Chapter Eleven #2
"Your father…. My father, too, I suppose, though I never met him." Henry's voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "Miss Harrow said he died because he was too sad to live. Is that true?"
Eliza felt her face flame. "I didn't quite say it that way…"
"You said he loved Mama so much that when she died, he couldn't bear to exist without her." Henry frowned. "That's the same thing, isn't it?"
Alistair was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured. "Our mother died in an accident. Our father was... very badly injured. The physicians did everything they could, but…"
"But he gave up," Henry finished. "Because he didn't want to live without her."
Another silence. Alistair's hands had tightened on the papers he was holding, his knuckles going white.
"Yes," he said finally. "He gave up."
"That was wrong of him."
Eliza drew in a sharp breath. "Henry…"
"It was," Henry insisted. "He should have stayed. For you. For me. Instead, he left us alone, and you had to take care of everything by yourself, and you were only…" He looked at Alistair with an expression of fierce disapproval. "How old were you?"
"Twenty-five."
"That's young. For being all alone."
"Yes." Alistair's voice was barely a whisper. "It was."
"Is that why you don't let yourself love things?" Henry asked. "Because you're afraid of ending up like him?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and unavoidable. Eliza watched Alistair struggle with it, and saw the emotions flicker across his face too quickly to name.
"I think," Alistair said slowly, "that I was afraid of what might happen if I let myself feel too much. I thought…" He stopped but started again. "I thought that if I kept everyone at a distance, I couldn't be hurt the way he was hurt."
"But that's foolish." Henry's voice was matter-of-fact. "If you don't let yourself love things, you're hurting yourself anyway. You're just doing it before anyone else can."
Eliza felt tears prick at her eyes. This child. This remarkable, perceptive child could see truths that adults spent years avoiding.
"You're right," Alistair said quietly. "It was foolish. I'm beginning to understand that now."
"Good." Henry returned his attention to his picture book, apparently satisfied. "Because Miss Harrow loves you, and it would be a waste if you were too scared to love her back."
Eliza made a strangled sound. "Henry!"
"What? It's true." He turned a page with studied casualness. "You go pink whenever he looks at you. And you read that poetry book he gave you every single day. And you smile more when he's around." He glanced up at her, utterly unrepentant. "I told you I was observant."
Eliza couldn't bring herself to look at Alistair. Her face was burning, and her heart was pounding. She was going to have to have a very serious conversation with Henry about appropriate topics of discussion.
But not right now. Right now, she couldn't seem to form words at all.
"Miss Harrow." Alistair's voice was strange; rough and soft at the same time. "Is that true?"
She should deny it. Should laugh it off, make some excuse, and restore the proper distance between them.
But Henry was watching her with those knowing gray eyes, and Alistair was watching her with something that looked terrifyingly like hope, and she found that she couldn't lie.
"I read the poetry book every day," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "I find it... comforting."
It wasn't an answer. But it was more than she had allowed herself to say before, and from the way Alistair's breath caught, he understood exactly what she wasn't saying.
"I'm glad," he said softly. "I hoped you might."
They sat in the rain-darkened library, the silence between them charged with everything unspoken, while Henry turned pages and pretended not to notice that he had just changed everything.
***
The dancing lesson was Henry's most audacious scheme yet.
"I need to learn to dance," he announced at breakfast one morning. "For when I'm older and have to go to balls."
"You're six," Alistair pointed out. "Balls are several years away."
"Miss Harrow says preparation is the key to success. And I want to be successful." Henry turned his most winsome expression on his brother. "Will you teach me? You must know how…You're a duke. Dukes have to dance at balls all the time."
"I don't attend balls."
"But you know how to dance?"
"Yes, but…"
"Then you can teach me." Henry beamed. "And Miss Harrow can be my practice partner. She probably knows how to dance, too."
"I do, actually," Eliza said, before she could stop herself. "My father insisted we all learn. He said dancing was a civilized skill that would serve us well regardless of our station."
"See? It's perfect." Henry clapped his hands together. "His Grace can teach us the steps, and Miss Harrow can practice with me, and…"
"And where do you suggest we conduct these lessons?" Alistair asked dryly. "The nursery is hardly suited for dancing."
"The music room! It has that big empty floor and a pianoforte. Miss Harrow can play while you show me the steps, and then she can dance while you play, and then…"
"I don't play the pianoforte."
Henry's face fell theatrically. "Oh. Then who will play the music?"
"Mrs. Crawford plays," Eliza offered, somewhat reluctantly. "She mentioned it once."
"Perfect!" Henry was bouncing in his seat now. "We can ask Mrs. Crawford to play, and then both of you can teach me properly. Please? Please, please, please?"
Alistair looked at Eliza. Something passed between them—resignation, perhaps, mixed with something warmer. They both knew they were being manipulated, but they both also knew they were going to give in anyway.
"Very well," Alistair said. "One dancing lesson. After lunch."
Henry's smile was triumphant.
***
The music room was indeed well-suited for dancing, with a large expanse of polished floor and a fire that crackled in the grate, warming the space and casting dancing shadows across the walls.
Mrs. Crawford had been summoned and briefed on her role, and now sat at the pianoforte with an expression of barely suppressed delight that suggested she knew exactly what was happening and approved wholeheartedly.
The housekeeper was not the only staff member who had taken an interest in the proceedings.
Eliza had noticed James, the footman, finding entirely unnecessary reasons to pass the music room door, and Mary, the upstairs maid, had been "dusting" the same hallway table for the better part of an hour.
The household, it seemed, was invested in this particular drama.
"We'll start with a simple country dance," Alistair said, positioning himself in the center of the room.
His voice was brisk and professional; the voice of a man determined to maintain control of a situation that was rapidly sliding beyond his grasp.
"Henry, stand beside me. Miss Harrow, across from us. "
Eliza took her position, acutely aware of how close they were standing even at this distance. The music room felt smaller than it had ever seemed before, the air thick with tension and something else—anticipation, perhaps. Or danger.
"The basic step is forward, together, forward, together.
" Alistair demonstrated, and his movements were precise and elegant.
Despite his claim of not attending balls, he moved with the natural grace of a man who had been taught to dance by masters.
"Then you turn, bow to your partner, and repeat from the other side. Henry, watch carefully."
"I'm watching."
"Good. Miss Harrow, if you would?"
She stepped forward as the music began—a simple, cheerful melody that Mrs. Crawford played with perhaps more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary.
It was simple enough when they were separated by the width of the room.
But country dances brought partners together eventually, and when they reached the part where they were supposed to clasp hands and circle each other…
Alistair's hand closed around hers.
His grip was warm and firm, his fingers pressing against her palm as they turned in a slow circle. Eliza's breath caught.
"Like this?" Henry asked, apparently attempting the step by himself.
"Yes, very good," Alistair said, without looking at his brother. His eyes were fixed on Eliza's face. "Keep your movements smooth. Don't rush."
They completed the circle and separated, the dance requiring them to move apart before coming back together. The brief distance was almost worse than the closeness because it gave her time to anticipate the next touch, to feel the loss of his warmth and crave its return.
"Now the promenade," Alistair said, and his voice was rougher than before. "Side by side, arms linked."
His arm slid through hers, pulling her close against his side. They walked the length of the room together, her hip brushing against his with every step, her shoulder pressed into his arm.
"This is the boring part," Henry complained.
"Dancing is all about anticipation," Alistair replied, though he was still looking at Eliza rather than his brother. "You walk together, building toward the moment when…"
The music shifted, signaling the next figure of the dance.
"When you come together properly," he finished.
He turned to face her, one hand on her waist, the other clasping her hand, and they were dancing, turning around the room in a waltz that definitely wasn't part of any country dance Eliza had ever learned.
"This isn't the country dance," she managed.
"No." His eyes were dark, intent on her face. "I changed my mind."
"Mrs. Crawford is playing waltz music."
"Mrs. Crawford is a romantic. She recognised the opportunity."
"The opportunity for what?"
"For this."
He pulled her closer—close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through her dress, close enough that her skirts tangled with his legs as they moved. His hand pressed against the small of her back, guiding her through the turns with an expertise that spoke of years of practice.
"You said you didn't attend balls," she said, slightly breathless.