Chapter Twelve

Eliza half reclined on a chaise—a gorgeous, soft thing of deep blue velvet that amplified the color of her eyes and creaminess of her skin, a fact of which she had been aware when she chose her seat—her eyes hooded over the languid sweeps of her fan as she watched Wessex watch Lady Jane stun her audience into stupefied worship with the beauty of her voice.

And, Wessex being Wessex, indulged in stupefied worship of her breasts, too, as they rose and fell with great aplomb for every long, lovely note Lady Jane sang.

Would he look quite so rapt if her voice was more barnyard chicken than nightingale? Or if her hair was the color of wash water rather than sunshine?

Why, oh why, was Lady Jane possessed of both beauty and talent? It hardly seemed fair, when so many women could boast of neither.

She had her faults, of course. Despite her beauty and voice, Lady Jane had never been the ton’s darling. She wasn’t docile, or hesitant, soft-spoken, eager to please, or any of the other usual feminine traits held in high regard by wife-seeking peers. She bestowed smiles like a benevolent queen acknowledging her loyal subjects, accepting their admiration as her due.

Which was at least one of the reasons Eliza had selected her as a prospective bride for Wessex. Vanity and confidence—both of which the duke had in spades—did not frighten him. He would not be threatened by her talent; he would exalt it. He would adore her for precisely the same reasons that made the ton uncomfortable— Lady Jane knew her own worth and didn’t bother to hide it.

She was, in short, perfect for Wessex.

The gentle breeze from Eliza’s fan became a virulent tornado. Next to her, Riya widened her eyes, her dark brows swooping up like alarmed question marks. Eliza returned to gentle flicks of her wrist, and the storm abated.

“Her voice is so stirring, is it not?” she whispered. “It gives me such a feeling here.” She pressed her palm to her bosom.

Riya nodded agreement, but her lips pursed into a dubious frown. “The duke certainly seems to agree.”

“Indeed,” Eliza said crisply.

“You must be so pleased.” Riya’s tone mirrored the doubtful expression of her mouth.

Eliza fidgeted with the lace trim of her fan and lowered her gaze to hide her confusion. She was pleased. Of course she was! In fact, she was feeling triumphant in her success. Wessex had solicited her help in selecting a suitable wife, but she had done far more than that.

She had found him a woman with whom he could be happy.

Rather unprecedented for a ton marriage, in her opinion. The higher the title, the more miserable the match, seemed to be the general rule of thumb. Happiness was found with a mistress, or with someone else’s spouse, not one’s own. But the thought of Wessex sharing such a fate was…unbearable, somehow. There was no darkness he could not brighten with his presence, no weariness that was not eased through his nonsense. He was made for joy. The very thought of his being brought low by an unhappy marriage made her furious.

So, of course she was pleased.

And yet a tiny—insignificant, really—part of her also fervently hoped that Lady Jane would suffer an immediate and devastating bout of laryngitis.

Mean-spirited thought, and quite unlike her. She never wished hardships on other women, not even when they deserved it. Neither did she choose furniture based on its flattering color, and yet here she was, thinking uncharitable thoughts on a settee that matched the color of her eyes.

She made a sound of disgust—directed entirely at herself—that was thankfully drowned out by applause as Lady Jane took her bow.

“We should tell her how magnificent she was,” Eliza said. Where she lacked sincerity, she at least made up for it with enthusiasm.

Riya sent her a sly sidelong glance. “She was magnificent, wasn’t she? And so lovely, too.”

“Very lovely,” Eliza agreed. She bared her teeth in what she hoped was a benign smile.

“I spent a few happy moments with her in the orchard,” Riya continued. “Such a clever, delightful wit she has!”

Eliza’s hand twitched with the sudden urge to rap her friend on the forehead with her fan. “Doesn’t she.”

“She’s the daughter of an earl.”

“Quite acceptable.”

“She fulfills the duke’s list of wifely attributes nicely. Except… What was the last requirement? Ah, yes. Friendly with Miss Benton.” Riya turned suddenly and pinned her with wide, guileless dark eyes. “Which she is, isn’t she?”

“Such a question!” Eliza artfully dodged. “I wouldn’t have put her on the list if I didn’t think her a proper match. I like her.” Odd, how friendly and likable did not go hand in hand. For she did like Lady Jane. But her feelings toward the woman—all of a sudden and entirely inexplicably—were somewhat less than friendly.

“I do not doubt that you liked her well enough when you chose her. But you have had a day now to get to know her better. Have your thoughts changed? I ask because you seem”—there was a pause as her gaze dipped to Eliza’s fan, clenched tightly in her fist—“perturbed.”

Eliza forced her fingers to loosen. She gave an unconcerned, vague flutter of her fan. “Not at all.”

But inwardly, she admitted that Riya had a very precise and disconcerting way of calling a spade a spade. Perturbed was exactly the right word for this restless dissatisfaction that had swarmed her senses like buzzing honeybees and usurped the use of her right hand. It was not jealousy. Oh, certainly not.

For the first time in her twenty-one years, her life was exactly to her specifications. If one imagined that one built a life like one built a house, then yes, one couldn’t deny the foundation was a little shaky, as things built on secrets were wont to be, but it would settle with time. It was a neat and tidy house, everything was just so, and joy, friendship, and hard work were the bricks and mortar that gave shape and protection.

It ought not to matter that Wessex would marry. Three dear friends—Alice, Adelaide, and Claire—had already married, and while those friendships had changed, they hadn’t dissolved. Naturally, she and he could not continue on as they were now, but why should that disturb her so? It was Wessex. It ought not to matter.

And yet, she could not refute that it mattered very much, indeed. It was no good trying to deny her feelings or convince herself otherwise. She was, as Riya had pointed out, perturbed. It was like discovering that the marble pillar one believed to be merely decorative was in fact holding up the bloody roof.

As it were.

The duke was now bowing over Lady Jane’s proffered hand, his lips grazing her gloved knuckles. Such a handsome couple they made. So elegant.

“Aunt Mabel,” Eliza said loudly.

Riya gave a startled bounce and looked around with wide eyes. “I forgot she was here,” she muttered.

Understandable, since Aunt Mabel had selected a brown chair so very near the color of her dress that she almost disappeared altogether. Furthermore, she had dozed off.

“Aunt Mabel,” Eliza said again, louder. Her aunt stirred and blinked rheumy gray eyes. Eliza smiled kindly. “Shall we retire for the evening? You seem tired, and the day has been a long one.”

“Oh, no, my dear, I wouldn’t hear of it!” Aunt Mabel protested sweetly. “You needn’t ruin a lovely evening seeing to the needs of a crotchety old lady. Stay. Enjoy the music with Riya. I am perfectly capable of seeing myself upstairs, where my maid will attend me.”

Eliza leaned in to kiss her aunt’s cheek. It was as velvety soft and frail as old parchment paper. “I do not mind, dearest aunt. You know I adore your crotchetiness.”

“Humph,” Aunt Mabel replied, and Riya laughed. There was no one less crotchety than Aunt Mabel.

She was, however, a truly terrible chaperone, as evidenced by her willingness to leave her charges to their own devices at a house party.

Fortunately, Eliza was entirely up to the task of self-governance. She was not a naive young miss, eager to experience her first stolen kiss with a lord of ill-repute. If part of her acknowledged wistfully that there might be some fun to be had in throwing caution to the wind and send her good sense tumbling after, well, what of it? She would never allow herself to be so reckless. She would be a perfect lady, her behavior above reproach, whether Aunt Mabel was there to witness it or not.

She had far, far too much to lose.

But at that exact moment, Lady Jane looked at Wessex with limpid eyes that suggested she, at least, felt quite the opposite.

Eliza went still as stone.

It did not feel like jealousy. It was not painful. She did not hate Lady Jane, nor did she desire to fly at her with nails bared, the better to scratch those pretty blue eyes out of her head. It was only…a queer sort of sadness, that settled with weary heaviness on her limbs.

“Excuse me,” she whispered.

And made her escape.