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She smiled, lowering her gaze for a moment as a flush warmed her cheeks. “I was uncertain whether to bring it.”

“I hope you are pleased that you did,” he said.

Elizabeth looked up. He had asked the question she could answer most honestly, and she found the words before anxiety could take hold. “Yes,” she said. “I think I am.”

His eyes warmed, a soft glow kindling in them. There was no teasing in his expression now, though the pleasure she saw there made her pulse quicken, a quick, bright beat at her throat. She had wanted someone to notice her. Now that he had, she realized she wanted him to stay.

“Will there be dancing again?” she asked, a little too quickly.

“Not tonight, I believe.” Her relief must have shown, because his mouth curved gently, a tender, knowing smile. “I had hoped to ask you something less demanding.”

“What?” she asked.

“Whether you would save a little conversation for me after dinner.”

Elizabeth’s fingers relaxed upon her shawl, releasing the fringe she had been twisting. He might have meant a few minutes beside the hearth, with other people passing between them. He might have meant something quieter. She thought of the gate, the lanterns, and the patient way he had listened while she found the courage to speak. A small, brave warmth rose in her.

“I might go outside for a little air,” she said. She offered the suggestion so softly that she feared he hadn’t heard.

Then his expression changed, a quick, glad light crossing his face, and she knew he had. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

“No.” She looked at him, letting him finish, her heart pounding. “I should like you to.”

The summons to dinner came before she could wonder whether she had been too forward. Charlotte turned back to her, amusement in her gaze. The room rustled with silk and murmured voices. Lord Rosedale stepped aside to let them pass, inclining his head. Elizabeth went with her friend, her cheeks warm and her hands steadier than before she entered.

She had promised only a conversation. For the first time, she understood how much anticipation one could hold.

Three

Julian had agreed to inspect a pair of carriage horses before he remembered that he had been asked a question. Across the drawing room, Lady Andover stood beside Charlotte, the purple silk of her gown catching the candlelight. It reminded him of deep wine, and he wanted to taste her all the more for it. She had loosened her shawl since dinner. One end rested over her arm, leaving a shoulder bare. Her skin was pale and smooth against the rich color, and he had been looking at it when Sir Henry mentioned the horses.

“Tomorrow morning, then,” Sir Henry said, rocking on his heels. “Before breakfast?”

Julian forced his attention back to him, feeling a faint heat rise beneath his collar. “After breakfast would be better.”

“Of course,” Sir Henry agreed. “No sense going out on an empty stomach.”

Sir Henry departed, apparently satisfied, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed. Julian hoped the horses were worth seeing. He could not recall anything about them beyond the fact that there were two. He had been distracted throughout dinner, too. Lady Andover had sat too far away to talk, though he had heard her laugh once at something Lady Sylvan said, a low, startled sound that cut through the clatter of cutlery. Each time she spoke, he had found himself listening for more, his fork forgotten halfway to his mouth. He wanted to know what amused her when she forgot to consider who might be watching.

He also wanted another look at her shoulder. Neither ambition was helping him behave sensibly. He took a sip of wine and told himself firmly to attend to the room. Lady Wetherby approached the pianoforte with a young woman in tow, her skirts whispering across the carpet. A few guests drew their chairs nearer with a scrape of wood, while the gentlemen at the far end of the room began discussing cards in low, argumentative voices. Lady Andover glanced toward the terrace doors, her fingers touching the edge of her shawl.

She had suggested going outside. He would remember that even if he forgot every other conversation he had that evening, and the thought sent a quiet, steady warmth through him. Before he could cross to her, Lady Wetherby called his name. “Rosedale, do come and turn the pages for Miss Bell.”

He checked his steps, suppressing a sigh. Miss Bell, seated at the instrument, looked mortified by the request, her cheeks pink and her hands twisting in her lap. “Certainly,” he said, offering her a reassuring smile.

She gave him a grateful look as he took his place beside the music stand. “I hope you do not mind, my lord.”

“Not at all. Do play something slow, and I shall seem far more capable,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

That earned a small, startled laugh, and some of the tension left her shoulders. Across the room, Lady Andover had taken a chair beside Charlotte. Their eyes met, and he received a brief, slightly shy smile before Miss Bell began. The first notes rose, soft and clear.

He turned every page at the proper moment. He considered this an achievement. When the piece ended, applause rippled through the room. Lady Wetherby requested another. Julian remained where he was, though his attention strayed often enough that Miss Bell had to nod toward the music with a faint, amused lift of her brows. “My apologies,” he murmured, turning the page, a flush warming his neck.

“I believe we have survived it,” she whispered back, her fingers never faltering on the keys.

By the time they released him, Lady Andover’s chair was empty. A small, sharp disappointment pricked him. He searched the room. He looked toward the terrace. The doors remained closed with the curtains drawn against the glass. Lady Sylvan spoke to Lady Markham, showing no concern about her friend’s absence, and her calm reassured him a little.

Julian collected two glasses of lemonade from a passing footman, the cold crystal beading against his fingers, and went to find her. She stood in the little room adjoining the drawing room, studying a shelf of books. She tilted her head to read the spines. The door was open, and the music carried clearly through it, but distance softened it. A pair of candles burned on a table beside the window, where someone had abandoned a basket of embroidery. The silks spilled over the edge in bright tangles.