And cringed when Eliza mocked his movements. Gads, had no one taught her to curtsy? Or told her never to—
“La, what a funny girl.” Miss Haverfield’s giggle escaped. “Tell me, Mr. Northwood, wherever did you find such a little creature?”
Creature?
“Or could this be the lost Miss Gillingham everyone is so delighted to see returned?” Her head tilted, her smile brightened, and she leaned forward and kissed Eliza’s cheek, as if in penance for the earlier unkindness. “I am Miss Haverfield, but you must call me Penelope. Wherever did you get such a gown?”
“From my mother.”
“Truly? Then you are a brave girl. I would never wear anythingmymother wore, not with the way fashions change these days.” She leaned closer. “My dear, may I be so bold as to tell you something dreadful? You must have stepped on your hem, for the net is torn. Everyone has been talking of it, but I simply could not pass by you and say nothing.”
Eliza’s gaze dropped to the hem. Pink burned her cheeks.
Then Miss Haverfield’s amused smile turned back on Felton. She took his arm and motioned toward the formation of couples preparing for the next dance. “Shall we, Mr. Northwood?”
Dance with the squire’s daughter? Before everyone? Had she forgotten him to be the rogue of a Northwood everyone despised?
If she had, he wouldn’t be the one to remind her. Returning the smile, he swept away with the squire’s daughter on his arm—but glanced back once.
Eliza Gillingham stood stiff and red-faced, with her torn hem and her unmodish dress and her eyes he could fall into if he gave himself half a chance.
But he wouldn’t.
Not on his life.
She needed Merrylad. Someone familiar, someone kind, who would not jerk away from her touch or whisper of her or abandon her.
A lump knotted at the base of her throat. What sort of friend was Felton Northwood? That he would leave her when she needed him most. That he would say no word of defense against Miss Penelope Haverfield’s belittling sweetness. That he would, in the end, be as ashamed of her as everyone else.
She glanced at Lord Gillingham.
He’d been watching her all evening, whether proud or embarrassed she could not tell, yet now he was engaged in a conversation that had his full attention.
Good. Mayhap he would not see her leave.
With every step she hurried for the door, the lump in her throat enlarged. Some smiled at her as she passed, though their expressions lacked warmth. Others curtsied or bowed—who knew when to do which? Bishop Dibdins, from his position near the door, leaned from the wall and started to speak to her.
But she rushed past him without answer and never so much as heard what he said. The dark halls blurred, as she navigated her way outside to the stables and slipped into the smaller building of the carriage house. Why did they have to lock up such a harmless dog anyway?
Merrylad had never been locked anywhere in his life.
But then, neither had she.
She weaved her way through the darkness and carriages, then found the little room on the leftward wall. “Merrylad?”
The beagle met her as she dropped to her knees. He whimpered his happiness as she muffled her tears of unhappiness. They were lonely, the two of them. Even with everyone here and all the people she’d ever dreamed of…they were more alone than during the quiet days of the forest. What was she going to do? How long must she stay here and suffer?
From outside the room, the carriage house door creaked open. Lord Gillingham must have seen her after all, must have followed to offer another pat and smile and inquiry on how the ball seemed to her.
She brushed the hay from her dress. She would tell him everything was lovely. What else could she say when he’d been so kind?
But he’d want her to come back inside. And do it all again. And sit down at the banquet and talk with the fat bishop or dance with men who thought her unbearable—
The quiet footsteps halted outside the room.
“My lord?” Her voice faded back into silence. Her blood drained. No, this could not happen. No one could have known she’d slip out here tonight, that she’d run for the carriage house, that she’d be here alone.
God, help me.If she tried to slam the door, whoever was there could grab her. If she left it open, they’d grab her anyway. The window. Yes, the window. She whirled and pressed her palms to the splintery wood, but it wouldn’t budge and—
