“Of course,” she replied, feeling none of the warmth she managed to infuse in her tone.
“Leo,” Henry said, joining them. Leo turned, to greet him. “It’s good to see you. How have you been?”
Eliza shot him a grateful look from behind Leo’s back. His gaze met hers before returning to his friend, a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.
Too soon, their hostess urged them to find their seats, and Eliza was pushed into the chair beside Leo—not on the aisle. With Henry and Aunt Kate now ousted to the row in front of them.
Leo leaned in to her side and whispered, “Have you had the pleasure of hearing ‘Oft in the Stilly Night’?”
She nodded, facing the front as the cellist—apparently the new earl—took his place. He was a handsome man of no more than five and twenty who cut a fine figure and had dark hair. A beautiful mezzo-soprano quickly joined him. Eliza had heard of the young woman, Amalia Sogono, who was quite famous, but had never had the pleasure of seeing her perform. The woman’s hair was fair, like spun gold, and her complexion held a natural flush. When she opened her lips, her lilting high notes joining the earl’s rich cello, Eliza was momentarily stunned.
And she was not alone, she noted with some bemusement as Henry stiffened in front of her. In his profile, she saw his jaw fall. Sophie leaned in and nudged her, apparently also having noted the awestruck, foolish expression cross the angle of their cousin’s face.
She could not blame Henry. The woman was an exceptional talent, putting the songbirds to shame. The song was an unusual choice for such a musicale. When she heard voice and strings combined, the pairing left her struck.
“It is about the ache of lost innocence,” Leo whispered at her side.
She turned, nodding a bit dismissively before returning to the music.
“It evokes unspoken emotion.”
“Yes, thank you.” She did not reward him with a glance. That, at least, seemed to settle him, and he refrained from further commentary.
The song, though beautiful, was brief. In the midst of the applause that followed, she leaned over to Leo. “I’m feeling a little warm. I’ll step out into the retiring room for a moment.”
“Oh, I’ll accompany you?—”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly trouble you. Besides, it wouldn’t do to have you lingering about outside. I’ll return shortly.” Elizashot Sophie a significant glance. She returned it with a quick wink.
Eliza scurried down the aisle toward the drawing room serving the purpose for female guests. A man with a faint scar along his cheek stepped aside to let her pass and held the door open for her. As soon as she slipped passed him, the cello swelled once more.
She glanced about the hall and was relieved to find no one. She peered into the ladies’ retiring room, hoping for a convenient escape to the courtyard but saw nothing of interest.
A second room, the music room, revealed no such egress either. Finally, in the dining room, she found a set of French doors that led outside.
The moon was wide and bright, illuminating a darkened walking path. And there it was. The orangery.
A pale stone building with a curved entry surrounded by pillars, it was a restrained display of lavishness. The roofline was adorned with a stone balustrade and tall, arched windows lined every side. Eliza’s silver slippers crunched against the gravel path as she hurried to her destination.
She reached the door and tugged on the handle with hope in her heart. To her great delight, it opened freely. The rich, heady scent of jasmine mixed with the honeyed citrus of orange blossoms washed over her. She stepped inside, allowing the door to shut behind her.
The orangery was balmier than the night air, almost sticky. The moon left the room cast in elegant shadows. Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor as she spun in wonder, taking in the magnificent sight. Tropical blooms she had only read of, could only dream of cultivating, lined the path. Their massive leaves and bright petals hung above the passage in a breathtaking canopy of brilliance.
Breathless, she approached a large orange tree across from the entry and dipped her head to inhale the sweet essence.
The air rushed out from her lungs as the door opened behind her. She gasped and whirled around with a hand pressed to her breast.
A man was silhouetted in the moonlight—tall, broad, and perfect.
Benedict.
“What the devil are you thinking?” he asked, his voice a rich mahogany.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You abandoned your little suitor to sneak out here. Alone. At night. Without the slightest regard for your safety.”
Fury threatened to overtake Eliza, burning through her veins like acid. “I am quite certain the only danger here is you.”
