Chapter Seventeen
The gossip started on a Tuesday.
Eliza heard it first at Lady Harrington’s afternoon tea, whispers that cut off abruptly when she approached, meaningful glances exchanged behind fans, the particular silence that descended when a woman became the subject rather than the audience of speculation.
“Miss Hayfield.” Lady Harrington’s smile was warm but her eyes were sharp. “How lovely to see you. I trust you’ve been enjoying the Season?”
“Very much, my lady.”
“I imagine you have. You have certainly been… visible.” The pause was deliberate, weighted with implication. “I understand you have made quite an impression on certain members of the ton.”
Eliza’s heart stuttered, but she kept her expression serene. “I have endeavoured to conduct myself appropriately.”
“I am sure you have, dear.” Lady Harrington patted her arm with patronising kindness. “Young ladies from the country often find London society… overwhelming. The rules are different here. The stakes higher. One must be so careful about the company one keeps.”
There was no mistaking the warning in her tone.
Eliza excused herself as soon as politeness permitted and retreated to a quiet corner of the room, her hands trembling around her teacup.
They knew.
Not the details, perhaps, not the full extent of her foolishness, but they knew enough. Knew that she had been seen too often in William’s company. Knew that the Duke of Hollowshade had shown her marked attention. Knew that wherever there was smoke, there was usually fire.
The question was how much they knew, and how far the whispers had spread.
“You look pale.”
Beatrice appeared at her elbow, her own expression carefully neutral.
“Lady Harrington was… pointed in her comments.”
“I noticed.” Beatrice guided her toward the door with subtle pressure on her arm. “We should leave. There’s no point in subjecting yourself to further scrutiny.”
“Leaving will only make them talk more.”
“They are already talking. At least if we leave, you will not have to listen to it.”
They made their excuses to Aunt Philippa, another headache, and soon after escaped into the relative safety of the carriage.
It was not until they were home, and Aunt Philippa had gone upstairs, that Eliza turned to Beatrice.
“How bad is it?” she asked. “Tell me the truth.”
Beatrice hesitated. “There are… rumours. Nothing confirmed. Nothing that couldn’t be denied or explained away. But…”
“But?”
“But people have noticed that you disappeared for hours at a time during the weeks when Hollowshade was absent from society. They’ve noticed that he returned to London at approximately the same time you resumed your normal schedule.
They’ve noticed…” Beatrice stopped, her expression pained.
“They’ve noticed that you look like a woman who has had her heart broken. ”
Eliza closed her eyes against the sting of tears.
“Is it truly that obvious?”
“To anyone who cares to look, yes.”
“What do they think happened?”
“The charitable interpretation is that he courted you, raised your hopes, and then withdrew his interest. The less charitable interpretation…” Beatrice’s jaw tightened. “The less charitable interpretation is that you gave him more than hopes, and he took what he wanted and left.”
“The less charitable interpretation is closer to the truth.”
“I know.” Beatrice reached over and took her hand.
“But no one can prove it. And as long as no one can prove it, you can survive this. Edmund Alcott’s proposal will go a long way toward silencing the whispers.
People will assume that whatever happened with Hollowshade was a minor flirtation, quickly forgotten in favour of a respectable match. ”
“And if they don’t assume that?”
“Then we will make them assume it. Through careful management, strategic appearances, and the passage of time.” Beatrice squeezed her fingers.
“You are not the first woman to be the subject of gossip, Eliza. You will not be the last. The key is to weather the storm until something more interesting comes along to distract them.”
It was cold comfort. But it was comfort nonetheless.
***
She saw him three days later.
Lady Ashworth’s ball was one of the final major gatherings before the Season’s end. Everyone who was anyone would be there, which meant that William would almost certainly attend.
She had prepared herself. Had rehearsed the encounter in her mind, planning exactly how she would react when she saw him. She would be cool, composed, utterly indifferent. She would demonstrate to him and to everyone watching that whatever had passed between them had left no lasting mark.
She would prove that she had survived.
But all her preparation evaporated the moment she spotted him across the crowded ballroom.
He was standing near the terrace doors, a glass of champagne in his hand, speaking with a woman Eliza did not recognise.
Tall. Blonde. Beautiful in the way of women who had never doubted their own worth.
She was laughing at something he had said, her gloved hand resting on his arm with easy familiarity.
Eliza felt her stomach lurch.
She had known this would happen. Had known that William would return to his old patterns, his old pleasures, the shallow satisfactions that had sustained him before she came along. She had told herself she was prepared for it.
She was not prepared.
Seeing him smile at another woman with that particular curve of his lips, the one she had foolishly believed was reserved for her, felt like having her heart torn from her chest all over again.
“Eliza.” Beatrice was at her side, her voice sharp with warning. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at him like that. People will notice.”
“I am not looking at him in any particular way.”
“You are looking at him like you want to murder him. Or possibly burst into tears. Either way, it is drawing attention.”
Eliza tore her gaze away, fixing it on a point somewhere above the dancers’ heads.
“Better?”
“Marginally.” Beatrice guided her toward the opposite side of the room, putting as much distance as possible between Eliza and the man who had destroyed her. “Edmund Alcott just arrived. Perhaps you should dance with him.”
“I do not wish to dance with anyone.”
“That is precisely why you should. Dancing with Edmund will demonstrate to everyone that you have moved on. That whatever happened with Hollowshade is ancient history.”
“It has been but a few days.”
“In the world of society gossip, that is an eternity.” Beatrice caught Edmund’s eye across the room and smiled brightly. “Here he comes. Try to look pleased to see him.”
Eliza arranged her features into something she hoped resembled pleasure.
“Miss Hayfield.” Edmund bowed over her hand, his brown eyes warm with genuine delight. “What a pleasure to see you. Might I have the honour of the next dance?”
“Of course, Mr Alcott.”
She allowed him to lead her onto the floor, allowed him to take her in his arms for a waltz, allowed herself to be swept into the familiar patterns of the dance.
And tried not to think about the last time she had waltzed. The last time strong arms had held her close. The last time grey eyes had looked at her with an intensity that made her feel like the only woman in the world.
“You seem distracted,” Edmund observed, his voice gentle with concern.
“Forgive me. I have much on my mind.”
“Anything I can help with?”
Can you make me forget him? Can you make me stop loving someone who never loved me? Can you heal a heart that feels like it will never be whole again?
“No,” she said aloud. “But I appreciate the offer.”
They danced in comfortable silence, Edmund moving with competent grace, Eliza following by rote. He was a perfectly adequate partner. Neither brilliant nor clumsy. Neither memorable nor objectionable.
He was exactly what she deserved.
The waltz ended. Edmund escorted her back to Beatrice, bowing with impeccable courtesy.
“I hope we might dance again later?”
“Of course.”
She watched him walk away and felt absolutely nothing.
And then, despite herself, her gaze drifted across the ballroom to where William had been standing.
He was looking at her.
Their eyes met across the crowded room, and for a single, devastating moment, Eliza saw something in his expression that made her heart stop. Something that looked like pain. Like longing. Like the ghost of everything he had claimed not to feel.
Then he looked away, turning back to the blonde woman who was still draped across his arm, and the moment shattered.
I am not capable of giving you the future you deserve.
The words echoed in her mind as she stood frozen in the crowd, watching the man who had destroyed her charm another woman without a backward glance.
She had believed him, that morning in his study. Had accepted his cruelty as truth, had internalised his dismissal as the final word on what they had shared.
But that look, that single, unguarded moment of pain…
No. She was imagining things. Seeing what she wanted to see, the way she had been seeing it all along. William had been perfectly clear about his feelings. Her job now was to accept that clarity and move on.
Edmund was waiting.
Edmund was safe.
Edmund was her future.
She turned her back on the grey-eyed man across the room and went to find her respectable suitor.
Edmund Alcott was safe, and Eliza, who had risked everything on a man who was anything but safe, found herself drawing closer to that safety with each passing day.
***
“The Season ends soon,” Edmund said on his third visit. “I had hoped… that is, I wondered whether you had reached a decision regarding my suit.”
Eliza looked at him across her aunt’s drawing room. At his earnest face, his hopeful eyes, his steady, undevastated kindness.
She thought of the alternative. Of returning to Devonshire alone, of spending years watching from the sidelines as other women found happiness, of growing old in the shadow of a love that had never been real.
She thought of William’s voice, urging her to build a life with a man capable of giving her what she deserved.
Perhaps this was what she deserved.
“Yes,” she said, and watched Edmund’s face light with joy. “Yes, Mr Alcott. I accept your proposal.”
He crossed the room and took her hands, his grip warm and gentle and entirely wrong.
“You have made me the happiest of men, Miss Hayfield. I promise you will not regret this decision.”
Eliza smiled, because that was what was expected.
And tried not to think about the grey-eyed man who had promised her the world and given her nothing but ashes.