She smiled, returning the jest. “Is that what you’re thinking? Wanting to hide away forever in our own little world?”
“That’s temptin’, Elizabeth,” he murmured, voice low, “but there’s work to be done. These events… they’re more than mere entertainments. They open doors, alliances, answers. And maybe, just maybe, a chance to show yer stepmaither how wrong she was.”
She studied him closely. He was serious, of course. More serious than he let on. She knew justice was his true north but wondered just how much of his drive stemmed from something darker: revenge.
“You were the one who suggested we stay inside, not mingle,” she teased lightly, trying to hold back the shadow that threatened to settle again.
“Aye, true enough. I apologize,” he said, brushing back his hair. “But I believe we should attend Lord Beckwith’s soiree.”
The night of the party, Elizabeth stole a glance at her reflection before stepping into the crowded drawing room.
The sapphire gown she wore clung to her curves, shimmering in the flickering candlelight. Whispers followed her every step. She looked radiant, regal, worthy of the title she now bore.
Seth approached Alasdair with an easy grin. “Your wife’s got ye turning respectable, Redmoor. I reckon your future’s looking brighter than you thought.”
Alasdair laughed. “What’s in me future? Ye a fortune teller now?”
“Poetry readings and operas,” Seth teased. “But I think ye’d enjoy it if it keeps her happy.”
Alasdair shrugged with mock reluctance. “It doesnae sound so terrible.”
Seth clapped him on the back. “I’m truly happy for you. You and the duchess arrive with a new glow. Everyone’s noticing.”
Before Alasdair could respond, his eyes caught movement across the room. Lady Grisham appeared, Wilhelmina by her side.
The younger woman smiled politely, but Lady Grisham’s gaze was icy and deliberate. She might have feigned ignorance, but Alasdair knew better.
Elizabeth’s grip on his arm tightened, a silent plea for strength. He met her gaze, whispering, “Keep yer chin up. She kens ye’ve won.”
The flush that rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks made her look even more magnificent. Pride swelled in Alasdair’s chest.
Then, the atmosphere shifted. Lord Kittridge approached with a deliberate air of civility. The temperature seemed to drop as he extended a hand.
“Duchess,” he said with a measured smile—cordial, but devoid of warmth.
“My lord,” Elizabeth replied with a graceful curtsy, though a subtle tension tightened her shoulders.
Alasdair’s eyes locked on Kittridge, reading the unspoken hostility beneath the surface. He was certain the older lordsensed the undercurrents between them, even if most guests remained oblivious.
“Kittridge,” Alasdair greeted, voice steady.
“Your Grace,” the lord replied, his tone equally controlled.
The silence between the two men was thick with meaning, a silent battle of wills and power. Alasdair’s mind raced, reminding himself to be cautious, and to leverage the unexpected goodwill his marriage had earned him.
Kittridge tilted his head thoughtfully. “I must say, you’ve acclimated well, Your Grace.”
“Of course. I have a marvelous teacher,” Alasdair replied smoothly, a hint of pride in his tone.
Kittridge’s eyes flicked to Elizabeth briefly. Surprise, perhaps, well-hidden. Alasdair noted the cold calculation behind it.
As Kittridge moved away, Elizabeth exhaled softly. “Well, that was peaceful.”
“He probably thinks I’m a buffoon,” Alasdair muttered with a crooked smile. “Let him think that. It’s better when the lords underestimate me, thinkin’ I’m just a tamed Scottish pet.”
“You are not a pet,” Elizabeth said indignantly.
“I’m willin’ to be yers,” he whispered, nudging her gently with his elbow.