May patted Eliza’s knee. “You must not let them overwhelm you. They are—” she considered, “—like hounds with a scent.”
April laughed. “We are the hounds, and you are the fox! Oh, how delightful.”
At this, the sisters launched into a chorus of questions. Would the wedding be soon? Would Eliza wear white? Did she prefer lilies or roses? Had she chosen her attendants? Eliza tried to answer—she truly did—but the conversation spun so fast she could only offer the occasional “Yes,” “No,” or “I haven’t thought—” before being swept to the next topic.
Lady Hartwell observed it all with the serenity of a woman watching a play she’d seen a hundred times, offering a tart comment here and there but never intervening for long.
Eliza was aware of her own posture, the way her shoulders tensed with every volley. She sat straight and replied as best she could, but it was not long before she felt as though she was being dissected by everyone’s attention.
She was not sure how long it had gone on—a minute or perhaps the length of a siege—before a footman entered and announced, “His Grace, the Marquess of Barrington.”
A hush fell as August strode into the room, a bouquet of hothouse flowers in his arms, the very model of a man in love. His smile was effortless. When he turned to Eliza, the world seemed to orient around the warmth of his gaze.
“For you,” he said, presenting the bouquet.
It was an absurd arrangement: peonies, orchids, something blue and trembling on its stalk. Eliza reached for it. Their hands touched, and the room fell away for half a heartbeat.
She thought,He means none of this, for he is very good at pretending.
But his hand lingered a fraction too long. If it was a performance, it was one with no audience.
The triplets swarmed at once.
“August!” April cried, “You never told us you were courting! I feel betrayed.”
He offered her a dazzling smile. “It was all very sudden. Acoup de foudreas the French say.”
June snorted. “I doubt you have ever suffered a lightning strike that wasn’t carefully anticipated.”
May said, “You did not mention it in your letters.”
He inclined his head to her. “Some news is best delivered in person.”
Lady Hartwell regarded him over her spectacles. “You have caused a considerable stir, Barrington. I hope you are prepared to mend the damage.”
August met her look without flinching. “I am prepared to do whatever is necessary.”
“Good.” Lady Hartwell gestured to a tea service. “Begin by pouring for your fiancée.”
He obeyed, seating himself beside Eliza, moving with the relaxed assurance of a man who had never doubted his welcome in any room.
April leaned in. “So how did it happen?” she demanded. “The proposal! Was it grand? Did Eliza swoon?”
“I do not swoon,” Eliza said, unable to keep the dryness from her tone.
August’s eyes warmed, almost—almost—a real smile. “She does not. I believe I was the one at risk of collapse.”
That set the room to laughter, even from June, who appeared determined to find fault and instead found herself grinning.
Eliza watched August as he poured her tea. He was perfect—too perfect. The casual grace, the careful deflections, the way he modulated his every response for maximum effect. He spoke to his sisters with affectionate mischief and bantered with Lady Hartwell in the old way, but at every turn, he was performing, even for her.
When the tea was poured and the sisters had resumed their delighted speculation, August turned to her, voice pitched low.
“I am sorry for the morning,” he said, meaning the day after the scandal, the day after everything.
She looked at him, searching for a sign—regret, worry, anything—but saw only calm.
“You do not have to be sorry,” she replied.