May beamed at Eliza. “He is not nearly so clever as he believes. You must come with me; the other duchesses are eager to meet you.”
Eliza’s smile felt fragile, but she let herself be swept away for a circuit of forced introductions and polite horror. She fielded the expected questions—How does Lord Barrington suit you? Are the rumors true? Did you know him before?—with cool economy, deploying small lies the way one might deploy sandbags before a flood.
Through the crowd, she could see August moving from group to group, every laugh and gesture perfectly calibrated. She wondered how long it would take for him to unravel, if he ever did.
“He is watching you,” May murmured.
“That is his favorite pastime,” Eliza replied.
“You do not look as if you mind it,” May observed.
Eliza paused, but before she could answer, a quartet of matrons converged, eager for gossip. The conversation veered at once to the subject of June’s recent marriage which was dissected with surgical glee. Eliza nodded along, but her eyes drifted again to August, now deep in conversation with a Parliamentarian and a bishop.
He caught her look, smiled, and raised his glass in an unspoken salute.
He is doing it for them,her mind’s voice whispered.For all of them, not for you.
She shook herself and turned her attention back to May, who was now embroiled in a debate about hem lengths.
An hour passed thus—Eliza making polite conversation, smiling where necessary, watching August perform. He was relentless, and she had to admit, very, very good at it.
As the orchestra launched into a waltz, he reappeared at her side.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“I thought you were too busy charming the room,” Eliza replied.
He drew her in, hand warm against her spine. “The room can wait. I want to see if you can keep up.”
She followed him onto the floor, determined not to be swept or led. He danced like a man who’d invented the form, every step proper, every spin planned to bring her just to the edge of surrender. Eliza refused to stumble, refused to let her eyes drop from his.
“You are not enjoying yourself,” he said.
“On the contrary,” she argued, “I am cataloguing every fault for later recounting.”
He laughed, sharp and real. “I look forward to the list.”
They moved as a single unit, gliding through the currents of conversation and powdered hair. August’s grip was firm but never possessive, and yet she felt entirely owned in a way that was both infuriating and intoxicating.
At the end of the set, he drew her to the edge of the floor, near the orchestra.
She asked, “Is this the moment where you tell me I must smile more, or that I am failing to dazzle sufficiently?”
He leaned close, breath warm at her ear. “No. It is the moment where I tell you that soprano is flat and that every man in theroom is praying she will burst a blood vessel and put us all out of our misery.”
Eliza choked back a laugh. “You are utterly disagreeable.”
“Untrue. I am merely efficient.” He smiled again then, softer, he added, “Are you well?”
She searched his face, seeking mockery. Instead, she found a flicker of something—concern, perhaps, or the beginnings of apology.
“I am well,” she said.
“Good.” He offered his arm again. “Champagne?”
She nodded, allowing herself to be led to the refreshment table.
As the evening wore on, with every exchange, Eliza felt herself pulled tighter into the performance. The champagne helped, and she even found herself smiling truly when August muttered asides about the other guests.