Redver was still dangerous—if not in the way she’d first thought.
He was dangerous because she was starting to care. Care about his opinions. Care about his thoughts. Care about his concerns. And she could not afford such care.
Soon, her sisters would have another dancing lesson. And Mr. Vane was expecting her to ride with him again. What if he also demanded an answer? With Cassandra showing alarming signs of considering Harbury, she felt she must accept.
She had agreed to walk with Redver yesterday so she might ask him aboutthat Pennington, hoping to gain ammunition against Harbury, but then she’d been distracted by the sudden appearance of a blackbird.
And then, by Redver’s offering his coat.
How good it had felt to be ensconced in his warmth and surrounded by his scent. How awful she’d felt when she was obliged to return the garment.
The slow, creaking turn made by Harbury’s enormous carriage interrupted Eliza’s thoughts. As before, Cassie claimed the seat next to Harbury. Emily and Lady Redver already occupied the second, leaving Eliza to sit next to the marquess.
Again.
Harbury and Redver could have sat together, but they hadn’t. Why? Had Redver wanted to share her seat?
He said little beyond expressing his wish for Lady Asquith’s recovery. However, Eliza was acutely aware of her thigh pressing against his.
At the Academy, Emily’s favorite artist received them—a man renowned for his use of light in landscape and the Academy’s appointed Professor of Perspective. As breathtaking as his landscapes were, Eliza found the man’s manner grating, and was content to allow Harbury, Cassandra, Lady Redver, and Emily to carry on the conversation.
As the group moved on from the artist’s private domain to the public collections, Eliza noticed that Redver was no longer with them. She thought back. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been gazing at one of the artist’s more recent creations, not yet on display…a painting titledThe Battle of Waterloo.
The large, dark painting had evoked a heavy, desperate, and hopeless feeling in Eliza—appropriate, one might argue, to its subject matter. She’d no desire to see the piece again, but discreetly, she broke away and went in search of Redver.
She found him where they’d left him—staring at the depiction of war.
“You’re rather taken with the work, aren’t you?” she asked.
He turned his head at the sound of her voice, but his eyes remained unfocused.
She wet her lips. Still, he didn’t seem to see her.
“Most paintings depict determined soldiers on the brink of battle, or the heroism of the battle itself, not the aftermath,” shecontinued in a softer tone. “The woman with the child appears to be searching among the dead…”
His hand hovered in front of the woman, then dropped.
“It’s real,” he said finally. “It’s… honest.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, it is. The viewer is not meant to be comfortable.”
He nodded. “Battle is anything but comfortable. Art should tell the truth.” He took a deep breath. “Standing here, I can smell the dead. Hear the dying. Mourn with the living.” He raised his brows. “Not that such images are ever far,” he added.
“You were there.”
“Yes.” He continued to stare almost blankly at the disturbing masterpiece.
“And you are still pained by the memory.” Also, not a question. “Lord Redver—”
“Adrian.” He looked surprised, as if he’d spoken on impulse. His cheeks darkened with endearing embarrassment. “At least when we’re alone.”
Did he mean for them to be alone more often? Hope caused a jolt of excitement…and fear.
“Adrian,” she repeated, drawing closer to him. “You care, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure I understand…”
“You care for things. For people. You care deeply.” Too deeply? “You hold yourself apart.” She hesitated. “May I ask you a question?”
