Translate if anyone speaks French, she had been instructed.And do try not to appear so severe. It is rather off-putting.
Eleanor had not pointed out that looking severe was, in fact, the intention. Severity discouraged conversation. Conversation required performance. Performance was exhausting.
She was very, very tired of being exhausted.
The whispers continued as a figure appeared in the doorway, and Eleanor—despite her better judgment—found herself glancing up once more.
Her first thought was:They exaggerated.
Her second thought was:No. They simply described it badly.
The Duke of Thornwood was not monstrous. He was not a nightmare made flesh. He was simply a man—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in immaculate black—who bore unmistakable evidence of violence across the left side of his face.
The scarring was considerable. It traced from his temple down across his cheek and disappeared beneath his collar, the skin puckered and discoloured in patterns that suggested fire rather than blade. His left hand, she noticed, bore similar marks, the fingers slightly curled, as though they no longer straightened fully.
Yet his eyes were clear and dark and profoundly, disconcertingly alert. They swept the room with the efficiency of a man accustomed to cataloguing threats, dismissed most of what they found, and then—
Settled upon Eleanor.
She looked away at once. It was reflex, nothing more. One did not meet the gaze of a duke, particularly one who appeared to have witnessed horrors sufficient to haunt lesser men.
Still, she felt the weight of his attention linger for a moment longer than comfort allowed, and when she risked another glance, he had already moved on, greeting Lady Rutledge with a bow that was perfectly correct and entirely devoid of warmth.
Interesting,Eleanor thought, and then firmly instructed herself to think nothing at all.
***
The house party, Eleanor had gathered, was very much a marriage market.
Lady Rutledge had assembled a carefully curated selection of eligible young ladies—and a handful of not-so-young ladies, present company included—for the purpose of introducing them to gentlemen of means and title. The Duke of Thornwood was, apparently, the crowning jewel of this particular display: wealthy, titled, and in need of a wife.
In need of a wife who would not be deterred by certain realities,Eleanor’s treacherous mind supplied.In need of someone sufficiently practical.
She dismissed the thought. It was uncharitable and, more importantly, irrelevant. Eleanor was not present as a candidate. She was present as a companion, a useful piece of furniture that happened to speak three languages. Whomever the Duke of Thornwood chose to marry was entirely his concern, and of no consequence to her whatsoever.
“Miss Finch!”
Eleanor suppressed a sigh and turned to find Lady Rutledge advancing upon her with the purposeful expression of a woman who had suddenly remembered a neglected resource.
“There you are, concealing yourself in the corner as usual. Come, come—I wish to introduce you to the Dowager Countess of Millbrook. She has a particular fondness for Italian poetry, and I told her you were quite the linguist.”
Quite the linguist.Spoken in much the same tone one might apply toquite the jugglerorquite the trained monkey.
“Of course,” Eleanor said, setting aside her book. “I should be honoured.”
The Dowager Countess proved to be a sharp-eyed woman of perhaps seventy, with the sort of aristocratic bone structure that weathered age admirably, and a manner suggesting she had ceased tolerating fools sometime around her fortieth year.
“So you are the translator,” she said, regarding Eleanor with frank appraisal. “Rutledge tells me you are fluent in Italian.”
“I am competent, my lady. Fluency suggests a mastery I would not presume to claim.”
“False modesty is tiresome, girl. Can you read Dante in the original, or can you not?”
Eleanor felt her lips twitch despite herself. “I can, my lady. Though I confess I prefer Petrarch.”
“Petrarch.” The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “The sonnets?”
“The Canzoniere, yes. Though his letters are equally rewarding, if one possesses patience for his inclination toward self-pity.”
