"Your Grace," someone called. Lord Hastings, she thought dimly. "A word, ifyou please?"
Adrian's jaw tightened. "In a moment," he said without looking away from her.
"I should go," Eveline whispered. "We're causing enough scandal..."
"When have we ever done anything else?" But he released her, stepping back with visible reluctance. "May I call on you?"
The request, so formal after everything they'd shared, almost made her laugh. Or cry. She wasn't entirely certain which.
"You know where to find me," she said softly. "Though I can't promise the lodgings will meet ducal standards."
"Nothing about you has ever met ducal standards," he replied. "Thank Heavens."
She left him then, making her way through the crowd that parted, though from horror rather than reverence. She found Harriet near their original palm tree refuge, her friend's face a mixture of concern and admiration.
"That was either the bravest or most foolish thing I've ever witnessed," Harriet said, linking their arms.
"Can't it be both?"
"With you? Usually." They moved toward the exit, ignoring the whispers that followed like persistent flies. "I suppose this means we're leaving?"
"Unless you'd care to stay and enjoy the rest of the entertainment. I believe I've provided quite enough drama for one evening."
"Drama? My dear Eveline, you've provided enough scandal to fuel gossip for the next decade. They'll be discussing this night at dinner gatherings when we're old and grey."
"What a delightful legacy." They retrieved their cloaks from a footman who looked as if he were handling contaminated goods. "However I suppose there are worse things to be remembered for than dancing well and refusing to cower."
They emerged into the cool night air, and Eveline drew in a deep breath, feeling as though she'd been holding it all evening. The stars above were obscured by London's ever-present haze, but somewhere beyond the smoke and scandal, they still shone.
"He came for you," Harriet said quietly as they waited for their carriage. "The Duke of Everleigh, who famously avoids social gatherings, who hasn't attended a ball since his broken betrothal—he came because he couldn't stay away from you."
"Don't romanticize it."
"I don't need to. The facts are romantic enough on their own." Harriet squeezed her arm. "Whatever happens next, remember that. A man doesn't brave the censure of society for mere duty or passing fancy."
Chapter 16
"Your Grace, I really must insist that you wait in the—oh, for heaven's sake, you're already halfway up the stairs."
Harriet Fairweather's exasperated voice followed Adrian as he took the narrow steps of the lodging house two at a time, his greatcoat still dripping from the morning rain. He'd dismissed his carriage three streets away, preferring to approach on foot like some sort of lovesick fool who couldn't wait the additional minutes proper arrival would require.
"She won't thank you for this interruption," Harriet called after him, her footsteps pattering on the worn runner as she gave chase. "In fact, I'd wager she'll throw something at your head. Probably something heavy. With Latin inscriptions."
Adrian reached the landing and paused, hearing Eveline's voice from behind the door—clear, commanding, and utterly composed as she instructed someone about the proper folding of linen. The domesticity of it struck him like a blow. This was her life now, reduced to shabby-genteel lodgings and careful economies, all because he'd been too weak to send her away that storm-lashed night.
"You may as well see for yourself," Harriet said, catching up to him with a rustle of morning dress and wounded dignity. Her expression had shifted from exasperation to something cooler, more assessing. "She means to leave, you know. This isn't one of her dramatic pronouncements designed to provoke a response. She's already begun packing her books."
The words hit him with force. "Leave? What do you mean, leave?"
"I mean precisely what the word suggests. Departure. Absence. The permanent removal of oneself from one's current location." Harriet's tone was dry as week-old bread. "Surely a man of your education understands the concept."
Before Adrian could respond, the door opened and Eveline emerged, pulling on dove-grey gloves with the kind of precise movements that suggested a woman arming herself for battle. She wore her best dress, he recognized it from that night at Lady Carlisle's ball, though it had been carefully pressed and mended where the hem had torn during their flight from the ballroom. Her hair was arranged in a severe style that emphasized the elegant lines of her neck, and she carried a small portfolio bound with a navy ribbon that had seen better days.
She looked, Adrian thought with a pain that lodged beneath his ribs, like she belonged at a scholar's podium lecturing on ancient texts, not preparing to prostrate herself before some merchant family who wouldn't appreciate a tenth of her brilliance.
"Your Grace." Her voice held all the warmth of January frost. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Come to ensure I'm properly wallowing in my social exile?"
"Where are you going?" The question emerged more roughly than he'd intended, scraped raw by the sight of her dressed for interview like a governess already.
