Chapter 9
Nine
“That was positively charming of you,” Eliza said, each word clipped as she dipped into a curtsy at the pivot of the quadrille.
August caught her hand, steadying her through the pattern, his grip calculated to look tender for any onlooker. “Are you pleased to find me this charming, Eliza?”
She smiled, so white and cold it could have powdered a room. “Your definition of charm differs from mine, I believe.”
He leaned in, voice low enough to vanish under the music. “You wound me.”
“Not nearly enough,” she replied, stepping away to link arms with the next gentleman in the set. When her path brought her round to August again, his eyes caught hers—glinting with mischief but also something sharp and private.
“You are enjoying yourself,” he accused.
Eliza shrugged. “I have been waiting my whole life to disappoint a ballroom full of expectations. Why not savor it?”
He laughed, drawing the eyes of half the matrons in the room.
The sound curled between them, more intimate than a hand at her waist. He kept her close for the remainder of the dance, always a hair’s breadth nearer than custom dictated, his palm warm at the small of her back as they navigated the figures.
If the set piece of their affection was for show, Eliza found it oddly thrilling to play along. Every tilt of her chin, every arch of her brow, was a line in a script for which only the two of them knew the stage directions.
When the dance ended, August offered his arm, and she accepted. The crowd parted with grudging deference, eyes devouring every step they took together. Lady Wilhampton’s stare, across the ballroom, was a musket loaded with venom, but Eliza only lifted her lips in a shade of a smile.
August steered her toward the refreshment table where crystal bowls of syllabub and towering plates of petit fours awaited. He fetched her a glass then stood so close the sleeves of their jackets whispered together.
“You have an audience,” he observed. “Enjoy it.”
Eliza took the glass, letting her gloved hand brush his for just a moment. “You flatter yourself.”
He bent slightly, as if to confide a secret. “Do you think she is watching us?”
“Lady Wilhampton has not blinked in half an hour. I suspect she is attempting to incinerate me through sheer malice,” Eliza replied.
August’s voice was a tease. “You have always attracted the best sort of enemies.”
She sipped the syllabub. “It is one of my more reliable traits.”
Another couple swept by, pausing to offer congratulations. The gentleman grinned at August, the lady at Eliza, both too polished to let their disappointment show.
“You have surprised us all, Lady Barrington,” the woman said. “We never imagined the Marquess could be so thoroughly… tamed.”
Eliza inclined her head. “One does what one must, Lady...”
“Does one?” the lady replied, lips parted as if in disbelief. “And how did you manage it?”
August intervened, “Her persistence is legendary. I recommend you never cross her in a game of whist.”
The lady laughed, a trill that barely concealed the snub. “I see. Tamed by skill, not by temperament.”
“Both,” Eliza said and saw the woman blink, uncertain if she’d been insulted. August’s eyes flicked to hers, and for an instant, his admiration was unguarded.
They were beset, for a time, by the customary deluge of congratulations and commentary. A dowager with a penchant for florid hats asked after Eliza’s ‘strategy,’ and a trio of simpering debutantes studied her with the fascination usually reserved for a dangerous animal at the menagerie.
Every inquiry was the same, beneath the frills: How did you catch him? What did you promise? What is he like in private when the audience is gone?
Eliza met each volley with unflappable composure.
“I did not catch him,” she said to the next hopeful. “I simply let the net close around us both.”
Another pressed, “But surely you had a plan? No one tames Lord Barrinton without a design.”
“Some men,” she replied, “require only the illusion of pursuit to find themselves cornered.”
She felt August’s attention, even as he kept the conversation flowing for the crowd.
A lull arrived and with it, Lady Wilhampton at last. She approached in a column of green and black, her fan a weapon at the ready.
“My Lord and Lady,” she curtsied, giving the bare minimum of deference, “I must congratulate you. Your waltz was a thing of beauty, and I confess, I am envious.”
August gave a perfect bow. “You should join the next set, Lady Wilhampton. I am sure you will inspire awe.”
Her eyes cut to Eliza. “I do hope you know how lucky you are, Lady Barrington. Not all men can be so... attentive to a new bride.”
“On the contrary,” Eliza said, “I find him quite average, compared to the reputation.”
Lady Wilhampton’s fan paused, just a shade too long. “A man’s reputation is often a more faithful companion than his wife.”
August, unperturbed, added, “I assure you, my wife is the only companion I require.”
There was a shiver in the crowd—a titillated, hungry awareness of the drama.
The Marchioness smiled, brittle. “I shall leave you to it then.”
She drifted off, and August turned to Eliza, mouth curved in private amusement.
“You are enjoying yourself,” he repeated.
“Immensely,” Eliza allowed. “It is a rare pleasure to be underestimated then overrated, all within the span of an evening.”
“You have managed both with style,” he said, and for a second, the words rang true, unencumbered by performance.
The music shifted, a waltz giving way to a cotillion, and the room’s energy bent toward the supper room. August led Eliza through the knots of conversation, never letting her out of arm’s reach.
At the edge of the assembly, May intercepted them. She looked every bit the Duchess of Irondale—regal, poised but with the gleam of mischief that marked the Vestiere line.
“Eliza,” May said, drawing her aside. “I will not keep you, but—” She took a breath, cheeks coloring. “I have never seen him so happy. He laughs; he smiles. You have done what none of us managed in years. Thank you.”
Eliza, momentarily speechless, managed, “It is not what you think.”
May gripped her hand, firm and warm. “It never is until it is.”
She vanished back into the crowd, leaving Eliza to the surge of guilt, pride, and something else she could not quite categorize.
August returned to her side, as if summoned by magnet or fate.
He offered his arm, and this time, she took it without a word, letting herself be guided, letting the rest of the evening wash over her.
She caught one more glare from Lady Wilhampton, one more nudge of curiosity from a neighboring peer, and the heat of August’s hand at her elbow.
We are very good at this, she thought. Too good.
The music, the laughter, the performance of perfection—all of it swirled around them as they made their farewells.
She wondered what, if anything, would remain of the performance once the curtain fell.
The carriage door closed on the fevered haze of the ballroom, and with it, all the heat drained from the world. The lamps outside dissolved to embers, and inside the creaking vehicle, Eliza felt the immediate contraction of space—the kind that made every breath a negotiation.
August did not speak. Instead, he untied his cravat with a jerking motion, fingers slipping as if the knot had grown malevolent. He stared out at the night, the planes of his face harder than she had seen all evening.
Eliza removed her gloves, methodically turning each finger inside out before folding the pair in her lap. She watched him in the darkness, a profile hammered out of iron.
“That was quite the performance,” she said, her voice as clear as a bell in the hush.
August’s jaw ticked, but he kept his eyes averted. “I was merely fulfilling our agreement.”
She tapped her gloved hand against her palm. “You always do, don’t you?”
The carriage jostled over a rut, their knees nearly brushing. August shifted, putting another inch of air between them.
Eliza watched the movement then glanced at her own hands, folded and still. “You seemed well-acquainted with Lady Wilhampton,” she said, measuring her words.
August’s silence was a smothering thing.
“Is she a friend?” Eliza pressed, not bothering to keep the edge from her voice.
His gaze cut to hers, gold eyes narrowed. “An acquaintance.”
“She certainly seemed comfortable using your Christian name,” Eliza said.
He smiled, a grim flex. “The ton is full of liberties taken where they oughtn’t be.”
Eliza considered. “Was she your mistress?”
August’s head snapped around, sharp as a blade. “I had thought you above such petty curiosity.”
“It is not curiosity,” Eliza replied. “It is... classification.”
He barked a short laugh. “Are you cataloging my sins already? We have been married less than a fortnight.”
She held her ground. “If it is to be a business arrangement, I would prefer to have an inventory.”
August’s expression flattened. “Then yes. She was once.”
“Recently?”
“Does it matter?”
She looked at him, really looked, and tried to match the callousness he wore so well. “I am deciding.”
He turned his head away, staring out at the shifting black of the city. “The past is not relevant to our arrangement,” he said.
“Do you still see her?” Eliza asked, surprised by how much the answer mattered.
He did not move, but she saw the knuckles of his hand whiten on the edge of the seat. “No,” he said, clipped and final.
Eliza nodded, but the knot inside her did not untangle.
“Our marriage may be one of convenience,” she said, “but I believe fidelity was implied.”
August looked at her now, not with anger but something she could not name. “I honor my commitments, Eliza. Whatever their nature.”
There was nothing left to say. The rest of the journey passed in a kind of suspended animation, each lost in a private theater of regret.
When the carriage drew up to Wildmoore Hall, the footman opened the door. August stepped out first then turned to offer her his hand. She accepted, her palm cold in his. His grip was impersonal, a stranger’s aid.
They crossed the threshold together, but their unity had evaporated. The house, always too large, now seemed built to echo their silences.
They walked the length of the entrance hall, neither speaking. At the bottom of the staircase, they stopped.
Eliza reached for the banister, prepared to climb without a word. But August’s voice caught her.
“Eliza—”
She paused, turning.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, shadows pooling at his boots. For a moment, the mask slipped. There was a crack, a thin fissure of uncertainty running through him.
He seemed about to say something—then thought better of it.
“Goodnight, Lady Barrington,” he said, the old confidence rebuilt in an instant.
She nodded and turned away. She was still getting accustomed to being called Lady Barrington, and when August said it just now, it was as though he liked her having the title.
Up the stairs, through the empty halls, and into the safe dark of her own chamber, Eliza tried to put the evening behind her. She removed her jewelry, unlaced her dress, and set the blue silk neatly across the chair.
At the mirror, she studied the reflection: her hair coming undone, her skin flushed, and eyes clear. She searched herself for hurt and found, instead, a churning curiosity.
Why did it bother her? Why did she want him to be what he only pretended to be?