A laugh almost escaped her then, but she bit it back.
At that moment, there was a noise—soft, but unmistakable—at the edge of the garden. August turned sharply, instinctively stepping in front of Eliza.
Two shapes resolved into ladies, both overdressed and overcurious. There was a brief, breathless silence. Then one of them gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Good Heavens! Another lady ruined!”
Two
“There is nothing to see here!” August said with the sort of authority that had parted seas and on two occasions, Parliament itself.
He stepped out from the moon-shadowed alcove, blocking Eliza from the brunt of the onlookers. He might as well have flung a diamond into a poultry yard; the hens of London’s upper crust squawked and preened, necks straining for a glimpse of ruination in action.
The first ripple of alarm had become a tide—now every face from the ballroom windows was pressed to the glass, and the nearest guests had spilled onto the terrace, eager for scandal before the lemonade ran out. Two debutantes, emboldened by mischief or simple vacancy, darted forward to drag their friend away from the scene, whispering furiously and tripping over one another’s slippers.
Behind them, Lady Hartwell—Aunt Martha to August and the unassailable authority on both propriety and household inventory—stood frozen on the lowest garden step. For a moment, she seemed a figure carved from marble, her face drawn tight and pale. The ivory ribs of her fan snapped in her fist, the sound small but surgical. Her gaze went from Eliza (mortified, head high) to August, who gave her the same smile he had once used to talk his way out of an Eton expulsion.
He could have explained. He could have apologized. Instead, he offered her a bow.
“My Lady,” he said, “you look as though you could use a chair.”
Aunt Martha did not respond. August’s attention swept the gathering horde. There was the usual mix of curiosity and glee; even in the dark, he spotted the Duchess of Icemere’s jewels sparkling like the eyes of a predatory magpie. And over it all, that peculiar silence, half gasp, half anticipation—like the moment before a guillotine blade falls.
August had survived worse. But Eliza’s posture, so rigid and unyielding, tugged at something he tried never to acknowledge. He could see the way her hands pressed together at her waist, a small white crescent at each knuckle. It was not fear in her—he doubted anything in the world could frighten Miss Hartwell—but a calculated resignation, as though she had already begun the accounting of how much this would cost her.
He felt the calculation, too. The news would reach his father before midnight. The man was not dead, not yet, but the pastyears had not been generous. One more scandal—this one—and perhaps the old lion’s heart would simply refuse to play along.
August made his decision with the same crisp certainty as ordering supper at White’s. He moved past Eliza, addressing the assembly with a smile so blindingly perfect, it might have been painted onto his face.
“Forgive us,” he said, “I was only just proposing to Miss Hartwell.”
The words detonated in the garden.
Aunt Martha’s breath caught, the sound audible even from several paces away. The Duchess of Icemere staggered backward, fanning herself with such vigor that it threatened a weather event. One of the young ladies fainted outright though no one seemed inclined to catch her.
Eliza’s spine seemed to lengthen another inch. Her eyes snapped to August, hard and clear.
He did not meet her gaze. Instead, he addressed the assembly, his voice pitched just loud enough for every eager ear. “You may inform the room if you wish. I’m certain my father will be delighted to hear of it in the morning.”
There was a pause at first, then a rising wave of whispers: “Engaged?” “The Marquess—surely not—” “Miss Hartwell?” “I thought he was with?—”
Lady Hartwell, finally, found her voice. “Is that so, My Lord?”
August met her eyes, for once not masking the appeal beneath. “It is.”
Aunt Martha, never one to weep at small misfortunes, gathered herself. “Then you will, of course, make an announcement.”
“If you insist,” said August.
He offered his arm to Eliza. There was a moment’s standoff—a test of wills—but she set her hand atop his, perfectly composed, as though she had planned it all her life.
He led her back up the garden path. The crowd parted for them, some in horror, some in envy, many in both. There was not a man among them, August noted, who could have managed the trick with as much poise. He supposed he ought to feel pride. Instead, it tasted of rust.
He guided Eliza to the first step, the angle forcing her to look up at him. She spoke quietly. “You might have consulted me first.”
He nodded, his voice equally low. “I could not risk it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what risk did you avoid?”
“Worse gossip,” he replied, “and an early grave for my father.”