Chapter Eight #2
He thought of Elizabeth. He could tell her nothing of the plan. For this to work, it needed to rest in truth. He must distance himself completely, through pretense and through practice alike.
He would do it properly, of course. With none of the crude, obvious flirtation of a man seeking to provoke.
He would join his sister where his presence was expected, present himself where it would be remarked upon, and spend the evening distributing civility with that precise charm society mistook for intimacy.
If anyone later described him as attentive, it would be because he had been attentive.
If anyone later whispered, it would be because he had given them a harmless morsel to whisper about.
With the decision made, Blackwood returned his attention to his sister. “I shall attend with you,” he said, pretending the thought had only just occurred to him. “Your next few outings.”
She looked up slowly, studying him with a frankness few others dared. “You?” she asked, with unmistakable surprise and without unkindness. “Voluntarily?”
Blackwood withheld a smile. He strode to the mantel and adjusted a porcelain figurine that required little adjustment. “It has been remarked upon,” he replied, “that I make insufficient appearances. I would spare you the burden of representation alone.”
Eleanor’s brows rose a fraction. “Since when have you concerned yourself with remarks?”
He allowed himself the faintest shrug. Eleanor folded her hands loosely in her lap.
She possessed a way of observing that felt perilously close to interrogation, though she rarely pressed beyond what politeness permitted.
“And this sudden enthusiasm extends to dances and afternoon calls?” she asked.
“If necessary.”
She watched him another moment. He kept his posture relaxed, his expression untroubled. He did not hurry to fill the silence. He had long ago learned that explanation invited further inquiry.
“At Lady Haversham’s tea?” she ventured.
“If you are attending.”
“And the Kensington musicale?”
“There are limits to my tolerance. A musicale I cannot abide, but I remain attentive to your reviews. I will make myself available for the rest.”
She studied him again, searching for some flicker of mischief or ulterior motive. He offered none. His tone remained even. If she suspected that his renewed devotion to society masked a private purpose, she did not voice it.
Instead, she rose and began sorting invitations into a neater stack. “Very well,” she said at last. “You may escort me. I warn you, however, that I shall expect you to dance.”
He inclined his head. “You may expect what you wish.”
As she turned away, satisfied enough for the moment, Blackwood allowed his expression to settle into thoughtfulness. Eleanor believed this to be a matter of appearances and familial duty. He would allow her to continue in that belief.
***
The first test came at Lady Haversham’s afternoon tea, an event engineered for scrutiny.
Porcelain chimed softly against saucers, conversations rose and fell in waves, and every movement existed for observation.
His sister was already enthroned among a cluster of matrons, receiving compliments with luminous composure.
Blackwood offered his arm to Miss Dalloway.
“You are a rare sight at such an ungodly hour, Your Grace,” she said brightly, her voice trilling as they drifted toward the long, sun-drenched windows. “We had begun to fear you reserved your presence exclusively for darker amusements.”
“I am attempting a most rigorous reform,” he replied, the lie sliding off his tongue with a polished smoothness. “Daylight, I am told, is a sovereign remedy for the character.”
She laughed, a light, agreeable sound, precisely pitched to convey delight without unseemly volume. “Then we are all quite in your debt for the success of the experiment.”
They paused beside a sideboard crowded with delicate, crustless sandwiches and ignored sweets.
“And do you often frequent Lady Haversham’s teas?” he asked, his tone the perfect facsimile of polite interest.
“Oh yes. One must remain visible,” she answered with cheerful candor. “Otherwise, dreadful rumors begin to sprout in the silence.”
“Silence can be remarkably productive,” he said.
“But so very dull,” she countered, tilting her head at an angle she likely believed was charming, her gaze wide and expectant.
He smiled on cue, playing the role of the captivated suitor to perfection.
To any observer, he would appear a man utterly smitten with Miss Dalloway’s easy charms. He looked into her eyes; they were a pleasant, misty grey, open, uncomplicated, and easily pleased.
They offered him little challenge. They searched little for the jagged edges of the man beneath the title.
When she laughed again at a particularly mundane remark of his, the sound came with startling readiness.
Had he truly never noticed it before, just how hollow the echoes were? How obsequious everyone had become in his presence?
Elizabeth’s laughter had never felt obligatory; her responses were never contrived.
Miss Dalloway’s hair, arranged in a series of rigid, careful ringlets, framed her face in a soft, relentless repetition.
It was a darker blonde than Elizabeth’s, closer to the color of dried straw.
Straw? He caught himself, a flicker of dark amusement crossing his mind.
He was losing his grip on his own legendary charm if he had begun comparing debutantes to stable bedding.
Elizabeth’s hair was different; it was a living thing that couldn't help but trap the candlelight and hold it hostage.
When Miss Dalloway spoke, she scanned the room, gauging the crowd, ensuring the invisible spotlight of the ballroom remained centered squarely on her.
“I hope you mean to dance this evening, Your Grace,” she continued, her voice light and expectant.
“You cannot be allowed to abandon us entirely to the grim world of politics and poetry.”
“I shall endeavor to disappoint no one,” he replied.
“That is a dangerous promise,” she said with a playful severity.
“I am accustomed to danger.”
She laughed again, delighted by the suggestion. “Then I shall expect your dance later.”
Blackwood listened, responded, escorted her toward her mother with the requisite attentiveness. To any watching eye, he appeared engaged. His tone was warm. His interest was unmistakable.
Yet as he bowed over her hand in parting, he felt only irritation at his own precision. He had performed the exchange without fault. And throughout it, he had measured her against another woman entirely.
***
The second instance required a broader stage.
Lady Penrith’s evening rout provided it.
Rooms were thrown open, card tables arranged in corners, conversation layered thick as perfume.
Routs encouraged proximity and loosened discretion; one could speak more freely beneath their noise and motion.
His sister was quickly absorbed into a circle near the central salon.
Blackwood ensured her comfort, then allowed himself to be drawn into the slow-moving current of the room.
Lady Arabella Grafton intercepted him near the card tables.
“Your Grace,” she purred warmly with recognition. “You have been unpardonably scarce this Season.”
“I had not realized my absence would be remarked upon,” he replied, offering his arm.
“Oh, it has been remarked upon,” she said, settling her fingers on his sleeve. “And interpreted most creatively.”
“That is a danger I shall endeavor to correct.”
She smiled up at him, her mouth curving in satisfaction. “Do. Society suffers without its mysteries.”
They moved through the crowd at an unhurried pace, pausing beneath the brightest chandelier where observers naturally gathered.
“You are rescuing me,” Arabella murmured as they stopped beside a column.
“I was in danger of spending the evening discussing Lord Rutherford’s gout and potential remedies. ”
“A fate I could not in conscience permit.”
Her hand slid a fraction higher along his arm, a movement hovering just inside propriety, yet possessed of an intimate gravity designed to signal a very specific intention. “You are far kinder than you allow the world to believe, Your Grace.”
“I find the world generally believes whatever it finds most entertaining,” he replied, his voice a smooth, defensive parry.
She tilted her head, tracking the hard line of his jaw with the ease of a socialite who had never known a "no." “And what do you find entertaining, Your Grace? What do you prefer?”
“A peaceful evening,” he said, the lie tasting like ash.
She laughed softly, a low, melodic sound that vibrated against the sleeve of his coat. “How devastatingly disappointing. I had hoped a man of your reputation might prefer somewhere…. considerably less quiet.”
Her eyes were green, striking, direct, and vivid, but they were appraising instead of searching.
They lingered on him with a practiced, expensive warmth, calculating his worth and his weakness in equal measure.
Blackwood recognized the choreography instantly: the proximity that bypassed his personal guard, the softened register meant to create a private world amid the crowd, the seductive illusion of a shared conspiracy.
Ordinarily, he would have found the game flattering. Ordinarily, he might have abandoned himself to that green-eyed heat and sampled exactly what she intended to offer, if only to kill the boredom of the hour.
Tonight, he did neither. The touch felt hollow; the green eyes felt like glass.
“You misjudge me, Lady Arabella,” he said with mild amusement.
“Do I?” Her fingers traced a small arc against his sleeve. “I rarely misjudge men.”
“Then I must be an anomaly.”
She laughed again, lower this time. “I should like to study the anomaly more closely.”
Blackwood inclined his head, his expression composed, his tone unchanged. “I fear you would find it tedious work.”