“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Woodstock.” Ellie dipped into a curtsey, darting a glance at Henry. He swallowed hard as his gaze bounced between them.
“Lady Eleanor is the daughter of one of my father’s oldest friends, the Marquess of Warwick. She shares my love of art and history,” Henry said.
“Ah, a bluestocking,” Mr. Woodstock chuckled with a disdainful smirk.
“I don’t consider being an aspiring scholar an insult, Mr. Woodstock,” Ellie replied, forcing herself to maintain a pleasant smile. “There is nothing scurrilous about a woman who wishes to better herself.”
Mr. Woodstock cast a quick glance at his cronies before turning his attention back to Ellie, licking his lips slowly. She felt dirty, as though his mere presence sullied her. She turned towards Henry, hoping to find an excuse to leave the conversation, but her new acquaintance spoke first.
“I suppose you would like me to ask you for this dance, Lady Eleanor,” he said, his tone reminiscent of a child being asked to recite his catechism.
“I—um.” She glanced at Henry again. He stared into his whiskey as though it might hold the answers to the universe. She gave a quick nod of resignation. “I would enjoy a dance, thank you.”
She offered her hand and immediately regretted it; despite wearing satin gloves, she could feel the clamminess of his palms and the tight grip he took on her fingers. Holding back a flinch, she followed him onto the floor as the band stuck up a waltz.
Of course,she thought with a groan. The expression on Mr. Woodstock’s face implied he was of the same mindset. He put his hand on her waist with a sigh of resignation, and the pair began to turn through the room.
“And what is it you do in London, Mr. Woodstock?” she asked, praying for some avenue of conversation to allow the dance to pass quickly.
He puffed out his lackluster chest. “I’m a solicitor.”
“How fascinating,” she said, drawing on years of experience making conversation when nothing interesting could be found. “And what type of law do you practice?”
“I work with estates, ensuring the proper people receive the bequests from the deceased.” His watery eyes glimmered, and Ellie tried not to wince.
“How sad it must be, working with those who have lost loved ones recently.”
“It’s quite exciting. Once you get past the crying and all the emotional nonsense, telling a miscreant nephew he receives nothing when his uncle kicks off is a lark.”
Ellie froze, unable to think of a way to follow up on his remarks. “How… delightful.” She searched the room for Henry, wondering why he had thrust her into the arms of this horrifying man. He stood at the perimeter of the dance floor, his eyes dark and hooded, observing them intently. As she watched, a dazzling woman in a brilliant scarlet gown sidled up to him, brushing a slim finger over his sleeve.
Lady Hamlin, she thought, clenching her jaw. The young widow’s angular form jutted beneath the red silk, her white-blond hair swept dramatically from a long neck weighed down by strings of diamonds. She looked perfectly at ease by Henry’s side, the pair so stunningly beautiful Ellie had to look away.
Ellie had read about their affair in the scandal sheets. After Lord Hamlin died in a riding accident, the young viscountess embraced her newfound freedom, and despite piquing the interest of nearly every available gentleman in London, she decided Henry would be the object of her affections.
“Are you unwell, my lady?”
Ellie forced her eyes back to her dance partner and immediately wished she hadn’t. His face was somehow simultaneously pasty and flushed, and from this distance she could see the copious amount of hair springing from his ears.
She wrinkled her nose. “I am quite well, thank you.”
After what seemed like an eon, the song came to a merciful end and she dropped a curtsey, sighing her relief. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Woodstock. I do believe I should check in with my father.”
Mr. Woodstock gave her a curt nod. “Good evening, Lady Eleanor,” he said before nearly sprinting after the other gentlemen.
Ellie was at a loss as she searched the ballroom for Henry. He had seemed so eager to introduce her to this gentleman, but his expression while they danced worried her. Henry was carefree. She had never seen him glowering as he had done; had she somehow upset him?
She wound her way through the guests and towards the billiards room, unsure of what she would do if she found him inside. She was about to retreat from the threshold when she heard Mr. Woodstock speaking.
“Honestly, Morley, what were you thinking?” He made a retching noise, and a chorus of laughter rang out over the clacking of the balls.
“She’s a nice girl, she deserves a dance,” Henry said, his voice droll.
“Yes, but did I have to be the sacrificial lamb thrown on the altar?” She could picture Mr. Woodstock’s pockmarked and pasty face as he whined. “Why do you even care who she dances with?”
“I don’t,” Henry replied, and her heart screeched to a shuddering halt. “But our fathers are old friends, and she’s like a sister to me. And her father is a marquess, a wealthy one, I thought if you enjoyed her company—”
“Perhaps if I had been blinded, I might be in a different state of mind,” Mr. Woodstock spat out. “But fully sighted as I am, you’ll have to find someone else to take the fall.”
