“‘Contest,’” he repeated affectionately. As though Rowley had said something adorable.
Around him, despite themselves, most of the men hid smiles.
Rowley’s face went stony.
Kirke, however, had not been handily elected over and over by assuming getting elected would be effortless. He personally thought there would be a contest. As much as he loved a good fight, it was very witty of fate to decide to throw this new fight onto the tangled heap that was his current life.
A few moments later, under cover of smoke and laughter, he slipped out of the library and headed back down the stairs. He threaded past the dancers on the floor, his eyes running swiftly across them, before veering to casually peer into the game room. When he saw Lady Wisterberg, a white plume like a planted flag on top of her head, deep in play, his heart gave a single hard, odd bump.
He made at once for the stairs. This time he turned left, the opposite direction from the library, and made his way down a softly carpetedhall. From experience, he knew he would find an alcove.
He found her sitting alone on a bench next to an urn from which a froth of ferns and flowers spilled. She was somewhat camouflaged in a pale green dress.
Even he knew this wasn’t this year’s color.
He froze as two epiphanies struck:
He hadn’t been so much seeking solitude just now as he’d been specifically seeking her.
After his little encounter with Barnes and Rowley, he’d wanted to see that light in her face the way he might want a breath of clean air.
He froze. She hadn’t yet noticed him; it wasn’t too late to turn around.
Suddenly she tipped her face into her palms.
It was so clearly a moment of private despair. It sliced right through him.
“Keating.” The word was out of his mouth before he knew he could stop it. He said it almost urgently, as if he were warning her to step out of the path of a rushing carriage.
Her head shot up in surprise.
And her face brightened immediately when she saw him and that was better.
His heart was beating strangely quickly, as if some accident had been averted.
She slowly rose to her feet. They regarded each other for a tick or two of silence.
He wondered what she’d read in his face. He took pains to adopt a neutral expression.
She said cautiously, “Lord Kirke, I feel as though I’m forever intruding on your quiet places. You seem to know where they are in every town house.”
It was almost another way of saying: “You seem to know where I am in every town house.”
“I’ve had years of experience at the same parties. And I haven’t a monopoly on quiet places. You are welcome to any and all of them. Do you feel unwell? Shall I go and fetch your chaperone?”
Every muscle in his body had tensed in preparation to act.
“Why would you... oh, you saw... Oh.” She was flustered now. “No, thank you. You are too kind. I was just... resting my face for a moment.”
“I see,” he said both gently and dryly. “All that holding it up gets tiring after a time, I suppose.”
Her mouth quirked at the corner. She turned away from him slightly, as if to hide her expression.
A wordless few moments passed during which he felt irrationally helpless because he couldn’t fix whatever was wrong for her.
“Truthfully... I was just beginning to wonder whether I ought to go home.” She gave a little laugh, to attempt to make her words sound wry. But they weren’t.
“Back to The Grand Palace on the Thames?”
