Page 49 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

“Nor can you—unless you give her the chance to choose. Ask her, Eastwood.” Holly’s voice softened. “What is the worst that could happen? She is a kind woman. She would not wound you deliberately. But by remaining silent, you deny her agency in her own future. Is that truly what you wish?”

The words struck deeper than Lyness liked. He recognized the truth in them—and rejected it all the same.

“It is not so simple,” he said. “I have neither title nor fortune to offer.”

“So?” Holly countered. “Her father is an earl. She is not seeking advancement. And if she were, she could do far better than your brother.”

Lyness had no reply.

Holly sighed. “A woman like her deserves to know when she is loved.”

Before Lyness responded, Holly stepped away to greet his family as their carriage arrived. Moments later, he returned, his manner composed once more. He had his mother on his arm, his cousin escorted Holly’s sister.

“Mr. Eastwood,” he said, extending an implicit invitation, “will you join us inside?”

Lyness hesitated only a moment.

Then he followed.

The noise of the ballroom struck Lyness at once—the swell of voices, the scrape of shoes against polished floorboards, the bright shimmer of fabric and jewels beneath the chandeliers. The air inside was warmer than outside, heavier, filled with motion and expectation.

He reminded himself to breathe.

Holly guided his family forward, exchanging greetings with acquaintances, and Lyness followed a half step behind, his attention undirected.

Until he saw her.

Lady Emily stood near the edge of the room, her pale pink gown catching the light with every small movement. She was not at the center of any gathering, nor was she withdrawn entirely—simply present, poised with a few friends around her. Her gloved hands were folded with careful precision, her posture composed, though something in the angle of her shoulders betrayed her tension.

She looked… luminous.

Not in the way fashion plates depicted beauty, nor in the manner of women trained from girlhood to command a room. It was subtler than that. She looked as though she belonged to herself, even here. As though she carried a quiet gravity that did not demand attention but drew it all the same.

The air left his lungs.

This—this feeling—was the cost of coming inside. Part agony, part longing.

She turned toward then, and for one unguarded moment her eyes swept the room with an openness that startled him. Not assessing. Not performing. Searching.

Looking for someone.

The realization struck him with sudden clarity, and the next instant her gaze collided with his. As his steps ate up the distance between them, covering the marble floors too slowly for his liking, he knew. But the knowledge he dare not yet name lodged in his chest, heavy and insistent.

He had told himself he could stand aside. That he could be content with usefulness, with restraint, with doing what was proper. But seeing her there—brave in her composure, vulnerable in her stillness—he knew the lie for what it was.

He did not want to be useful tonight.

He wanted to be chosen.

Chapter Sixteen

When Emily finally laid eyes on Mr. Lyness Eastwood, the tension in his jaw and the set of his shoulders gave her pause. Was he unhappy with the ball? With Mr. Holly? His mouth was set in a firm line, his gaze fixed somewhere past their little group, as though he would rather have been anywhere else than dragged along in Mr. Holly’s wake. For one terrible moment she thought he did not wish to be there at all.

Then her eyes met his.

The change was immediate. The stiffness about his mouth eased; familiar warmth lit his features. He inclined his head, the tiniest of smiles touching his lips. Emily’s heart gave a startled skip.

“Ladies,” Mr. Holly said as he reached them, bowing. “May I present my cousin to you? Lady Juniper Sterling sister to the Earl of Haverford. Lady Emily, daughter of the Earl of Benwaith. Miss Nelson, Miss Theodora Nelson. This is my cousin, Mr. August Booth. He is visiting from London, for the races.”