“No, we have decided against it in the end,” Lady Selwyn said. “If anything I should think Annie too confident and really it does—”
Eliza took a tiny, instinctive step back, trying not to listen. She twisted the ring upon her right hand, and then fussed with the clasp of her bracelet, which was not sitting quite right, until, under her anxious fingers, the clasp sprang open. Eliza made a grab for it, but it slipped from her wrist, only to be caught, just prior to it smashing upon the floor, by Melville.
“Oh—thank you,” she murmured, accepting it back.
“Can I help?” he asked quietly, and they drew a little away from the rest of the group.
“I can do it,” Eliza said—to have Melville’s hands upon her wrist would feel too intimate. “Perhaps you might hold my fan . . . ?”
“By all means,” Melville said, taking it from her.
Eliza wrapped the bracelet around her wrist. Next to her, totally unconcerned by the delay, Melville regarded the fan thoughtfully. It was a silk and lace creation held together with fine sticks of dark tortoiseshell—her most expensive purchase to date.
“I wish it were still the fashion for gentlemen to carry fans, too,” he said. “They are such useful creations.”
“Do you think so?” Eliza said abstractedly, as she struggled with the clasp. Almost there.
“Oh yes, the expression one can achieve! As so.” He unfurled its leaves and began to flutter it close to his face so only his eyes were visible—dark and laughing. “Perceive, I am now shy.”
“I perceive it,” Eliza said, smiling up briefly, before returning her eyes to the clasp.
There!
She straightened. Melville swapped the fan to his left hand and rested it briefly against his neck.
“And now?” he asked softly.
Eliza pulled at the thread of her memory—the language of fans was old-fashioned, now, but her governess had instructed her just in case . . .
“You are desirous of my acquaintance,” she said. “Melville . . .”
She cut her eyes to the room—their party was not attending them, but there were still many eyes gazing in their direction.
“And now?”
Melville flipped the fan upside down to press the handle against his lips—kiss me—and Eliza blushed fiery red.
“Melville, I know you are merely funning,” she hissed. “But we are observed!”
“I am aware,” Melville murmured, at last snapping the fan closed and handing it back to her. “Somerset blushes, too—not as charmingly as you, of course, but nonetheless I am hopeful he will turn puce this evening.”
Eliza looked reflexively toward the fire where Somerset’s eyes were now on them, heavy and frowning, and Lady Selwyn’s, too, darting ravenously between her and Melville. She felt her face heat even further.
“I should prefer,” she said, very softly, “that you keep me out of your squabbles; I do not care to be used as an intermediary.”
“I did not—”
She rejoined the circle before he could finish his statement, finding even more faces turned toward her—Mrs. Winkworth’s sour, Lady Hurley raising her eyebrows significantly. Eliza raised her chin determinedly.
“Yes . . .” Lady Selwyn said at last, turning back to Mrs. Winkworth. “And Somerset has promised us the use of Grosvenor Square for her coming-out ball.”
She threw her brother a coy glance.
“One of many promises he will have to keep soon enough!”
Somerset jerked his head around to his sister.
“Not now, Augusta,” he said in warning.
“Goodness, how intriguing,” Eliza said, trying to keep her voice light.
“My brother,” Lady Selwyn said loudly to the whole group, “has promised this will be the year he finally secures a wife!”
“My, my, Lord Somerset,” Mrs. Winkworth said. “Are there any hats in the ring already?”
There was an odd roaring sound in Eliza’s ears. She did not think she could bear to listen to a second of this.
“My lady . . .” Mr. King, the Master of Ceremonies, appeared at Eliza’s elbow to speak in a funereal whisper, and Eliza had never been so glad to see a person in her life. “I have saved a seat at a retired spot for you and one other.”
“I shall be happy to accompany you, my lady,” Melville suggested quietly.
“Yes, Somerset, perhaps you might escort me—” Lady Selwyn began.
“That is quite all right, Melville,” Somerset said. “I shall be escorting her ladyship.”
He offered Eliza his arm and she took it automatically, her mind still reeling.
“My apologies, for Augusta,” Somerset said in a low voice as they followed Mr. King. “She can be—”
Oh, was he truly asking her to discuss it, right at this moment?
“There is no need to apologize, my lord,” she interrupted.
“Of course there—”
“You shall have to . . . to let me know when I am to wish you happy,” Eliza said hoarsely.
Somerset’s arm tensed under hers and he took a sharp intake of breath as if to speak but the Master was indicating the area he had demarcated with a flourish, and Somerset remained silent. It was a little retired from the rest of the audience, and therefore away from the prying eyes of the public, and though it was a few more minutes yet before the performance began, Eliza did not prompt him.
The music struck up. The first few pieces, performed by an accomplished soprano and tenor in turn, were unknown to Eliza, although well performed. Then it was the turn of Mr. Lindley and his quartet, shuffling their music and tweaking their instruments, and Eliza wondered if she might take this moment to flee the evening entirely. They began to play, and as the first notes soared through the air, Eliza realized that this was a piece she recognized. Not that she knew its name, or even its composer, for she had only heard it once before: at Lady Castlereagh’s summer ball in ’09, she had danced to it with the man sitting next to her.
As the violins began to sing that unmistakable melody, Eliza’s breath caught. Pleasure and horror warred for dominance in her chest. Pleasure, for to hear such a piece was to be reminded of one of the happiest memories of her life. Horror, because she did not think she could bear to sit there, next to him, while she listened—close enough to touch and yet as far away as he had ever been.
Eliza closed her eyes and tried to master herself. It was just music. It was just a memory. She could bear this, as she had borne everything else. But just when she thought she had done it, just when she thought herself able to breathe normally once more, Somerset took in his own ragged breath, and spoke.