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Unfortunately, Gordon stepped back at the same instant she leaned forward, almost unbalancing her. He cleared his throat, a decidedly proper expression on his face. “Careful, Elisabeth. Your great-aunt Charity is casting dagger glances our way.”
She straightened, smoothing her skirts. Tossed a demure smile over the crowd, all as if she meant to almost topple feet over head. “Oh, pooh for Great-aunt Charity. Glass houses and all that rot. If half the stories about her are true—”
“Still, my dear. It wouldn’t do to antagonize her unnecessarily. I don’t want her thinking I’m a scoundrel.”
“What if I like scoundrels?”
“You’re such a tease, my dear.” He acknowledged an impatient summons from his brother with a wave. “Marcus is after me to make a fourth, dear heart. Will you be all right on your own?” He smiled. “Silly question. Of course you will. You’re a natural at this sort of social small talk. And besides, it’s family. Not a bunch of strangers, eh?” He chucked her chin as he might a child’s before leaving without a backward glance.
She took advantage of the respite to snatch a savory and a glass of wine from a passing tray. Nibbled as she watched the crowd of parrot-bright ladies and dashing gentlemen. They laughed, danced, drank, and in one or two instances sang. Boisterous. At times rowdy. But always good-natured.
“Among this company . . .” What had Gordon been implying? And why did she feel she’d been chastised like a child? She shook off her questions with a sigh and a sharp flick of her fan.
“Abandoned
at your own festivities?” came a voice from behind her, thick and dark as treacle. Definitely not Great-aunt Charity, who possessed a parade ground bellow.
No, Elisabeth knew that voice. That impudent tone.
She swung around to come up against an unyielding chest. Her glass of wine sloshed onto his coat, staining his shirtfront dark red. He stepped back with a quick oath. And the moment burst like a bubble. The man from earlier. A stranger. Not him. Not at all. What was wrong with her that she jumped at shadows?
“Forgive me.” She blotted at him with her napkin.
“Here, allow me.” He eased it from her hand as she belatedly realized the unintended intimacy of her actions.
“I . . . Oh, dear . . . you don’t think . . . oh, dear,” she babbled.
He dabbed at the spot before crushing the napkin and shoving it into his pocket. “No matter. At least it’s not blood this time.”
What on earth did he mean by that?
He lifted his head, his veiled gaze finally meeting hers dead-on. Eyes burning golden-yellow as suns, the irises ringed in darkest black.
She crushed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound choking up through her belly.
His lips twitched with suppressed amusement. As if this were in any way funny. Earth-shattering, more like. “Hello, Lissa.”
two
Had anyone seen? Did anyone know? Surely such an event should be accompanied by a clap of thunder and the earth tilting wildly on its axis. But no. Gordon remained in company with his card-playing friends; Aunt Fitz and Aunt Pheeney chatted with the vicar and his wife; the rest of the guests remained wrapped in their own entertainments. Everything was as it had been a mere moment ago when she’d been happily, comfortingly unaware of the lurking catastrophe in her midst. Yet, all it would take was one curious family member or one inconvenient well-wisher to turn past notoriety into new accusations, insinuations, and speculation.
Miss Elisabeth Fitzgerald. From on-the-shelf spinster to an excess of bridegrooms in the space of a heartbeat.
“You’ll excuse me . . . sir.” The steady throbbing behind her eyes expanded until her whole brain hurt, and she’d trouble walking on shaking legs.
Instead of allowing her to depart gracefully, Brendan Douglas accompanied her into the hall. And then somehow she found her hand linked with his. The contact firm, the callused palm at odds with his polished exterior as he steered her across to a small salon.
He turned to close the doors behind them, his coat stretching tight across his shoulders. And when he faced her again, she noted for the first time a hastily stitched seam. A worn cuff. Less polished than well patched. He hadn’t changed as much as she thought.
“What have you done to yourself?” she asked.
This probably shouldn’t have been her first question, but it was all she could manage as she saw her life flashing before her eyes.
“This?” He passed a hand over his face as if stripping away a mask, a tingle in the air lifting the hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck. Instantly his features shimmered and blurred, rearranging themselves before sharpening back into focus. “A fith-fath to keep from being recognized. I didn’t think I’d be welcomed back with open arms otherwise.”
“Don’t do that,” she snapped.
No matter how often she told herself there was nothing wrong with the race of Other’s Fey-born powers, she still flinched at the casual use of a magic that seemed like fairy-tale fantasy. Her grandmother had been Other. Elisabeth remembered her as a dreamy old lady who spent every waking moment in her gardens, walking the paths, murmuring to the flowers and trees as if she greeted friends.
