“He is the best argument for term limits in the Lords,” he would say, nodding at a bulbous, red-nosed peer.
Or: “If the Countess spends more on birds of paradise, I shall be forced to start a campaign for their emancipation.”
Each time, Eliza bit back a smile, but the effect was cumulative. In truth, she was beginning to enjoy herself.
After their second dance, she excused herself to the retiring room, claiming exhaustion. She did not take long, but when she returned to the ballroom and scanned the crowd, August was not where she had left him.
Instead, he stood near the west wall, speaking with a woman whose presence sucked the air from the room. She was beautiful in a manner that screamed; her hair was the color of embers, her lips as red as sin, and she wore a dress the shade of envy. She stood too close to August with her gloved hand at his arm.
Eliza knew her by reputation if not personally. The Marchioness of Wilhampton. A ‘merry widow,’ the sort of woman the ton simultaneously idolized and reviled. Eliza took a steadying breath, then stepped forward.
August saw her at once. His eyes brightened as if he’d been waiting. “There she is,” he said, warmth restored to every syllable. “My dear, allow me to introduce the Marchioness of Wilhampton. Lady Wilhampton, my darling wife, the Marchioness of Barrington.”
Lady Wilhampton appraised her. “How charming to meet you at last,” she purred and curtsied.
“August has told me so little about you,” the Marchioness said, turning the phrase like a blade.
“Likewise, Lady Wilhampton.” Eliza smiled and raised a brow. “You are a friend of his? I do not recall seeing you at our wedding.”
The Marchioness’s eyes narrowed slightly and pressed her lips together.
August turned as a gentleman passed, exchanging a quick word.
The Marchioness used the moment to lean in. “What a… quaint dress,” she observed aloud, her voice sugared. “How refreshing to see someone dress so… practically for a ball.”
Eliza looked down at the blue satin, perfectly cut but devoid of ruffles or excess. “Thank you, Lady Wilhampton. I find that true elegance never needs to pronounce itself quite so… emphatically.”
The Marchioness’s smile slipped a millimeter.
August rejoined the conversation. “Are we discussing fashion?” he asked, his eyes bright and focused on Eliza.
Lady Wilhampton fluttered her fan. “We were merely admiring the Lady Barrington’s… restraint.”
August smiled, his eyes not leaving Eliza. “Restraint is an underrated quality.”
“Surely not in all matters,” Lady Wilhampton said, shifting closer.
Eliza watched the two of them, the mutual awareness, the undercurrent of history. She felt a surge of something—ownership or perhaps only pride.
“August,” the Marchioness said, using his Christian name with the intimacy of shared sins, “you cannot possibly intend to dance only with your wife this evening. You will break a thousand hearts if you refuse every lady in the room.”
Eliza opened her mouth, but August beat her to it.
“I intend to do exactly that,” he said, placing a hand at the small of Eliza’s back. “I find myself content with my choices.”
He turned to Eliza. “Shall we try the quadrille, my love?”
His smile at that instant was the most charming she had ever seen.
Nine
“That was positively charming of you,” Eliza said, each word clipped as she dipped into a curtsy at the pivot of the quadrille.
August caught her hand, steadying her through the pattern, his grip calculated to look tender for any onlooker. “Are you pleased to find me this charming, Eliza?”
She smiled, so white and cold it could have powdered a room. “Your definition of charm differs from mine, I believe.”
He leaned in, voice low enough to vanish under the music. “You wound me.”