“Not nearly enough,” she replied, stepping away to link arms with the next gentleman in the set. When her path brought her round to August again, his eyes caught hers—glinting with mischief but also something sharp and private.
“You are enjoying yourself,” he accused.
Eliza shrugged. “I have been waiting my whole life to disappoint a ballroom full of expectations. Why not savor it?”
He laughed, drawing the eyes of half the matrons in the room. The sound curled between them, more intimate than a hand at her waist. He kept her close for the remainder of the dance, always a hair’s breadth nearer than custom dictated, his palm warm at the small of her back as they navigated the figures.
If the set piece of their affection was for show, Eliza found it oddly thrilling to play along. Every tilt of her chin, every arch of her brow, was a line in a script for which only the two of them knew the stage directions.
When the dance ended, August offered his arm, and she accepted. The crowd parted with grudging deference, eyes devouring every step they took together. Lady Wilhampton’s stare, across the ballroom, was a musket loaded with venom, but Eliza only lifted her lips in a shade of a smile.
August steered her toward the refreshment table where crystal bowls of syllabub and towering plates of petit fours awaited. He fetched her a glass then stood so close the sleeves of their jackets whispered together.
“You have an audience,” he observed. “Enjoy it.”
Eliza took the glass, letting her gloved hand brush his for just a moment. “You flatter yourself.”
He bent slightly, as if to confide a secret. “Do you think she is watching us?”
“Lady Wilhampton has not blinked in half an hour. I suspect she is attempting to incinerate me through sheer malice,” Eliza replied.
August’s voice was a tease. “You have always attracted the best sort of enemies.”
She sipped the syllabub. “It is one of my more reliable traits.”
Another couple swept by, pausing to offer congratulations. The gentleman grinned at August, the lady at Eliza, both too polished to let their disappointment show.
“You have surprised us all, Lady Barrington,” the woman said. “We never imagined the Marquess could be so thoroughly… tamed.”
Eliza inclined her head. “One does what one must, Lady...”
“Does one?” the lady replied, lips parted as if in disbelief. “And how did you manage it?”
August intervened, “Her persistence is legendary. I recommend you never cross her in a game of whist.”
The lady laughed, a trill that barely concealed the snub. “I see. Tamed by skill, not by temperament.”
“Both,” Eliza said and saw the woman blink, uncertain if she’d been insulted. August’s eyes flicked to hers, and for an instant, his admiration was unguarded.
They were beset, for a time, by the customary deluge of congratulations and commentary. A dowager with a penchant for florid hats asked after Eliza’s ‘strategy,’ and a trio of simpering debutantes studied her with the fascination usually reserved for a dangerous animal at the menagerie.
Every inquiry was the same, beneath the frills:How did you catch him? What did you promise? What is he like in private when the audience is gone?
Eliza met each volley with unflappable composure.
“I did not catch him,” she said to the next hopeful. “I simply let the net close around us both.”
Another pressed, “But surely you had a plan? No one tames Lord Barrinton without a design.”
“Some men,” she replied, “require only the illusion of pursuit to find themselves cornered.”
She felt August’s attention, even as he kept the conversation flowing for the crowd.
A lull arrived and with it, Lady Wilhampton at last. She approached in a column of green and black, her fan a weapon at the ready.
“My Lord and Lady,” she curtsied, giving the bare minimum of deference, “I must congratulate you. Your waltz was a thing of beauty, and I confess, I am envious.”
August gave a perfect bow. “You should join the next set, Lady Wilhampton. I am sure you will inspire awe.”