Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“You’re fidgeting again.”
Elizabeth blinked at her stepmother’s voice. She had, indeed, just adjusted her gown’s neckline for what must have been the hundredth time.
Lady Grisham’s gaze swept over her, sharp and assessing. “Leave it. You’ve done well tonight. Do not ruin the effect.”
The effect, Elizabeth supposed, referred to her crushed silk gown: midnight blue, perfectly fitted, and daringly cut just a little lower than she usually wore.
On another lady, the difference might have gone unnoticed.
But Elizabeth, though slender, had a figure that made modest tailoring feel immodest.
She squared her shoulders.
“There’s no turning back now,” she murmured.
Lady Grisham’s nod was curt. “You performed well at the musicale. Tonight, I expect continued progress. For your sisters’ sake.”
Elizabeth resisted the sigh building in her chest. Everything, it seemed, was for her sisters.
And yet, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that if she were caught scandalizing herself with a pirouette in the middle of Hyde Park, Lady Grisham would somehow still insist it had no bearing on her daughters’ prospects.
“Yes, Lady Grisham,” she said coolly.
Next to her, Wilhelmina studied her with narrowed eyes and a suspicious frown. No teasing came, though.
Perhaps even Wilhelmina knew when not to provoke the marchioness.
The Halverston townhouse was aglow with candlelight and murmured conversation when they arrived.
Elizabeth stepped inside with practiced grace, but nerves fluttered low in her stomach. She tried to recall everything the Duke of Redmoor had taught her.
Naturally, he was already there.
Of course he was.
He stood in a circle of older gentlemen, posture immaculate, voice low but clear.
He looked taller tonight, more formidable. The perfectly cut coat, the crisp fall of his cravat, the gleam of his boots. He looked… comfortable. At ease in a room that once would have made him bristle.
Was it her instruction? Or had he simply found the man he was meant to be?
Pride bloomed in her chest, unexpected and warm.
Then came the announcement for dinner, and the guests began to pair off toward the dining room. Elizabeth found her place beside a young man she didn’t immediately recognize
Until he turned to her with a too-eager smile and a voice slightly higher than she expected.
“Lady Elizabeth! What a pleasure to be seated beside you.”
She returned the smile with practiced ease. “Likewise, my lord.”
Across the table, she spotted the Duke again; this time seated beside a sharp-nosed man she recognized as Lord Penrith. He looked rigid. Stiff. Noble. She almost didn’t recognize him.
A flash of pride again, mixed with something else.
Her attention was pulled back by her table companion.
“We don’t have pheasant tonight,” Lord Pomfrey commented, nudging his dish. “Surely a lady of your refinement and experience would miss it dearly.”
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek. He seemed harmless, if a little overeager.
“I enjoy such delicacies in moderation, my lord. My father, Lord Grisham, was very fond of hunting. He may have slowed with the years, but I daresay he’s still plotting his next countryside pursuit.”
“Ah! I was once part of one of his hunts,” Pomfrey said, puffing up slightly. “He has the finest spaniels I’ve ever seen.”
“While that may be true,” Elizabeth replied lightly, “I suspect the spaniels belong more to my younger sister than to our father. They follow her because she shares her biscuits.”
From farther down the table, Wilhelmina interjected with a grin. “Leftovers, mind you. Daphne’s their biscuit queen.”
Pomfrey laughed. “A little pied piper in petticoats!”
Their small group chuckled, and Elizabeth relaxed slightly. Pomfrey might have been a bit much, but he was sincere.
“But you must love venison, surely?” he pressed on. “And I’m rather partial to a boar’s head with an apple in its mouth. Seasoned with cloves and honey glaze.”
“I enjoy venison on occasion,” Elizabeth said, careful. “Though I admit I’ve never had much affection for anything still bearing its own head at the table. Our eldest sister doesn’t eat meat at all, despite our father’s enthusiasm. She simply finds the hunt… unappealing.”
Pomfrey sobered. “A compassionate soul, then.”
They ate in brief silence. Elizabeth appreciated the rich broth and delicate fish course, though her appetite was never especially large. She believed in eating for strength, not performance.
Pomfrey set down his fork. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way they choose their supper. I admire your sister’s conviction. I don’t trust those who pretend to nibble at asparagus here, only to gorge on duck elsewhere.”
“My lord,” Elizabeth said mildly, “restraint can be sincere. Some ladies eat sparingly because their appetites are delicate. Others savor each bite slowly because each mouthful is… an experience.” Her voice dipped slightly, her tone soft and deliberate.
“In fact,” she added, eyes gleaming just a little, “I know a lady who tastes every bite like it’s a revelation. An explosion of sensation.”
Across the table, she caught the Duke’s eye. He was staring. His friend, the Earl of Whitton, tugged at his sleeve, whispering something, but the duke didn’t look away.
Wilhelmina lifted her glass. “Hear, hear,” she whispered with a smirk.
Pomfrey looked awestruck. “Lady Elizabeth, I daresay… I’ve never thought of it that way. But I shall from now on.”
Elizabeth gave him a gracious smile, her heart light. There might not be sparks between them, but there was good conversation. And that was rare enough.
“I’m glad to have contributed something to your reflections, my lord,” she said sweetly.
From across the room, she still felt the Duke’s gaze both warm and lingering.
And for a moment, the silk clinging to her skin felt a little bolder than she remembered.
Alasdair watched her.
Lady Elizabeth Brighton, resplendent in deep blue silk, conversing easily with the young lord seated beside her.
Her laughter was light, unforced—music in itself—and something inside him uncoiled at the sound of it. She leaned slightly toward Lord Pomfrey as she spoke, her eyes sparkling with that particular mischief that had undone him more than once already.
She was glowing.
And others were noticing.
Not just Pomfrey, who seemed utterly entranced, but half the men within earshot. They watched her as if she were the only illumination in the room, and for all Alasdair knew, she might well have been.
He should be proud. After all, she’d taken the lessons he’d offered and wielded them with devastating effect. She was poised, clever, alluring. Every inch the polished lady society adored.
But pride was not what burned in his chest.
She was going to rid him of any peace of mind he ever hoped to find.
“Stop glaring,” Seth muttered beside him, good-natured and too amused by half.
“I’m not glaring,” Alasdair said tightly.
“You are. If looks could wound, Pomfrey would be dueling you at dawn. It’s like he insulted your entire clan.”
He might as well have, Alasdair thought savagely.
Because Elizabeth was smiling. Not politely. Not dutifully. She was enjoying herself. And the way her gaze flicked toward Pomfrey with genuine interest.
Christ, it was unbearable. As if she were finally beginning to see him as a match. As if she could move on.
Something dark twisted inside him.
Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward across the table, voice mild but unmistakably pointed. “I wonder, Lord Pomfrey… have ye ever played an instrument? Or do ye simply read up on them so ye can impress pretty lasses at dinner parties?”
Pomfrey blinked, caught off guard. “Alas, no, Your Grace. I’ve never had the talent for music.”
“A pity,” Alasdair drawled. “Though if ye intend to offer information, it might do ye good to study more thoroughly. Then ye wouldnae call Mozart a German, or a Frenchman, God forbid.”
Even as the words left his mouth, he winced inwardly. He himself had nearly made the same mistake once. But logic had no place when jealousy curled hot behind his ribs.
Elizabeth stiffened.
“Your Grace,” she said sweetly, though her eyes blazed with warning, “you of all people should know anyone might slip now and then. Lord Pomfrey has otherwise shown impeccable manners and engaging conversation.”
Pomfrey, bless him, looked more bewildered than wounded. He clearly had no idea he’d wandered into the middle of a battlefield.
Across from Alasdair, Seth barely suppressed a laugh behind a cough.
“Me apologies,” Alasdair said, though his tone betrayed no contrition. “I meant nae harm. Only that a man ought to be informed afore he opens his mouth—or else keep it shut.”
A tense silence followed.
Alasdair could feel the pulse of Elizabeth’s irritation, sharp as a slap. And worse, the way Pomfrey gave her a sympathetic smile, as if to say Don’t mind him.
She smiled back.
Something hot flared in Alasdair’s chest. He didn’t recognize it at first.
Possessiveness.
Then, thankfully, dessert arrived, breaking the moment. Custard was served in delicate porcelain bowls, and around them, the guests collectively exhaled as if a storm had just passed. The awkward tension gave way to polite murmurs and clinking silver.
Alasdair reached for his spoon, but froze.
Elizabeth’s fingers curled around hers with delicate precision. Her head tilted just slightly, eyes on the dish before her. Slowly, she dipped the spoon, gathering the pale cream with an elegance that was suddenly… alarming.
No.
She wouldn’t.
Not here. Not for Pomfrey.
But she did.
She tasted the custard with a careful, deliberate flick of her tongue against the spoon’s edge. Her lips parted just slightly as the cream touched her mouth, and her lashes fluttered just a fraction, but enough.
Enough to turn it from a bite into a performance.
Subtle. Sophisticated. Devastating.
Alasdair nearly groaned aloud.