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Chapter Seven
Eliza wasn’t much of a gambler. While she enjoyed a social card game or two at the tables, high stakes and heated plays were not normally her cup of tea. Combining cards and drink was even more out of the question.
Until tonight, apparently.
After eyeing the activity at a nearby Faro table and chugging down her second glass of champagne, she hefted the bag on her wrist, hazily assessing the weight of her remaining chips and finding, much to her disappointment, that the amount wasn’t much more than what she’d started out with earlier in the evening. She’d lost and won exorbitant sums in equal measures, and though she was aware that breaking even normally signified a relatively good evening, Eliza found the prospect quite dull indeed. She’d come to the White Heather for a pleasant distraction from the current and rather sudden shambles of her love life, and found only some barely passable champagne and dull, droll company.
And it was all James bloody Berrington’s fault.
Well, perhaps not entirely. He was the sensible one in cutting short their would-be romance before it spun out of control. But that did nothing to soothe her aching heart. But really, the traitorous organ had no reason to be feeling so, Eliza thought sourly as she took another swig of her barely passable drink. A handsome man whom she fancied herself attracted to and almost had a friendship with had wisely rejected her impulsive desire, and she, as a perfectly reasonable adult, had accepted such and let him go. So why did it feel like her heart had been broken when he didn’t even held a shred of it to begin with? Did he?
“Of course not. That would be ridiculous,” she grumbled with a quiet snort.
“Lady Aircourt?”
The champagne jostled in her hands, nearly spilling over her fingers. Determined not to embarrass herself any further, Eliza turned around with what she hoped was a steady, placid smile. “Lady Clifton. I was not expecting to see you.”
Francesca Tremore, formerly Creswell, gave her a mildly perplexed but friendly look in return. Clad in her now infamous red gown and draped in diamonds, the young countess looked every inch the demimonde queen she’d bloomed into over the year. “I am always about on these nights, especially now that the ballroom is complete.” On Tuesdays and Thursdays, women were allowed entrance into the building, and Lady Clifton had convinced her husband that adding a ballroom to be used on those nights would only increase their appeal to the ladies searching for clandestine entertainments. It was a common occurrence to see the mistress of the establishment bustling around and playing hostess to the mostly masked women of the Ton, but it had been more than a little while since Eliza had donned her own disguise to attend the revelries.
“Of course,” she replied with a mild chuckle. “I am not sure what I was thinking.”
“I didn’t recognize you with your disguise,” Lady Clifton replied. “Your wig is usually black.”
Eliza absently fingered a red tendril that had fallen out of place. “I wanted to change things up a bit. It’s been quite a while since I have visited, after all.” It was a rather daring hair color, but she was feeling adventurous this night, if only as a way to throw herself into the entertainments of the evening.
“Is everything alright? You came here on your own and, if I may be so bold, looked a tad lonely amongst the tables.”
Did she really look that pathetic? Eliza felt her smile wobble, but held fast. She’d be damned if she let Dalton ruin her night. “Oh, I was just trying to relax after a rough day of planning.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. Several lavender bushes were diseased and needed replacing, along with a few ballroom windows that had been damaged from the leaking roof. Both had taken the entire day to sort out, and she supposed she could use a break from the whirl of it all. But that had the added disadvantage of leaving her with no problems to focus on other than a certain viscount.
“Several of us have a table in the dining room, if you would like to come join for dinner,” Lady Clifton offered with an encouraging tone.
Though Eliza hated pity, especially when it was warranted, she could admit that the night had turned out rather dull. Perhaps some invigorating company would do the trick. No doubt Lady Clifton’s ‘we’ included Lady Amberwood, the Duchess of Ashford, and their husbands; all of whom made for perfectly pleasant company. Though, the surety that Dalton’s sister would be present gave her a moment’s pause. Then again, the topic of James Berrington surely wouldn’t be brought up amongst the women whom she was sure he had yet to receive forgiveness from. “That sounds lovely, thank you.”
“Excellent! Come with me, then.” Lady Clifton made to turn, but then scowled when her eyes landed on Eliza’s flute. “Who gave you such a cheap champagne? Our friends only receive the best here. Hold on a moment.”
“It is no bother,” Eliza replied with a laughing wave. But Lady Clifton was already making a beeline for a distant footman. She watched with bemusement as the woman frantically waved her hands to the sheepish servant. And then a gasp behind her, followed by another, and another still. The din of the room went up by several notches, and several patrons eyed her with thinly disguised horror. Wondering if something had happened to her dress, Eliza curiously scanned her person as the chatter grew yet more frantic. Her mask, perhaps? But no, a subtle check confirmed the garment was still tied firmly to her face. Odd, indeed.
“Excuse me, madam. Might I request your assistance?”
Or perhaps not so strange, after all. Eliza tensed at the achingly familiar voice, heart hammering wildly in her chest. Surely, he didn’t know it was her? And what in the seven hells was he doing here in the first place? She almost wanted to stay in her spot and snub him entirely. But Viscount Dalton was not a man she could so easily ignore, not anymore. Eliza turned around, clenching her jaw at the sight of him. Though it’d been only a day, her heart pounded as if it’d been years since she’d seen his face. He was dressed impeccably, black evening clothes hugging his lean form, that errant lock of hair falling over his devilish blue eyes. Said eyes widened upon taking in her person. “Lady Aircourt?”
“Hush,” she snapped lowly, stepping closer to him and narrowing her eyes. “The ladies here disguise ourselves for a reason.”
“Oh,” he all but stuttered. “Right, of course. I do apologize My La—”
“Dalton,” she hissed back.
He coughed. “I do apologize, madam.”
This was a disaster, a total, unmitigated disaster. Eliza could only assume he was here to make good on his promise to make amends to Lady Clifton, but, while commendable, approaching the task in such a manner was just about the most idiotic thing the man could have done. The rumors regarding his mother, while abated somewhat, were still afloat and publicly approaching the establishment of his former betrothed’s husband would inflame talk anew. Only a few days without her, and Dalton had gotten himself into another fine mess. “You must get out of this crowd,” she whispered urgently. If Clifton hadn’t heard of Dalton’s arrival, then he would soon, and Eliza wasn’t too keen on talking the earl out of kicking Dalton out on his arse for half the Ton to see. Not caring if it caused a spectacle, as no one recognized her, Eliza grasped his cuff between her fingers, intent on leading him somewhere more private. The sooner she could shoo him out, the sooner she’d be able to breathe again and see reason. As it was, his adorably befuddled frown at her manhandling only endeared him to her all the more. Already her resolve was chipping away with every second that passed with her feeling the warmth of his fingers tickling her palm. “And how in the world did you recognize me?”
“I’m sorry,” he replied softly. I had a plan, but it seems to have fled me the moment I laid eyes on you. And what a silly question. Of course, I would recognize those mesmerizing lips almost immediately.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Eliza would have rolled her eyes at such a saccharine reply had it not sent her mind entirely to sixes and sevens. And then, as if God himself were determined to spoil her evening, a gasp sounded over the excited crowd.
“James?” Lady Clifton emerged from the crowd before them, a fresh glass of champagne perched precariously in her shaking fingers.
Blast, she’d entirely forgotten that the countess would return to her shortly. Eliza looked wildly between the two. Dalton stood frozen on the spot, his face growing a shade or two paler. Whatever the idiot’s grand plan had been, he apparently had not thought through the part where he’d actually have to speak to his target. “Francesca,” he said slowly, carefully, as if afraid the entire building would come down on him at the woman’s command. Which was entirely possible, if only figuratively. The entire room seemed to hush, their unwanted audience all but leaning in to hear the countess’s response. Dalton’s fingers curled around her palm.
