Chapter 9 #3
"If I have caused offence," she said, her words clipped, "then I can assure you it was entirely unintentional.
" She drew herself up, lips thin as she looked directly towards Eliza.
The entire park seemed to hold its breath, the birds quietening their singing as they waited for what was to be said next.
A grimace tugged at Lady Ravenshill's expression, only for her to sigh aloud. "I do apologise."
With that, she spun on her heel and marched away, the other ladies following after her. Conversation slowly began to trickle back into the park as Eliza remained exactly where she was, her breathing shallow as she watched Lady Ravenshill's departure.
"Are you quite all right?" Sarah pressed her hand, just as Lord Ashcombe turned to join them. "That was dreadful indeed."
"I do hope you are well, Miss Fairleigh." The gentleness in his voice, the concern in his eyes almost undid her as she closed her eyes against the tears that welled in them. "That was deeply unfair and impolite."
A shuddering breath was her only response, her throat aching with relief and gratitude... and perhaps, something more.
"Perhaps you might wish to join us, Lord Ashcombe?" Sarah suggested as Eliza, drawing in a breath and releasing it carefully, managed to open her eyes without a dam of tears immediately releasing. "There is more than enough here."
A light smile brushed the edges of his lips. "I thank you, Lady Sarah." There was no confirmation there, no acceptance of what she offered but, instead, a question that flickered in his eyes as he looked back at Eliza.
She nodded. "Please," she said, realizing slowly just how much he had offered her by standing against Lady Ravenshill.
It was not only a defense of her but also a visible, tangible taking of her part.
First, there had been the dance last evening and now, here in the park, a willingness to make it more than apparent to all that he did not think of her as they did.
Society might now speak of him, she realized, might begin to whisper about him, about what he had done in coming to her defense.
She had to pray that it would not bring about any stain to his own name, that his connection to her would not damage his reputation in any way, given that it had been at the forefront of his mind from their very first conversation.
"You look worried." Lord Ashcombe smiled briefly, then gestured for her to sit down on the picnic blanket. "Pray, let us talk of something other than what just took place, so that your thoughts are no longer as troubled."
Eliza sat down carefully, aware of a gentle heat that began to push through her when Lord Ashcombe not only sat down beside her but then smiled into her eyes, as though she were the only thing worthy of his attention at present.
Her stomach curled, her breath catching, but she could not look away.
He, it seemed, was the distraction she required at this very moment to forget almost entirely about Lady Ravenshill.
"Thank you for what you did, Lord Ashcombe," she said to him, as Lady Sarah urged Lady Margaret to come to join them.
"I must pray that your actions will not bring you any difficulty since I know that your reputation is — "
"Some things are worth more than one's pristine reputation.
" Lord Ashcombe interrupted her gently, and Eliza's words died on her lips — not because she had forgotten what came next but because she had become aware, suddenly and with uncomfortable precision, of how little space remained between them on the picnic blanket.
A foot, perhaps less. She could see the stitching on his glove where it lay on his knee.
His fingers rested there, open and easy in plain sight — not folded behind his back, as she had so often noticed them before.
She had been in the middle of her sentence about his reputation and the end of it was simply gone, dissolved by the nearness of him.
His hand moved. Slowly, deliberately, he set it over hers.
The warmth of it came through her glove first, then the slight, steady weight of his fingers pressing down over her own.
She did not move. He did not move. The picnic, the park, the distant chatter of Lady Sarah and Lady Margaret — all of it pulled back to a great distance and what remained was the specific, undeniable fact of his hand covering hers and the silence that held around it, one beat longer than propriety strictly required.
"Do not think on it, Miss Fairleigh, I pray." His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. His hand lifted from hers and returned to his own knee. "Let us talk of more pleasant things so that you might enjoy this picnic."
Eliza lifted her chin — and for the first time, the effort of it was almost invisible, so practiced had it become that it no longer required her full attention.
She blinked against the sting behind her eyes, holding the sensation of his hand over hers in the centre of her chest like something fragile she was not yet ready to examine.
"Then know of my gratitude, Lord Ashcombe," she said, as he smiled at her, his green eyes gleaming gently. "I am profoundly grateful."