13 13Over the course of the next several days, Rhys went to more balls, routs, card parties, dinners, salons, and informal gatherings in evening wear than he had in all his previous London visits combined.
His mother was ecstatic.
“You’ve become quite the social butterfly,” his mother said, winking at him over her tea one breakfast.
“Yes, it’s almost as if you are trying to curry a female’s favor,” his sister Eloisa said, the vinegar that normally flavored her voice suddenly swapped for honey.
Rhys felt his back stiffen even as his cheeks blushed. “I am merely enjoying my time in London with my friends. Miss Morton has nothing to do with it.”
“I wasn’t talking about Miss Morton,” Eloisa said.
Rhys froze. “Then whom?”
“Why, Mother, of course.” She smiled at him, syrupy again.
“Miss Morton aside,” his mother said. “Although I know it must be very difficult for you to put her aside, your appearing in society does us all a world of good. It lets everyone know that the Grays are still very much a part of things, and paves the way for your father’s and brother’s return.”
“Uncle Rhys—” came a small voice from beside the table.
“Well, if going out in society is what we must do for the family good, I am happy to do my part,” Daniel said, grinning. Then wincing. He had an awful head from his carousing the night before.
“Your kind of ‘going out’ does not assist anyone, unless it’s card sharps and courtesans.”
“Rhys, would you be so kind as to not speak of card sharps and . . . the demimonde in front of your youngest brother?” his mother chided, nodding toward Benjamin, who was engrossed in building the largest pile of potato mash on his plate as humanly possible. Not eating, just . . . piling.
“Uncle Rhys.”
“The demimonde?” Delilah asked, eyes sparkling. “Ooh, what’s that?”
“It’s exactly what you think it is, Dee,” Jubilee said, her eyes coming up from her book. “And apparently Benji’s ears are more sensitive than ours, because Mama told us all about it when we were fifteen.”
“Uncle Rhys.”
“Benji is my baby,” his mother said, her eyes getting misty. Then she cleared her throat. “But for girls, forewarned is forearmed.”
“Oh, perhaps that philosophy is one the young ladies in your life should be made aware of, Rhys,” Eloisa said.
“Uncle Rhys.”
“Yes, Rory?” Rhys said finally, turning to his nephew. He prayed that the boy had something of interest to say. Something to pull him out of the endless round of pointed quips and questions that were aimed at his head.
“I can whistle now.”
Then of course, he remembered that the boy was four.
But still it was a welcome distraction, and Rhys took a certain amount of unclely pleasure in watching Rory purse his mouth and proceed to blow spit all over himself in pursuit of a high pitch.
As Eloisa took her whistling son onto her lap, Delilah put her hands up over her ears, knocking Benji’s elbow as she did. Which caused him to put his entire hand into his mountain of mash. Then, with great disgust, Benji wiped his hand on his sister’s shoulder.
Rhys couldn’t contain his grin. This was what he had missed. This was his family. Being loud and silly and completely comfortable with each other. It was times like this when he felt that pang—that he had somehow done himself a disservice by staying away from them.
“We should really settle on a date to invite the Mortons over for dinner. Make our families . . . that much closer,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially.
And that was the reason he was spending so much time out of the house. He was trying this morning to hold off the questions about his supposed marriage, but they would always be there. Even when he wasn’t going out to dinner or to the opera in the company of Margaret and Miss Morton, he was so often at Phoebe and Ned’s home that they began setting a place for him at every meal, the staff knowing it was as likely as not that he would be there.
It was also increasingly likely that Miss Morton would be there. She had attached herself to Margaret in a way that he would have found alarming—if not for Margaret seeming to enjoy Sylvia’s company. To be fair to the girl, she and Margaret seemed to enjoy a fast friendship, regardless of the obvious situation that everyone was aware of. A situation that was never named, never spoken of, but was beginning to weigh heavily on Rhys.
Whenever he wanted to speak to Margaret, Sylvia was there. And he wanted to . . . oh hell, he didn’t know. He wanted her presence. He wanted to ask her questions and hear what she had to say. He wanted to tell her about his nephew’s exceptional prowess at whistling. Instead, he found himself following as Sylvia declared she wished to attend some function, and Margaret promising to attend as well.
So first it was the Medfield Ball.
Then an afternoon salon the next day.
Then Ned and Phoebe’s box at the opera.
Then the next day a soiree held in Regent’s Park, in the late afternoon.
Then a ball, then a dinner party, then a ball . . . He went to all of them, neatly packaged into the party with Ned and Phoebe. Mr. Morton, it seemed, was happy to allow his daughter to be de facto chaperoned by Lady Ashby, and sat out most events if they went past nine o’clock. He was still very much accustomed to country hours. Much like Rhys’s mother, he seemed to be of the opinion that as long as Sylvia was with Dr. Gray, it was all to the good.
Also, Mr. Morton and Lady Gray were not the only people to notice. Whispers were beginning to circulate, as people remembered the past, and why the name Morton was so familiar when one said it next to the name Gray.
“The fathers . . . it was a duel, you know . . . Lord Gray’s been living on the Continent ever since.”
“And the Mortons are willing to forgive it?”
“I don’t know, but Dr. Gray dancing with Miss Morton is a good sign, don’t you find?”
“It’s like Romeo and Juliet—oh, how romantic!”
And so on.
Such whispers made every attempt to reach Rhys’s ears, and he found it quite disturbing. He was not unused to whispers—his family reveled in their passions, and that often meant there was a casual disregard for the rest of the world watching. But he had never been the subject of the whispers before.
Unlike the rest of his family, he found himself very aware of the eyes on him.
It made him miss Greenwich. It made him miss his laboratory, and his work. But he knew he could not step away now, not even for a day or two.
Not when Margaret was so unhappy.
It was not something she showed to the outside world. To the outside world, she smiled politely, and danced when asked (and suddenly everyone was asking), and tried to make conversation. To them she was Miss Babcock, the surprisingly most eligible young lady of the season, and she was having a marvelous time.
But Rhys could see differently.
“I never took her for a social butterfly either,” Phoebe said as they made their way through yet another party—the name of the hosts Rhys had completely forgotten, not as if it mattered anyway. “But she’s the one who comes to me and says that she wishes to attend these parties.”
“Yes,” Rhys grudgingly agreed. “However, I cannot help but feel that it is Miss Morton who wants to go to these events, and Margaret obliges.”
“That is decidedly possible,” Phoebe murmured slowly. “But perhaps that has more to do with trying to please you than with pleasing Miss Morton.”
Rhys looked up.
“We are trying, you know. Learning of your . . . connection to Miss Morton, it threw us all. But Margaret is the one who made the effort to befriend her. Perhaps she is trying to make this time easier for you. Easier to be in company with Miss Morton, easier to get to know her.”
Rhys was dumbstruck. “I . . . that’s not what I want for Margaret. I don’t want her worrying about that.”
“We all worry about that. It’s what friends do.” Phoebe glanced at Rhys’s face, hesitant. “If it’s worth anything at all, I’ve spent the last week in Miss Morton’s company, and she is everything a young lady is brought up to be. She could be a good wife to you. If that is what you want.”
Rhys didn’t have an answer for that. Simply because it was the same conclusion he had come to. And that had settled on him like a cold chill. Not unpleasant, but as if he was slowly being made dormant.
“I would rather Margaret be doing as she wished, instead of trying to please others,” he said gruffly. “Especially me.”
“Have you spoken to her about it?” Phoebe replied.
“I will. Right now.”
But as he set off across the floor, looking over the tops of people’s heads for Margaret, he did not see the person coming up to him, who then walked straight into his chest.
“My apologies,” Rhys said as he extricated the young lady from his arms. She clung delicately to his side, trying to keep her balance.
“Dr. Gray,” Miss Morton said, smiling up at him once she had her bearings. “It’s quite all right. Out of all the people I could run into, I count you among my favorites.”
She smiled at her small joke. And he smiled too, in spite of himself. “Miss Morton, I was looking for Margaret.”
“She’s . . .” Miss Morton’s face clouded. “She’s dancing and having a marvelous time, I’m sure. In fact, that was why I came to find you. It’s our dance, I believe.”
“I . . .” Rhys was torn. On the one hand, he wanted to find Margaret, to speak with her. But he did promise a dance to Miss Morton.
In fact, he realized, he’d danced with Miss Morton at every outing this week. She managed to get him to promise a set to her before they even stepped out of the carriage.
No wonder people were whispering about them and his mother was so ecstatic.
Miss Morton was looking up at him with wide-eyed hope. And he found himself unable to disappoint her.
“Happily, Miss Morton,” he said, and took her arm.
The dance was a quadrille, so Rhys spent most of the time concentrating on remembering the steps. Miss Morton seemed pleased enough by this, and did not press him for conversation.
In fact, she rarely did.
“Are you enjoying the evening, Miss Morton?” he asked as he counted steps and kept his eyes peeled for the tall, blond form of Margaret, likely counting steps too.
“Of course, Dr. Gray. How could I not?”
Indeed. At least one of them was.
“And . . . what did you do with your day today?”
“Margaret and I went shopping, and then we met you for dinner at the Ashbys’,” she replied. “Terribly uninteresting to you, I’m afraid.”
“Not at all.” Yes it was. “But I would think that dances like this are a prime opportunity to get to know one another better.”
“Do we need to?”
That brought him to a stop, in the middle of a turn. Miss Morton blushed, furiously embarrassed, and guided him back into the steps.
“I meant no offense,” she said in a rush. “Of course we need to know each other as best as possible. I simply meant that . . . having been in each other’s constant company, there is not much I could say that you don’t already know.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I don’t know how you feel about it.”
“How I feel about it?” she said, shaking her head. “Today I went shopping in London and now I’m dancing in London. How could it be anything other than grand?”
“And Margaret?” he found himself asking.
“What about Margaret?”
“How does she feel about it?”
“Well . . . she loves it, of course! Why else would she be here?” Miss Morton exclaimed, a spot of frustration showing through.
And further darkening Rhys’s vision. Obviously the girl was not paying any attention to her friend. He again raised his head, looking about for Margaret.
“But she’s not here,” he replied. “Not dancing, at any rate.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Margaret is fine. She wanted to see the gardens, so Mr. Bainbridge took her.”
Rhys came to an abrupt stop again. This time, Miss Morton stopped with him, and they stepped fully out of line.
“She went with Mr. Bainbridge to the gardens?”
“Yes,” Miss Morton admitted.
“And you let her?”
“But . . . but Mr. Bainbridge is a gentleman,” she said, flustered. “And Margaret—well, she wanted to go, and she’s obviously able to take care of herself, so . . .”
But he did not hear the rest. Because he was gone.
He moved with all possible haste to find the garden. He dodged and weaved through the crowd and into the dining room, before he finally found the French doors to the terrace, which stepped down into the gardens.
It was black as pitch with a waning moon, and his eyes searched the gardens for any sign of movement.
There was perhaps a bit more movement than he was prepared for.
“Oh!” he said, disturbing one couple who were obviously not anyone he knew. “Sorry.”
The gardens, for a London home, were impressive, at least in size. He had absolutely no idea what kind of plants were growing because of the dark . . . but then he realized he knew someone who wouldn’t let a little lack of light stop her from proper identification.
All he had to do was listen for it.
“. . . These pots are much too small, the root will ball up and choke the poor thing . . .”
“Miss Babcock,” came the scratchy voice of young Bainbridge. “Did I tell you your eyes look beautiful in the moonlight?”
“There’s very little moon and I’m not looking at you, so how can you possibly tell?” Margaret answered.
“I . . . I . . .” was the reply from a young swain trying his hand at seduction obviously for the first time.
“I agree, Miss Babcock,” Rhys said, coming around the corner. Margaret had taken one of the potted plants, was holding it up to examine in a faint beam of light from the party inside.
“About what?” She looked up at him, and his breath caught.
“That there is no way Bainbridge could know your eyes look beautiful in the moonlight.”
But they were. Wide, dark orbs, the whites luminous in what little light the crescent moon threw off. Some of the yellow warmth from the party inside in the distance caught her skin, emphasizing her striking cheekbones, which until now had never actually struck him. And the way she smiled when she saw him . . . Like he was the only person in the world . . .
He had to stop noticing things like this. It was distracting. Unfair to everyone. And it only made him more irritable.
“D . . . Dr. Gray,” Bainbridge said, taking a precautionary half step away from Margaret. “Good evening.” He bowed nervously.
“Good evening, Mr. Bainbridge. I trust you are healthy.”
“Yes,” Bainbridge said, his mouth trembling into a quasi-smile. He then turned to Margaret by way of explanation. “I was thrown from a horse a few years back, and Dr. Gray here set my bones. My family seat is near Greenwich and Dr. Gray is, of course, the most renowned physician in England.”
“Really?” Margaret’s eyes went wide. “And here I thought Dr. Gray was only renowned in the southern counties.”
“Only the best for us Bainbridges.” He smirked.
“You suffered quite dreadfully from a fever too,” Rhys said, trying to keep from smirking in turn. “And incontinence if I recall correctly. I assume that resolved itself?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Well, as I find you this far from a chamber pot, I suppose it must have.”
“I . . . I was only showing Miss Babcock the gardens . . .”
“And yet that wasn’t what you wished to show her, was it?” he said.
Bainbridge, looking ever more the boy, stuttered. “I . . . I would never . . .”
“Never what?” Margaret asked, turning her attention from Rhys to Bainbridge. Her innocent question seemed to be the undoing of the youth, and he stumbled over his feet as he swiveled, trying to figure out which person he should take his leave of first. Finally, he managed to bow to both Margaret and Rhys and left, muttering something about his father hearing about this.
“What was that about?” Margaret asked, watching as the boy disappeared into the darkness.
“His own inadequacies,” Rhys said, smiling for the first time all evening. “What do you have there?”
Margaret glanced down at the pot in her hands. “A member of the Asteraceae family.” At his raised eyebrow, she translated. “A plain old daisy. Whose root base is far too large for this pot.”
“Tell me, how difficult is it for you to refrain from pulling the whole thing out of the offending pot right now and putting it into a more hospitable bit of earth?”
“You have absolutely no idea,” Margaret replied with a conspiratorial blush. “If I was not wearing this gown I would have already done so. Just picking up this pot has no doubt ruined my gloves.”
“Let me see.” He took the pot from her and set it on a low wall. Then he took her hands in his and flipped them over, examining the palms.
“Hmm,” he said.
“That bad?” she asked.
“In my professional medical opinion?” he replied. “These are past saving.”
“Drat,” she said, “I knew it.”
But he didn’t let go of her hands. And neither did she pull away. Instead they just stood there, in the dark of the garden, holding hands like they were dancing a reel.
The slowest reel known to man. Just a slight sway to the sound of a breeze rustling the leaves in the trees. A distant laugh. A pair of moonlit eyes.
“Ah . . . what are you doing?” Margaret asked him eventually.
“Doing?” Rhys said, shaking himself out of his reverie.
“Out here, in the garden?”
“Oh yes,” he replied. “I came to look for you, actually. I was told you were out here unchaperoned.”
“Oh . . . oh no,” Margaret said, her mouth dropping open. “I mean, yes, I was unchaperoned. But I wanted to see the garden—I thought I would just pop out and take a look, but then when I glanced up, Bainbridge was there too. Oh God, does this mean I will have to marry him?”
“What?” Rhys said, shocked. “No!”
“Really? Because I have been told quite explicitly by Leticia and Phoebe and Helen and Sylvia that being caught with a gentleman unchaperoned would mean utter ruin or marriage or in this case both.”
“Margaret, I assure you,” Rhys said, his hands moving to her arms, gripping her tight. “I would never allow something like that to happen. Should it come to that I would testify in a court of law that I witnessed nothing untoward between you and Bainbridge and . . . and you’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
She broke into helpless giggles. “Yes, but I’m awfully glad that you caught on. You’re the only one who ever does. No one else can tell when I’m making a joke.”
He grinned in spite of himself. “I should have known you wouldn’t give Bainbridge any chance to . . . act ungentlemanly.”
“If he was, I doubt I would have noticed,” she replied. “Which, come to think of it, would be necessary for ungentlemanly acts against a lady. Don’t you think? If a woman does not notice or is unaffected by a man’s actions, did they even happen?”
“Philosophizing about society,” he replied, his eyebrows going up. “You have been in London a bit too long, I think.”
“I could not agree more,” she said, still smiling at him, but . . . something tinted the edges of her posture.
“Come,” he said gently, “sit.” He guided her to a nearby bench. There he angled his body toward her, their knees making the lightest of contact through distracting layers of cloth.
“I was wondering if you were enjoying yourself,” he said finally.
“I am now,” she said. “Thankfully they have a garden here, else I would still have to be inside and listening to the unreality that spouts from people’s mouths.”
“The things they say,” she replied, her face faltering just a touch. “ ‘Miss Babcock, you are luminous!’ ‘Miss Babcock, you are so very witty, it’s delightful!’ And, ‘Miss Babcock, you are just the epitome of style and taste, tell us where you got your gown or shoes or bonnet!’ ”
“And such praise makes you uneasy?”
“How could it not? We both know I am not luminous, nor is my wit delightful, nor do I have any particular care about my gown or shoes or bonnet.” She shrugged. “I’m absolutely no different than I was before the world realized my worth. And yet.”
“First things first,” Rhys said, clearing his throat. “I find your wit delightful, at least when you refrain from scaring the life out of me by proposing marriage to Bainbridge. And your luminosity is completely dependent of the moonlight, which is proving perfectly adequate this evening.”
“Thank you, but I was not fishing for compliments,” Margaret replied, looking at her hands.
“And I offer none, merely facts. If I was trying to play up to you I would commend your choice of gown or shoes or bonnet, when we both know your taste is rather dismal.”
She cracked a smile again, still looking to the ruined gloves in her lap. And it made warmth spread through Rhys’s chest.
“But instead I will tell you that your worth is not based on your father’s fortune,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And anyone who doesn’t realize that is not worth your time.”
That brought her eyes up to meet his. Their faces were alarmingly close together. So very close, as if their whispers had to be held tight, like a conspiracy against the rest of the world.
A breath away.
A heartbeat passed before Rhys remembered himself and moved back the barest inch. But a terribly important inch. “You know that if you don’t want to attend these things, you don’t have to,” he said.
“I know,” she replied, nodding sharply. “I don’t mind, you know. Sylvia wants a friend to go with her, and Phoebe enjoys it more than she says. I find it . . . interesting.”
He gave her a knowing look. “You find it exhausting.”
She didn’t say anything in reply. She didn’t have to.
“I have often thought,” Rhys mused, “that there are people in the world who find being in the middle of the excitement invigorating, and there are those that find it draining, and must have a bit of space and quiet to refill their cups.”
“And you have your laboratory,” she replied.
“And you your greenhouse.”
“Yes.” She sighed, looking up at the moon. “I confess I miss it. Phoebe and Lord Ashby have been so gracious in giving me use of their conservatory, but it’s not the same. I almost wish I would have gone home with Leticia, and then come back for the meeting with the Horticultural Society.”
He felt his stomach drop to his knees. Somehow the idea of her going away threw into sharp relief the brightness of the time he did get to spend with her.
“You would not find such travel intolerable?” he asked, and she shook her head. “I’d find it intolerable on your behalf.”
“Still,” she said, leaning back on her hands, allowing her face to tip fully up to the faint light of the moon. “I think I would find it easier if I had something to look forward to. Instead of this endless parade of parties. And people fawning all over me.” She looked perplexed for a moment. “And the men constantly trying to fetch me punch. One time it tasted strange, so I don’t drink them now.”
“Likely a good policy. But, you do have the meeting with Sir Kingsley,” Rhys pointed out. “Surely that is something to look forward to.”
“That makes me more nervous than anything else,” she admitted. “Especially considering I haven’t gotten the conservatory and gardens in order the way I would like. Too many calls to pay, too many teas.”
He shook his head. “Then you must speak up. Tell Sylvia and Phoebe you need to spend the next few days in. You’re not receiving.”
She met his eyes.
“You have that right,” he whispered. “Everyone has the right to themselves.”
“I did not come to London to attend parties,” she said softly. “And it’s all I’m doing.”
He could lean in now. The thought dashed across his brain like a fiery wire. He could close the minute space between them and let himself taste her lips. Her skin. The darkness of the garden, no one would see. It would just be . . . once.
Just so he would know.
He should not be thinking like this. He should not be watching Margaret for every look, every touch, every change of breath.
She was his friend, for God’s sake. Why, it was the same as if he thought about Ned or John in this manner.
He shook his head. As if the thoughts weren’t already disturbing enough.
He needed to think about something else. Something that calmed him, made him focus . . .
“My laboratory,” he said suddenly.
“Your . . . your laboratory?” she said, blinking.
“Yes. You need something to look forward to. So . . . once you’ve presented your roses to Sir Kingsley, I’ll show you my laboratory in Greenwich—it’s only a day trip up the river; you would be back by the evening.” The corner of his mouth perked up. “A little bit of peace in the middle of all this madness. How does that sound?”
“Like Phoebe is going to insist on a chaperon.”
“So we bring a chaperon.” Rhys shrugged, still seeing her hesitance. “Come now, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Her head came up, shocked. “What did you say?”
“I . . . I said ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ ” he replied slowly.
He watched her intently, trying to place what was going through her mind, and why she had reacted as she had. “If you’re not comfortable going, please accept my heartfelt apologies. I simply thought it would be something you enjoyed—”
“All right,” she said, a slow, wondrous smile spreading across her face. “We’ll go to Greenwich.”
And suddenly his mind wasn’t thinking calm, focused thoughts again.
“Ah . . . then that’s what we will do,” he said, trying to talk his mind back to normalcy. “You will enjoy it immensely, I’m sure. And I have been away far too long, I am certain that my house staff has disobeyed my direct orders and dusted the laboratory. They do it every time I’m away longer than an evening. I suspect the butler and the maid conspire against me.”
“I have no doubt,” Margaret said, leaning in. “I’m certain Molly has conspired with Frederick to have me out of the conservatory in time to dress my hair.”
Rhys cracked a smile, then a laugh, and then they were both laughing. And so it was that he did not notice that he took her hand. And he did not notice that in doing so, he pulled her closer, so she was lined up against his side. And then he did not notice that he caught her midnight-blue eyes with his own.
What he did notice—finally, after his breath had caught—was a rustling in the bushes behind him.
“What on earth . . . oh. Hello, Rhys.”
His sister Eloisa’s voice was, for once, not coated in its usual acid. Instead it was surprise and even a bit of worry.
Perhaps her worry was about the rustling that continued in the bushes behind her, fading away as whomever she was with had retreated.
“Eloisa,” Rhys said, standing, his body fully aware of the cool air that filled the new space between himself and Margaret. “May I introduce Miss Babcock?” He turned and offered his hand to Margaret. “Miss Babcock, this is my sister Eloisa. Who I did not know was coming to this party tonight.”
While Margaret dipped to a perfect curtsy, Eloisa’s eyebrow went up. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Rhys. Yes, Miss Babcock. You’re the friend.”
Margaret shot Rhys a look of confusion at Eloisa’s direct wording. “Ignore her,” he said. “My sister’s been in Scotland for many years and has completely forgotten how to pretend politeness.”
“Oh,” Margaret replied. “It’s still quite good to meet you.”
Eloisa smiled. “Thank you. And while I may have lost some of my manners in Scotland, I haven’t lost my good sense. Would you mind terribly walking back into the party with me, Miss Babcock? I feel like it might be prudent. Just give me a moment with my brother?” she said, and pulled Rhys three steps away, out of Margaret’s earshot.
“I consider it the greatest of luck that I ran into you in this garden,” she said. “And not anyone else.”
“I should imagine,” he replied. “If you’re worried about me telling anyone, don’t be. I don’t care enough about your amorous activities. However, I do not like you using Margaret as your protection against the eyes of the old ladies at the party.”
Eloisa goggled at him. “I didn’t mean it was lucky for my sake, I meant it was lucky for yours. And hers.”
Rhys’s face grew hard. “There is nothing untoward going on between me and Margaret.”
“The speed with which you jumped away from her when you saw me says otherwise.”
He began to turn away, but Eloisa caught his arm.
“Rhys,” she said earnestly. “Be careful. You have more Gray blood in you than you like to think.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means . . . you won’t tolerate being unhappy. Even if it’s by your own doing.” She glanced back at the bushes, now still and silent. “Take it from someone who knows.”
“I’m not unhappy,” Rhys said, confused. “And neither are you. You are simply bored.”
“They can be one and the same.” And with that, Eloisa straightened her shoulders, and stepped toward Margaret with a bright smile.
“Miss Babcock. Have you seen the ladies’ retiring room yet? It’s the most awful puce and I cannot wait to show it to you.”
Eloisa took Margaret’s arm and dragged her away before Margaret could even take her leave of Rhys. She barely managed a single glance over her shoulder as Eloisa led her through the doors and into the light of the party.
Leaving Rhys in the dark, with nothing but his unfocused, unruly thoughts for company.