might even be a topic the Society of Scientific Minds would be interested in reading. Her last article on astronomy had been well received by the group.
“Bitt, did you hear me?”
The nickname filtered through her daydreams. Snapping the book closed, she dragged her gaze to meet Miles’s remonstrative glare. “I have repeatedly told you not to call me that horrid name. What are you doing at a ball, anyhow? Do not tell me you are in search of a wife?”
“I will never get married again.” He chuckled lightly, though she had the feeling that his words carried a deep weight. He meant them, certainly.
She did not blame him one whit. She had heard rumors about his tempestuous marriage. She studied him now, wondering why he looked different.
Same lanky frame. Gray eyes, though she’d seen them turn green when he was in a temper, and unfortunately, his tempers happened often. Nothing violent, just long silences and tempestuous looks. She preferred his authenticity to the sticky disingenuousness of the haut monde.
What she actually preferred was isolation.
His eyes held seriousness tonight. Despite his moody temperament, he managed to sport sun-streaked hair as though he spent time outside rather than brooding indoors. The blond strands must be from horse riding. Crooked smile...wait...she paused, eyes narrowed, and then gasped.
“Why, Miles, whatever did you do to your mustache?”
His lips dented at the corners. “It’s been gone for more than two months.” He paused. “I’m wounded, well and truly hurt to the core of my being, that you have just now remarked upon my new style.”
Elizabeth reluctantly put the book she’d been reading back in its place on the shelf.
He did look handsome without the facial hair. More dashing and younger somehow... She put the thought to the side. It was artificial and irrelevant to the moment.
“Tell me, sweet Bitt, why are you hiding in the library? Your grandmother sent me to find you. It’s not seemly for a dowager duchess’s granddaughter to be poring through literature like a bluestocking.” His smile grew more crooked.
“You are a thorn in my side,” she said testily, rankling again over his use of that detested moniker. “It is not your business what I am doing here. I don’t need watching over, and I don’t like your hovering, smelly presence.”
“Why, Bitt...” He pressed a hand to his elegantly tied cravat. “Another insult?”
Truth be told, he smelled quite nice, but she’d rather be gored with an elephant tusk than admit such a thing to him. The boy who used to pull her hair, steal her books and then lose her spot in them.
“Mr. Hawthorne, stop the pretense. Tell Grandmother I shall return shortly.”
“And if she asks why you did not come with me?”
She sighed heavily. “Very well, if you insist on being difficult.” She stood, brushing out her skirts as best she could, knowing the rest of the evening would prove to be a great bore. Nevertheless, duty must be fulfilled. Perhaps she might claim a megrim... It would certainly not be unexpected.
Miles held out his arm as she neared. “I know that look. Plotting escape, are you?”
“Not I.” She felt his gaze upon her. “Do stop staring,” she murmured, taking his arm and allowing him to escort her back to the ballroom.
“You really should not be wandering alone, especially at a crush this size.”
“Please, Miles, not now.” He was right, of course. She risked her family’s reputation, but staying in that horridly stuffy ballroom had proved unbearable. Besides, she was older than many here. Nothing untoward would happen.
“Shouldn’t you be entertaining a bridegroom by now?” Miles asked.
She rolled her eyes. He acted as though he were her guardian rather than an old family friend. Oh, how she despised his pristine, well-kept appearance! The cravat that was always tied just so and the unblemished features he’d been born with. It was not his fault that he knew nothing of her struggles, of her insecurities.
But to mention her lack of prospects...how utterly uncouth of him. The audacity of his comment rendered her speechless for a moment. This was why she preferred never to see Miles. His blunt ways and teasing smile bothered her to no end. Then there was the unfortunate incident he’d witnessed her fifteenth year... Yes, she avoided him whenever possible.
But most importantly, he possessed the greatest fault of all: the man never opened a book.
That thought uppermost, she leveled a lofty look at him, the one she reserved for ill-trained butlers and staring housemaids. “I will marry for love or not at all.”
“Why, Elizabeth? Love can come with time.” They paused in the doorway of the ballroom, his eyes searching her face. “Don’t you wish to have a family, your own home?”
“Not with someone who does not love me.” She broke their shared gaze, searching the room for her mother. Why wouldn’t Miles just leave? His questions poked tender scars from years ago.
“Haven’t you had several Seasons now?” He continued speaking as though he had no notion of how his words affected her. And maybe he didn’t, for she was well versed in decorum.
A lady did not show her emotions in public places.
“Perhaps I shall start a rumor that you are a heart crusher,” he said.
“Tittle-tattle, all of it,” she responded quietly. She’d experienced many Seasons—though it was no wonder he strove to remember. She was worse than a wallflower. This time of the year was always terrible, but she managed to muddle through. Oh, why didn’t he leave? She had little patience for Miles and his irreverent ruminations. “Go away.”
“You are filled with sharp words today, sweeting.” Before she realized what he intended, he drew her to an alcove to their right, which held a small bench situated behind a potted plant. He released her arm and, gratefully, she sat.
From this vantage point, she could watch the dancing without being noticed. “It is this time of year. I suppose I am irritated with my parents. They are always trying to marry me off.”
Elizabeth dropped her chin into her hands and surveyed the attendees. They chatted and swirled, preened and giggled. The gentlemen wore starched cravats, crisp breeches and such serious expressions one might think the world would end if they didn’t snag a bride. Or rather, a fortune.
“What are you brooding about?” Miles settled beside her, his cologne intoxicating.
“Avariciousness.”
He made a sound akin to a laugh. She scowled at him. “It’s not funny—it’s ludicrous. What do these people hope to become? To dream about? The latest French fashions?”
“Very judgmental, my lady.”
“I’m in a foul mood.” She focused on the people milling about. “My parents refuse to see reason.”
“This is
