“Did you see her slippers?” Lady Grimsby hissed, loud enough for half the room to hear. “As though the cobbler himself left them unfinished. And that gown! Who is she trying to fool with that fine fabric? It is laughable on her, I assure you.”
Elspeth’s cheeks flamed, hot as coals. She had tried to ignore the jabs, to pretend that she had not heard, but when two more ladies joined in, their cackles rising like a chorus of knives, her carefully constructed composure shattered.
Without a word to Hugo, who was occupied elsewhere, or a backward glance at her friends, she slipped through the crowded ballroom like a shadow, desperate to vanish.
She wove frantically between dancers, her skirts tangling, her elbows brushing strangers, every step a frantic bid for escape.
The heavy velvet curtains framing the ballroom entrance promised the only sanctuary she could imagine. She lunged for them, pushing through, and stumbled into the quiet, lantern-lit hallway.
Her chest heaved, her breathing short and uneven. Just a few more hurried steps and she would be outside—away from all the eyes, the cruel laughter, the tears she would not let fall.
“Lady Inverhall?”
The voice stopped her cold. Her hand froze on the cold brass handle of the front door. Her heart sank.
Of course, it had to be Lord Middleby.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to tremble. She could not afford a scene.
Slow, deliberate footsteps drew closer across the marble floor.
“Leaving so soon?” he asked, his tone silken, edged with amusement. “One might think you were fleeing.”
“I I am feelin’ unwell, Me Lord,” she forced out, though her throat ached.
“Unwell.” His voice was a purr that made her stomach twist.
She could hear the faint rustle of his immaculate coat as he came to stand too near, smell the sharp tang of his cologne.
“Then allow me to see you out. London is full of eyes, Lady Inverhall. Best you do not stumble into gossip unescorted.”
She lifted her chin, though it wobbled. She dared a glance at him then; his dark blue coat flawless, his white cravat tied to perfection, his gaze sharp as a blade. He was elegant, but there was nothing kind in his eyes.
“Me apologies, Lord Middleby,” she said softly, dipping her head. “But I can handle meself just fine.”
He gestured toward the waiting carriages outside, his smile thin, lacking warmth. “Then do so. Quickly, My Lady.”
Her heart lurched. With a stiff nod, she bolted past him, unable to bear another heartbeat in his shadow.
Her heeled slippers struck hard against the cobblestones, loud in the night. At the corner, she hailed a hackney with a desperate wave.
The driver steadied her with a rough hand as she climbed inside. She clutched it gratefully, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes.
Movement. She only needed movement, away from the ballroom, away from Lord Middleby, away from London’s chaos.
Rain began to pelt the carriage roof, slicing through the stifling summer heat. Elspeth pressed a handkerchief to her brow, thankful for the sudden coolness.
“Where to, M’Lady?” the driver asked, his cockney as heavy as the rhythm of her racing heart, leaning in through the open window. “I’ll take you anywhere you like!”
Inverhall…
“Arrowfell House,” she whispered, settling back into the cool leather seats, the name tasting like sanctuary. “Arrowfell…”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You look as if you’ve swallowed a wasp,” Aaron remarked, leaning against the gilded archway with ease. “A decided improvement, I dare say, over the usual ‘swallowed a fly’ expression, for which you are rather notorious.”
Hugo scowled, his gaze sweeping the room again. He had been occupied for too long, speaking with Lord Farclay, and had lost track of Elspeth’s whereabouts.
