the corner of her eye, she saw his hands lift, palms up. “You’re an heiress. Surely you’ve had offers.”
She sniffed. “When I marry, it shall be for love. If I marry. No one shall force me into the cage and if my brother’s career suffers, if my parents’ reputations hold the tiniest smear of disgrace simply due to my hermitude, I care not a whit.”
“Harsh words, my lady.” He leaned forward, mimicking her bent posture. “Marriage can be rewarding. It is not all doom and gloom. If you choose wisely, you will spend the rest of your days residing on a country estate. Why, you might even be allowed to move your bed into the library. Then you may cozy up to your books without interruption and never be parted from them again.”
“You are silly, Mr. Hawthorne.” She scrunched her face at him, realizing that an unacceptable giggle gurgled within. She tamped it down. Firmly. “This is no time for laughter. Do you see those dowagers and my mother watching me? They are assessing my value. Planning, no doubt, for my sale to the highest bidder.”
“Come now, Bitt, that is hardly fair.”
She straightened, suddenly annoyed. “You are not a woman. You do not know what it is like to be picked apart and looked over, only to be found wanting.” Her eyes stung, and she blinked. Oh, rats. Why did this happen when she talked to him? Perhaps because he knew about Luke. He knew what had happened so long ago. “What are you doing here, anyway? This is hardly the place for a widower who has vowed to never marry again.”
As she faced him, she caught the grimace crossing his face. Was that regret in his eyes? Guilt barreled through her. “My brother told me of your commitment to work.”
“I acquired a new factory near your grandmother’s estate, actually. I don’t have time to cater to a wife.” His eyes were dark, stormy, as though a mood had come upon him.
If she was honest with herself, she’d always enjoyed looking at Miles. Almost in the way one admired a violent sunset splashing across the horizon. When she was around him, she felt freer somehow.
As if she too were a myriad of colors spilling into the sea.
“If you are not here for a wife, then you must be here for some other nefarious purpose.” She squinted at him, allowing a bit of mockery in her smile. “Tell me truthfully: Did John send you here to spy on me?”
“Your brother is too busy for meddling.”
“Do not be vague with me, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Despite my lack of title, I also received an invitation. Does that surprise you?”
“As you are a gentleman, it is not surprising at all.” She stood, suddenly tired of their banter, of the constant irritation that had plagued her from the moment she’d arrived in London. Nay, before that. “I’m in need of fresh air. Do not follow me. If you see Grandmother, please tell her I took a turn in the gardens.”
“Without a companion?”
“Perhaps I shall conveniently snag one on the way out,” she said crossly. She really should keep a companion near her at all times, but what she wanted most was to be alone. Who would bother a wallflower, anyhow?
Miles chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. She steeled herself against any feelings of friendliness toward him.
“You laugh, yet you have never known the restrictions of womanhood.”
“If you mean spending your days reading, shopping and talking, you’re correct. I have never known such freedoms.”
“You mock me!”
“Nay, but I beg you to consider the benefits of your station in life. Most have not the comforts you enjoy on a daily basis.”
“I know that,” she said hotly. Who did Miles think he was? Always needling her, acting as though she was some spoiled, ungrateful wretch. “Would you have me sacrifice myself to the cold system of our society? A system that prefers breeding over character, purse over heart? I think not, Miles. Now, if you would be so kind as to bid me adieu...” She trailed off, for Lord Wrottesley headed toward her, a disconcertingly aggressive look to his gaze. “I really must leave now. Lord Wrottesley has called on me twice since we arrived in London. I do not wish to speak with him.”
“Who is he?”
“A fortune hunter.” Without wasting another moment in useless conversation, she twisted to the right, desiring to dodge several patrons, but she caught her reflection in the large mirrors that gilded the ballroom: a pale wisp of an heiress, the strawberry birthmark covering her right cheekbone, glaring out from the whiteness of her skin.
Averting her eyes from the sight, she charged toward a set of French doors she’d seen earlier.
The exit promised solitude. A rest from the noise of congestion, the odor of too much perfume that clogged her windpipe. She dared not glance back to see if Wrottesley followed her.
She prayed he did not. When he had called last Wednesday, it had been the most stifling thirty minutes of her existence.
Grandmother insisted God heard prayers from every soul, and Elizabeth dearly hoped the duchess was right.
The doors shuddered beneath the force of Elizabeth’s exit, but the damp earth welcomed her slippers a bit too readily. She sank deeply into the ground and, in her haste, almost fell. Catching her balance, she hurried forward to the garden walk, ignoring the sucking sound her slippers made in the mud. They would be ruined, but she owned at least twenty more.
The scent of rain clung to the air. Lighted lanterns cast eerie shadows upon the path ahead, but the stones promised dryness for her feet and where they led, she would follow. Lord and Lady Charleston’s back lawn was a lovely respite, the gardens a comfortable touch for guests. Though situated in London, they’d made good use of their small plot of land.
Oh, for quiet from this dreadful press of a ball. Vaguely it entered her mind that she risked her reputation by entering the gardens alone. Surely a brief rest could not hurt, though. She would return shortly. She reached the stone walkway and heaved a sigh of relief, for her toes squished and the sad, sodden state of her slippers reminded her of her future. Equally dark and muddy.
She should pray. Grandmother exhorted her to do so. Glancing up at the night sky, she saw that the moon hid behind clouds, painting them shades of dark blue and gray. Lord, please guide me tonight. Give me wisdom for I am beset by worries.
She picked her way down the path, passing a couple sharing sweet whispers on a bench. The lanterns guided her feet to a ribbon-festooned gazebo sitting on the edge of what looked to be a pond. Out here, beyond the maddening noise of festivities, she finally felt she could draw a breath. The air was sweet, humid. Crickets welcomed her, their song harmonious and gracious.
She stepped into the gazebo, and it was as though a weight lifted from her shoulders. The half-circle bench beckoned her to sit and wait out the night. Perhaps a half hour, and then she could beg off the event by claiming malaise. A megrim, perhaps, or blisters from too much dancing. Sinking onto the bench, she watched the shimmering reflection of the now-unveiled moon on the water.
Blessed peace descended. It was only her and the night and God’s watchful eye. He had answered her prayer and for that, she thanked Him. She sat for some time,
