Meanwhile, Elizabeth could still see how Lady Grisham had been pleased, but that she intervened when the conversation had veered into “too familiar” territory.
“I believe that we must say adieu for now. We must thank our hosts and go home. My lords, we thank you for your time,” Lady Grisham had said.
When they were on their own, her stepmother looked at her with some wonder and murmured low enough to keep between her and Elizabeth: “I don’t know what was going on, but whateverit is that is you’re doing, keep doing it. Still, we can’t linger too long with the same group of men unless one formally expresses a desire to call on you.”
“I understand, Lady Grisham,” she replied, her voice calm even though her heart was fluttering with relief.
For once, no reprimand. No insult. Not even a pointed sigh.
But the relief was short-lived.
The sensation prickled at the back of her neck first: a strange tightness, as if someone had caught her in their sights. Her spine straightened before she even realized she was searching for the source.
She scanned the room, past feathered fans and careless smiles, past the candlelit lords in pale coats and jewel-toned waistcoats.
And then she found him.
The Duke of Redmoor. Standing still in the sea of movement. Watching her like a storm contained behind a pair of green eyes. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his jaw, the fire in his gaze… it struck her like a blow.
He looked angry.
No, not angry.
Possessive.
As if every laugh she shared and every glance she cast had been a promise broken.
Her breath caught. Heat surged to her cheeks, but not from shame, from something dangerously close to exhilaration.
She forced herself to look away, to face Lady Grisham again and pretend she hadn’t seen him.
But her traitorous, eager pulse throbbed in her throat.
She could still feel his eyes on her. Watching. Waiting.
And this time, she wasn’t sure she wanted him to stop.
Two days had passed since the musicale, and yet Elizabeth’s thoughts remained stubbornly entangled with the Duke of Redmoor.
Now, even as she walked stiffly beside Lady Grisham through the bustling market, surrounded by Wilhelmina, the twins, and their long-suffering governess, her mind refused to settle.
The magic of that night, of those moments in the dark room, of his voice brushing against her skin, had dimmed. Not vanished, but flickering, like a candle in a draft.
The breeze was uncooperative, tugging at her bonnet until it slid askew, forcing her to constantly right it. The gesture was starting to feel symbolic. Even her bonnet refused to behave properly.
“Now you’re quiet,” Wilhelmina said, nudging her with a gloved elbow. “Two nights ago, you were practically a seasoned flirt. Today you look as if you’ve been sent to a convent and just found out they don’t serve tea.”
“Just recovering from the musicale,” Elizabeth murmured, her tone flat—too flat.
Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes. “Two days later? You don’t recoverthatslowly. Not even when the programs are unbearably long and the sopranos shriek like banshees.”
Elizabeth sighed and adjusted her bonnet again. “It’s up to you whether or not you believe me, Mina.”
Wilhelmina hummed, clearly not convinced. Before Wilhelmina could press her further, the twins chimed in with perfect, chaotic timing.
“Can we go to the sweet shop?” Victoria asked, tugging at Elizabeth’s sleeve and bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“You’ll spoil your appetite for the luncheon,” Lady Grisham said sharply, not even glancing their way. “And you eat far too many sweets as it is. Not good for your health. Certainly not for your waist.”