anxieties from one subject to another, Jack's confident, intelligent look at this moment worked where the kiss had failed.
And, for the first time, she realized how like Ainsley Becket this man was. What she admired in Ainsley Becket she admired in Jack Eastwood. More than admired in Jack Eastwood. No wonder her papa trusted Jack. He must look at the man and see himself, once again young, once again with the world before him, not tragically behind him.
Eleanor would have liked time alone to think about this, think about her reactions, even her motivations for feeling toward Jack as she did, but Treacle was standing just inside the doors now, announcing their guests.
First to enter the room, sweep into it, actually, was the Earl of Chelfham and his countess.
And nothing. Nothing happened.
Eleanor looked at the man without a flicker of recognition, with no immediate feeling of kinship. Instead, she found herself rather amused, for the man had the appearance of an overdressed peacock, his blue coat cut of some nearly iridescent material, his neckline and sleeve cuffs dripping lace, his spotted waistcoat spanned by at least three golden chains hanging heavy with beribboned fobs. He carried a large white lace-edged handkerchief he was actually holding up to his nose, as if leery of encountering a stench.
And he was short. And more than faintly plump. The top of his head shone in the light from the chandeliers, his only hair in an overlong half circle of fringe bordering his bald pate.
He was a cartoon figure, resembling drawings she'd seen when Morgan brought them from London, telling everyone that the drawings were exaggerated, but sometimes not so much so, for London was fairly thick with posturing idiots.
The woman on his arm, however, was gorgeous. Taller than her husband by a good three inches, her height accentuated by the tall feathers in her hair, and younger than he by more than two score years, she was a blond angel with huge blue eyes that matched the color of her fashionable gown.
The only thing marring her perfection was the look of utter boredom and disdain on her beautiful face.
As Jack went to meet his guests, Eleanor sat primly, her hands in her lap, and watched as a man entered the drawing room alone, ahead of one other couple.
Sir Gilbert Eccles, obviously, the bachelor of the group. He was tall, reed thin, and had somehow missed out on a chin somewhere along the line, poor fellow, while being overly blessed in the area of his Adam's apple. He had the nervous air of one who hopes to please, even if no one is looking his way. Eleanor tried to imagine the man attempting to balance peas on his knife, and found that easy to do.
And there was no mistaking Harris Phelps. He was the only other gentleman to enter the room, for one, and in looks he much resembled his sister, tall and blond, although the feminine features had not transferred well to the man, who looked more weak than handsome. He was wearing a bright scarlet silk waistcoat under his dark blue superfine, so that he looked like a more nattily turned-out Bow Street Runner, those gentlemen often referred to as Robin Redbreasts.
Phelps had gone directly to Jack, leaving his small, somewhat pudgy wife to stand just inside the doorway, looking rather lost.
Eleanor remained seated when Jack brought their guests over to be introduced, and she felt she did very well, lifting her hand for each man to take in turn, and only feeling slightly nauseous when the earl bowed over her fingertips while positively leering at her before his eyes narrowed and he turned away from her, his interest obviously not engaged.
Lady Chelfham then sat down in the very middle of the blue-on-blue striped satin couch nearest Eleanor, spreading her skirts around her so that Miranda Phelps had no choice but to take up her own seat on the facing couch.
This left Eleanor, sitting on her uncomfortable bench positioned at the end of the low table that divided the couches, squarely
And, for the first time, she realized how like Ainsley Becket this man was. What she admired in Ainsley Becket she admired in Jack Eastwood. More than admired in Jack Eastwood. No wonder her papa trusted Jack. He must look at the man and see himself, once again young, once again with the world before him, not tragically behind him.
Eleanor would have liked time alone to think about this, think about her reactions, even her motivations for feeling toward Jack as she did, but Treacle was standing just inside the doors now, announcing their guests.
First to enter the room, sweep into it, actually, was the Earl of Chelfham and his countess.
And nothing. Nothing happened.
Eleanor looked at the man without a flicker of recognition, with no immediate feeling of kinship. Instead, she found herself rather amused, for the man had the appearance of an overdressed peacock, his blue coat cut of some nearly iridescent material, his neckline and sleeve cuffs dripping lace, his spotted waistcoat spanned by at least three golden chains hanging heavy with beribboned fobs. He carried a large white lace-edged handkerchief he was actually holding up to his nose, as if leery of encountering a stench.
And he was short. And more than faintly plump. The top of his head shone in the light from the chandeliers, his only hair in an overlong half circle of fringe bordering his bald pate.
He was a cartoon figure, resembling drawings she'd seen when Morgan brought them from London, telling everyone that the drawings were exaggerated, but sometimes not so much so, for London was fairly thick with posturing idiots.
The woman on his arm, however, was gorgeous. Taller than her husband by a good three inches, her height accentuated by the tall feathers in her hair, and younger than he by more than two score years, she was a blond angel with huge blue eyes that matched the color of her fashionable gown.
The only thing marring her perfection was the look of utter boredom and disdain on her beautiful face.
As Jack went to meet his guests, Eleanor sat primly, her hands in her lap, and watched as a man entered the drawing room alone, ahead of one other couple.
Sir Gilbert Eccles, obviously, the bachelor of the group. He was tall, reed thin, and had somehow missed out on a chin somewhere along the line, poor fellow, while being overly blessed in the area of his Adam's apple. He had the nervous air of one who hopes to please, even if no one is looking his way. Eleanor tried to imagine the man attempting to balance peas on his knife, and found that easy to do.
And there was no mistaking Harris Phelps. He was the only other gentleman to enter the room, for one, and in looks he much resembled his sister, tall and blond, although the feminine features had not transferred well to the man, who looked more weak than handsome. He was wearing a bright scarlet silk waistcoat under his dark blue superfine, so that he looked like a more nattily turned-out Bow Street Runner, those gentlemen often referred to as Robin Redbreasts.
Phelps had gone directly to Jack, leaving his small, somewhat pudgy wife to stand just inside the doorway, looking rather lost.
Eleanor remained seated when Jack brought their guests over to be introduced, and she felt she did very well, lifting her hand for each man to take in turn, and only feeling slightly nauseous when the earl bowed over her fingertips while positively leering at her before his eyes narrowed and he turned away from her, his interest obviously not engaged.
Lady Chelfham then sat down in the very middle of the blue-on-blue striped satin couch nearest Eleanor, spreading her skirts around her so that Miranda Phelps had no choice but to take up her own seat on the facing couch.
This left Eleanor, sitting on her uncomfortable bench positioned at the end of the low table that divided the couches, squarely
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