“Not entirely true, Delie.”
Delie counted them off on her fingers. “You. The earl and the countess. Me. The two midwives, who, may I remind you, were paid a great deal of money for their silence, and one of whom has since passed. Your mother’s maid at the time, who has also passed.” Delie paused. “Did...he...ever know?”
Eloise’s eyes widened, a touch of horror spiking through her. “Of course not! Papa dispensed with his presence as soon as we knew. They were appalled by what happened, by his lack of integrity and honor, but used Mother’s confinement as an excuse. With a potential heir on the way, there was no need to continue with that ridiculous farce.”
Delie’s tone softened. “And Lord Timothy does look like your father. All those blond curls and blue eyes.”
Blue eyes.Eyes that seemed to search into her very soul. Eloise looked down at her hands again, slowly closing her own eyes as a solid warmth stirred within her again. The gentle firmness of his touch, the feel of his fingers rubbing, tugging on her gloves, the heat of his hands as they encompassed hers. The memories washed over her, and the ardor he had stirred deep within her flared again, spreading down through her chest and abdomen, across her thighs.
Her eyes shot open. “I have to see him.”
Delie leaned back. “My lady?”
“I need to talk to him again.” Eloise balled a fist and banged on the roof of the carriage. It slowed to a halt and the footman opened the door, peering inside.
“Change of plans,” Eloise announced. “Take me to Madame Adrienne’s shop.”
Chapter Eight
Sunday, 17 July 1825
Marsden Ball
Nine in the evening
Robert smiled downat his sister, who looked glorious in a gown of cream-colored silk satin with a gold gauze overskirt. Her blouse-like bodice festooned with metallic gold embroidery that traced down the outside of the sleeves and around her wrists. Fletcher had helped Robert match Beth’s gown, and on the carriage ride over, he became convinced they looked like two chess pieces—the white queen and her rook—as his topcoat and breeches were in the same gold color as her embroidery, offset by a cream waistcoat and gloves. His gold top hat had been a parallel match to the thick array of golden flowers embedded in the curled upsweep of her hair.
The top hat now resided with a footman somewhere, and they had made it through the receiving line to the edge of the dance floor. Robert stared out at the ballroom, trying to absorb with a straight face the decorations before them. Lady Marsden apparently had developed a fondness for peacocks. Stuffed ones. Feathers from their tails seemed to cover every surface and dangled from sconces and chandeliers. Baskets of their eggs painted in a variety of colors. Two live peacocks even wandered about the room, strutting and... doing what peacocks do. As one released a particularly resonant call, Robert snorted and bent closer to Beth’s ear.
“Happy?”
“Delirious. Thank you for accompanying me.”
“It’s the least a devoted brother could do.”
“The absolute very least.”
“Have you located your true love yet? I hear you can spot him from at least fifty paces away.” He flinched as Beth elbowed him. “Ouch.”
“Will you behave?”
“Never. Not when I am here completely against my will.”
“Liar. You love me.”
“Yes, but I only undergo social torture at Mother’s request.”
“I hear they will be serving a rum punch.”
“Splendid. Show me the way.”
“I see Lady Lydia and her entourage are already here.”
“Ah, yes, another form of social torture.”
“And this is the woman you will marry?”
“There is no need to take up Mother’s cause in this.”
