Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
“Stop pacing, Sandy boy,” Seth drawled from his lazy sprawl across the settee in Alasdair’s London townhouse. “You’ll wear out the rug. Or worse, give the staff palpitations.”
Alasdair paced. Back and forth. Shoulders stiff, breath shallow. Nerves shot through every muscle like fire. And it had nothing to do with the gentlemen he was supposed to be charming or the meetings he was meant to attend.
Alasdair didn’t respond. He stopped by the window instead, squinting at the rain-slick street as if it might offer him answers. Of course, it didn’t. His mind wasn’t on London or politics or the slow burn of respectability he’d been forced to cultivate. It was on her.
“She hasnae been attendin’ the parties,” he muttered, more to himself than to Seth. “She’s gone quiet. Too quiet.”
“Elizabeth?” Seth sat up now, his voice sharper.
Alasdair nodded grimly. “She’s avoidin’ me.”
“Well, can you blame her?” Seth arched a brow. “You swing between Highland silence and some godforsaken intensity that would make a woman want to faint. Or flee. Honestly, it’s no wonder she’s run for cover.”
Alasdair gave him a dark look, but Seth shrugged.
“Don’t glare at me. I’m the only one telling you the truth.”
Alasdair didn’t answer. He stared out the window again. “Maybe it’s her stepmaither,” he said after a long pause. “That woman would lock her in a closet if she thought it would improve her chances at marriage.”
“Or throw her to the highest bidder,” Seth said darkly. “Which might be worse.”
The thought made Alasdair’s fists curl at his sides. His jaw clenched. The image of Elizabeth, his brave, blushing, beautiful Elizabeth, being trotted out like a prize mare twisted something deep in his gut.
Was she being kept from society? Or had she made the choice herself, regret sitting heavy on her shoulders?
He didn’t know. And that, more than anything, made him feel like a man adrift.
“God above,” he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair. “I ken what she sounds like when she—” He broke off. “She’s in me blood, Seth. Like a damn poison.”
“And yet here you are, still trying to pretend you’re the man with all the control.” Seth stood, walked to him, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not. Just admit you want her.”
“Wantin’ her does nae change what I am,” Alasdair said, low. “Or what she needs. She’s huntin’ for a husband. I’m huntin’ justice.”
“Well, maybe she doesn’t want a husband,” Seth said mildly. “Maybe she wants the man who sees her.”
Alasdair didn’t answer. He just stepped back from the window and reached for his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“Kittridge.”
Seth blinked. “You’re going to talk strategy with a man like Kittridge when your brain is flooded with Lady Elizabeth? Are you mad?”
“Maybe. But it needs doin’.”
Seth sighed, resigned. “Fine. But if you bite anyone, I’m not intervening this time.”
The Marquess of Kittridge’s townhouse was as smug as the man himself. The carpets were too rich, the fireplace too ornate, and the servant too polished when he led them into the drawing room.
“Your Grace,” Kittridge drawled, rising with a smile that was more calculation than courtesy. “I hear you’ve become quite the darling of the ton. Polite conversation, refined bearing, what next? You’ll be sipping Darjeeling and debating cravats?”
Alasdair gave him a look that should have turned him to stone.
“Aye, and next week I’ll be weepin’ at poetry readings and powderin’ me cheeks,” he replied dryly.
Seth choked on a laugh.
Kittridge’s smirk twitched, just enough to show irritation. “You’ve been making progress. Some of the right people have taken notice. But that brogue of yours, God help me, it’ll undo every bit of it.”
“Careful, Kittridge,” Alasdair said, his smile faint and lethal. “Mock a Scotsman’s tongue, and ye might find yerself missin’ yers.”
A beat of silence.
“You’re in London now, Your Grace,” Kittridge said, voice colder. “If you want acceptance and true power, you’ll need to speak their language.”
“I’ve no interest in beggin’ for acceptance,” Alasdair returned. “We’ll make alliances based on need, not niceties.”
Kittridge sat slowly, the heat in his gaze cooling into something more dangerous. “Still chasing ghosts, then?”
“Still wantin’ answers,” Alasdair said.
There was no agreement made. No promises. But something passed between them, something jagged and raw. A mutual recognition that neither man would play the long game without a few knives hidden in the folds of their coats.
Later, the talk shifted. Kittridge, Seth, Alasdair, and two other lords ended up seated near the hearth, sipping whiskey.
The fire crackled. The smoke curled.
Nothing was said aloud about the earlier tension, but Alasdair noted who drank slowly, who kept their eyes too focused on the flames, and who was already calculating the odds.
Yet through it all, his thoughts returned to her. To the softness of her gasp. The curve of her breast in his hand. The guilt in her eyes before she fled.
He hadn’t lost her. Not yet. But she was slipping from his reach. And that was a failure he would not endure.
Not quietly.
“Here we are again,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath.
There was no turning back now. She’d tried, Heaven knew. But this morning, when she truly had a headache for once, she was required to return to society. Her reprieve had run out. And her stepmother’s eyes had become too sharp, her voice too sweet, her presence too constant.
“It’s only a garden party, Lizzie,” Wilhelmina murmured beside her. “It couldn’t be that dreadful. Yes, it’s another one, but at least we’ll be outdoors, in fresh air. Flowers. Lemonade. No candle smoke.”
Elizabeth gave her sister a tight smile. “Mm. Flowers. They’re only pleasant when they belong to you. When they’re in someone else’s garden, you have to worry about sneezes, bees… being watched from every angle.”
Wilhelmina sighed and bumped her shoulder. “You sound like a dying governess in a bad novel. No wonder you’ve been falling ill lately. And today, you do look pale.”
“It’s the pressure,” Elizabeth murmured. “I must find a husband. But when I do… will I like him? Will I survive the life that comes after?”
Wilhelmina hesitated before replying. “I’m not far behind you, you know. That doesn’t make it better, but you’re not alone.”
The two of them sighed in unison.
They had just stepped into the grounds of another grand estate just outside of London, one of many that blurred together.
The hedges were trimmed into shapes that were either animals or unfortunate cherubs, and the air smelled faintly of roses and dread.
Elizabeth wore a pale blue muslin dress with discreet embroidery at the hem. It was modest, a return to the old self she hoped would protect her from suspicion. She had chosen it deliberately—no more laces Alasdair could loosen with greedy fingers.
Even so, her skin still tingled with the memory of that library. Of his mouth. Of how her knees had gone weak, and her will, weaker still.
“Are you sure you’re ready for battle?” Wilhelmina asked, likely noticing her flushed cheeks.
“I’m ready,” Elizabeth lied, her voice thin.
There was no time to speak further. Lady Grisham was upon them, a pale and perfumed storm cloud. She moved like a wraith behind them, her smile brittle and false.
Elizabeth didn’t need to look to know she wouldn’t be permitted a single moment alone. Not today.
“Mother,” Wilhelmina said sweetly, “don’t you think Elizabeth and I ought to speak to some of the dowagers? The ones with eligible sons?”
Elizabeth blinked. Clever girl.
Lady Grisham tilted her head, surprised but not displeased. “Yes… Yes, that is an excellent idea.”
Wilhelmina took Elizabeth’s wrist. “Come on. There’s a cluster near the refreshment table.”
Elizabeth leaned toward her. “What are you doing?”
“Watch,” Wilhelmina whispered. “Look behind us. Her dreadful friends are heading this way. She’ll be cornered for at least ten minutes.”
Elizabeth chanced a glance. Lady Wormley and Lady Forthridge—Grisham’s favorite gossips—were approaching. Their feathered bonnets bobbed with menace.
“We’re actually going to talk to the dowagers?” she asked.
“Of course we are,” Mina whispered back. “We’ll charm them, then vanish behind the refreshment tent to catch our breath. Lemonade is the excuse. This is the execution.”
Elizabeth smiled, despite herself. “A haphazard plan that might work. I like it.”
The dowagers were more than receptive. The Dowager Countess of Eastbrook greeted them with effusive warmth.
“Oh, Lady Elizabeth, Lady Wilhelmina! Such radiant girls! Truly, why are you both still unwed? It’s a mystery!”
The Dowager Viscountess Fostwick leaned in. “My son is here, somewhere. Lord Fostwick. Tall, terribly awkward, but sweet. I hope you’ll find time for him.”
Elizabeth curtsied with polite gratitude. “We’d be delighted, Lady Fostwick.”
“You were ill recently, were you not, Lady Elizabeth?” one asked kindly. “You look a touch wan still.”
“Oh, yes. I believe I… I overindulged in something disagreeable. It’s terribly embarrassing.”
“No need to explain, dear,” Lady Eastbrook patted her hand. “We’ve all had our moments.”
After a few more polite exchanges, Elizabeth and Wilhelmina slipped around the edge of the refreshment tent.
There was shade, breeze, and the blessed quiet of no judgmental eyes.
Elizabeth took a glass of lemonade and exhaled slowly.
And then, her reprieve shattered.
“Ye look like ye’re hidin’, lass,” came that unmistakable voice behind her.
Alasdair.
The air thickened. She didn’t turn immediately. Of course he would find her the moment she stepped back into society.
She faced him at last.
He stood tall in a dark coat, broad-shouldered and unreadable. His presence blocked the sun—and stole her breath.
“I’m not hiding,” she lied, keeping her tone even. “I was thirsty.”
“I wasnae talkin’ just about today,” he said, his voice low. “Ye vanished. Have ye been well?”