Chapter Eighteen
While Adrian andEliza successfully prevented a potentially disastrous meeting between Harbury and Lady Pennington, Adrian’s much more important conversation with Eliza had been cut short.
Worse still, as Harbury, at the insistence of his sister, Lady Sarah, had since been drawn into the preparations for the Harbury ball. Without Harbury, Adrian had been unable to come up with an excuse to see Eliza, let alone speak privately with her.
She’d kissed him, yes. She’d agreed to be friends with him. But he’d no way of knowing if she was developing a fondness for him, as he was for her.
But Adrian had, just today, gleaned from Emily that Eliza planned to join her sisters at D’Acre house, finally bringing his excruciating week of vacillating between the agonies of uncertainty and the pleasures of possibility to an end.
Following the sound of girlish laughter—a sound alien to the home he remembered—he made his way through in the entry hall of D’Acre house.
He’d lived beneath this roof half a lifetime ago. Then, the house had served as a stage for his father’s fits rage and for his mother’s occasionally vulgar, taunting retorts.
Not the most auspicious memories to have when contemplating the matrimonial state.
He stopped just outside the rear salon, whose eastern and western portions had been combined so that, together, they functioned as a ballroom. Inside, an oh-so-patient-as-to-be-indulgent dance master called the steps to a tune played on an ornate Broadfield pianoforte dating from his grandfather’s tenure.
Six ladies—Caroline, Emily, and four Wainwrights—formed two lines, three in each. Of the three girls taking the male role, one—Miss Lenora—had tied a fichu about her neck like a cravat and was mimicking the movements of a corseted dandy, much to delight of the others.
His eyes came to rest on the eldest Wainwright in the group. Disappointment seized him as he realized she was not, as he first assumed, Eliza.
He leaned forward, searching the ballroom.
“She’s not in the house at the moment.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. Lady Asquith was making her way through the hall.
“Lady Asquith,” he greeted.
“Lord Redver,” Lady Asquith nodded back. “I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to converse privately.”
Had she? “How may I help you?”
She stood by his side, her posture regal, her expression imperious. “You can start by explaining to me the precise nature of your game. What do you wish to accomplish by inserting yourself into the midst of Harbury’s courtship?”
He studied the dowager.
Would Lady Asquith would prove friend or foe in his pursuit of Eliza? So far, she’d been friend. But he decided to let her reveal her expectations first, before revealing his own.
“Harbury is a close confidant,” he hedged. “We are often together.”
“Tut. Too late for coy. Your courtship, so far, has been audacious.” She lifted a brow. “And know this, should my conjecture be correct, I am not…out of sympathy with you. But let me warn you—I don’t care for lies. You did not set out to win my goddaughter’s hand, did you?”
“I’ll admit to having recently realized that I’ve neglected the public portion of my duty to Emily.”
“That much, I had already assumed.”
“My sister is precious to me.” His gaze followed Emily. “I would see her happily settled. Or…” His voice trailed.
He’d no idea how one went about becoming happily settled. But he was willing to try.
“As happily settled as possible, given our family history.”
“Yes. History.” She adjusted her shawl. “I’ll come to the point. Have your sentiments undergone a change? Are you now truly interested in Eliza?”
He paused to consider his words. “I’ve come to genuinely admire Miss Wainwright.”
“Do you?” she asked, sounding intrigued. “I should inform you, then, you are not the only gentleman in pursuit of my eldest goddaughter.”
