’Twas not right Eliza should be here. That she should be isolated with him, the object of everyone’s condemnation, when she’d been injured so much already. In the name of heaven, what was wrong with people? Why couldn’t they leave Eliza alone? Why couldn’t they leave him alone?
Then she swept through the open ballroom doors. Miss Penelope Haverfield, the source of the fire. She wore a peach-colored gown brocaded with white flowers, and a circlet of pearls in the gold of her hair. She found his eyes from across the room and smiled, teasingly and mockingly.
“I should have never brought you here.” The words grounded out past tight lips, even as Miss Haverfield and two gentlemen started for them.
“It does not matter.”
No, it didn’t. He was used to village urchins throwing eggs at his house. He was used to the elders of Lodnouth crossing the street to avoid him. He was used to hearing harsh whispers and trying the rest of the day to unhear them. What was once more?
Miss Haverfield, on the arm of Mr. Scrope, curtsied before him. “So very glad you could come, Mr. Northwood.” The cool gaze moved to Eliza. “Miss Gillingham.”
Eliza curtsied without hesitation. She was learning.
“My father’s dear acquaintance, Mr. Fransham, has begged me to make introductions.” Miss Haverfield flicked her wrist at the silver-haired gentleman, whose dark eyes ogled the length of Eliza. Longer than they should have.
Longer than Felton would stand for. “Excuse us—”
“Miss Gillingham, you are exquisite.” Mr. Fransham stilled her with a hand to her elbow. “Forgive my impudence, but I have so long been presenting cases to unsightly judges that a picture so lovely as you quite rids me of composure.”
“Mr. Fransham is a barrister,” explained Miss Haverfield. “And a very good one at that. He is quite acclaimed in both London and Cheltenham. Indeed, across England, perhaps.” She tilted her head at Felton. “He is certainlythoughtverywellof.”
The jab inflicted nothing. He tugged Eliza in the other direction—
“Miss Gillingham, can I persuade you to dance?”
“She is not dancing.” Felton glared at the man’s hand. “And get your hand off her.”
“I say, sir, you cannot mean to imply that such a divine creature is not going to dance at all. Furthermore, I asked the lady and shall wait for her answer. Not yours.”
“You have the only answer you are going to get.”
“But surely—”
“And if anyone dances with her, it shall be me.” At the gasp from Mr. Fransham, the frown from Miss Haverfield, and the continual glare from Mr. Scrope, Felton led Eliza away from the trio and escorted her into a forming set of three other couples.
Music began, lively and rhythmic, pounding in his ears and bringing a frightened flush to Eliza’s cheeks. They bowed, took hands, then stepped twice as he bent his head to hers. “I shall tear the man apart if he so much as looks at you again.”
“Oh, Felton, he only—”
“But I admire him for one thing.” His voice lowered as they circled to the tune. “His bravery.”
“Bravery?”
“To say what I have wished to say all evening. That you are…lovely.”
She was the princess in all the stories Captain had ever told her. She shouldn’t smile. She shouldn’t laugh, even for a second, when she tripped in the dance and Felton threw a grin her way.
She shouldn’t be happy.
Not now. Not among the people Captain had always warned her of, with whispers against Felton swarming the room, with the beast trying to kill her, and with the wretched secret still screeching to be told.
But none of that mattered. None of it meant anything. She envisioned away the people, the danger, the secret—until the only thing she was conscious of was him. Felton Northwood. Strong. Noble. Good. Everything she’d ever imagined him to be and more.
Then the dance was over. He walked with her to some secluded window, and the clash of moonlight and candlelight made movement on his face. He leaned closer to her, his smell clean and scented of bay leaves. “I imagine they are angry we are so enjoying ourselves.”
She glanced across the ballroom. More than one pair of eyes watched them with raised brows and taut expressions. “Why do you suppose she invited us?”
“For sport.”
