But she would never love with that kind of ravening, blissful hunger that she felt for Leopold—the kind of hunger that made her want to touch his arm when they were at supper, meet his eyes at breakfast, sleep next to him every night.
Mr. Ormston’s next letter provided something of a relief from these gloomy thoughts.
Dear Lady Eleanor Lindel,
I entirely concur with your dismay at the idea of a tête-à-tête with an unknown man, though I should assure you that I am indeed a gentleman. As the younger son of Baron Plumptre, I took my uncle’s surname in honor of his leaving me a snug fortune. I hope that I do not offend you by speaking so directly of these matters. Though I have little hope of refreshing your memory, as I recall, you wore a gown of some sort of blue stuff, and we talked of Miss Burney’s play, The Witlings. You did not care for the actress who played Mrs. Voluble.
With deep respect,
Hon. Josiah Ormston
“Well, now you must remember him,” Anne said with triumph, waving the letter. “You didn’t like Mrs. Voluble.”
“No one did,” Eleanor said. “I barely recall the play, but every review said that Mrs. Voluble was shrill and unpleasant.”
“What I like about this man is that he remembers everything about dancing with you,” Anne said, dropping the letter and turning to her mother’s Debrett’s, always handy on the parlor table. “It would be very nice for you to experience some adoration. Yes, he’s here, listed not under Ormston, but as a second son to Plumptre. Josiah is not a wonderful name, but a sturdy one, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
“You must go,” Anne said. “Mother will never let you hear the end of it otherwise.”
Dear Mr. Ormston,
I would be pleased to accompany you to the park tomorrow.
Lady Eleanor
“You should wear the blue gown you took to Kent,” Anne said. “It might remind him of whatever it was you were wearing three years ago.”
“I’ll wear one of my old gowns,” Eleanor said. “It did me no good to put on a wanton appearance, Anne. You have to admit that.”
“No lip color?” Anne asked, horrified.
“None. And a modest dress.”
“Perhaps you weren’t aware of this, but I instructed Willa to give away most of the gowns you used to own,” her sister pointed out.
“You didn’t!”
“I certainly did,” she retorted. “Just because you’ve been thwarted in love…” She paused, and added, “again, doesn’t mean that you should turn yourself into a pattern card of domestic dreariness. You’ve had very bad luck, Eleanor. Now you need to be prudent.”
“I am being prudent.”
“No. You are going to dress like the desirable young lady that you are. You are going to act in a proper manner. Don’t tell me that Villiers didn’t get a good look at your silver combs, Eleanor, because I know perfectly well that he did.”
“You’re saying I’m a fool.”
“I’m saying that perhaps you should just follow the path that the rest of us have taken successfully,” her sister said gently. “Flirt with the gentleman, be enticing and yet modest. It’s a game, Eleanor, but it’s a most rewarding one.”
“Very well,” Eleanor said, inexpressibly depressed.
“Remember, that was your first season, and your head was full of Gideon. Any number of respectable gentlemen might have fallen in love with you, and you wouldn’t have noticed. I would suggest the sprigged muslin, because the gauze around the bodice makes it practically prudish.”
Eleanor nodded, acquiescing.
“And I suppose that you might eschew the black around your eyes,” Anne said. “But you simply must have a bit of cheek color. You look as pale as a ghost. Poor Mr. Ormston will think you suffered from a bout of consumption while he was abroad.”
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.”
“À 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.”