Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Ihad told the Marquess that we would attend weeks ago, and had entirely forgotten about it before the physical invitation arrived,” Nathaniel said. “I did not think it would be ideal to refuse now.”
Euphemia did not look at him, her gaze fixed securely on the swirling couples on the dance floor as she adjusted the lace at her cuff. “I understand. You do not need to explain it to me, Your Grace. Let us just get it over with.”
Standing together near the edge of the gala was an exercise in pure endurance.
For weeks, the space between them had been icy, but being forced to stand side-by-side amidst the heat and music of London society made the distance feel loud.
They remained frozen in place, staring straight ahead at the surrounding opulence, neither of them offering a caring word to the other.
It was a miserable silence, but Euphemia kept her chin high, wrapping her dignity around her like a shield.
“We are going to be surrounded by the entire ton tonight,” he said sharply, breaking the silence with a tight growl. “We should at least be cordial to one another, Euphemia.”
Euphemia finally turned her head, her expression entirely cool. “No. I see no need for it. We can easily stay away from each other all night, greeting different guests and remaining on opposite sides of the ballroom. It will not be difficult.”
Nathaniel turned to her. “Do not be ridiculous. It is completely illogical. If we spend the entire evening pointedly avoiding one another, the gossips will have a field day. We must present a unified front so rumors do not start.”
“If we smile enough at the people we are speaking to, no one will notice a thing,” she countered smoothly, her voice completely devoid of the warmth she used to offer him so freely.
“They will notice,” Nathaniel insisted, leaning forward slightly. “For one, you are not even looking at me. That alone is enough for the rumors to start.”
A spark of the old anger flared beneath Euphemia’s ribs. She turned fully toward him, her chin tilting upward. “Whose fault is that, Your Grace? You started it. You are the one who demanded a seat of distance between us.”
With those words, she finally looked him directly in the eye.
The impact was instantaneous and breathtakingly intense.
The air inside the room seemed to vanish, replaced by a sudden, suffocating heat that crackled between them.
Nathaniel’s eyes were not the cold stones he had projected for weeks, instead, they were a swirling, chaotic storm of unreadable emotion.
There was what seemed to be a fierce, raw hunger in his gaze, mixed with a desperate, agonizing restraint that made her pulse leap frantically against her throat.
Euphemia felt entirely undone by it, she did not recognize the look in his eyes at all.
It was dangerous, and completely at odds with the clinical husband he claimed he wanted to be.
“Effie...” he breathed, his voice dropping into a ragged whisper that vibrated straight through her core.
His use of her nickname snapped the spell, sending a sharp pang of heartbreak through her chest. She drew herself back, her expression turning utterly stern.
“Do not call me that,” she said, her voice trembling. “You do not get to call me that, Your Grace. It crosses the very boundary that you set yourself.”
Nathaniel flinched as if she had struck him.
He opened his mouth, about to say something.
Euphemia watched, her heart hammering against her ribs, as his large hand slowly lifted, reaching across the small space toward her cheek, his fingers trembling slightly as if he desperately wanted to bridge the chasm between them.
But before his fingers could touch her skin, he froze. The weight of his self-imposed commitments seemed to crash back down upon him, and he slowly... painfully drew his hand back, his fist clenching tightly at his side.
Euphemia finally exhaled. “What is the matter with you?” she whispered, feeling tears sting her eyes.
Before he could speak, a sickeningly familiar voice cut through the silence. “Ah, Your Grace. What an unexpected delight to see you both in town.”
Lord Finch stepped out from the crowd, a predatory smile plastered across his face as he bowed before them. Euphemia’s heart skipped a beat, a cold, paralyzing dread replacing the heat of her anger as she stared at the man who was partially the cause of all her former misfortune.
He was dressed in the height of fashion, his dark blue evening coat molded perfectly to his shoulders and his cravat tied with an obnoxious precision. Yet, despite his polished exterior, his eyes held that malicious gleam that made Euphemia’s stomach turn.
“Your Grace,” Lord Finch murmured, his gaze sliding over Euphemia. “I merely wished to extend my greetings. It has been quite some time since we last crossed paths.”
Nathaniel stiffened beside her, his posture instantly shifting. Euphemia could feel the tension vibrating through his frame.
“Lord Finch,” Nathaniel responded in her stead. “I was unaware you had returned to town. Tell me, what business brings you to our side of the ballroom this evening? I do not recall our schedules ever aligning so neatly in the past.”
Finch chuckled, an oily sound that made Euphemia’s hands tighten around the fabric of her fan.
“Ah, no business of great import, Your Grace. Only a matter of... mutual interest. I merely thought it would be a pity if a man of your considerable standing were to be blindsided by things left unsaid. A gentleman should always be fully aware of the history of his own household, wouldn’t you agree?
There are certain truths, certain gaps, that can be terribly inconvenient if they catch one unawares. ”
Finch tilted his head toward Euphemia, his smile widening as he left the implication hanging heavily in the air.
Euphemia felt a suffocating heat rush to her collarbone, followed immediately by fear.
Her secret was trembling on the very edge of his tongue.
He was playing with her, holding the match to her life just to see if she would burn.
The walls of the ballroom suddenly felt too close, the laughter of the guests morphing into a mocking din.
“If you will excuse me for a moment,” she managed to say, her voice remarkably smooth despite the pounding of her heart. “The heat of the room is rather overwhelming. I require some fresh air.”
Without waiting for Nathaniel’s permission or granting Finch the satisfaction of a formal curtsy, she turned and navigated through the crowd.
Her breathing was shallow as she pushed through the glass doors leading out to the terrace and hurried down the steps into the shadows of the manicured gardens.
The night air was crisp, but it did little to cool the panic in her veins. She paced down a secluded path, hidden from the house by a row of high boxwood hedges.
‘Breathe, Euphemia,’ she commanded herself, pressing a trembling hand to her chest as she took long, deep gulps of the evening air.
‘Stay steady. You cannot fall apart here.’
She was unsure how much time had passed while she stood in the dark.
But it was long enough for the string quartet inside to finish one piece and begin another, the music drifting out through to where she stood.
The rise and fall of the music marked the agonizing passage of the minutes, proving just how long she had been gone, yet the weight in her chest refused to lift.
Every shadow seemed to stretch toward her, and every rustle of the leaves made her fear that Nathaniel would appear at the turn of the path, demanding answers she simply did not have.
Then, a sharp scuffle of boots shattered the quiet.
“A hasty retreat, Your Grace,” a voice murmured from the shadows behind her.
Euphemia whirled around, her spine snapping completely straight. Lord Finch stood at the entrance of the dark pathway, the faint light from the ballroom catching the sinister curve of his mouth. He had followed her into the dark.
“Lord Finch,” she said, her voice dropping into a register of absolute, freezing disdain as she drew herself up to her full height.
“Your conduct is entirely beyond the pale. What gentleman deems it appropriate to follow a lady into the unlit corners of a garden, deliberately cornering her away from the safety of the company? It is a monstrous breach of propriety, and I demand you state your purpose or remove yourself from my presence at once.”
Finch took a step forward, stepping deeper into the moonlight. He did not look like a man chastised by her reminder of propriety, instead, his expression turned insufferably smug.
“Propriety?” he echoed, a mocking laugh escaping him.
“You dare speak to me of what is proper, Euphemia? I find it rather amusing that you wear the title of Duchess so easily, when we both know the truth of what lies beneath those fine silk gowns. Tell me, does the Duke truly know the sort of woman he has brought into his home? Does he know the sheer lack of breeding he has tethered his family name to?”
Euphemia drew herself up, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, though she kept her chin defiantly high. “You know nothing of my character, Lord Finch. I suggest you remember your place.”
“Oh, I know a great deal,” Finch countered, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper as he closed the distance between them.
“I know exactly how you were raised, or rather, how you failed to be raised. I remember the absolute deception of your family, pretending to hold a place of honor while hiding the fact that your father left you with nothing but empty pockets and broken promises. I remember how you conducted yourself when the truth finally came to light.”