Chapter Four
“You are hiding again.”
Eliza did not startle this time. She had been expecting Beatrice’s admonishment from the moment she had positioned herself beside the magnificent hydrangea at the far edge of Lady Marchmont’s garden, the memory of her dream still fresh and burning.
“I am not hiding,” she said, with what she felt was admirable composure. “I am admiring the horticulture.”
“You have been admiring the horticulture for twenty minutes.” Beatrice’s golden curls caught the afternoon sunlight as she tilted her head, assessing her cousin with the practised eye of a veteran campaigner. “Lady Marchmont’s roses are legendary, and you have not so much as glanced at them.”
“I have a particular fondness for hydrangeas.”
“You have a particular fondness for avoiding the party.” Beatrice’s voice softened slightly. “Is this about what Mama said? About Hollowshade?”
Eliza’s traitorous heart stuttered at the name. She kept her expression carefully neutral. “Your mother offered sensible advice. I am merely following it.”
“By lurking behind shrubbery?”
“By maintaining a prudent distance from… certain elements of society.”
Beatrice’s eyebrow arched in a manner uncomfortably reminiscent of her mother. “Certain elements who are not, as it happens, in attendance today.”
Eliza blinked. “He’s not here?”
“Hollowshade rarely attends garden parties. He finds them tedious.” Beatrice’s lips curved with knowing amusement. “So you may cease your botanical surveillance and actually enjoy yourself. The roses really are quite spectacular.”
She swept away before Eliza could formulate a response, leaving her standing alone with the hydrangeas and a complicated tangle of emotions she did not care to examine.
He was not here.
She should feel relieved. She had spent the three days since her aunt’s warning steeling herself for this encounter, rehearsing polite dismissals, practising distant smiles, preparing for the inevitable moment when those grey eyes would find her across the crowd and she would have to pretend she felt nothing.
All that preparation, wasted.
And instead of relief, what she felt was something uncomfortably close to disappointment.
This is absurd, she told herself firmly. You wanted to avoid him. The universe has conspired to make avoiding him effortless. Be grateful.
She was not grateful.
She was… deflated. As though she had braced herself for a storm that had passed harmlessly by, leaving nothing but flat, grey stillness in its wake.
Stop it, she commanded herself. You are not disappointed that a notorious rake has failed to attend a garden party. You are not wondering where he is instead, or who he is with, or whether he has already forgotten the five minutes you spent together.
She was wondering all of these things.
With a sound of disgust at her own weakness, Eliza abandoned the hydrangeas and forced herself to join the party.
Lady Marchmont’s garden was indeed spectacular, a sprawling expanse of manicured lawns, carefully tended flower beds, and artful arrangements of seating that encouraged both intimacy and observation.
The guests were equally carefully arranged: young ladies in pastel muslins, their mamas in more substantial silks, gentlemen in afternoon dress circulating with studied casualness.
Eliza collected a glass of lemonade and positioned herself near a group of young ladies she vaguely recognised from previous events.
The conversation was about ribbons again. Or possibly lace. Eliza found it difficult to maintain focus.
She was scanning the garden. She knew she was scanning it. She could not seem to stop.
He is not here, she reminded herself. Beatrice told you he is not here. You may cease your vigilance and actually attend to Miss Whatever-Her-Name discussing the relative merits of French silk.
“…don’t you agree, Miss Hayfield?”
Eliza blinked back to attention. Three pairs of eyes were regarding her with varying degrees of expectation.
“I… forgive me, I was wool-gathering. What was the question?”
“We were discussing Lord Worthington’s cravat,” said a redheaded girl whose name Eliza could not recall. “Miss Thornbury believes it is tied in the Mathematical, but I maintain it is the Osbaldeston.”
“I am afraid I have no expertise in cravats,” Eliza admitted.
“But surely you must have noticed it at the Worthington ball?” Miss Thornbury pressed. “You were standing quite near him when you were speaking with—” She stopped abruptly, cheeks flushing.
When she was speaking with Hollowshade. That was what she had been about to say.
The air around their little group seemed to shift. Eliza felt the other girls’ gazes on her, curious, assessing, perhaps a touch envious. The whisper network of the ton was apparently quite efficient.
“I was not attending to Lord Worthington’s neckwear,” Eliza said carefully. “I was, as I believe I mentioned, admiring the ferns.”
Someone giggled. Someone else coughed in a manner that suggested suppressed laughter. Eliza felt her cheeks warm and excused herself before further interrogation could ensue.
She retreated toward the rose garden and found a bench tucked into an alcove of climbing blooms where she could be alone with her thoughts.
This is what it will be like, she realised. For the rest of the Season. Whispers and knowing looks and questions I cannot answer. All because I spoke to him for five minutes.
It seemed profoundly unfair. She had done nothing wrong, nothing improper, and yet she was already marked. The Duke of Hollowshade had shown her attention, and that attention had consequences regardless of whether anything came of it.
Nothing will come of it, she told herself firmly. He is not even here. He has probably forgotten I exist.
“Miss Hayfield.”
The voice came from behind her, and it was not a voice she had expected to hear.
Eliza rose from the bench and turned, her heart performing the now-familiar gymnastics that seemed to accompany any thought of—
The Duke of Hollowshade stood at the entrance to the rose alcove, afternoon sunlight catching the dark waves of his hair, his expression one of pleased surprise that she did not entirely believe.
“Your Grace.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “I was told you did not attend garden parties.”
“I generally do not.” He stepped into the alcove, and the space seemed to contract around him. “Lady Marchmont is my godmother, however, and she made her disappointment at my previous absences quite clear. I found myself with a sudden desire to admire her roses.”
“How fortunate for the roses.”
His lips curved, that dangerous, knowing smile that made her stomach tighten. “Indeed. Though I confess the roses were not my primary motivation for attendance.”
Eliza’s pulse quickened, but she kept her expression composed. “Oh? What was your primary motivation, if I may ask?”
“I heard a rumour.” He moved closer, not crowding her but definitely reducing the distance between them. “That a certain young lady with a keen interest in botany might be present. I found I could not resist the opportunity to continue our discussion of… specimens.”
He came because of me.
The thought was heady and terrifying in equal measure. She should not feel flattered. She should feel alarmed. Everything her aunt had told her suggested that his interest was meaningless, a game, a diversion, a predator’s instinct to pursue.
And yet.
“I fear you may have been misinformed, Your Grace.” She forced lightness into her voice. “My interest in botany is purely amateur. I have nothing of value to contribute to any serious discussion.”
“You underestimate yourself.” His gaze held hers, and she felt that intensity again, the weight of his attention pressing against her like a physical thing.
“Amateur enthusiasm often proves more illuminating than professional expertise. Professionals have learned what they are supposed to see. Amateurs see what is actually there.”
“That sounds dangerously like a compliment.”
“Does it?” He tilted his head, studying her. “I apologise. I shall endeavour to be more insulting in future.”
Despite herself, Eliza felt her lips twitch. “Please do. I am far more equipped to handle insults than compliments.”
“Truly? Then you are unlike most women of my acquaintance.”
“I believe we have established that I am unlike most women of your acquaintance, Your Grace. Whether that is a virtue or a failing remains to be seen.”
Something flickered in his grey eyes, surprise, perhaps, or appreciation. “You remember our conversation.”
“It was four days ago. My memory is not so deficient as that.”
“And yet most people forget conversations with remarkable speed. Particularly conversations at balls, where everything blurs into champagne and candlelight.” He paused. “I found I remembered ours with unusual clarity.”
Eliza’s breath caught. She should not read significance into his words. She should not imagine that he had spent the past four days as she had, unable to sleep, replaying every moment, wondering what any of it meant.
And yet.
“I also recall,” she said carefully, “receiving advice to avoid you.”
“Ah.” He did not seem surprised. “Your aunt, I presume. Mrs Ashborn is known for her… protective instincts.”
“She had compelling arguments.”
“I do not doubt it.” His voice was mild, almost amused. “She and my mother were acquainted, you know. Before my mother departed for the Continent.”
“She told me about your mother,” Eliza admitted, and watched his expression carefully for reaction.
There was a flicker, quick, controlled, immediately suppressed, but she saw it. Pain, perhaps. Or anger. Or simply the weariness of a man who had heard his family history discussed at dinner parties for fifteen years.
“Did she.” It was not a question. “And what did she tell you?”
“That your mother left. That your father was… affected.”