She raised her head to his again, but again, he did not offer the kiss she desired.
“Where were you out in such weather?” he asked.
Eliza hesitated. She had not mentioned in any of her letters the driving lessons she had been taking with Caroline, nor the carriage she had recently purchased, wanting to surprise him. In her mind, she had imagined driving up to him in her best, most flattering habit and asking him, suavely, if he would like to come up with her for a few streets.
“Were you out driving with Caroline?” Somerset asked. “I hear she has been giving you lessons.”
Eliza frowned.
“Who told you?” she asked.
“Mrs. Winkworth,” Somerset said. “The whole family attended Annie’s coming-out ball.”
“How inconsiderate of her to ruin my surprise,” Eliza said lightly, trying to decipher his expression. “I wanted you to be shocked and awed by how very dashing I have become.”
“I was certainly shocked,” Somerset said. He looked Eliza in the face for a long moment, then sat down upon the sofa with a sigh, pulling her down to sit next to him. “I ought not to have left you here, unattended,” he said, running a hand through his hair.
“Unattended?” Eliza said, not sure whether to be more offended or amused. “I am not a horse, my lord. And I have Margaret.”
“You do not know, clearly, what people are saying,” Somerset said.
“What people?” Eliza said. “And what are they saying?”
“My sister reports that the Bath gossips are all aquiver with the news of Lady Somerset driving all over the countryside, attending routs and card parties and buying up half of Milsom Street.”
Instinctively, Eliza bridled at the note of censure in his voice before forcing herself to focus only on the concern in his face. He was worried about her.
“Perhaps I have been a little high flying,” she admitted. “But you know how gossips are. And my fortune is mine to spend as I wish. Do you not like my new colors?”
“I do,” Somerset said. “But there are rumors that you have had Melville living in your pocket these past weeks. What of them?”
Eliza bit her lip. She could not lie to him. If he asked her whether she had feelings for Melville, she would not lie. But he had not asked.
“There is an explanation,” she said. “The commission I wrote to you of—I must confess that it is Melville’s. I have been painting his portrait.”
“What?” Somerset gasped.
“I have been painting Melville’s portrait,” Eliza repeated. “That is why he has been so often in my company. So you needn’t wor—”
“Eliza!” Somerset exclaimed. “How could you countenance such a thing and not tell me?”
“I did tell you,” Eliza said defensively. “I told you I had received a commission. You seemed to think it a good idea, then.”
“That is when I thought it was—painting some flowers, or someone’s horse!” Somerset said. “I did not think it was a portrait! Of an unmarried man.”
Eliza flinched. She knew he might not be pleased, but neither had she expected such unequivocal anger. He was pressing uncomfortably hard on Eliza’s hands and now dropped them hurriedly.
“We were chaperoned,” Eliza said, weakly. Which was true, at least in the beginning.
“Oh, by Miss Balfour?” Somerset said derisively. “Yes, a formidable duenna indeed.”
“I would ask that you not speak of my cousin in such a tone, Somerset,” Eliza said, with a coldness she did not recognize as her own. It was one thing for Somerset to express anger toward her, but she would not allow it against Margaret.
Somerset took a deep breath.
“You are right,” he said. “I am sorry. I should not blame you—either of you. It is he who is to blame, of course.”
“Melville?” Eliza asked.
“Goodness knows what he can have said to you in order to induce you to agree,” Somerset was muttering, “what lies he would have woven.”
It was so ridiculous that Eliza let out a burst of laughter. Somerset reared his head back, offended.
“I am sorry,” Eliza said, still smiling. “I am very sorry, but it is just so very absurd. Melville did not induce me, and he did not lie. It was my choice, and even if you do not approve, I do not regret it. And I cannot see what is so wrong.”
“You might feel differently,” Somerset said ponderously, “if you knew what I have recently discovered.”
“What do you mean?” Eliza asked.
Somerset ran his hand through his hair once more—it was looking sadly untidy now.
“I am not sure if I should tell you,” he said.
Eliza felt a rush of irritation. Such slanderous aspersions had haunted Melville his entire life and were the precise reason he might soon have to leave the country.
“You have been making such declarations since the day you met Melville,” she snapped, “but I am yet to hear of any proof. I should have thought unfounded gossip beneath you, Somerset.”
“You chastise me for wishing to protect you?” Somerset said, bristling.
“I do not need protection from Melville,” Eliza said.
She paused, took a breath, and mastered herself. It did not truly matter what other people were saying, what the gossip was. It mattered only what they themselves thought, what they felt.
“Let us not fall out with one another,” she said gently, “for does any of it matter, now? I have begun half-mourning. You have returned. We can become engaged, at last.”
Somerset visibly softened.
“That is true,” he said. “Finally.”
The strange tension that had lain in the air since he had arrived melted. Somerset pulled gently upon her hands and she swayed toward him until their mouths, at last, met—and once again it was so familiar, so natural, that Eliza could hardly believe they had not been doing so all along. It was some time before they separated, but when they finally did, Eliza moved to lay her head upon his shoulder, and sighed contentedly. The fire was very warm, and his shoulder was very comfortable, and she could suddenly imagine them doing just this a thousand times more, in the years to come.
“When shall we marry?” she asked. “Soon, I hope. Before my mother gets wind of it.”
She felt Somerset’s shoulder tense underneath her and raised her head to regard him.
“You needn’t worry,” she said. “She has no power to compel me this time.”