Page 39 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

Well. That thought disappointed her far more than it should have.

Still, her gaze wandered once more through the crowd, stubbornly, quietly hopeful.

A familiar, deep voice spoke near her shoulder, and for a moment her heart leapt. “Are you looking for someone, Lady Emily?”

Her smile faltered. It was not Mr. Eastwood but his brother.

“Lord Hartwell,” she said, turning and offering a curtsy. “I caught sight of your mother and knew you would be nearby. Good evening.”

The baron met her gaze evenly, his not-quite-a-smile in place as always. “Lady Emily. I am glad to see you.” Then his eyes flickered to her friend. “And Mrs. Elgin, good evening. Your brother told me you would be present this evening. I have heard every showing of the panorama has had a large turnout, and I decided I must see it for myself at last.” He nodded toward his mother’s position in the room as he made eye contact with Emily again. “I have promised to attend upon my mother for the spectacle, but perhaps afterward we could all discuss it together?”

“That would be delightful,” Mrs. Elgin answered with a slight smile.

“Indeed,” Emily added when he continued to hold her gaze. “Yes, of course. I look forward to it.” The intensity of his regard made her far too aware of Mrs. Elgin watching them, and of others near enough to see it. Why would he not look away?

The military band’s peculiar-sounding tuning session quieted, and a man stood in front of them, leading them into something that sounded softer. A prelude to the evening’s events.

“I had best take up my station,” Lord Hartwell said with a brief bow, then crossed the room to his mother’s side.

“Let us move somewhere toward the middle, but not behind any of the taller men,” Mrs. Elgin said. “I understand why they do not seat people for these events, but it would be far more convenient to order people by height.”

“Yes,” Emily answered, somewhat distracted. Her attention kept tugging back toward the door, as though her thoughts might pull Mr. Eastwood into the room by force of will. She shook her head and tried to pay more attention to the people around her, not certain the middle of the crowd appealed to her. The room grew warmer as more bodies pressed together near the platform. But the panorama would soon hold all her attention, and that would help.

Servants went around the room to dim the lights in the sconces while lamps behind the platform were lit and turned brighter. The conversations in the room hushed.

Mr. Holly appeared behind his sister, leaning forward a touch to say over her shoulder, “Mother is still in the foyer, speaking with friends. I doubt she will come in at all, but I am here if you have need of me.”

“Thank you, Christopher,” his sister answered.

“Oh, and look who I found before the lights dimmed,” he said, and Emily half-turned to greet she-knew-not-who, and found Mr. Eastwood standing directly behind her. Close enough that her thoughts flushed and took wing, leaving her rather bereft. His dark eyes held hers, a smile on his handsome face as he made an abbreviated bow.

“Lady Emily. Mrs. Elgin.” He looked up at the platform and then at Emily again. “This exhibit is quite a spectacle. I hope you do not mind sharing it with me.”

Her breath tightened. Mind? She could hardly think, but she certainly did not mind.

Though her friend said something polite, Emily did not understand it. She was too busy forming her own response, which was not entirely complicated, but certainly too close to the truth. “I cannot think of anyone better to share it with.”

A flush crept up the back of her neck the moment she heard herself.

His eyebrows raised, but no one else marked her words, as they had already turned their attention to the front of the room, where a deep, booming voice took up a well-performed narration.

“The age of chivalry is not gone! When we behold, through the mist of distant ages, the valorous knight of the feudal times going forth to succor the widow, the distressed lady, and the oppressed—wherever and whenever he might find them—we feel, as it were, instinctively, a glow of enthusiasm warm us at this high generosity of soul, at those noble employments of knighthood; and cannot avoid wishing that all such enterprises might be crowned with success.”

The warmth Lyness Eastwood’s breath brushed the back of her neck as he spoke near her ear. The sensation stole her breath for a single, treacherous moment. “I hope you are not easily startled, my lady. I have seen this once already, to make certain it would not harm my mother’s nerves. There is nothing of horror in the art, but there are many, many crashes of cymbals and drums.”

She swallowed and turned her head toward him to whisper, “You will likely see me jump in fear then, Mr. Eastwood. I hope it proves amusing.”

A soft chuckle breezed by her ear. “Why would I find your distress amusing? I would rather prevent it, if I could.”

His sincerity was disarming. She had to turn away. Why did she have the terrible urge to lean backward to brush his shoulder with hers? Such a point of contact would hardly be appropriate. The knowledge that he stood there already distracted her enough without adding such a temptation.

The master of ceremonies was still speaking of feelings and honor, victory and virtue, as the first scene of the panorama rolled out before them. The City of Algiers. She kept silent as the crowd paid attention to his narration. The city was situated upon a lofty hill, a thousand feet above sea-level. The houses were painted as descending from the hill all the way to the edge of the water. There was a thick wall surrounding the city, with towers placed at regular intervals. Light was cleverly directed to shine brighter on each feature of the city as the man spoke of them. He also recounted the number of people stolen and put into chains by the Algerians.

His voice suddenly thundered, making her body startle for the first time that evening.

“Nothing, therefore, but the arm of power, assisted by the thunder of the British Navy, could arrest the havoc of the spoiler! Nothing but the loud-mouthed cannon could shake the despot on his throne!”

A warm hand gently took hers where she had closed it into a fist at her side, wrinkling the booklet she had purchased for greater insight into the evening. Heat unfurled in her palm at the contact and raced up her arm, through to her chest, until she blushed. Gently, Mr. Eastwood’s fingers moved to instead circle her wrist.