The day’s post brought nothing from Evanston. Still nothing came the following day, and as the hours wore on, Eliza found herself theorizing about the potential reasons for the delay of his reply. She was sure to exclude the most sensible explanation, of course, which was that he did not wish to speak to her. The disappointment associated with that idea overtook her mood each time it breached her consciousness. This was a setback she could not afford, especially when trying to maintain normalcy for both Caroline and her aunt during this sensitive time.

Adding to her gloomy disposition was the disclosure of some information, albeit innocently imparted to her, by her friend that afternoon. Caroline, taking advantage of an upturn in her aunt’s condition, had dressed Lady Frances in her finest day dress and took the carriage to Bond Street for some shopping. It was there she observed Thomas departing from a shop, having purchased what appeared to be a gift of some kind. He had exchanged brief words with the ladies, then disappeared into his awaiting carriage.

It was none of Eliza’s business, but her active imagination couldn’t help but ponder the possibilities, conjuring images of a delighted female recipient. Perhaps even one with dark hair and a ruby-red dress.

Eliza could only attend this evening’s party at the Fitzwilliam residence as a means of both adhering to routine and preventing her attention from straying relentlessly towards Thomas. After much debate, she decided on a luminous gown of pale lavender. Amethysts adorned her earlobes and throat, and her fair hair was swept up into a sophisticated mass of curls. Patterson had exhaled in admiration when securing the clasp of her necklace, and Eliza had to admit that she too was pleased with the overall effect.

At least she felt confident she looked her best, especially since she was journeying alone this evening. As a widow, she enjoyed the ability to attend gatherings without the necessity of a chaperone, but tonight she longed for company. Caroline had felt it best to stay home, as her aunt’s difficulties often presented in the evening hours, and since Eliza was not overly familiar with the host and hostess of the night, she found herself in a melancholy state of mind.

From what she did know, the Fitzwilliams were a fashionable couple of the landed gentry who enjoyed throwing soirées when they were not busy attending them. Despite their children being grown and married, the couple still participated in the season with enthusiasm. Eliza could only presume this showy display of their vast wealth was to cement their position of relevance within the aristocrats of the ton, for the expense must have been considerable.

After a lengthy wait in the receiving line to meet her hosts, she sought out the cloak-room to divest herself of her shawl. Sparkling crystal chandeliers caught her eye on her way, and she paused to admire the gilded paneling along the walls and the ornately designed Axminster carpets beneath her slippers. Eliza was examining the intricate pattern woven into the sage hall runner when she suddenly had the distinct impression she was being observed. She raised her eyes to find the same raven-haired beauty who had previously accompanied Thomas to the theater, wearing yet another dress in the same daring shade of red.

Their eyes held one another’s, and Eliza’s heart plummeted. At best, she could hope for an awkward interaction. At worst—well, at worst . . .

Lord Evanston stepped into view, his arm extended in the woman’s direction. He did not yet see Eliza, and with a slight tug on his arm his companion ensured that, at least for now, he would not. The lady expertly steered him into the drawing room, breaking the gaze between herself and Eliza with the smallest of smiles.

She stood frozen in the hallway, her mind waging a panicked battle between the need to observe etiquette, and her overwhelming desire to bolt from the house. Eliza was aware of the need for propriety, but the all-consuming thought at this moment was that perhaps no one would notice if she simply kept her shawl and called her carriage back around. The only thing worse than being shunned by Thomas in person was the idea of also being disdained by the woman he had most certainly selected to warm his bed in her stead. The same one he’d likely been out buying gifts for on Bond Street.

Eliza knew she could not loiter in the hallway for long. More guests were arriving every moment. She needed to speak to Thomas about Lady Frances, and although this evening’s party was not the best place or time, his lack of response left her little choice in the matter. The only course available now was to approach him with a friendly countenance and hope for the best.

She placed her hand on her abdomen and took a shaky breath, replacing her terror with a poise and coolness that was not genuine. Deciding to leave her shawl with an attendant at last, she made her way down the final length of the hallway to enter the drawing room, instantly catching the attention of its occupants, including a surprised Baron Latimer.

“Lady Eliza! What a surprise,” he effused while raising her hand for a kiss. “Sir James will be sorry to have missed you tonight, but rest assured I will tell him how very well you look.” This last statement was punctuated with a mischievous wink.

Eliza laughed graciously at the flattery, highly aware that the man in the periphery to her right was Lord Evanston.

“No need for that, my lord,” she replied diffidently. “Only tell me how the season has treated you thus far.”

The gentleman launched into a lengthy description of his various pursuits, but Eliza wasn’t listening. Her energy was directed instead at attempting to discern snippets of Thomas’s conversation with his paramour, but there was precious little discourse to be heard. Risking a glance to the side, she discovered his companion had redirected him to the opposite side of the room.

Frustration welled inside of her, but what could she have reasonably expected? For him to casually turn her way and join in the conversation? For the woman he was with to allow it?

This will certainly be more difficult than that.

“Perhaps you can tell me,” voiced Latimer loudly, “the whereabouts of our friend, Lady Caroline? I have not seen her for some time now, and I know her parents are quite anxious for a match this year.”

Eliza tore her gaze away from Evanston at the abrupt change in subject. “I understand she was taken abed with a headache this evening. I will be happy to convey your regards when I see her, though.”

He harrumphed in dissatisfaction. “Yes, I thank you. Although she might be best served with a reminder of the fickle nature of love,” he said, nodding his graying head towards the rear of the drawing room. “She is set to lose the only suitor she has ever managed to entertain.”

Her eyes widened and she turned to find the amiable Lord Braxton paying quite a lot of attention to a pretty young debutante, the girl’s hopeful mother standing nearby. A bitter swell of anger rose inside her on behalf of her friend. If Lord Braxton’s regard could so easily be gained and lost, then perhaps he was not worth having. Still, it was best not to address the issue with Caroline while she was so occupied with her aunt’s well-being.

Eliza swiveled back around to make a reply to the baron, but stopped to notice that Thomas had also discerned Braxton’s flirtations from across the room. His neutral countenance gave nothing away, but his bright eyes flicked over to Eliza for the briefest of moments before returning once again to his beautiful companion.

He’d glanced her way. She was unsettled to discover that this tiny gesture could provide her with such comfort. It betrayed an interest, and if there was still interest, perhaps she could use it to gain his notice long enough for a conversation. She owed it to Caroline, who was likely about to lose everything she had worked for this season.

She aimed an insincere smile at Baron Latimer.

“Yes, of course I will remind Lady Caroline, my lord.”

And with a small curtsy, she left the man to cross nearer to the hostess, who was in the process of lining guests up for dinner.

Thomas stared through the swirling brandy depths of his snifter, cursing his luck. Or lack thereof, as it would seem. Presently, Eliza was out of his sight, but it had taken every trace of willpower he possessed not to marvel at her loveliness throughout the entire course of dinner. She had also not failed to impress the men seated on either side of her, much to his chagrin.

Normally he would have found relief in Landry’s absence, but tonight it turned out to be of little consequence. Landry’s attentions had easily been replaced by new admirers, and if given enough time, Thomas was sure such interests could transform into pursuits of their own. Remembering it now, the men staring a bit too long, overtly concentrating on her every word, caused a heady blaze of envy to spread through his chest.

He would have given anything to be seated next to her, conversing easily—but it was not to be. She had not come to London in search of a man like him, and had most recently, literally shoved him away. William had warned him away too so Thomas knew he was a fool to continue after Eliza, and yet he could think of no other. Not even his old paramour, Victoria Varnham, had been able to attract his notice as she once had, and she had tried. Repeatedly and with enthusiasm.

But since seeing Eliza that first night in Belgravia, he’d found himself utterly bewitched. And to his surprise, the idea of lying with another woman after that seemed pathetic and unsatisfying, a waste of his time. He was not even remotely interested. When confronted by Victoria regarding his indifference to her advances, he’d merely shrugged. Of course, the woman was naturally competitive, and it was this side of her personality that took his loss the hardest. He knew she had no real feelings of substance for him, and had always seen fit to entertain herself with multiple men, but it had taken a while for her to make peace with the situation as it was. In the end, he valued her as an old friend, and she valued going to the theater and socializing among the ton. Anything else was pure illusion at this point, created solely to inspire Eliza’s own jealousy. Much like with Landry’s horse . . . even if nothing changed, at least it gave him a tiny bit of vindictive satisfaction. Although, should something change—

A strong slap on the back jarred him to awareness, and with a glance at the gentlemen at the table, he realized he’d just spent the majority of his time after dinner in contemplation of his best friend’s sister.

“You there, old chap?” joked Lord Braxton, puffing on a cigar. “What have you been wool-gathering about?”

Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled slyly. “Probably a woman.”

“Since when have I been known to wool-gather about a woman?” he muttered, not pleased at being discovered.

This resulted in hearty laughter round the table. “True enough,” said Fitzwilliam. “You are known to be a man of action with regard to the fairer sex. Although if there was one lady worthy of imaginative fancy, I’d say Lady Eliza Cartwick might tempt me.”

Murmurs of agreement circulated among the male guests, along with a wave of fresh cigar smoke. One of the gentlemen who had admired her excessively during the meal spoke up across from him.

“Indeed! What a beauty. Enchanting in every single way.”

Fitzwilliam appeared thoughtful. “I would be shocked if she were to receive no less than five offers of marriage prior to her departure from London.” He tipped a glance at Baron Latimer. “We know about your boy, Sir James. He has been fairly active in his pursuit. But I would wager that there are more suitors waiting silently for their chance to offer for the loveliest lady to grace London in a long while.”

Thomas sighed, ignoring the turn of conversation as best he could. London used to be a place to forget himself and his cares. A sanctuary to indulge his less respectable appetites. But now he knew why Eliza had avoided the city for as long as she had. Why each of her captivating smiles bore a lonely longing for home just beneath the surface. There was simply no pleasure to being picked apart by the gossips of high society, particularly with one’s heart on the line.

Thankfully Fitzwilliam let the matter rest, the subject naturally easing into something less obtrusive and flirtatious. In time, the men snuffed their cigars and stood, quaffing what remained of their drinks and moving to join the ladies for some card games in the parlor. Thomas felt the cold weight of dread settling in his stomach. He wasn’t certain he could handle seeing Eliza again.

But he inevitably made his way to the door of the parlor, evaluating how best to reach the far side of the room while avoiding her position, about midway through the tables. In line with his current run of misfortune, she spotted him immediately, rotating in her chair to physically capture his gaze. He took in the intricate arrangement of her golden hair and thrilled at the way her eyes shined brighter than the jewels at her throat. His glance dipped down unwittingly to take in the lilac silk of her dress, how it enveloped her voluptuous curves. Recalling the sweet taste of her skin, he shook his head as if in a dream.

Does she do this to torment me?

No, he would not flatter himself. She was always the most beautiful woman in the room regardless of who was in attendance.

He was snared. But like a madman, Evanston still attempted to pass without engaging her. The cause was lost when she rose to stand before him, effectively blocking his path. She cast him a pleasant smile, but he noted her eyes were filled with unease.

“Good evening, my lord.”

Desperately focusing on the tables beyond her, he tipped her a cursory nod.

“Eliza,” he murmured softly.

She paused in surprise at his use of her first name in such a setting, and truthfully, he didn’t know what had made him utter it. Before anything else could be said, he tried to brush past her, but rather than letting him, she reached down to touch his hand. The soft glide of her fingers against his caused his pulse to accelerate considerably.

“Please. I must speak to you . . . It’s important,” she whispered.

He jerked his hand away. “What could possibly be so important that you would subject yourself to my presence? I think we have established that you would really rather not.”

She winced at his cutting tone. “Thomas, you know I—” Eliza paused, glancing around the room, taking in the curious onlookers. “May we speak in the hallway? Then I promise not to disturb you further, if that is what you wish.”

Not seeing an alternative, he sighed, then nodded crisply and allowed her to pass. Before turning to follow her, he caught sight of Victoria, fuming, at the distant card table.

They stepped out of the stuffy confines of the parlor, venturing down the hallway in search of privacy. Eliza came to stop beneath a large window that overlooked the rear gardens, now blackened by night, and reached up to touch her coiffure with her fingertips as she was wont to do when anxious. He stared down at her, waiting, and at last she met his gaze.

“Did you receive my letters?” she inquired.

“I did.”

Clearly not knowing what to do with her hands, she seemed to finally settle on clasping them before her bell-shaped skirts. “Did you read them?”

“I did not.”

An unmistakable flicker of hurt crossed her face. Thomas found himself regretting his candor, but then Eliza straightened and tipped up her chin. The tiny movement, a motion that displayed a small fraction of her strength and bravery, made him want to pull her against him. Lay waste to her elaborate farce of indifference. Free her from the confines of how she believed a proper widow should act. He fought the urge back down into submission, knowing she would scorn him if he did not.

“Had you read my first two letters,” she began, her voice shaking, “you would know I am sorry that things have grown so complicated between us.”

“I believe I already know that.”

“And,” she continued, “had you read my final letter, you would know that someone dear to me is in trouble.”

Thomas froze in alarm, his eyes locking onto hers.

“Rosa?” he asked hoarsely, edging closer to panic.

Now it was Eliza’s turn to go still. “I—well, no. It’s not Rosa. Rosa is fine.”

He took a shuddering breath and glanced away. “Who is it, then?” he managed.

Still evaluating him closely, she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “My friend Caroline needs to return home immediately. Her aunt is . . . unwell.”

“Lady Frances?” he asked, pausing in thought. “And you trust me to help?”

Her disbelief appeased his wounded ego only slightly. “Why would you ask me such a thing? Of course, I trust you to help.”

Eliza’s eyes shone up at him, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. It would take no effort at all to slide his arms around her and claim those lips for himself. He wondered if she would pretend to struggle at first, as she had at the ball, or if she would melt against his chest and kiss him back with all the fiery passion he knew she possessed.

Gritting his teeth, Thomas tamped down the fantasy, looking away instead to study the patterned wallpaper. She would not trust him nearly so much were she aware of the sudden turn of his thoughts.

“What seems to be the issue?” he ground out.

“It seems . . .” Eliza paused and looked away, uncomfortable. “It seems that Lady Frances has been misremembering things as of late. She has episodes of confusion that can turn rather violent. I bore witness to one such event, and it is why I have come to ask for your assistance.” Her gloved fingers twisted together. “Anything you could do to facilitate their speedy and inconspicuous exit from London would be most appreciated.”

“You do realize that if Caroline leaves London now, her chances with Lord Braxton are all but extinguished,” he said with a sigh. “I assume you have seen the toll her absence has already taken on his affections?”

She stiffened at his observation. “I’m sure Caroline is aware of the possibility, my lord, but I would ask that any particulars be kept from her for now. The last thing she needs while caring for Lady Frances is to be torn apart by Braxton’s changeable regard.”

Looking at her now, color heightened and breath quickened in defense of her friend, Thomas grudgingly admitted to himself that this was one of Eliza’s many fine qualities. Loyalty. Regardless of the fact that he repelled her to some degree, he had an idea that were someone to attack him, she would leap to his defense.

Evanston gazed at her thoughtfully. “Caroline is fortunate to have your friendship.”

“You have my friendship as well, you know,” she answered softly.

He decided to ignore that and considered her request in silence. At last he shook his head, knowing he would never deny Eliza what she needed under normal circumstances, and certainly not under ones as dire as these.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Yes, I will help them leave London and ensure they are settled safely back in Hampshire.”

Eliza’s eyes widened in gratitude. “Thank you. Oh, thank you, Thomas,” she breathed, coming forwards to embrace him. Her palms grazed his chest before he took a swift step away. The incendiary contact was enough to drive him backwards with considerable speed.

“Don’t.”

She jerked her hands away, humiliation overcoming her. “Forgive me. I—”

“I do have one condition, if I am to do this for you,” he said quickly in an abrupt change of subject.

Eliza blinked at him, lifting her brow in dismay. She shook her head slightly to send her glowing purple earbobs swaying from side to side.

“You do?”

The innocence with which she asked the question nearly made him reconsider, as his charity had never come attached with the strings of obligation before. While he hated that current circumstances necessitated the change, a vision of her, lying in his bed wearing only her amethyst jewels, intruded on his thoughts. Ruinous wretch that he was, he could not give up on that version of reality quite yet—a reality where Eliza Cartwick would willingly choose him above all others.

This would be a gamble unlike any other he had taken before.

A means to an end . . .

“Yes, I do,” said Evanston with a tug on his cravat. “I require that you defer responding to any and all requests of marriage you may receive. That is, until you have returned to the country.”

Silence was his answer. He held her stunned gaze, realizing that, should she refuse his terms, it would be ungentlemanly of him to fulfill his threat and walk away during her time of need. And with Eliza, he always tried to be a gentleman. Thomas held his breath as she scanned his face.

“Why?” she asked in astonishment.

“I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.”

Her expression closed, and her hands dropped into fists at her side. “And what if I say no?”

He stepped closer to her, near enough almost to touch. Eliza’s eyes grew large but she did not retreat, and he watched her resolve fade away as their bodies joined in smoldering, silent communication. He leaned down to whisper in her ear, her golden curls tickling his cheek.

“Will you?”

Eliza stared at his chest and said nothing.

Evanston lingered for a moment, absorbing her scent and her heat, memorizing the feel of having her body so close to his, then straightened. “Have Caroline and her aunt prepare for departure tomorrow. We will leave early the following morning, while it’s still dark.”

She glanced up quickly. “I wish to come too. To be of some assistance.”

“No,” he snapped. Then lowering his voice, said, “You must remain here until the end of the season.”

Again, pain flickered across her features. “Thomas, why?”

He ran a hand over his face. “I need to do this without any added . . . distractions,” he answered, knowing she would be a distraction of the most tempting kind.

She stared at him then, breathing coming in shallow fits and starts, color heightening in her anger. “After all of this, I have to wonder,” Eliza fumed, her eyes darting furtively down the hall to ensure they were not being heard. “if your singular goal in coming to London was to interfere with my finding a husband.”

It certainly hadn’t been when he’d arrived. But now . . .

Taking her hand in his, Thomas raised it to his lips and lowered his voice.

“Would it make a difference?” he asked, brushing a kiss across the back of her knuckles.

Eliza stared at him in stunned silence as he released her and returned to the party . . . back to the crowded drawing room, back to the whist tables and back to the eagerly awaiting stares of the ton’s most ferocious gossips.