Page 42 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

“As you see, I found th-the very best of c-company,” Lyness returned, keeping his tone as steady as possible, his words unremarkable.

Roman looked to Lady Emily again, his expression brightening in a way Lyness had learned to interpret far too well. “I trust the spectacle did not overwhelm you? It is rather more dramatic than a play or art gallery.”

Lady Emily offered him a more polite smile than she had bestowed upon Lyness. “It was rather dramatic, yes, but I found it impressive. I enjoyed myself fully.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” Roman’s gaze sharpened, intense and direct. “Mother found it enlightening as well. She will want to speak with you before the evening ends.”

“Of course. I would be happy to hear her thoughts.” She sounded as though she meant it.

Lyness felt something cold and familiar settle beneath his ribs—the faint tightening of a vise he had put around his own heart long ago. To limit his wishes and desires, to better serve the family.

Holly made a soft, amused sound under his breath. When Lyness glanced at him, the man’s eyes held a flicker of sympathy, or understanding, before he engaged again in the general conversation.

Mrs. Elgin chattered on about the painted canvas and the cleverness of the lighting, drawing Emily with her to examine one of the colorful lamps near the platform. Roman followed after, listening attentively. Lyness followed two steps behind his brother, exactly where propriety dictated.

Exactly where temptation could not reach.

Chapter Fourteen

Four Months Previous, London

The night in London had started as many others. Lady Emily Sterling had no way of knowing how low her spirits would sink. Only an hour before the ball began, she had reminded herself that she ought to enjoy the evening. It was not the first ball she had attended since that night in Town when a certain gentleman with a crooked smile and quiet steadiness had asked her for a dance. She had not looked for Mr. Eastwood tonight—he had been called away to York weeks ago—but she had wished, foolishly, that someone of his character had been there nonetheless.

Especially when her hopes came crashing down upon her.

Emily had fled the ballroom as gracefully as she could manage, though she feared anyone watching closely had seen the tremor in her steps.

The ladies’ withdrawing room was mercifully quiet. The door closed behind her without a sound, muting the music, the hum of voices, the rustle of ballgowns. For a blessed moment there was stillness and the faint crackle of the fire in the grate.

She moved deeper into the room, past the tall mirror with its gilded frame. One glance at her reflection—eyes over-bright, color too high in her cheeks—was enough to make her turn away. She did not wish to see herself. Not when the echo of those words still rang in her ears.

Mr. Waldegrave, a suitor she had tried to dismiss when she realized his nature was selfish and cruel, had found a way to speak to her. His verbal attack had been brief, but effective.

Country manners…

…no true notion of how to behave…

…an earl’s daughter in name only…

…you will disappoint your family…

Of course, she knew she should not give heed to his words. He was unkind. Arrogant. Angry that she had spurned him. Yet his words were the exact fears she harbored in her heart.

I will make you sorry. Already, people are talking and seeing you for what you are.

She tried to recall something pleasant. Anything to block out the sting. That made her mind reach again to that brief dance with Mr. Eastwood. He had spoken so gently to her, stuttering once before offering an apology that made her laugh despite her nerves. He had made her feel seen without being judged. That memory felt far away now.

Emily swallowed hard, her throat tight and sore. Her father’s title, the new consequence attached to their family name, her sisters’ careful efforts in teaching her how to curtsy, how to speak, how to move—none of it mattered if one careless remark revealed how she did not properly belong.

Her steps carried her toward one of the tall windows as if of their own accord. Heavy curtains framed the glass, the folds deep enough to hide inside. It was childish, perhaps, but she could not bear the thought anyone discovering her, sitting openly and weeping like a silly girl.

She slipped behind the curtains and sank into the corner, her pale blue skirts crumpling around her. The fabric brushed against the wall and floor, then all fell still. The enclosed space felt oddly safe, dim and muffled. She drew her knees close and pressed her face into her hands.

She tried—truly she did—not to cry. It was foolish. Overly sensitive. A proper lady would have brushed off a cruel comment with a laugh, or answered it with a clever remark. A proper lady would not be hiding, holding herself together by sheer force of will. But the words had lodged into her chest like thorns, scraping with every breath.

A small, ragged sob escaped her before she could stop it. She bit her lip, willing herself to silence.

Do not make a spectacle. Do not give anyone reason to look.