The brothers had brought them glasses of punch, and Francis drew Amy off for a conversation—intentionally, Elizabeth was sure, leaving her with Edward Wilde seated attentively beside her. Francis Wilde offered a smile that was not entirely as kind as his brother’s.
She made herself sit very straight and proper.
“How do you like the ball, Miss Weston?” Edward Wilde asked in a way that suggested he had practiced this question as a crutch for polite conversation. He was looking about warily as if he expected someone to leap at him.
“I like it very well,” Elizabeth said, and meant it,
for once. “And you? I mean—you are new to the neighborhood, it must be quite overwhelming meeting so many people. How do you find it all?”
“I believe I find it quite agreeable. I’m not often comfortable in gatherings such as this,” he said. “So many . . . people in such a close space.”
Would that she could stop blushing. “I understand—about gatherings, that is. They can be very trying. Especially—well. It would all be so much easier if I liked balls and assemblies as much as Amy—Miss Brannock—does.”
“Easier?”
She pressed her lips in a sad smile. “At my age I am supposed to be seeking companionship, not avoiding it. And yet, I feel most at ease when I am alone. I am told this will not do for a young lady.” His frank interest was startling her into honesty when she should have kept quiet. She rarely talked so much.
“The matrons throw their sons at you in hopes of forming an attachment. I do see how that could be tiring.”
She laughed; the sound startled her, and she put a hand over her mouth. “I had three marriage proposals before I turned eighteen. I was able to put them off by claiming my youth, but that excuse no longer serves.”
“You are one of those romantic girls who wants to marry for love.” The jest was meant kindly. His smile was conspiratorial.
“I want to marry for trust, Mr. Wilde. For trust.” She lowered her gaze.
He looked thoughtful. “I think I understand you.” And he did.
Her words had sparked his appreciation.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, blushing so fiercely she thought she must faint. “I speak far too freely.”
“You do me a great compliment by speaking freely. Thank you.”
She was sure that he could hear her heart beating faster. Again, he put her in mind of a hawk—or perhaps a fox.
Because she had said far too much already, she added, “Mr. Wilde, if you are not comfortable in places like this, why tolerate it? You can do whatever you like. You aren’t expected to come to assemblies and make a good show of it. You can run free in the woods if you like, and people would merely think you eccentric—”
He looked at her with something like shock, as if she had uncovered some deep truth. She couldn’t see the truth itself, only that she had exposed him. She fell quiet because, obviously, she kept saying the wrong thing. His thoughts turned chagrined—he had been working very hard to hide his discomfort, she realized. She had exposed him, and now she was sorry for it.
“My brothers and I,” he said, taking a steadying breath, “decided we would like to come in from the woods. There are . . . attractions to drawing rooms and assemblies.”
She felt a great welling of desire, and could not tell if it came from him, or from her.
“Edward! My goodness, but people will talk, with you dominating this poor young lady’s attentions!” Francis Wilde came over and taunted his brother. Elizabeth couldn’t see where Amy had gone to.
She started to say that no, Edward wasn’t a bother at all, and then excuse herself to find her friend, but Edward bristled. An emotion that was half annoyance poured from him—the other half was anger. He rose and faced the other. “Francis. Do not interrupt where you’re not wanted.”
“I’m saving you. No—I correct myself. I’m saving the lady from you. From the gossip you will incite.” He bowed at her, and his smile was mischievous.
She wanted to smile at his playfulness, but Edward’s anger confused her. Something more than what was visible was happening here. The two men had both stiffened, and their glares held challenges.
“You are provoking me, sir,” Edward said, his voice constrained.
Francis blinked a moment in apparent surprise. “Yes, perhaps I am. And how are you getting on with that?”
The two brothers glared at one another, their expressions fierce.
“Miss Weston, you must pardon my brothers.” This was Vincent. He’d deftly stepped between them, grabbed them both by the necks, and glared pointedly until they drew back. The brewing argument vanished. “They are prone to teasing one another.”