor whispered to his retreating figure. She turned to see a pair of ladies looking directly at her. They giggled, as they had evidently noted the way she spoke aloud to herself. Eleanor gave them a tight smile and then she wandered off toward the refreshment table.
Eleanor felt her shoulders sag. She was exhausted. She was tired of dancing with bumbling doltslike Lord Coddington. She loathed having to deal with ladies who gossiped about her and made jokes at her expense. She took a glass of fruit punch from the table and carefully lifted it to her lips.
“I will never understand why hosts insist on serving red fruit punch,” a lady snidely remarked as she came to stand next to Eleanor. She turned toward the lady and was relieved to see a friend, Rosalin Button, the Countess of Clay. Rosalin picked up one of the delicate crystal cups from the table and looked carefully at the contents. “It is as if they do not fear what a spill might do to a lady’s gown.”
“As if a lady would spill,” Eleanor returned jokingly. She winked at Rosalin over the top of her glass and then, as a pair, the two women turned toward the dance floor.
“There goes a spill right there. . . and there’s another one. . .” Rosalin said, tipping her head at a couple of dancers who twirled by them.
Eleanor laughed. “How can you tell? They are dancing away so quickly that my head is spinning just trying to watch them.”
“I’m only guessing,” Rosalin replied with a teasing grin. “Someone has to make the critical error of spilling punch down the front of their gown, and if I imagine others have already done it, then it narrows my chances of having it happen to me.”
“Yes, well, it doesn’t matter much if you are covered in red punch,” Eleanor said begrudgingly, taking another small taste of the cool drink, “for you are already married. Should you make a mess of yourself, no one would think any worse of the matter.”
Rosalin pouted her lips prettily, “Having a bad night, Eleanor?”
Eleanor grimaced, “Nothing out of the usual way.”
