“And I warned you,” Eliza said. “What I should do, what I should tell people, if you tried to take my fortune from me. How might the tongues wag, once they hear what the Selwyns were plotting to do, my lord?”
Somerset looked at her, suddenly still.
“Who will believe you?” he said quietly. “Eliza, you have hung proof of your affair with Melville in Somerset House for the world to see. Marking the portrait as ‘anonymous’ will not keep it a secret for long, mark my words. The rumor mill is already beginning to churn, and once the truth is known, no one will think any aspersions you cast at Lady Selwyn anything more than spite.”
Eliza stared at him. “How can you be so cruel?” she whispered.
“Contrary to what you may think of me, Eliza, I have not done this to punish you for rejecting my offer,” Somerset said heavily. “Your behavior has had very real consequences upon my family—upon me.”
“What consequences?”
He paused. The look in his eyes, as if he were working out how best to say it, as if he knew it was going to hurt her and even now wanted to avoid doing so . . . Eliza guessed what he was about to say before he said it.
“I have made an offer of marriage, my lady. And her parents are reluctant to accept while you denigrate the Somerset name—they are concerned, and rightly so, for the direction you might take the family.”
“You are to be married?” she asked, slightly short of breath. “It has been only three weeks!”
“I must marry someone, Eliza,” Somerset said, casting his arms up helplessly. “And if not you, then . . . She is kind, and sweet, and I hold a great deal of affection for her. And her parents will not allow my suit until your behavior is dealt with.”
“Who is she?”
He hesitated again. Eliza frowned.
“I will find out eventually,” she said. “You cannot expect to keep it a secret.”
“My lord?”
Eliza turned at the sound of a quiet, timid voice.
The identity of Somerset’s breakfast guests became suddenly, horribly clear.
“Miss Winkworth!” Somerset started.
“I could not help but hear,” Miss Winkworth said softly, her head peeking inside the room, one hand pressed against the wood of the door. “I was coming through the hall and you were speaking so very loudly. Good morning, Lady Somerset—I like your dress a great deal.”
“Thank you,” Eliza said automatically. It was the most she had ever heard the girl speak.
“Run along back to the dining room, now. I shall be in presently,” Somerset instructed her, as if she were a very small child. Miss Winkworth hesitated, her eyes traveling between them.
“Hurry back,” she whispered. “My mother is about to start critiquing my posture, I am sure of it.”
She dimpled a smile up at him before making an obedient retreat, and Somerset visibly melted.
Eliza stared at him, open-mouthed.
“You are marrying Miss Winkworth?” she asked, too confused to be upset. “How can that be?”
“You, of course, introduced us at your dinner party . . .” Somerset began, seeming painfully aware of the awkwardness of such a beginning. “And then my sister invited them to Annie’s ball, and we spoke a little, and danced at Almack’s that week, and since you . . . since we . . . We have become more acquainted.”
It was as traditional a courtship as any. As traditional as theirs had been. Except . . .
“Oliver, she is so young,” Eliza breathed.
He flushed.
“She is wise beyond her years,” he retorted. “She knows what she wants and . . . She is very precious to me already—in time, love will grow.”
It seemed that the appeal of the young and timid was a family trait. For a moment, standing there in his full morning regalia, in this house, his resemblance to his uncle was very apparent . . .
But then Eliza’s mind, which had very briefly paused, began to turn again.
“And Mrs. Winkworth said they cannot accept, unless you address my behavior?” she said slowly. “Because she hates me.”
“No, because they are worried for their daughter,” he argued.
“Let me assure you, that is not so,” Eliza said, with a bitter laugh. “You are the finest catch in England—of course Mrs. Winkworth is not going to reject your suit! She is manipulating you, to revenge herself upon me, for not writing her letters of introduction.”
“Revenge?” Somerset snorted. “You speak of her as if she is a villain from a melodrama!”
“She certainly seemed quite villainous,” Eliza retorted, “plotting a match between Winnie and Lord Arden.”
“Arden?” Somerset’s jaw dropped. “Surely she cannot have intended—”
“Oh, she did,” Eliza said. “She asked me specifically for an introduction, given he is related to your line. And when I suggested such a match might be unfair to her daughter, she flew into very high dudgeon.”
“Arden, though . . . Surely not even Mrs. Winkworth . . .” Somerset said, the note of approbation as he said this lady’s name making very clear his opinion.
“She is quite capable of it,” Eliza said. “You cannot tell me she has not been pursuing your title most assiduously?”
Somerset did not reply.
“Or that Miss Winkworth is not entirely terrified of her?”
“The sooner I have Winnie out of her claws the better,” Somerset muttered in agreement.
He eyed Eliza consideringly, hackles lowering.
“You did not tell me about Arden,” he said finally.
“You did not tell me you had a tendre for the girl,” Eliza said, raising her brows and having the satisfaction of seeing Somerset flush.
“Yes, well,” he said. “Just because you might have a point regarding Mrs. Winkworth—it does not make your behavior any more honorable. Do you mean to continue parading yourself around the city?”
“I have not decided yet,” Eliza said honestly.
She did not know much of anything about the future.
Somerset chuffed out a laugh.
“At least you are honest,” he said. “If you . . . modulate your behavior, perhaps I can see my way to pausing this process. But . . .” He looked at her. “Eliza, you must agree to close all contact with Melville. I can find it within myself to forgive much, but that I cannot abide. Do we have an agreement?”