“I should not think—” Somerset started to say, before abruptly changing tack. “That is, yes, it is like to be most disruptive. I shall be remaining in Bath for the fortnight, to avoid the worst of the disorder.”
For a moment, Eliza thought she might have misheard.
“You—you will?” she stammered. “I did not know; you made no mention of it yesterday.”
“Yesterday, I did not yet know of the extent of the repairs,” he replied.
“What fortuitous timing,” Margaret said blandly, and Eliza knew that she, too, suspected Somerset of some dissimulation. But why should he lie? Unless it was because—unless it was for—
But that was surely wishful thinking.
“It will be easier to conduct business from here, anyhow,” Somerset said calmly. “And I should like to be close to . . .”
There was the tiniest of pauses and Eliza caught her breath.
“My sister,” Somerset finished. “She lives only five miles south of Bath, if you remember.”
“Yes, of course,” Eliza said. “Well, I am sure we are most pleased to hear such news.”
It was an understatement. Eliza’s surprise was giving way to giddiness. A fortnight! Two whole weeks of his presence . . .
“My valet is to fetch more of my things from Harefield,” Somerset said, and his voice was lighter now. “I did want to ask if there was anything you should like to be brought to Bath? You took so little with you, though it was your home for so many years.”
Eliza felt a pang in her chest. He was so kind.
“I could not possibly,” Eliza demurred.
“You could,” he said. “In fact, I insist you must take something.”
Eliza’s mind went briefly to her grandfather’s seascape hanging in her parlor, the finest piece of artwork in Harefield, not that it was displayed at all to its advantage, before dismissing it immediately. It was too valuable, and while Somerset might not know its worth, Lady Selwyn certainly would.
“What is it?” Somerset asked. He always had been able to read her so easily. “You must tell me.”
But Eliza could not risk Somerset ever thinking her mercenary.
“The teapot in the East Drawing Room,” she said, thinking of her next favorite item from the house. “If no one else . . .”
A smile spread across his face, his first of the afternoon.
“A teapot? You do know that was your opportunity to ask for the family diamonds, don’t you?” he said teasingly. It was not a tone she had ever expected to hear from him again, and her cheeks warmed.
“If you’d ever drunk its tea, you would understand,” she said.
“Perhaps then I ought to try it, before I agree,” he said. Then, entreating, “Are you sure I cannot persuade you to take anything of greater value?”
She shook her head and his smile widened.
“How like you to ask for something so small,” he said, “to want so little for yourself.”
Eliza could have told him that it was not selflessness, that there was nothing she wanted less than the oppressive weight of the family diamonds about her neck, but she would not, not when he was looking at her like that. As he had used to look at her before everything fell apart.
“You have not changed,” he said.
Their smiles faded as they looked at one another, the weight of all that had happened, all that they had once been to one another, seemed to press heavily upon them both.
“I should not mind the diamonds, if no one else wants them,” Margaret said, breaking the moment.
“I see that you, too, are unchanged, Miss Balfour,” Somerset said, shaking his head with a smile. “Your humor is as lively as ever.”
“There are some things even the Bath waters cannot cure,” Eliza said, and Margaret laughed, but Somerset’s smile faded.
“And how is your health?” he asked Eliza seriously, as one might a bedridden and ancient aunt.
“I am well,” Eliza said.
“Does she not look well?” Margaret asked.
Eliza shot her a quelling look.
“She does. You do,” Somerset said quietly, looking Eliza over. “A new gown?”
“Yes,” Eliza said, mouth dry.
“It suits you,” he said, and it was a compliment no less valued for its simplicity. “Are you still partaking of the waters?”
“Yes,” Eliza said. “Though as much to visit with our new friends as anything else.”
“New friends,” Somerset repeated. “And do you count the Melvilles as such?”
“No,” Eliza hastened.
“Yes,” Margaret said at the same time.
Somerset frowned again.
“That is,” Eliza clarified. “We have only met them a handful of times, so I am not sure I would call . . .”
“I should not like to overstep, my lady,” Somerset said. “But I would urge caution where the Melvilles are concerned. The tales I have heard . . .”
The deliberate way in which he was speaking, as if choosing his words very carefully, tickled Eliza’s curiosity.
“These tales are scandalous in nature?” she asked, not wanting to seem too eager for details—but eager for them, nonetheless. What had Somerset heard about Melville, in so short a stay in the country?
“They are not tales I will repeat in front of ladies,” he said firmly.
“How dull,” Margaret muttered. And though Eliza admired Somerset’s sense of propriety, she could not help but privately agree with her.
“I will merely say that I would not recommend such a friendship,” Somerset said. “A woman of your . . . A woman in your position ought to be careful.”
The protective concern was warming and Eliza was briefly tempted to encourage it—but no, that would be too unfair.
“The Melvilles are lively,” she said. “But in our acquaintance, limited though it is, that is the extent of their impropriety.”
There was no need to mention the carriage crash, nor the overheard insults, for both events seemed, all of a sudden, far in the past—irrelevant, even, in the face of the joy Somerset had just visited upon her. Two whole weeks.
“If you spend longer in their company I am sure you will agree,” she added.
“I suppose I shall see for myself,” Somerset said, though with a raise of his eyebrows that suggested he doubted it.