Chapter 8 #2
“He is watching you,” May murmured.
“That is his favorite pastime,” Eliza replied.
“You do not look as if you mind it,” May observed.
Eliza paused, but before she could answer, a quartet of matrons converged, eager for gossip.
The conversation veered at once to the subject of June’s recent marriage which was dissected with surgical glee.
Eliza nodded along, but her eyes drifted again to August, now deep in conversation with a Parliamentarian and a bishop.
He caught her look, smiled, and raised his glass in an unspoken salute.
He is doing it for them, her mind’s voice whispered. For all of them, not for you.
She shook herself and turned her attention back to May, who was now embroiled in a debate about hem lengths.
An hour passed thus—Eliza making polite conversation, smiling where necessary, watching August perform. He was relentless, and she had to admit, very, very good at it.
As the orchestra launched into a waltz, he reappeared at her side.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“I thought you were too busy charming the room,” Eliza replied.
He drew her in, hand warm against her spine. “The room can wait. I want to see if you can keep up.”
She followed him onto the floor, determined not to be swept or led. He danced like a man who’d invented the form, every step proper, every spin planned to bring her just to the edge of surrender. Eliza refused to stumble, refused to let her eyes drop from his.
“You are not enjoying yourself,” he said.
“On the contrary,” she argued, “I am cataloguing every fault for later recounting.”
He laughed, sharp and real. “I look forward to the list.”
They moved as a single unit, gliding through the currents of conversation and powdered hair. August’s grip was firm but never possessive, and yet she felt entirely owned in a way that was both infuriating and intoxicating.
At the end of the set, he drew her to the edge of the floor, near the orchestra.
She asked, “Is this the moment where you tell me I must smile more, or that I am failing to dazzle sufficiently?”
He leaned close, breath warm at her ear. “No. It is the moment where I tell you that soprano is flat and that every man in the room is praying she will burst a blood vessel and put us all out of our misery.”
Eliza choked back a laugh. “You are utterly disagreeable.”
“Untrue. I am merely efficient.” He smiled again then, softer, he added, “Are you well?”
She searched his face, seeking mockery. Instead, she found a flicker of something—concern, perhaps, or the beginnings of apology.
“I am well,” she said.
“Good.” He offered his arm again. “Champagne?”
She nodded, allowing herself to be led to the refreshment table.
As the evening wore on, with every exchange, Eliza felt herself pulled tighter into the performance. The champagne helped, and she even found herself smiling truly when August muttered asides about the other guests.
“He is the best argument for term limits in the Lords,” he would say, nodding at a bulbous, red-nosed peer.
Or: “If the Countess spends more on birds of paradise, I shall be forced to start a campaign for their emancipation.”
Each time, Eliza bit back a smile, but the effect was cumulative. In truth, she was beginning to enjoy herself.
After their second dance, she excused herself to the retiring room, claiming exhaustion. She did not take long, but when she returned to the ballroom and scanned the crowd, August was not where she had left him.
Instead, he stood near the west wall, speaking with a woman whose presence sucked the air from the room.
She was beautiful in a manner that screamed; her hair was the color of embers, her lips as red as sin, and she wore a dress the shade of envy.
She stood too close to August with her gloved hand at his arm.
Eliza knew her by reputation if not personally. The Marchioness of Wilhampton. A ‘merry widow,’ the sort of woman the ton simultaneously idolized and reviled. Eliza took a steadying breath, then stepped forward.
August saw her at once. His eyes brightened as if he’d been waiting. “There she is,” he said, warmth restored to every syllable. “My dear, allow me to introduce the Marchioness of Wilhampton. Lady Wilhampton, my darling wife, the Marchioness of Barrington.”
Lady Wilhampton appraised her. “How charming to meet you at last,” she purred and curtsied.
“August has told me so little about you,” the Marchioness said, turning the phrase like a blade.
“Likewise, Lady Wilhampton.” Eliza smiled and raised a brow. “You are a friend of his? I do not recall seeing you at our wedding.”
The Marchioness’s eyes narrowed slightly and pressed her lips together.
August turned as a gentleman passed, exchanging a quick word.
The Marchioness used the moment to lean in. “What a… quaint dress,” she observed aloud, her voice sugared. “How refreshing to see someone dress so… practically for a ball.”
Eliza looked down at the blue satin, perfectly cut but devoid of ruffles or excess. “Thank you, Lady Wilhampton. I find that true elegance never needs to pronounce itself quite so… emphatically.”
The Marchioness’s smile slipped a millimeter.
August rejoined the conversation. “Are we discussing fashion?” he asked, his eyes bright and focused on Eliza.
Lady Wilhampton fluttered her fan. “We were merely admiring the Lady Barrington’s… restraint.”
August smiled, his eyes not leaving Eliza. “Restraint is an underrated quality.”
“Surely not in all matters,” Lady Wilhampton said, shifting closer.
Eliza watched the two of them, the mutual awareness, the undercurrent of history. She felt a surge of something—ownership or perhaps only pride.
“August,” the Marchioness said, using his Christian name with the intimacy of shared sins, “you cannot possibly intend to dance only with your wife this evening. You will break a thousand hearts if you refuse every lady in the room.”
Eliza opened her mouth, but August beat her to it.
“I intend to do exactly that,” he said, placing a hand at the small of Eliza’s back. “I find myself content with my choices.”
He turned to Eliza. “Shall we try the quadrille, my love?”
His smile at that instant was the most charming she had ever seen.