Chapter 15 #3
As his brother still had not appeared, Emily raised her hand to stop him, nearly taking his arm. She caught herself before committing that impropriety, but hastened to speak.
“My lord, I have noticed your brother is not in attendance this evening. Does he plan to arrive later or…?” If Lyness—Mr. Eastwood—was not coming at all, she would rather know in that moment than spend the entirely of the ball looking for him in the crowd.
“My brother?” He blinked at her, then looked back over his shoulder, as though he had realized in the same moment that his younger brother did not shadow him.
“He arrived with us. He must have been delayed by someone. I am certain he will appear at any moment. I will tell him you asked after him, if he finds me before he speaks to you.” He returned to his bow, then walked toward his mother.
Her heart tripped as she looked toward the doors again. He was here. She would see him. Dance with him. And, hopefully, decide what to do about the pull she felt every time he came near.
Juniper rejoined her, standing directly at Emily’s side. “That conversation seemed to go well.” She studied Emily, her eyes curious and kind. “Are you looking forward to dancing with the baron?”
“Yes. Of course.” Emily checked the buttons on her gloves. “I am. I have not danced with him since that first ball in London.”
“No. You have not. Nor have you danced with Mr. Eastwood.” Juniper raised her eyebrows slightly. “I heard you ask after him.”
Oh. Emily forced her smile to shrink to a more neutral expression. “It seemed polite. Was it wrong?”
“No.” Juniper’s brows drew together. “Not in the least. But I do wonder, my dear, if—”
Miss Nelson returned at that moment, and relief made Emily greet her with greater enthusiasm. She did not know what Juniper wondered, but she could guess it had something to do with Juniper’s curiosity toward Mr. Eastwood. A thing Emily couldn’t discuss at present without heat coloring her cheeks.
“I am eager for the dancing to begin, Miss Nelson. I can understand the appeal now to arriving late to a ball.”
“Oh, but you did find one benefit,” sighed Miss Nelson, using her fan to tap Emily’s arm, “to have one’s supper dance secured so early in the evening, and by one of the most eligible bachelors in York, is quite an accomplishment. You must feel very grand indeed, Lady Emily.”
“I feel…” Emily searched for the right word. Trapped would not do. “I feel aware, painfully so, that I must not tread upon Lord Hartwell’s toes, either literally or figuratively.”
Miss Theodora laughed. “I am sure you will do no such thing. You looked perfectly at ease while speaking with him.”
“That is different,” Emily said. “I will have to keep up a conversation for a quarter of an hour, at the least, while going through the steps of the dance. I hope no one thinks poorly of him for any ungracefulness on my part.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Nelson declared. “He seemed pleased when you accepted his invitation. And what does it matter, what anyone else thinks? Everyone is far too occupied with themselves to notice others. Well. Almost everyone.”
The younger Miss Theodora leaned closer, her eyes sparkling. “Speaking of being occupied, I do believe Mr. Holly is about to occupy my full attention. Look—there he is. With Mr. Eastwood and a stranger. That must be his cousin from Town.”
Emily turned around at once. Mr. Holly made his way toward them through the throng, offering polite nods and smiles to others as he came.
On one side of him was a man Emily had never seen before, nor had much interest in.
Beside that man walked another gentleman, taller and more soberly dressed, his expression distinctly displeased.
Her breath caught.
Lyness.
Lyness Eastwood lingered on Blake Street after his mother and brother disappeared into the Assembly Rooms ahead of him. The lamplight glowed warmly through the tall windows, music already threading faintly into the night, but he made no move to follow.
He was not eager to do more injury to his heart.
Even so, the desire to go inside tugged at him relentlessly.
To see Lady Emily again. To assure himself that she was well, enjoying herself, not overwhelmed by the noise and movement of the evening.
He could scarcely think of the panorama exhibit without his pulse quickening—those quiet moments when she had leaned into his presence without hesitation, when she had placed her hand in his as though it belonged there.
Stolen things, those moments. Not meant for him.
He had lived his life accustomed to standing behind his brother.
Roman stepped forward; Lyness supported him from behind.
Roman spoke; Lyness ensured the details held together.
He waited in the wings, ready to step in only if his brother faltered.
It had never troubled him before. He had never wanted anything for himself that Roman wanted.
And while Roman did not yet possess Lady Emily’s affections—or her hand—he had marked his interest plainly enough. An interest their mother approved. An interest the world would understand.
So Lyness remained where he was, weighing the loyalty to his brother against his longing to see the lady. Something in him rebelled against that loyalty when he thought of Emily.
The thoughts were not merely of her sweetness, though she had that in abundance, nor her kindness—but the way she spoke, thoughtfully, of people and plants and the life she had known before her title.
The careful honesty with which she spoke of her fears.
The canary they had rescued together, cradled gently in his hat as she trusted him to treasure what she had found worthy.
He admired her intelligence, the spark that lit her eyes when she spoke of her sketches or her herbs. He understood her unease with society’s expectations because he had lived beneath those expectations all his life—measured, assessed, found wanting in ways no one ever understood.
Her struggle was achingly familiar.
And somewhere between reproaching himself for holding her hand and longing to do so again, he had realized the truth he most wished to deny:
He wanted to know her heart.
And his own wanted—foolishly, dangerously—to be known by her.
Was there anything more extraordinary than being seen as one was, without judgment? She did not hear his stutter and look away. She did not regard him as Roman’s lesser echo. She saw a man with interests, with purpose, with worth.
He wanted more time with her.
The thought settled heavily in his chest.
They had met months ago in London, danced once, exchanged nothing but pleasantries—and yet she had occupied his thoughts ever since.
Had the circumstances been different, had he not been summoned away to York so abruptly, perhaps he might have found the courage to ask for more.
In London, surrounded by countless eligible women for Roman to notice, Lyness might have—
A hand landed on his shoulder.
He turned sharply, breath caught, irritation rising—then exhaled as he recognized Christopher Holly.
“Holly,” he said. “You startled me.”
“My apologies.” Holly smiled faintly. “I called your name twice. I have never seen a man glare at a building with such intensity. Though I grant you, the matchmaking matrons inside are enough to inspire dread in even the bravest souls.”
The jest landed poorly. Lyness shook his head. “I am reconsidering my attendance this evening.”
Holly’s brows rose. “That is unexpected. Has a dragon taken residence inside the Assembly Rooms? I cannot imagine you being frightened by anything less.”
“You mistake me for my brother,” Lyness replied, the words dry. “I am not the bold one.”
Holly studied him, his expression thoughtful. “That is an odd assessment. You have always been willing to step forward when it mattered—especially when it would be easier to remain silent.”
Lyness adjusted his coat, avoiding his friend’s gaze. “Why are you still outside?”
“I am waiting for my mother and sister,” Holly said, nodding toward the arriving carriages. “My cousin is with us tonight. And you? Why do you skulk about out here?”
“I am not skulking. My family is already inside.” Lyness hesitated. “I cannot recall the excuse I gave for lingering—only that no one questioned it.”
Holly’s expression sharpened. “Lyness Eastwood, I believe I understand what troubles you. I suspected it at your mother’s dinner. The panorama confirmed it.”
Lyness said nothing.
“You have an interest,” Holly continued calmly. “A romantic interest, in fact. In Lady Emily Sterling.”
Lyness swallowed again an outright denial. “You confuse me with my brother. He is the one in a position to have such interests. Not I.”
“What does your brother’s position have to do with your happiness?”
“He is the baron. He holds the estate. He intends to court her.”
“And?” Holly asked, voice lowered as a party of several ladies walked by them to enter the ball. “What if she prefers you?”
Lyness shook his head. “You cannot know that.”
“Nor can you—unless you give her the chance to choose. Ask her, Eastwood.” Holly’s voice softened. “What is the worst that could happen? She is a kind woman. She would not wound you deliberately. But by remaining silent, you deny her agency in her own future. Is that truly what you wish?”
The words struck deeper than Lyness liked. He recognized the truth in them—and rejected it all the same.
“It is not so simple,” he said. “I have neither title nor fortune to offer.”
“So?” Holly countered. “Her father is an earl. She is not seeking advancement. And if she were, she could do far better than your brother.”
Lyness had no reply.
Holly sighed. “A woman like her deserves to know when she is loved.”
Before Lyness responded, Holly stepped away to greet his family as their carriage arrived. Moments later, he returned, his manner composed once more. He had his mother on his arm, his cousin escorted Holly’s sister.
“Mr. Eastwood,” he said, extending an implicit invitation, “will you join us inside?”
Lyness hesitated only a moment.
Then he followed.
The noise of the ballroom struck Lyness at once—the swell of voices, the scrape of shoes against polished floorboards, the bright shimmer of fabric and jewels beneath the chandeliers. The air inside was warmer than outside, heavier, filled with motion and expectation.
He reminded himself to breathe.
Holly guided his family forward, exchanging greetings with acquaintances, and Lyness followed a half step behind, his attention undirected.
Until he saw her.
Lady Emily stood near the edge of the room, her pale pink gown catching the light with every small movement.
She was not at the center of any gathering, nor was she withdrawn entirely—simply present, poised with a few friends around her.
Her gloved hands were folded with careful precision, her posture composed, though something in the angle of her shoulders betrayed her tension.
She looked… luminous.
Not in the way fashion plates depicted beauty, nor in the manner of women trained from girlhood to command a room. It was subtler than that. She looked as though she belonged to herself, even here. As though she carried a quiet gravity that did not demand attention but drew it all the same.
The air left his lungs.
This—this feeling—was the cost of coming inside. Part agony, part longing.
She turned toward then, and for one unguarded moment her eyes swept the room with an openness that startled him. Not assessing. Not performing. Searching.
Looking for someone.
The realization struck him with sudden clarity, and the next instant her gaze collided with his. As his steps ate up the distance between them, covering the marble floors too slowly for his liking, he knew. But the knowledge he dare not yet name lodged in his chest, heavy and insistent.
He had told himself he could stand aside. That he could be content with usefulness, with restraint, with doing what was proper. But seeing her there—brave in her composure, vulnerable in her stillness—he knew the lie for what it was.
He did not want to be useful tonight.
He wanted to be chosen.