“I should think you are used to it by now,” Silas said. He looked at her curiously.
Elswyth clenched her jaw. Had that been a joke about her scar? “Perhaps you are, but I am not.”
He shrugged. “I do not dance often. Not many young ladies are eager to be seen publicly with a bastard.”
“And yet privately it seems they enjoy you quite deeply,” Elswyth said.
Silas smirked. “I am not so much of a rake as they may lead you to believe.”
“Oh? I suppose the incident in the hedge maze was an accident. Perhaps you tripped and fell into Miss Forscythe.”
To her surprise, Silas almost seemed embarrassed. “I don’t suppose I can convince you that I was in love with her, can I?”
“I would find that hard to believe. Although I think that says more about my feelings for Venus than my thoughts about you.”
He sighed. “No. It was never love. I helped her feel some modicum of freedom. And she helped me…”
“Pursue your passions?”
Silas smiled sadly. “Forget them.”
The dance took them apart for a moment. Elswyth turned, staring at him as they circled. When they came back together, Silas spoke first.
“When you are a bastard, people presume what they like about you. Bastards beget bastards, as they say. I have never thanked you for your discretion, Elswyth. It eases that burden.”
Elswyth was unsure what to say. The moment of earnestnesswas unexpected from Silas, usually so coy or cold. Then she scowled, turning away from him.
“What is it?” he said.
“I finally have one secret worth something, and you’re making me feel bad about sending it to the gossip columns.”
“They wouldn’t print it, anyway. Everyone is convinced you have it out for Venus now. She’s made sure of that. Even if you did start telling people about us, they’d assume it was gossip intended to destroy her reputation. Oh, and Lady Forscythe has bribed all the popular gossip rags to portray her family positively. So they tend to go for smaller fish.”
“Like deformed provincials from dying houses,” Elswyth said.
“Lest you forget, brooding bastards from the colonies,” Silas said. “But I shall make it up to you. I pride myself on collecting spare secrets when they become available to me.”
“I did not take you for a gossip,” she said.
“A gossip, no. But during the social season, secrets are as silver. I make sure my coffers are stocked.”
Elswyth appraised his face: his keenly intelligent eyes, his sharp jaw, the stubble on his chin. Looking up at him, she realized that she would only need to stretch a few inches to reach his lips. Their moment of mutual lust in the conservatory came back to her in a reverie, the feeling of his hand on her thigh, his bare chest so close to her face… She turned away, ignoring the heat in her belly.
“And what do you expect in return?”
He smiled. “Perhaps I’ll call on you one day. But for now, the pleasure of your commiseration is enough.”
Silas leaned down to whisper in her ear, and a single black curl fell against her cheek. “Now. Look over there. Do you see the girl in the honeysuckle gown?”
Elswyth subtly turned her head as they spun about the floor. She spotted the girl, black-haired and olive-skinned, in a pink gown speckled with dangling flowers. “Miss Petunia Florissant,” she said, “second daughter of Anther Florissant, Viscount of Canterbury.”
“Well done. Yes, Miss Florissant. What do you think of her?”
Elswyth shrugged slightly, careful not to be too obvious with her observations. “Lovely enough, if a bit simple. Well bred.”
“It would seem so, wouldn’t it? But it’s said that her mother, the Lady Costa Florissant, is quite close with their family’s groundskeeper. An Italian. Swarthy fellow. Now, look at Lord and Lady Florissant, watching their daughter dance.”
Elswyth did. Lord Florissant was pale as paper with bright orange hair and blue eyes. Lady Florissant was an English rose, red-blond hair and hazel eyes, with a smattering of freckles across her nose.
