“Compliments will not earn you an early night, Eliza,” Lady Hartwell said, but there was real affection under the tartness. “I suggest you enjoy the evening. The last dance, if I am not mistaken, is to be a waltz.”
Eliza raised her brows. “I am not a popular partner, My Lady. If you wish me to act as a spy, you must at least provide better bait.”
Lady Hartwell gave a soft, scandalized gasp. “You doubt the appeal of a woman with a brain and a dowry? You mustn’t underestimate the size of the average peer’s debts.”
But Eliza wasn’t listening. Not truly. Across the ballroom, August had finally extricated himself from the social whirlpool. He paused, looking up at the chandeliers as if studying the construction. Then, with a polite bow to his hostess, he turned and slipped out onto the terrace.
Eliza felt the moment coil in her chest. She should not. She would not. It was none of her business and certainly not her place. And yet?—
She stepped away from Lady Hartwell’s side.
“Where are you off to?” Her Ladyship demanded.
“Fresh air,” Eliza said. “I’ll return before the scandal sheets can print it.”
“That’s what they all say,” Lady Hartwell replied, but her smile was proud.
Eliza crossed the ballroom quickly, dodging the edges of conversation, avoiding the gaze of any who might mistake her for a wallflower in need of rescue. She reached the French doors just as they swung shut behind August’s retreating form.
Lord forgive me, for my curiosity shall be the death of me!
She waited a heartbeat then let herself through, out into the cool relief of the night.
He hated these evenings, even as he excelled at them. The laughter. The velveted clamor. The relentless parade of the same seventeen stories, lacquered in varying shades of tedium. Even the ceiling’s ornate plasterwork seemed designed to reflect and amplify every snatch of conversation.
August stood alone on the moonlit terrace with his back to the ballroom, hands gripping the stone balustrade. The chill did not bother him. If anything, it served as a reprieve from the low, persistent ache that settled in the base of his skull after an hour or two of ceaseless company.
He closed his eyes and counted down from ten. By five, he could almost believe he was alone in the world, a man without obligations, without spectators, without?—
The faintest shuffle of slipper against flagstone sounded behind him. August did not turn.
He let the silence draw out, just long enough to register disapproval, before glancing over his shoulder. Standing in the shadows was his aunt’s niece by marriage and companion, Eliza Hartwell.
“Come to join me in exile, Miss Hartwell?”
She was smaller than he’d remembered. A dark-haired thing in a demure dress, neither plain nor ostentatious. She stood framed by the open French doors.
“I might ask the same of you, Your Grace,” she replied.
He turned to face her, leaning one hip against the balustrade. “Do you find the party dull, or are you simply avoiding the company of my aunt?”
“Lady Hartwell and I understand one another,” Eliza said. “But if I am intruding?—”
He waved her off. “Not at all. I could use the distraction.”
She stepped out onto the terrace proper, letting the door click shut behind her. The music inside faded to a muffled pulse.
“May I?” she asked, indicating the stone railing.
August gestured grandly. “All of London is yours, Miss Hartwell. You must only stake your claim.”
She approached, stopping an arm’s length away. Her profile was sharp but not unkind“You are the only man in the room who seems more tired at the beginning of a waltz than at the end,” she observed.
He barked a laugh. “Is it so obvious?”
“Only to those who watch closely,” Eliza replied.
He considered her anew. “You are not like the others.”