His gaze held hers. The summer light fell across the table between them, catching the steam from the teapot, the gleam of the butter knife, the sharp white edge of his collar against his throat. She could see the steady pulse there.
He held her gaze a moment longer, then the mask slid back into place. Smooth, impenetrable, utterly convincing.
“Saturday, then,” he said, and reached for the newspaper that Cassie had abandoned on the floor, bending to retrieve it with the unhurried grace of a man who had already decided the conversation was over.
Augusta stood. Her chair scraped across the floor, too loud, too sudden, and she pressed her palms flat against the table for one steadying breath before stepping away.
“Saturday,” she agreed.
She walked out of the morning room without looking back, her spine straight and her hands clenched at her sides. Only when she reached the staircase and the heavy door had clicked shut behind her did she allow herself to stop, to press one hand against the cool wall, to close her eyes.
Hudson’s face when Cassie had hugged him. The way his hands had hovered, uncertain, before settling with such careful gentleness against her back. The way his eyes had closed.
She pressed her forehead against the plaster.
From the floor above, Cassie’s voice floated down the stairwell, breathless and bright. “Miss Norton! I can’t find volume seven!”
Augusta opened her eyes, straightened her shoulders, and pressed her palms flat against her skirts until the trembling stopped.
“Coming,” she called, then climbed the stairs, leaving the morning room and its dangerous silences behind.
But she could still feel his gaze on the back of her neck—that phantom weight, that impossible heat—all the way up the stairs, and long after she’d turned the corner and disappeared from view.
Chapter Fourteen
“The Montgolfier brothers’ first passengers were a sheep, a duck, and a rooster,” Cassie announced, her gloved hand gripping Augusta’s with crushing force. “The duck was the control subject, because ducks can already fly. The sheep was included because sheep weigh roughly the same as a person.” She frowned. “I can’t remember why they included the rooster.”
Hyde Park had been invaded.
The wide sweep of lawn usually given over to Society’s most measured promenades teemed with spectators of every station. Tradesmen and their families jostled alongside students clutching sketchbooks, while the ton observed from the safe elevation of carriage seats, as though human flight might prove contagious at close quarters.
Two enormous balloons strained at their tethers at the field’s edge, their polished silk gleaming copper in the summer sun.
“I suspect the rooster’s feelings on the matter were not consulted,” Augusta commented.
“I’ll add it to my list.” Cassie produced the folded sheet of twenty-seven questions she’d presented to Hudson at breakfast. “Number twenty-eight: What was the rooster’s purpose?”
Hudson walked half a step behind, sweeping his gaze across the crowd with the methodical vigilance of a man who cataloged exits the way other people noticed weather. Augusta was aware of him: the rhythm of his stride, the breadth of his shoulders against the sky.
“Your Grace!” an annoyingly familiar voice rang out.
A trio of ladies approached in formation, their pelisses pristine, their bonnets feathered, their attention fixed on Hudson with the focus of marksmen acquiring a target.
“Lady Falstone.” Hudson inclined his head.
“Your Grace.” Lady Falstone positioned herself directly before him with a grace that excluded Augusta entirely from the circle. “What a delightful surprise. I had no idea you were a devotee of science.”
“My sister expressed an interest in aeronautics.” Hudson’s hand came to rest on Cassie’s shoulder. “Lady Cassandra is studying atmospheric pressure.”
“How charming! Lady Cassandra, you’ve grown so!” Lady Falstone turned to her companions. “You remember His Grace’s sister?”
Her companions murmured. Their gazes slid over Cassie with the blankness of adults who had classified children as scenery.
“And is this…” Lady Falstone’s eyes found Augusta, cataloged her plain dress in a single sweep, and dismissed her. “Ah, your servant. Oh, pardon me. Lady Cassandra’s governess.”
Augusta swallowed.
Servant.
