Page 52 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

He had taken scarcely a dozen steps when he glanced over his shoulder. A foolish thing, really. Stemming from his need to protect her, to be certain Emily had what she needed. Completely unnecessary, of course. Roman was with her. Roman was always dependable in a crisis.

But what Lyness saw made his steps falter.

Roman was no longer standing with Emily at the refreshment table. He was guiding her toward the nearest set of open doors. No, not merely guiding her. Supporting her. Emily’s hand clutched at his sleeve. Her steps faltered beneath her as though her slippers could not find purchase on the floor. Her head dipped, the white blossoms in her dark hair brushing Roman’s shoulder, and she leaned heavily upon him.

A sickening jolt went through Lyness, forcing him to move. This time toward Lady Emily and Roman rather than away. He saw when she stumbled. Roman caught her fully, his arm sweeping around her waist to hold her upright.

She looked…wrong. Too pale. Eyes mostly closed. Her lips parted on a sound Lyness could not hear across the room, though he saw the shape of it: confusion, or apology, or fear.

Roman bent to murmur something to her, then lifted his head, looking for help. He saw Lyness and lifted his chin in silent command. Completely unnecessary. Lyness was already wading back toward them, hoping no one else saw what was unfolding. Roman’s gaze swung back to the open doors, he adjusted his grip and guided Emily in that direction with urgency.

Lyness lost his patience, pushing aside the gentlemen blocking his way, ignoring the startled looks cast after him. His heart hammered in his throat.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Yes, Emily had been pale before. Nervous and possibly overwhelmed. But this… this was different. This was not nerves. This was not merely a lady in want of air or calm.

He had seen a cousin swoon from heat once. He had seen his mother go glassy-eyed after one of her stronger draughts for her nerves. He had never seen Emily like this.

And Roman—serious, unshakeable Roman—appeared alarmed.

Lyness’s jaw clenched. He stepped through the door and into a corridor where servants moved quickly to and fro. He caught the arm of a young footman. “A man and woman came through here. The woman was ill. Which way?”

The youth pointed to another door. “Out into the air, sir.”

A few decades before, a Medieval Catholic church had stood to the south of where the Assembly Rooms now took precedence. Saint Wilfrid’s. The building had been removed when the Catholics opened a newer church across the road. Now the site was the back of the Judges Lodgings’ gardens and made into a patch of greenery and cobblestone, with little purpose. It was there that Roman had taken Lady Emily, and there that he lowered her to sit on a large crate when Lyness arrived.

“What happened?” Lyness asked, hurrying toward them in the semi-darkness. The only source of light was what spilled from the windows of the buildings around them and the moon, which was not even at a quarter full. “R-R-Roman,” he said, kneeling on the ground as she swayed where she sat. He put his hands up to hold her steady by her forearms, looking into her eyes. Or trying to.

“Lady Emily?” When she blinked without seeming to see him, he repeated her name with more firmness. “Emily, can you tell me what is wrong?”

Her eyelashes fluttered rapidly, like she was trying—and failing—to focus on him. Her fingers, which had clutched Roman’s sleeve a moment before, lay limply in her lap. Her temples shone with sweat.

Roman sat beside her, arm going around her shoulders to steady her. “She said she felt unwell,” Roman said, “and that she could not catch her breath. Had you not brought her to me, were I not the one to hand her a drink, I would have thought her drunk. Her cheeks went red. She could not walk.”

“Dizzy,” she whispered and fell forward. Roman caught her against him as Lyness lunged forward to steady her. The single word she whispered sounded wrong in her mouth, soft and slurred, in a tone that made it seem to belong someone else entirely. Her lips moved again, as though she meant to say something reassuring, but no sound other than a sigh escaped her.

The brothers exchanged a glance.

“Wh-what was in your-your c-c-cup?” Lyness asked, trying not to panic even as his words tripped and repeated themselves against his will.

“Lemonade. I thought.” Roman’s glare was a powerful thing, even in the dark. “A servant handed it to me when I entered the room. I did not even ask for it.”

Without a word, Lyness leaned close enough to inhale the scent of Emily’s breath. She smelled faintly of lemons and something…wrong. Too sweet. Almost medicinal.

“T-t-tampered with. L-l-laud-laud—,” Lyness bit off the word he could not speak. His words were tangled, and he gave Roman a look that he inwardly begged his brother to interpret with haste.

“Laudanum.” Roman growled and then muttered a curse beneath his breath. Lyness shut his eyes briefly, grateful Roman gave the word he himself could not force out. “We need to get her away from here. Without anyone seeing.”

Lyness glanced to the Stamp House directly beside the Assembly Rooms, then farther away, to an alley that would lead them out to Blake Street. He stood. “Y-you re-re-retrieve the c-c-carriage.”

No one would understand a word Lyness said if he attempted to command such a thing at present.

“I will bring it to the alley’s exit on Blake Street. Meet me there. Stay in the shadows as much as you can. I will send someone to find her brother without returning to the ball myself. Hopefully, no one paid attention to our exit.” Roman stood, maneuvering carefully so Lyness could trade positions with him to support Emily. Her hair was mussed where it had rested on Roman’s shoulder, and the chamomile flowers barely clung to the dark curls. A tiny, involuntary sound she made, a whimper from clenched lips, cut straight to his heart.

Someone had meant for Roman to drink the lemonade. Instead, an already distressed Emily had taken what was meant to make the baron look like a fool. Lyness’s anger threatened to intrude in that moment, but he cast it aside and instead tilted his forehead to rest against the softness of her curls. He had to take hold of himself and the situation. For Emily’s sake.

He wanted to speak. To reassure her. But he knew his tongue would not obey, though he fiercely wished it would. All he had were his actions, and he did not know if her mind remained fully present. He wanted to tell her that he would lift her in his arms and carry her to safety. Instead, he pressed his lips briefly to the curls above her ear. Not a kiss. Not truly. Only the ghost of one. And the closest he dared come with his intentions still undeclared.