Chapter Four #2
“‘Affected.’” He repeated the word with a thin smile.
“A charitable description. My father was destroyed, Miss Hayfield. Quite thoroughly destroyed. He spent the remaining years of his life as a ghost in his own house, unable to look at me without seeing her face.” He paused.
“I assume your aunt also explained that this history has shaped my views on… emotional attachment.”
“She suggested you had decided never to permit yourself to love.”
“And yet here I stand.” His voice dropped slightly, taking on a quality that made her skin prickle. “Seeking out your company at a garden party I did not wish to attend. What do you suppose that means?”
It was a dangerous question. A question designed to make her hope, to make her imagine she was different from the women who had come before. Her aunt’s warnings echoed in her mind: He makes every woman feel special. It is not because he cares for you. It is because he is skilled.
“I suppose it means you were bored,” Eliza said, proud of how steady her voice remained. “And I provided a few minutes of diversion at the Worthington ball, which made me marginally more interesting than the alternatives.”
He laughed, that surprised sound again, genuine and unstudied. “You have a ruthless honesty, Miss Hayfield. It is… refreshing.”
“I am merely practical, Your Grace. I understand how the world works.”
“Do you?” He stepped closer. The roses surrounded them on three sides, their fragrance heavy in the afternoon air, and Eliza found herself very aware of the privacy of this little alcove. If anyone were to happen upon them… “Tell me. How does the world work?”
“Men of your position pursue women for entertainment. Women of my position are advised to avoid becoming entertainment.” She met his eyes directly. “It is a simple equation.”
“And you believe this equation applies to us?”
“I believe it would be foolish to assume otherwise.”
He was close now. Close enough that she could see the individual threads of silver in his grey eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. Close enough that if she leaned forward, just slightly, she could touch him.
She did not lean forward. But she did not step back, either.
“Your aunt told you I was dangerous,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“She was not wrong.”
“I know.”
“And yet you are not running.”
Eliza’s heart was beating so loudly she was certain he could hear it. “Should I be?”
The question hung between them, charged with something she could not name. His gaze dropped to her lips, just for a moment, barely a flicker, and she felt the look like a physical touch, heat spreading through her chest and lower, into regions she did not care to acknowledge.
“Probably,” he murmured. “A sensible woman would.”
“I have always prided myself on being sensible.”
“And are you? Being sensible?”
She should say yes. She should excuse herself, return to the party, put as much distance between them as possible. Every sensible instinct she possessed was screaming at her to flee.
“No,” she heard herself say. “I do not believe I am.”
Something shifted in his expression, a crack in that practised control, a glimpse of something raw beneath the polished surface. For a moment, he looked almost… vulnerable.
Then the mask resettled, smooth as glass.
“Lady Marchmont is hosting a ball next week,” he said, and his voice was lighter now, the intensity of the previous moment deliberately dispersed. “I have it on good authority that the orchestra is excellent.”
“I have received an invitation.”
“Will you attend?”
“I… had planned to, yes.”
“Good.” He smiled, a real smile, not the wicked curve he deployed for effect but something softer, almost boyish. “Then perhaps you might save me a waltz. I find myself curious to learn whether your expertise in botany extends to dancing.”
It was a retreat. Eliza recognised it for what it was: a deliberate step back from the precipice they had been approaching, a return to the safer territory of social pleasantries. He was giving her space, giving them both space, and she was not certain whether to feel relieved or bereft.
“Waltzes are somewhat thin on botanical content,” she managed.
“Then we shall have to discuss other subjects. I am told I am moderately conversant on any number of topics.”
“‘Moderately conversant’ is not the phrase most often applied to you, Your Grace.”
“No?” His eyebrow arched with amusement. “What phrases are most often applied?”
“I believe ‘devastatingly charming’ featured prominently in recent gossip. Also ‘dangerously attractive’ and ‘absolutely not to be trusted.’”
“And do you find me any of those things, Miss Hayfield?”
The question was light, teasing, an invitation to banter rather than confession. She could deflect easily, match his tone, keep everything surface and safe.
Instead, she heard herself say: “All of them, I’m afraid.”
His breath caught. She saw it, the slight hitch in his chest, the fractional widening of his eyes.
For one endless moment, they simply looked at each other, and Eliza felt something pass between them that she could not define.
Recognition, perhaps. Or acknowledgement.
Or the terrifying awareness that whatever this was, it was already beyond either of their control.
“Miss Hayfield—”
“Eliza! There you are!”
Beatrice’s voice shattered the moment like a stone through glass. Eliza turned to find her cousin approaching the rose alcove with an expression of polite concern that did not quite mask her curiosity.
“I have been searching everywhere for you. Lady Marchmont wishes to introduce you to her niece.” Beatrice’s gaze flicked to William, and something knowing flickered in her eyes. “Your Grace.”
“Miss Ashborn.” He bowed, perfectly proper, perfectly composed. Whatever had passed between them might never have happened. “I was just admiring your cousin’s knowledge of roses.”
“Was she discoursing on the roses?” Beatrice’s tone was arch. “How fascinating. I was unaware Eliza had any particular expertise in roses.”
“Miss Hayfield’s expertise lies in unexpected areas.” His grey eyes found Eliza’s one last time, and she saw in them something that made her pulse stutter. “I look forward to our waltz, Miss Hayfield. Until next week.”
He was gone before she could respond, melting into the garden party with the same effortless grace with which he did everything. Eliza stared after him, her heart racing, her mind struggling to process everything that had just occurred.
“Eliza.” Beatrice’s voice was quiet, urgent. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza admitted. And for once, she was telling the absolute truth.
She did not know what had just happened. She did not know why he had sought her out, what he had wanted, whether any of it had been real. She only knew that her aunt’s warnings had been correct in one respect at least:
Avoiding the Duke of Hollowshade was proving entirely impossible.
And she was no longer certain she wanted to try.
***
That night, Eliza lay awake staring at her ceiling, reliving the afternoon in excruciating detail.
All of them, I’m afraid.
She could not believe she had said it. Could not believe she had admitted, to his face, that she found him devastating and dangerous and untrustworthy all at once. It was the sort of confession that gave a man power, the sort of honesty her aunt would have counselled firmly against.
And yet.
The way he had looked at her afterwards. The catch in his breath. The crack in his composure that she had glimpsed before his mask resettled.
Had any of it been real?
Or was she simply the latest woman to mistake performance for sincerity?
She thought of what he had said about his mother.
The brief flash of pain, or anger, that had crossed his face when Eliza had mentioned what her aunt had told her.
He had not denied any of it. Had not defended himself or offered alternative interpretations.
He had acknowledged that it had shaped him; and then, with that disconcerting softness in his voice, he had asked what she supposed it meant that he had sought her out anyway.
What did that mean? What did any of it mean?
She pressed her hands to her face and groaned into the darkness. She was overthinking this. She was assigning significance to moments that might have none. He was a rake, a practised, polished, expertly skilled rake, and she was a country girl with no experience of men and no armour against charm.
She should protect herself. She should decline the waltz. She should spend Lady Marchmont’s ball firmly attached to her aunt’s side, refusing any invitation that might lead her back into the Duke of Hollowshade’s dangerously compelling orbit.
This was what she should do.
But when she closed her eyes, she saw his face in that moment before Beatrice’s interruption, the vulnerability beneath the polish, the hunger beneath the control. She felt again the heat of his gaze when it had dropped to her lips, brief as a heartbeat but unmistakable.
He had wanted to kiss her.
She was almost certain of it.
And worse still, she had wanted him to.
I am in such trouble, she thought, and the words felt less like warning now than inevitability.
The waltz was in seven days.
She would spend every one of them telling herself not to anticipate it.
She already knew she would fail.