“Nine-and-twenty and still so useful to everyone.”
The remark had carried across the room, casual and cutting, and the woman had absorbed it without flinching. Herreply—usefulness has its comforts—had been delivered with impeccable composure, revealing nothing.
But Benjamin had noticed her hands. For the briefest instant, before she clasped them together, her fingers had trembled.
Now she stood alone by the window, her back to the room, and he found himself moving toward her before he had consciously resolved to do so.
This was, he recognised distantly, a dreadful idea. He had come here to secure a wife, not to pursue women who clearly wished to be left undisturbed. His face would alarm her. His silence would unsettle her. His reputation would precede him and burden every interaction with the weight of rumour and speculation.
He ought to turn back. Return to the insipid conversation with Lady Rutledge. Continue his survey of acceptable candidates.
He continued walking.
“TheInferno,” he said, halting at a respectful distance. “An unconventional selection for romantic entertainment.”
The woman turned. Her eyes—grey, he observed, the same shade as her gown—widened slightly as she recognised who addressed her, but she did not retreat. She did not flinch.
Interesting.
“Mrs Thornbury requested passion,” she said, after a pause just long enough to be intentional. “Dante seemed appropriate. Hell offers no shortage of dramatic illustration.”
“And the opening tercet in particular? ‘Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a dark wood, for the straight path had been lost.’”
Her expression shifted—surprise, swiftly concealed. “You know the text.”
“I have read it. Once. In translation.” He paused. “My Italian is not…fluent.”
“Perhaps not,” she said softly. “But even modest competence is respectable. Fluency suggests a mastery few can achieve.”
“A meaningful distinction?”
“To me.”
They regarded one another across the measured distance he maintained. She was not beautiful in the manner society most valued—she lacked the rosy prettiness painters adored. Yet something in her face held attention: the intelligence in her gaze, perhaps, or the resolute line of her mouth, or the way she regarded him without the pity or revulsion he had come to expect.
She looked at him, he realised, as she might look at anyone. As though his scars were merely a fact—no more remarkable than the colour of his coat.
It was, absurdly, among the most disorienting experiences of his recent memory.
“You selected Dante deliberately,” he said. “To avoid the romantic verses Mrs Thornbury desired.”
“Did I?”
“TheInfernois a journey through damnation. Not customary house-party entertainment.”
“Perhaps I find damnation more relatable than romance.”
The words landed with an edge that surprised them both. He saw her recognise it—the faint widening of her eyes, the nearly imperceptible tightening of her shoulders—and then smooth it away, as though nothing had occurred.
“Forgive me,” she said. “That was—”
“Honest.”
She fell silent.
“Honest,” he repeated. “And therefore refreshing. Most people at such gatherings are incapable of honesty. They speak in pleasantries and implications and careful evasions designed to reveal nothing of substance.”
“Is that not the purpose of polite society? To reveal nothing of substance?”
