Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“May I present my wife, the Duchess,” Nathaniel said.
He was speaking to a Viscount and Viscountess whose names Euphemia had heard a mere three seconds ago and had already entirely lost to the white noise roaring in her ears.
She forced the requisite, perfectly practiced smile to her lips, tilting her head at the precise angle expected of a woman of her station, while her mind spun in a frantic, unhelpful circle.
Concentrate, Effie. You have to stop doing this. Concentrate.
The hand on her waist was the entire problem.
They had arrived at Emily’s evening gathering nearly thirty minutes ago, and from the exact moment their carriage had emptied them onto the steps, Nathaniel’s palm had found the curve of her hip.
It had not left. It was there as they navigated the crowded vestibule, it was there as they exchanged pleasantries with a trio of elderly barons, and it was there now, warm and devastatingly heavy through the silk of her gown.
The setting only served to heighten her sensory overload.
Emly had apparently chosen to host the affair within her estate’s newly constructed iron-and-glass conservatory, a massive indoor pavilion that felt entirely outdoor.
Overhead, the glass dome revealed the night sky peppered with early summer stars, while hundreds of white wax candles flickered from hanging brass chandeliers.
The air inside was perfumed by the scent of blooming orange blossoms, night-flowering jasmine, and damp earth from the manicured perimeter beds.
It felt too romantic for just a small… evening gathering.
She was trying, with every ounce of her upbringing, to be entirely normal.
She was supposed to be present in the moment, a gracious guest at a glittering affair, but her focus was utterly shattered by the perplexing proximity of him.
All she could worry about, all that had bothered her for the last half-hour, was the maddening ambiguity of where they stood.
The question she could not stop turning over… the one that had displaced the weather and the flowers and Lord Ashford’s extensive opinions about road conditions … was simply if they were back.
Were they back to what they had been before the distance, before the weeks of avoidance and corridor nods and dinners eaten at different hours?
Were they back to the ball, the first ball, when he had looked at her on the dance floor and she had felt something shift and had spent the entire carriage ride home telling herself it was the punch?
He was acting as if they were the closest of companions.
He steered her through the sea of people, with an attention that bordered on possessive, introducing her to every passing peer as his wife.
Not only as duchess. His wife. Every few minutes, he would lean down slightly, his shoulder brushing hers, to murmur a wry observation about someone’s overly ambitious headpiece or an exceptionally dull conversation they had just escaped, leaning into that humor that always managed to steady her.
Yet, beneath her serene expression, Euphemia was in a state of absolute panic.
She wanted to look at him, to read the green of his eyes and demand to know if the ice had truly melted, or if he was simply executing his duties as perfectly as Eleanor once had.
But his fingers remained resting firmly against her waist, a weight that kept her trapped in a beautiful, agonizing bewilderment.
The Viscount and Viscountess eventually offered their final nods and melted back into the crowd, leaving the two of them standing beneath the shadow of a towering palm.
Nathaniel did not immediately release her waist. Instead, he leaned down, the heat of his breath brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear as he closed the distance between them.
“If that man corners me for another five minutes,” he murmured. “I will be forced to discuss the widening of the southern parish road for the entirety of the evening. I would rather endure another sermon on... chair fabrics.”
The sheer, unexpected proximity of him, the warmth of his chest pressing against her shoulder and the casual intimacy of his tone—made Euphemia catch her breath. She gave a small, involuntary gasp, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs as she looked up at him.
Nathaniel caught the sound. He pulled back just enough to look down into her eyes, his gaze holding hers before that rare, gentle smile tugged at his lips.
“You look as though you need a distraction,” he said softly. “Would you like something to drink?”
Euphemia could only manage a tight, breathless nod of her head.
“Very well. Do not move from this spot,” he instructed, his fingers finally slipping from her waist, though the sudden absence of his hand felt colder than she thought it would. “I shall return shortly.”
The moment his figure was swallowed by the crowd, the tight cord holding her together snapped. Euphemia stepped backward, pressing her spine against the cool glass perimeter wall of the conservatory, and tightly shut her eyes against the bright, dizzying light of the room.
She took a slow, trembling breath, her fingers clutching the fabric of her skirt as she tried to force her racing pulse to slow down.
“Oh, Effie, let’s not do this,” she whispered fiercely to herself under her breath, a desperate plea directed at her own betraying heart. “Please be normal. Please, just be normal.”
She opened her eyes, watching the space where he had vanished into the crowd, the cool glass of the conservatory wall anchoring her against the sudden heat in her face.
The truth of it was no longer something she could rationalize away.
It had taken root the morning after her collapse, the moment she woke up after that heartbreaking conversation in her bedroom, and her first conscious thought was a sudden, aching desire just to see his face and be near him.
In the days since, that longing had only intensified.
Though they shared occasional lunches together, his responsibilities often drew him away from the estate on endless business, leaving her to wander the grand rooms with a restless, empty feeling she had never experienced before.
She had harbored the secret for weeks, analyzing it.
She knew the exact symptoms of this particular affliction, she had read about them in a hundred different contexts, but experiencing the rapid pulse, the breathlessness, and the constant, consuming thoughts of another person was entirely different.
There was a name for what was happening to her, a beautiful, terrifying word she couldn’t dare say out loud, not want to risk the brittle friendship they had formed.
She had developed genuine romantic feelings for her husband.
It was a twist of fate she had never anticipated, a vulnerability she hadn’t prepared for when she agreed to this arrangement.
Yet, as she watched the elegant guests move beneath the candle-glow of the pavilion, her gaze kept drifting back toward the crowded floor, searching for a glimpse of him.
She was determined to keep the truth locked away, to protect herself at least until she was certain of what he thought of her.
But as her heart gave another traitorous flutter merely thinking of him, she knew she was running out of time before Nathaniel figured out that she had come to love him.
“I could tell it was you even before I saw your face.”
The voice broke through her frantic thoughts, causing her to gasp slightly as she turned. Thaddeus, Nathaniel’s friend was standing a few paces away, holding a fresh glass of wine.
“Did I startle you?” he asked, stepping closer into the shadow of the palm tree.
“No,” she said, quickly smoothing down her skirts and offering him a polite smile. “Not at all, Your Grace. I was merely taking in the room.”
“Good,” he said, though he didn’t quite look convinced. He shifted his weight, looking at her intently. “How are you, if I may ask?”
Euphemia raised her eyebrows. “I am... all right, I suppose.”
He nodded and sighed. “It was quite a scare when you slumped the other day. You gave me a tremendous scare. In fact, I have been plagued by the thought that perhaps part of it was my fault, because of what I had said to you before it happened.”
Euphemia immediately shook her head, eager to dispel his guilt. “Oh, no. Please do not think that. It was not you at all. I was simply a little tired, and frankly, I think it was because I had not been getting enough sleep.”
Thaddeus tilted his head, a wry, knowing smile playing on his lips. “What, precisely, was keeping you from your sleep? What was troubling you so?”
The question made Euphemia’s heart skip a beat.
She averted her eyes, unable to answer him directly.
As she looked away, she caught the look in his eye and dread washed over her.
She could tell he knew something. She was utterly terrified that he had somehow figured it out.
What if he realized that the true reason she had been so deeply troubled, the reason she was losing sleep, was because she wanted so much more from her husband than a mere arrangement?
She did not dare ask Thaddeus about it, fearing that even a whisper of confirmation would make her vulnerability real.
Desperate to steer the conversation away from her own traitorous heart, she quickly changed the subject. “Nathaniel told me about the late duchess. About Eleanor.”
Thaddeus let out a long, dramatic groan. “Finally,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I have been meaning to talk to you about that. I hope you know I did not mean it in a bad way when I brought her up before. I only wanted you to know that you are entirely different from the late duchess.”