Her eyes cut to Eliza. “I do hope you know how lucky you are, Lady Barrington. Not all men can be so... attentive to a new bride.”
“On the contrary,” Eliza said, “I find him quite average, compared to the reputation.”
Lady Wilhampton’s fan paused, just a shade too long. “A man’s reputation is often a more faithful companion than his wife.”
August, unperturbed, added, “I assure you, my wife is the only companion I require.”
There was a shiver in the crowd—a titillated, hungry awareness of the drama.
The Marchioness smiled, brittle. “I shall leave you to it then.”
She drifted off, and August turned to Eliza, mouth curved in private amusement.
“You are enjoying yourself,” he repeated.
“Immensely,” Eliza allowed. “It is a rare pleasure to be underestimated then overrated, all within the span of an evening.”
“You have managed both with style,” he said, and for a second, the words rang true, unencumbered by performance.
The music shifted, a waltz giving way to a cotillion, and the room’s energy bent toward the supper room. August led Eliza through the knots of conversation, never letting her out of arm’s reach.
At the edge of the assembly, May intercepted them. She looked every bit the Duchess of Irondale—regal, poised but with the gleam of mischief that marked the Vestiere line.
“Eliza,” May said, drawing her aside. “I will not keep you, but—” She took a breath, cheeks coloring. “I have never seen him so happy. He laughs; he smiles. You have done what none of us managed in years. Thank you.”
Eliza, momentarily speechless, managed, “It is not what you think.”
May gripped her hand, firm and warm. “It never is until it is.”
She vanished back into the crowd, leaving Eliza to the surge of guilt, pride, and something else she could not quite categorize.
August returned to her side, as if summoned by magnet or fate.
He offered his arm, and this time, she took it without a word, letting herself be guided, letting the rest of the evening wash over her.
She caught one more glare from Lady Wilhampton, one more nudge of curiosity from a neighboring peer, and the heat of August’s hand at her elbow.
We are very good at this,she thought.Too good.
The music, the laughter, the performance of perfection—all of it swirled around them as they made their farewells.
She wondered what, if anything, would remain of the performance once the curtain fell.
The carriage door closed on the fevered haze of the ballroom, and with it, all the heat drained from the world. The lamps outside dissolved to embers, and inside the creaking vehicle, Eliza felt the immediate contraction of space—the kind that made every breath a negotiation.
August did not speak. Instead, he untied his cravat with a jerking motion, fingers slipping as if the knot had grown malevolent. He stared out at the night, the planes of his face harder than she had seen all evening.
Eliza removed her gloves, methodically turning each finger inside out before folding the pair in her lap. She watched him in the darkness, a profile hammered out of iron.
“That was quite the performance,” she said, her voice as clear as a bell in the hush.
August’s jaw ticked, but he kept his eyes averted. “I was merely fulfilling our agreement.”
She tapped her gloved hand against her palm. “You always do, don’t you?”
The carriage jostled over a rut, their knees nearly brushing. August shifted, putting another inch of air between them.
Eliza watched the movement then glanced at her own hands, folded and still. “You seemed well-acquainted with Lady Wilhampton,” she said, measuring her words.