Page 22 of A Question of Worth

"Hercharacter?" Lady Ravenshill's eyes narrowed and then widened, as if Eliza had handed her something precious. "You speak of Lady Warrington's character as though you were intimately acquainted with her. How very telling, Miss Fairleigh." She turned to the group with a slow, thin smile that went nowhere near her eyes. "It would seem the connection runs deeper than any of us had supposed."

The laughter was immediate and sharp, cutting through the afternoon air like a whip crack. Not all of them laughed — one or two looked away, uncomfortable — but enough did, and the sound of it landed in Eliza's chest like a physical blow. She had tried to defend Lady Warrington's legacy and, in doing so, had given Lady Ravenshill exactly the ammunition she needed.Intimately acquainted.The words would be repeated. They would travel from this park to every drawing room in London by nightfall, twisted into something she had never meant, carrying a meaning she could not now reclaim.

She could not unsay it. The words were out, loose in the world, and they belonged to Lady Ravenshill now.

The tears that came were not of sadness but of fury — at herself, at her own clumsy attempt to fight back with words that had been turned against her. She brushed at them with the back of her glove, her jaw tight, her breathing ragged.

"Truth, Lady Ravenshill?" A hard laugh made her start in surprise, twisting her head around to see none other than Lord Ashcombe standing to one side, his arms folded over his chest and a flush of color in his face. "You astonish me, truly! Whatever has given rise to this belief that society so often speaks truth?"

Just how long has he been standing there?

"Lord Ashcombe." Lady Ravenshill, evidently previously acquainted with the gentleman, adopted a supercilious tone. "As a gentleman of good standing, I am certain you will agree with me when I state that society so often shares what is not expected."

"But it is not truth, and nor can it be guaranteed to be," he remarked, coming closer to the group now. His gaze went to Eliza first — to the dampness in her eyes, the set of her jaw, the back of her glove still pressed against them — and something in his face shifted, a crack in the careful composure she hadalways seen him wear. Then it was gone. His chin lifted, his eyes swept the group — Lady Ravenshill, the ladies behind her, the onlookers who had gathered at the edges — and when he spoke again, his voice was measured, every word placed with deliberate care. The other ladies with her had now lapsed into silence, their eyes lingering on his broad frame. To her utter astonishment, he came to stand directly in the space between herself and Lady Ravenshill, as if he wished to shield her from the other woman's view. "Besides which, speculating on such a thing aloud and in such a place as this is most certainly improper and entirely inappropriate. I am astonished that you would think it fit, Lady Ravenshill."

Sarah gripped Eliza's hand as she did her best to steady her breathing, both relieved and embarrassed that she had required Lord Ashcombe's help. He was risking a good deal in speaking as he was, placing himself squarely at her side and coming to her defense, despite what society might then begin to whisper abouthim.

"It was an observation that I thought best to share," Lady Ravenshill's voice was a fraction louder now, as if she wanted to make sure that all those who had been listening — whether part of the conversation or eavesdropping — heard what she had to say. "I think it fair that the lady knows what is being suggested."

"It was an insinuation and hardly the right place to do it," countered Lord Ashcombe as Eliza lifted her head, standing taller than she had done in some minutes. "Any such remarks should be made in confidence, surely? It ill becomes you, Lady Ravenshill, to speak as you did."

A murmur of what Eliza hoped was agreement rang around the onlookers and, as Lord Ashcombe took a step to the side, she was finally able to see Lady Ravenshill again. Gone was the confident lady who threw such sharp words in Eliza's direction. Instead, there was an uncertainty there as the lady darted hergaze to one person and then the next, perhaps seeing that those who had heard both her remarks and Lord Ashcombe's rebuttal were now firmly on Lord Ashcombe's side. No longer was the attention upon Eliza, no longer were they thinking poorly ofher.Instead, they thought only of Lady Ravenshill and her unkind words spoken aloud. Calculation flickered behind Lady Ravenshill's eyes, rapidly assessing the social risk that would come from saying anything more.

"If I have caused offence," she said, her words clipped, "then I can assure you it was entirely unintentional." She drew herself up, lips thin as she looked directly towards Eliza. The entire park seemed to hold its breath, the birds quietening their singing as they waited for what was to be said next. A grimace tugged at Lady Ravenshill's expression, only for her to sigh aloud. "I do apologise."

With that, she spun on her heel and marched away, the other ladies following after her. Conversation slowly began to trickle back into the park as Eliza remained exactly where she was, her breathing shallow as she watched Lady Ravenshill's departure.

"Are you quite all right?" Sarah pressed her hand, just as Lord Ashcombe turned to join them. "That was dreadful indeed."

"I do hope you are well, Miss Fairleigh." The gentleness in his voice, the concern in his eyes almost undid her as she closed her eyes against the tears that welled in them. "That was deeply unfair and impolite."

A shuddering breath was her only response, her throat aching with relief and gratitude... and perhaps, something more.

"Perhaps you might wish to join us, Lord Ashcombe?" Sarah suggested as Eliza, drawing in a breath and releasing it carefully, managed to open her eyes without a dam of tears immediately releasing. "There is more than enough here."

A light smile brushed the edges of his lips. "I thank you, Lady Sarah." There was no confirmation there, no acceptance of what she offered but, instead, a question that flickered in his eyes as he looked back at Eliza.

She nodded. "Please," she said, realizing slowly just how much he had offered her by standing against Lady Ravenshill. It was not only a defense of her but also a visible, tangible taking of her part. First, there had been the dance last evening and now, here in the park, a willingness to make it more than apparent to all that he did not think of her as they did. Society might now speak ofhim, she realized, might begin to whisper about him, about what he had done in coming to her defense. She had to pray that it would not bring about any stain to his own name, that his connection to her would not damage his reputation in any way, given that it had been at the forefront of his mind from their very first conversation.

"You look worried." Lord Ashcombe smiled briefly, then gestured for her to sit down on the picnic blanket. "Pray, let us talk of something other than what just took place, so that your thoughts are no longer as troubled."

Eliza sat down carefully, aware of a gentle heat that began to push through her when Lord Ashcombe not only sat down beside her but then smiled into her eyes, as though she were the only thing worthy of his attention at present. Her stomach curled, her breath catching, but she could not look away.He,it seemed, was the distraction she required at this very moment to forget almost entirely about Lady Ravenshill. "Thank you for what you did, Lord Ashcombe," she said to him, as Lady Sarah urged Lady Margaret to come to join them. "I must pray that your actions will not bring you any difficulty since I know that your reputation is — "

"Some things are worth more than one's pristine reputation." Lord Ashcombe interrupted her gently, and Eliza's words diedon her lips — not because she had forgotten what came next but because she had become aware, suddenly and with uncomfortable precision, of how little space remained between them on the picnic blanket. A foot, perhaps less. She could see the stitching on his glove where it lay on his knee. His fingers rested there, open and easy in plain sight — not folded behind his back, as she had so often noticed them before. She had been in the middle of her sentence about his reputation and the end of it was simply gone, dissolved by the nearness of him.

His hand moved. Slowly, deliberately, he set it over hers.

The warmth of it came through her glove first, then the slight, steady weight of his fingers pressing down over her own. She did not move. He did not move. The picnic, the park, the distant chatter of Lady Sarah and Lady Margaret — all of it pulled back to a great distance and what remained was the specific, undeniable fact of his hand covering hers and the silence that held around it, one beat longer than propriety strictly required.

"Do not think on it, Miss Fairleigh, I pray." His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. His hand lifted from hers and returned to his own knee. "Let us talk of more pleasant things so that you might enjoy this picnic."

Eliza lifted her chin — and for the first time, the effort of it was almost invisible, so practiced had it become that it no longer required her full attention. She blinked against the sting behind her eyes, holding the sensation of his hand over hers in the centre of her chest like something fragile she was not yet ready to examine. "Then know of my gratitude, Lord Ashcombe," she said, as he smiled at her, his green eyes gleaming gently. "I am profoundly grateful."

10

The morning had begun badly.

Nathaniel had stopped at his club on the way to Lady Woodside's, as was his habit, intending only to collect a letter from his steward and take a quick cup of coffee before continuing on his way. He had been in the entrance hall no more than a minute when Lord Pemberton — a man he had known since Eton, a man who had stood beside him at more than one supper — passed him on the stairs without a word. Not a cut direct, precisely. Something worse: a measured nod, the kind one gives to an acquaintance whose company one has decided to endure rather than seek. Pemberton's eyes had moved over him and then away, as if Nathaniel had become something slightly less interesting than the banister.