Morgan’s hand tightened on her waist, but his expression remained pleasant, unaffected.
Lady Ashford descended upon them, her smile bright and calculating. “Your Graces! How delightful that you could attend. We were so pleased to receive your acceptance.”
“Lady Ashford,” Morgan said smoothly. “Thank you for the invitation. You know my wife, of course.”
“Of course! Lady Eliz- I mean, Your Grace.” Lady Ashford’s eyes raked over Eliza, assessing. “What a lovely gown. Italian, is it?”
“English, actually,” Eliza said, finding her voice. “From Madame Bisset on Bond Street.”
“How… patriotic of you.” Lady Ashford’s smile was sharp. “Well, do enjoy the evening. There’s champagne and refreshments, and the dancing will begin shortly. Ah yes, there is the quartet now,” she said as she swept away.
Morgan leaned close to Eliza. “See? You’re doing wonderfully. I’ve got you.”
“She looked at me like I was something she’d found on her shoe.”
“Lady Ashford looks at everyone that way. It’s not personal.”
They continued through the ballroom, and slowly, painfully, the initial shock of their arrival began to wear off. Several people approached to offer congratulations on their marriage, their curiosity barely masked by politeness.
“Your Grace,” Lord Powley said, bowing to Eliza. “May I say, marriage clearly agrees with you. You’re positively glowing.”
“Thank you, Lord Powley. You’re very kind.”
“And Kirkhammer,” He said as he clapped Morgan on the shoulder. “You’re a lucky man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“I’m well aware,” Morgan said, his eyes on Eliza. “Very lucky indeed. Not sure who would say otherwise.”
“Of course!” He laughed as he moved away.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the din. It was cold, smooth, unmistakable.
“Your Graces. What a pleasant surprise.”
Eliza’s blood turned to ice. Lord Whitfield stood before them, impeccably dressed, his expression one of polite interest. But his eyes, his eyes held something darker and serpentine.
“Lord Whitfield,” Morgan said, his voice carefully neutral. “I didn’t expect that you’d be in attendance. I would assume you’d be in mourning.”
“I wouldn’t miss Lady Ashford’s ball for the world. She throws the most… interesting gatherings.” Whitfield’s gaze shifted to Eliza. “Lady Eliza… I mean… Oh goodness, forgive me, Your Grace. How lovely you look this evening. Marriage suits you.”
Eliza forced herself to meet his eyes, to keep her voice steady. “Thank you, Lord Whitfield.”
“I must confess, I was quite surprised by the announcement of your nuptials after your engagement. All of it has been so sudden. So… unexpected.” His smile was thin, cold. “But then, life is full of surprises, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is,” Morgan said, moving closer to Eliza in a subtle but unmistakable claim. “Some more pleasant than others.”
“Quite.” Whitfield’s eyes lingered on Eliza for a moment longer, assessing, calculating, then he bowed. “Well, I shan’t keep you. I’m sure you have many people to greet. Do enjoy your evening, Your Graces.”
As he walked away, Eliza realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled shakily.
“You did beautifully,” Morgan murmured. “He was trying to intimidate you, and you didn’t let him.”
“I wanted to run. Perhaps vomit.”
“But you didn’t. That’s what matters.” Morgan’s hand found hers, squeezing gently. “And if Bartlett finds what we’re looking for, Whitfield won’t be attending balls for much longer. He’ll be rotting in a cell.”
The thought gave Eliza strength. She nodded, squaring her shoulders once more.
“Your Graces!”
