Chapter Two #2
“I hope we shall have occasion to continue this fascinating discussion of botany, Miss Hayfield,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “I find myself suddenly quite interested in… specimens.”
Then he was gone, melting back into the crowd, and Eliza was left standing with her heart pounding and her hand tingling and absolutely no idea what had just happened.
She should have recovered quickly.
It was only a conversation. Five minutes, perhaps ten, of verbal sparring with a notorious rake who probably had similar conversations with a dozen women each evening.
There was nothing remarkable about it. Nothing that should have left her standing frozen among the ferns, staring at her own hand as though it belonged to someone else.
And yet.
She could still feel him. The ghost of his touch. The warmth of his proximity. The way his voice had dropped when he’d asked about the ferns, taking on a quality that made her think of things she did not have names for.
What is wrong with me?
She retrieved her gloves from where she had abandoned them and pulled them on with trembling fingers. The silk felt wrong against her skin, a barrier where there had been none, a reminder of the contact that had passed between them.
Miss Thornbury appeared at her elbow, eyes bright with curiosity. “What did he say to you?”
“I… we discussed botany.”
“Botany?” Miss Thornbury’s expression suggested this was the least likely topic imaginable. “For all those minutes?”
“He seemed interested in ferns.”
“Hollowshade is not interested in ferns.” Miss Thornbury’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Hollowshade is interested in women. And he spent a very great deal of time talking to you, which means…”
“It means nothing.” Eliza’s voice came out sharper than intended. “He was bored, I was convenient, and now he has moved on to more interesting pursuits.”
But even as she said it, she felt his gaze on her again. That weight. That awareness. She looked across the room and found him watching her from beside Lord Worthington, his expression unreadable.
He was still looking at her.
Why was he still looking at her?
She made herself turn away. Made herself attend to Miss Thornbury’s chatter. Made herself appear as though she were not aware of the Duke of Hollowshade’s attention following her through the room.
The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of music and movement. She danced once, a country dance with a young gentleman whose name she immediately forgot, and spent the rest of the time refusing to look for him.
Not always successfully.
Every time she glanced across the ballroom, he was there. Not staring obviously, not making a spectacle of his interest, but present. Aware of her. His grey eyes would find hers for just a moment before she looked away, her cheeks burning, her pulse racing with something she could not name.
It was maddening. It was terrifying.
It was, she realised with dawning horror, thrilling.
This was what they warned about. This magnetic pull.
This inability to think clearly in his presence, to maintain the distance that propriety required.
Her mother’s letters, her aunt’s careful instructions, every piece of advice she had received about navigating the Season, all of it had included warnings about men like this.
Men who made you feel seen.
Men who made you feel special.
Men who could destroy you with a smile and a few well-chosen words.
She should be terrified.
She was not entirely certain that terror was the right name for what she was feeling.
***
The carriage ride home was silent.
Beatrice had questions, Eliza could see them burning behind her cousin’s carefully composed expression, but something in Eliza’s face must have discouraged inquiry.
They sat in opposite corners of the carriage, swaying with the motion of the wheels, the gaslights of London sliding past the windows in a blur of amber and shadow.
Eliza pressed her forehead against the cool glass and closed her eyes.
Her body felt strange, too warm, too aware, as though every nerve had been sensitised by the evening’s events.
She could feel the rocking of the carriage in her bones.
Could feel the whisper of silk against her skin with unusual intensity.
Could feel, still, the phantom pressure of his fingers against her hand.
This is madness, she thought. I spoke to him for a handful of minutes. He held my hand for three seconds. There is no reason, no rational reason, for me to feel as though my entire world has tilted on its axis.
And yet.
A man had talked to her at a ball.
That was all. That was the entirety of the evening’s events, stripped of drama and significance. A man had talked to her, had held her hand for perhaps three seconds, had looked at her with attention that might have meant anything or nothing.
So why did she feel as though something fundamental had shifted?
She pressed her palm flat against her thigh, feeling the pressure through layers of silk and muslin. The hand he had held. The skin he had touched. She could still feel the echo of his fingers, could still conjure the exact sensation of his grip, firm but not forceful, warm, deliberate.
He has held a hundred hands, she reminded herself. A thousand. You are nothing special. You are merely the novelty of the evening, and by tomorrow, he will have forgotten your name.
This was certainly true. It was also, for reasons she could not articulate, unbearably painful to contemplate.
“Eliza.” Beatrice’s voice was gentle. “Are you quite all right?”
“Yes. Of course. Merely tired.”
“You look… unsettled.”
Unsettled. Yes, that was one word for it. There were others, overwhelmed, confused, terrified, wanting, but unsettled would do.
“It was a great deal of stimulation,” Eliza said. “I am unused to such events.”
Beatrice studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Mama will want to speak with you tomorrow. About the Duke.”
Eliza’s stomach clenched. “There is nothing to speak about.”
“There is always something to speak about where Hollowshade is concerned.” Beatrice’s voice held a warning that Eliza was not certain she understood. “He is not… he is not the sort of man one trifles with, Eliza. Nor is he the sort of man who trifles without purpose.”
If his attention continues.
The words hung in the air between them, unspoken but understood. Eliza should hope it did not continue. She should pray that tonight was an aberration, a momentary curiosity that would fade by morning.
She should want to be forgotten.
The truth, the terrible, shameful truth, was that she did not.
Sleep did not come easily.
Eliza lay awake in the narrow bed of her borrowed room, staring into the darkness.
The house had long since fallen silent, yet sleep remained stubbornly beyond reach.
She had changed out of her ball gown hours ago. Washed. Brushed out her hair. Done everything she ordinarily did before retiring. None of it had helped.
Her thoughts returned, with infuriating persistence, to the Duke of Hollowshade.
To the unexpected ease of their conversation. To the unsettling intensity with which he listened. To the warmth of his fingers against hers.
Most of all, to the moment she had accused him of performing.
Something had flickered across his face then. Surprise, perhaps. Or recognition.
As though she had glimpsed something he preferred remained unseen.
That, more than the flirtation, unsettled her.
Everyone knew what Hollowshade was. A rake. A libertine. A man whose reputation stretched across half of London. She ought to dismiss the evening as nothing more than a polished performance from a man who had spent years perfecting his charm.
Yet certainty eluded her.
She turned onto her side and closed her eyes. It was no use.
Every attempt at reason dissolved into the memory of grey eyes fixed upon her across a crowded ballroom.
This is madness, she thought. He held my hand for scarcely a moment. There is no rational reason for any of this.
And yet her pulse continued to misbehave whenever she recalled him.
Sometime before dawn, she drifted into uneasy dreams, filled with gathering storm clouds and distant thunder.
She woke unrested.
Morning brought a measure of clarity, though not comfort.
Whatever fascination she felt, it changed nothing. Hollowshade’s reputation had not been invented. Other women had undoubtedly believed themselves different. Wiser. Better able to resist.
She would not make the same mistake.
Or so she told herself.
When her aunt’s summons arrived before breakfast, delivered by a maid whose expression promised nothing pleasant, Eliza felt an inexplicable tightening in her chest.
She dressed with particular care and went downstairs.
Whatever awaited her, she suspected the previous evening was not yet finished with her.