Chapter 16 #2
“I have to be,” Elizabeth said, her voice low. “If I wait too long, the whispers will begin again. I will be seen as the wallflower. A failure. Worse, the girls might be painted with the same brush.”
“You’re doing this for them?”
“And for myself,” she admitted. “I want a home. Control. Freedom. Even if it’s an illusion.”
“Is there someone in particular who could provide that for you?” Marianne asked, eyes narrowing.
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked—just once—toward the corner of the ballroom, where Alasdair stood speaking with Seth. He looked like a storm barely contained. His eyes, unreadable from this distance, never left her.
She looked away quickly. “There are possibilities.”
As if on cue, a gentleman began making his way toward them.
Lord Avery.
He was fine-featured, fashionably attired, and clearly of respectable breeding. But even as he greeted them with a bow and a charming smile, Elizabeth felt the same faint sense of disappointment she always did. Like she was trying to summon lightning from a candle.
Still, she smiled.
“Lady Elizabeth, might I have the next dance?” Lord Avery asked.
Elizabeth offered him her card. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
He made the notation and bowed again before retreating to await the next set. Elizabeth’s smile faded slightly the moment he turned away.
“You’ll let me know if he bores you to tears?” Marianne teased.
“I already know,” Elizabeth muttered. “But I must keep trying.”
Her skin prickled. Alasdair was watching.
She couldn’t see him clearly, but she could feel it—that molten gaze pinned to her with palpable heat. Her stomach flipped, and a flush crept up her throat. Instead of shrinking from it, she used it.
Elizabeth turned toward Lord Avery with a coy tilt of her head, lowering her lashes as she spoke to him softly. She touched her dance card with deliberate grace. Not too much. Just enough.
Subtlety, after all, was the art of making one man think he had your full attention while another burned with the knowledge that he didn’t.
Back where Alasdair stood, he was still mired in the same storm of frustration and longing that had plagued him for weeks. His thoughts chased themselves in circles.
Elizabeth, the kiss, the damnable dresses she wore, the way she didn’t even look at him when she entered the room.
It was unbearable.
Seth quietly reached for the glass in Alasdair’s hand.
“Pardon me, Sandy boy,” Seth said gently, “but I think I’d better take this before you shatter it and cause a scene.”
Alasdair released the glass with reluctance. “He’s nothin’ but a fop,” he muttered darkly, his eyes still fixed on Lord Avery’s slim figure as he danced with Elizabeth.
“You know that he’s not the problem,” Seth replied. “You are. Admit it. None of those men could ever be enough for your dear Lady Elizabeth. Not to you.”
Alasdair growled low in his throat. “Oh, sod off.”
“I’d like to,” Seth said dryly. “But I can’t leave you alone like this. You’re liable to challenge someone to a duel over the last dance card slot.”
The music changed, and Elizabeth’s dance with Lord Avery came to a graceful end.
Alasdair saw his moment.
Without another word, he stepped away from Seth and strode toward her, each footstep pounding with determination.
When he reached her, he didn’t bow. He didn’t smile.
“Lady Elizabeth dances with me next,” he said, the declaration leaving no room for negotiation.
Elizabeth turned to him with arched brows, her breath caught between surprise and dismay. “You’re not on my dance card, Your Grace.”
He plucked the card from her hand before she could stop him and scribbled his name beside the next set. Then he extended his hand in imperious silence.
She hesitated, cheeks flushing in that way he remembered too well.
Was she remembering their last dance?
The one that ended not with applause, but with gasps in the dark of his private parlor?
She placed her hand in his.
“This better be worth it, Your Grace,” she murmured, not quite looking at him.
“Ye’ll tell me if it is, me lady,” he replied, voice rough with something unspoken.
They joined the dancers, stepping into the rhythm of the waltz. She yielded to him instinctively, their bodies falling into a familiar pattern.
It was not just skill—it was memory. Chemistry. A storm ready to rise again.
“Is that the kind of man ye want?” he asked quietly. “Men like Avery? Pomfrey? Is that who ye’re trying to make me become?”
Her lashes flicked upward, sharp. “I would never turn you into them. That would be a waste of potential.”
His chest tightened at the honesty in her voice. “Is that kindness, lass… or insult?” he asked, his voice dipping low. “Hard to tell sometimes with the way ye all ton people talk in riddles.”
“We’re not just you all, Alasdair. That’s not fair.” Her eyes sparkled with restrained anger. “Don’t lump us into the same box. That’s the very thing you hate. People calling you a brute just because you’re Scottish.”
He swallowed hard.
“And you being different from them?” she continued. “It’s not a flaw. It’s the very reason I… I mean, it’s what makes you you.”
His hand tightened slightly on her waist.
“Aye,” he said hoarsely. “But I’ll wager none of yer suitors know how to make a woman moan.”
Her eyes widened. Her breath caught.
“Scoundrel,” she hissed. Her voice trembled—but not from outrage. She didn’t push him away.
“Ye said yes to this dance.”
“You demanded it.”
“Semantics,” he murmured, lowering his head until his lips nearly brushed her ear. “Though if ye want congratulations, lass, ye’ve got half the men in this room starin’ at ye like wolves. Avery’s still watchin’. Pomfrey, too. They’re all smitten.”
She stole a glance over her shoulder and saw he wasn’t lying.
“Ye’re doing much better,” Alasdair murmured, drawing her in just a little tighter—subtle enough not to raise eyebrows, bold enough to make her gasp. “Ye’re not stiff like before. Ye feel everything now.”
“I’m just… more focused on the movements of my body,” she said quickly, though her voice wavered.
“Pity. I was hopin’ ye’d say you tried what I told you. Under the covers. Alone.”
She turned her face away, pink flooding her cheeks. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m truthful.”
The music swelled, then faded into its final notes.
She moved away from him quickly. Too quickly.
Once she was off the dance floor, Lady Grisham was upon her like a vulture, her voice a sharp hiss only just masked by a strained smile. But Alasdair was close enough to hear the marchioness.
“Are you mad? Never dance with the Scottish duke again,” the woman snapped.
“I did it out of politeness,” Elizabeth said calmly, her tone clipped. “Do you think it would serve me well to publicly reject him?”
Alasdair’s chest went still. The words hit him like a blow.
Politeness.
Just politeness.
She wasn’t thinking of their kiss, of the heat that burned between them. She was managing him like another detail in her strategy to secure a match.
“Find an excuse next time, Elizabeth. Or I will,” Lady Grisham said coldly. “The Duke of Redmoor will ruin you. And the rest of us.”
Alasdair felt his blood rise. He took a step forward.
But before he could give the woman a proper verbal flaying, a footman appeared at his elbow.
“Your Grace,” the man said quickly, “Lord Farnleigh sends word that Lord Kittridge wishes to speak with you.”
Kittridge. One of the most influential members of the political faction Farnleigh had been pushing him toward. Farnleigh had been quietly connecting him with powerful lords over the past fortnight. Alasdair had agreed to it—barely—but he hadn’t expected to meet Kittridge so soon.
He cast one last glance at Elizabeth. She was composed again, chin lifted. She didn’t look his way.
He followed the footman into a quieter alcove where Lord Kittridge was waiting.
The man looked like a wax figure left too close to a fire—sallow skin, drawn cheeks, eyes like dull marbles. He was old, but not weak. Alasdair could sense that at once. Kittridge reeked of calculation.
“Your Grace,” Kittridge said, smiling just enough to seem gracious. “Welcome.”
“Lord Kittridge,” Alasdair replied with equal poise, bowing his head.
“How are you finding London this Season?” the man asked.
“Busy,” Alasdair answered. “I’ve never received so many invitations. It’s been… enlightening.”
Kittridge nodded as though he expected the answer. “We’re glad you’ve joined our discussions. There’s much we can accomplish, with the right men beside us.”
Alasdair forced a polite smile. Elizabeth’s voice echoed in his head, urging him to blend in to change the system.
So, he smiled. He agreed. He made conversation.
But beneath the surface, all he could see was Elizabeth.
Flushed. Breathless. Lips swollen from his kiss.
The memory clung to him like smoke. It filled his lungs and refused to let go.
And even surrounded by lords and power, Alasdair knew—
He was completely, utterly lost.