One
“My dear, if he bows any lower, he’ll be kissing the floor instead of her hand.”
Baroness Hartwell delivered her judgment like a woman who’d seen every excess and found most of them wanting. She leaned against her silver-tipped cane and gestured with it toward the receiving line where some dandy performed an elaborate swoop over the Duchess of Icemere’s gloved fingers.
Miss Eliza Hartwell, for her part, did not so much as blink, for her attention was upon the man she had formed a habit of observing behind her fan. Though she did respond to her aunt and employer, “Some women enjoy the spectacle.”
“Who would have thought my dear June would ever tolerate such sycophancy?” Lady Hartwell continued. “But we are made of sterner stuff, you and I.” Her gaze returned to Eliza, sharp as a hawk’s. “Eliza, do you perhaps lack interest in Lord Tewksbury’s performance? You attention appears to be elsewhere.”
“Do I not?” Eliza murmured, tilting her head to have a better view of her target as several lords circled him.
“What is it about my nephew that has your attention this evening?” Lady Hartwell punctuated that with a nudge against Eliza’s ribs.
She started then blinked and turned to her aunt. “My Lady, you know how keen I am of observing people.”
Without waiting for a response, nor seeking permission, Eliza returned to her task. August Vestiere, the Marquess of Barrington was the sun around which theton’sattention orbited. He already bore the responsibility and authority of the Duke of Wildmoore while his father as still alive due to illness.
At present, August was dispensing laughter in generous measure to a crescent of powdered matrons, making even the plainest debutante glow with the thrill of being noticed. A gentleman spilled his wine; August’s handkerchief appeared as if by conjuring, dabbing at sleeve and pride alike. Two old rivals met eyes across the crowd, and August slipped between them with the deftness of a seasoned diplomat, clapped each on the back, and turned scowls into mutual smirks.
He was, Eliza thought, astonishingly good at this.
What the room did not see, because it was not looking or because it refused to see what it did not expect, was that August’s smile always arrived a second before his eyes did. That he touched his temple with two fingers between conversations… as if torest. That, when the music rose too loud, he tensed almost imperceptibly in the shoulders.
He was a man built for the gaze of others, but it cost him dearly.
“You stare at him as if you can read his mind,” Lady Hartwell said, and Eliza turned to see the older woman’s gaze intently on her.
“Perhaps I can,” Eliza replied though she immediately regretted the boast. It was not in her nature to play these games, but if she let Lady Hartwell do all the needling, she’d be unfit for her post by the end of the week.
The Baroness, who was her late uncle’s widow, was the only family Eliza had left and employed her as a companion. This saved Eliza from genteel poverty and also taught her a lot about theBeau Monde’ssuperficiality.
“If so, you’re the only woman in London with such a gift,” Lady Hartwell said, a spark of admiration in her wrinkled eyes. “Most of them are content to read his face.”
At that moment, August caught Eliza’s gaze across the ballroom. Only for a breath. There was a flicker of… recognition? Defiance? The question of who was appraising whom was very much open to debate. Then a dowager countess seized August’s sleeve, and the game was over.
Eliza let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“You disapprove,” Lady Hartwell said, not as a question.
“Of which?” Eliza asked. “His effect on the room or the room’s effect on him?”
“Both, I suppose,” Lady Hartwell said, as if she had not expected to be understood so well. She tapped her cane twice. “But I do worry for him. Underneath the charm, there is…”
“A man who finds no comfort in crowds,” Eliza supplied.
“Perhaps. But he’s very good at pretending otherwise,” Lady Hartwell said. “It is the family disease, you know. That and gout.”
Eliza’s lips curved though the movement was barely perceptible.
“I would not call it a disease,” she said. “More a… method of self-preservation.” She felt her employer’s attention intensify. “He is not so different from most men of his rank, except that he has learned to care less about the opinions of others and more about their amusement.”
“Amusement is a kind of currency,” Lady Hartwell agreed. “But do not mistake him for frivolous. No one who has survived my sister’s birthing suite is capable of true frivolity.”
At that, Eliza did permit herself a smile. “Your Ladyship has a rather bleak view of the world.”
“Bleakness is the companion of clarity, child.” The Baroness’ eyes turned back to August, who was now skillfully separating two would-be dueling bachelors with nothing but a word and a half-bow. “I admire him for all his faults. Or perhaps because of them. If I had his constitution, I’d have made a far better baroness.”
“You have done very well for yourself,” Eliza said, meaning it. Lady Hartwell was feared by half the peerage and respected by the rest. A woman who had navigated a world of men with nothing but wit, wealth, and the refusal to be ignored.