He had bought her a ring!
Eliza dipped her head to hide her tears. She grinned into his throat under the guise of nibbling his earlobe. He was the best man, and he washerman, and he’d fallen in love with her.
Very soon—tonight perhaps—he would ask her to be his wife! How long must she wait for him to propose? How could she contain her joy? For she brimmed with the excitement of knowing what was to come.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
All through supper, she expected him to ask for her hand, but he never did.
They dined on ham, boiled potatoes, and parsley sauce. For dessert, Pearson and the footmen served an array of colorful, sliced fruits in a wobbling mould of gelatin alongside good wine and strong coffee.
Jenny had helped her dress. Fittingly, Eliza had chosen the frock of rich, iridescent copper-colored silk trimmed in velvet, with long sleeves, a nipped bodice, and flowing skirts. It was the same dinner gown that she’d worn the night Mark had rescued her from Scotland Yard and taken her into his home.
She’d put on weight since arriving. One glance in her looking glass told Eliza that she’d lost that pale, gaunt, malnourished appearance that had haunted her for years. She was clean. She was healthy. She was happy.
Even her hair had recovered—the bald spots had started growing in, and her full, brown locks were glossy and smooth. Jenny no longer had to pad and puff hercoiffureinto place. Now, soft, loose tendrils of hair feathered the demure swoop of neckline that fell over the swell of her breasts.
She looked like a Gibson girl or one of those pretty pictures from the fashion plates. Eliza had wanted to look her best for Mark, yet she was most pleased at how well she looked for herself. The beauty that she’d hidden in Seven Dials beneath the grime, the bust bindings, and the shabby clothing was hers to share. She turned the full force of her brilliance onto the man she loved.
The man she wanted, tonight and always.
He rose and reached for her hand. He helped her from her chair, and then guided her to the drawing room. As they walked, the hems of her skirts caressed the carpeted floor in a whisper of silk. The heels of her slippers tapped gracefully against the polished marble tiles. Eliza felt her stockings and lingerie brush between her legs in a hidden, ladylike secret that heightened her awareness of her body beneath her clothes.
Menfolk thought pretty frocks and frilly drawers were worn for their benefit, but Eliza sensed the power she wielded and the desire she experienced whenever she was properly turned out. She felt no shame for trading her dingy old garments for these fine things and refused to judge any lady who made that same choice, whatever her reasonings.
The drawing room lamps were lit. No fire burned in the grate, though a few tapers had been lit to soften the space. The candles burned on the mantel, casting a warm, flickering glow over the chimneypiece.
The room looked homely and felt romantic. It was a quiet, domestic scene that she had enjoyed in the weeks since she’d arrived at Green Street. After dinner, she and Mark routinely shared the sofa. She sipped coffee and he drank from a snifter of brandy while they discussed the day’s business. He shared his thoughts about the Bank. She asked his opinion about money, the war, and everything else. She read bawdy stories to him while he rested his eyes, both of them laughing at the exaggerated misadventures of‘The Society of Vice’.
Oftentimes, Eliza closed the copy in a huff and regaled him with tales of her real-life experiences pilfering purses on the pavements of Piccadilly and cheating toffs in the corners of Covent Garden. She told him of the characters she’d known and the things she’d seen, and—regrettably—of the sights she wished she could forget.
Mark would hold her, cuddle her, and keep her safe from the shadows. He loved her, though he hadn’t said the words. He longed to marry her, though he had not yet proposed.
Eliza wondered what was holding his tongue.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she told him as they settled together onto the leather cushions.
He draped his arm over her shoulders, nestling her close. She leaned into his touch as he replied, “I’ve a lot on my mind. You see, I’ve lately discovered that a woman whom I hold in the highest esteem has surpassed my wildest ambitions for her future. She is to be published in a popular weekly periodical. She is currently in possession of some fifteen hundred pounds, and I’m afraid she’ll soon be earning her own income. What haveIto offer such an intrepid lady?”
She smiled up at him. Near to him as she was, she spied soft crinkles around his eyes and the silvery glint at his temples. His jaw was shaved smooth. His chin was sharply hewn and the flesh of his cheeks was taut over the fine bones of his face. Even up close, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
“You’re a treat to look at,” she teased.
His mouth was grim, though a smile tugged at the corners. “Ah, you fancy me for my looks.”
“Among other things…” She stroked his chest, partly to provoke him, and partly to feel for the jewelry box he kept hidden in the pocket of his dinner jacket. It was still there. “You’re intelligent and influential. You’re steady, mature, and dependable in a crisis. I say you are precisely the sort of bloke a sensible girl would pray for.”
Mark touched her hand, stilling it against the embroidered silk of his waistcoat. He flattened her palm over his heart. He wouldn’t let her get close to the ring he concealed. “I am too dull and drab for a vibrant woman. I cannot promise adventure, only security. I can only offer my home, my heart, my body—and I am not sure that’s enough for…some intrepid girl. I’m not certainIam enough for her.”
Candlelight danced on her copper frock, and she saw her radiance reflected in his gaze. “Don’t you think you ought to letherdecide that for herself?”
He brought her knuckles to his lips, fanning his breath over the back of her hand. Was he trembling? Or was she? “Eliza, I must confess something.”
She nodded, swallowing the trepidation rising in her throat. “Go on.”
“I’ve discovered the identity of your father. I know what happened to your mother, and why the money he’d sent her suddenly ceased. At Ann’s spurring, I traced the cheques from a solicitor’s office at Farrer’s into an account at Stannard-Hopeley. Mr. Jarvey was a junior officer then, though he has since risen to some prominence at the firm—no doubt in recognition of his service to your father.” Mark sighed and said, “Your father is a powerful, wealthy man. Would you like me to tell you about him? I can say as much or as little as you wish. It’s up to you.”
Whenever she’d been cold, hungry, or frightened, Eliza had wondered about the man who’d sired her. She dreamed that there had been some mistake and that the money was waiting in a strongbox for her to claim. When she had been forced to surrender her dignity for another miserable night in a dingy dosshouse, Eliza’s curiosity had turned bitter. She hated the man who’d deceived Mother, abandoned his daughter, and benefited from a society that kept poor women downtrodden.
