Zachary caught the exaggerated roll of Elizabeth’s eyes before she pasted on a benign expression. He was also quick to note Dyer’s mood confirming the gleam of possession and hunger in his eyes as the robber baron studied her.
The Duke of Westerly stared at Elizabeth, transfigured like a man in love or caught in a religious trance, or salivating for a huge bankroll to bail out his bankrupt estates. He had round plump cheeks, a prissy mouth with an air of cherubic vacancy and bloodlessness. Zachary’s fingers gripped his wine glass. He forced them to relax so as not to break the stem.
He leaned over and whispered in Elizabeth’s ear, “Should I suggest moving to the drawing room for a little after-dancing arsenic?”
He was rewarded with a burst of merriment. Her laughter was like a still pond after a stone had been thrown in. It radiated outwards and through him, energizing his soul.
Darkening his buoyant mood was a young man who elbowed past the duke and bowed before her. “May I have a dance, Miss Spencer?”
Elizabeth leaned over for only Zachary to hear. “Meet me at the punch table.”
Five minutes later he stood beside a column waiting for Elizabeth to arrive at the table. Elizabeth was tapping her toe waiting for him. A small vein throbbed in his brow. So was Martha Johnson. Elizabeth took a proffered cup from a servant, swiveled and spilled her punch onto Martha’s gown.
“You dreadful tart,” she insulted Elizabeth. “You did that on purpose.” The woman dragged a napkin from the table and dabbed her gown. “Look what you’ve done.”
“I’m sorry, it was an accident,” said Elizabeth. “And you are?”
“Her name’s Martha Johnson,” Zachary said between clenched teeth and attempted to pull Elizabeth away. “Not someone you wish to know.”
“And who are you?” demanded the woman pulling herself up, her ridiculous feathers bouncing in her headdress.
Elizabeth stood firm. “I’m Elizabeth Spencer.”
“Your father is Edward Spencer?” The woman’s eyes grew as big as dinner plates. “The Edward Spencer.”
Elizabeth smiled, the smile of a cat snagging a canary. “The same. You can send me the bill to have a new gown made.” With all the adoration in the world, she held her gaze on Zachary. “Let’s go, my dearest. Did I tell you that you are the most fascinating of all my acquaintances? There is a library where I can show you those rare volumes you wished to read.”
She led the way. What a minx, using her society to give Martha retribution. Zachary also appreciated the sway of her hips as she led him up the stairs and away from the gaping Martha Johnson.
Chapter Seventeen
In the library, Zachary watched Elizabeth pull the drapery aside of a hidden alcove that looked out over the city.
“Thank you,” he said, warmth radiating throughout his body.
“For what?”
He raised a brow. “Your name dropping. And I know the punch spilling was no accident and not something you’d do.”
Genuine compassion lit her expression as she lowered her eyes and drew a circle with the toe of her satin slipper on the marble floor. “It was terrible of me. To tell you the truth, I’ve never done anything like that before, but it did feel good to slight her. Mother Superior might give me many penances.”
How Elizabeth wormed into his heart. He liked the way her face turned up when he spoke, with no trace of practiced artifice in gesture. “Far be it from me to insist on your fasting and almsgiving. For me, your charity was liberating.”
“You’ve done so much for me. You needed saving, and I had the ability to perform the task.” Elizabeth sighed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I rescue stray cats and dogs, too.”
“Good to know where I rank.” Zachary flashed her a grin. “And you must call me Zachary.”
“I must, must I?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why is that?”
He took a moment to reply. “I can’t really say, except it would please me enormously.”
“Then Zachary it will be.”
“Any may I call you, Elizabeth? Miss Spencer is so formal.”
