by Martha Keyes
“Of course you may,” she replied, applying herself to the stocking again with lips that pursed in concentration. “You must merely prepare yourself for the grande bataille that will surely follow when what is clear to us becomes clear to them: they are not fighting for the same thing. Father is fighting for more personal power; Mother is fighting for equal distribution of power.”
“Ah,” Matthew said with a smile and a glance at Elias. “When that battle happens, I shall simply take myself off for a visit to Elias at Wooldon. Besides, I have witnessed too many grandes batailles between the two of you to quake in my boots at the prospect.” He looked at his sister and then to Elias significantly.
Edith glanced at Elias, whose mouth pulled up into a half-smile. “I hope,” he said, “that the victories in your parents’ encounters are more equally divided than those between your sister and me.”
She raised her brows, and he saw the familiar glint—both engaged and engaging—enter them. “Indeed. You have certainly gained a deep and personal understanding of those who are forever losing in such encounters.”
“Ha! If I have ever lost such a battle—which I cannot agree with—it can only be ascribed to my chivalrous desire not to humiliate a lady every time I meet her.”
The light in Edith’s eyes flamed brighter, and she dropped her hands to her lap, letting out a small cry when the needle poked her. She tossed the stocking and needle into the basket in frustration and stood, rubbing at the injury. She smiled at him. “I assure you I require no such chivalrous gestures. You may bring your full artillery when you engage with me, Elias. Indeed, I shall take offense at anything less.” She gave a slight curtsy. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Elias clenched his jaw as he watched her make her way toward the piano, but his mouth pulled up into a smile.
“’Fraid she had you in that one, Eli,” Matthew said, folding his arms and watching him.
It was true. She had beat him handily. He would have to sharpen his wits if he wished to prevent her from becoming bored of him—as Mercy had said, one hardly battled opponents one was confident of routing with no effort at all.
And for some reason, the idea of Edith Donne thinking him an unworthy opponent was more agitating than the prospect of her humiliating him in front of everyone he knew.
Chapter Seven
The candles blazed from the chandelier hanging in the large drawing room of Guildbury Park, and the room hummed with chatting and laughter as the musicians prepared their instruments. Everyone in the county seemed to be in attendance at the Haynes’ ball, and the amount of covert flirtation happening underneath the noses of chaperones made Edith smile with a hint of derision.
A couple tucked away in the corner, almost entirely concealed by a large plant and the thick brocade curtains at the window beside it, stood perilously close to one another. Edith was certain that Miss Dyer’s mother wouldn’t approve of her proximity to a rake like Mr. Marke. He leaned in to whisper something into Miss Dyer’s ear, and her cheeks blushed rosily as she looked up at him through her lashes.
People made such grand fools of themselves in love—or whatever it was Miss Dyer and Mr. Marke thought they were feeling.
Edith’s father scoffed beside her. “I might have known Stratton would use the opportunity here to persuade Haynes to his point of view. Well, he is too late! I already spoke with Haynes, and he assured me of his support.”
Edith said nothing. If her father insisted upon maintaining a constant monologue of political talk, she might have to go join the couple in the corner. For her father, there was nothing but politics. Every social engagement was but an opportunity to ensure that he stood in no danger of losing the next election, or that his fellow MPs were of his same mind on whatever bill was currently being debated.
“The fool stands to lose everything if this bill passes.” Her father could hardly have sounded more pleased with that fact.
Edith followed his gaze to the two men holding drinks in their hands at the long edge of the ballroom. She avoided talk of politics whenever she could, but she would have had to be entirely deaf not to know that her father considered John Stratton his archenemy.
Edith held her father in cordial dislike, but she couldn’t deny that Mr. Stratton was even less likeable. Her father was at least straightforward—one knew precisely what he was thinking at all times—even when one didn’t wish to know. Mr. Stratton, on the other hand, seemed a more slippery fellow—the kind to use silky words when they served his purposes. Edith’s father wouldn’t know how to make himself more palatable if his life depended upon it. And that was what his constituents liked—they knew what they were getting when they voted for Leonard Donne.
As the two sole MPs in their borough, her father and Mr. Stratton both lived in fear of being challenged by a new, third party with the power to unseat either of them. And with just two other landed gentry in the district whose votes decided who represented them in the House of Commons, it was entirely possible for them to be persuaded against either Stratton or Edith’s father. At times, Edith wished for it.
“…I have it on good authority that, if the bill passes, the boundary should be drawn at Dalton, which is just shy of Stratton’s estate. And if that were the case, not only would I be rid of him, he would be forced to contend for—and assuredly lose—his place in Commons, for there are upwards of fifty voters in the proposed borough, and the grand majority of them Whigs.”
Edith’s father never seemed to need any input from her—indeed, it only served to anger him—but he expected her to stand with at least a pretense of paying attention. Whether he was aware of how heartily she disliked politics and simply didn’t care, or was entirely oblivious, she didn’t know, but it was all she could do to stay where she was as he so remorselessly betrayed how selfish he was in his desires for the act to pass.
Edith’s mother had been attempting to draw attention to the issue for years, but it was only now that it served her father’s personal interests that he endorsed such a reform.
“…will increase the number of voters in my district as well, of course, but I shan’t have any trouble at all keeping my seat. Of course, Stratton would dearly like to find something to use against me, but” —her father chuckled— “I dare him to try! I haven’t lived the life of a saint for nothing.”
Edith suppressed the scoff that rose in her throat. A saint? Only if a saint’s chosen method to ensure obedience was to browbeat and harass.
Her father had always been a stickler about the Donne family image. Their behavior was to be above reproach. It was why his wife’s political activity and opinions angered him so violently. And, for a saint, he certainly had the temper of a devil.
Edith tried to breathe deeply to release the annoyance and anger building inside her. At her father’s first drawing of breath, she would make an escape.
But they were interrupted when Elias appeared before them. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” He bowed politely, bringing his gaze to hers with a knowing glint in them.
Her father had stopped mid-sentence. “Oh, yes, yes. By all means, go dance, Edith.”
Edith didn’t particularly enjoy dancing. And for some reason, she felt like taking Elias’s arm would be a sort of surrender—for he seemed to perceive that she heartily wished herself anywhere but at her father’s side.
But dancing and regaining the upper hand in her ongoing battle with Elias was certainly preferable to consigning herself to more of her father’s one-sided conversation, so she swallowed her pride, curtsied, and took Elias’s arm.
“You are welcome.” He nudged her with his elbow as he led her to the ballroom floor.
“For what?” she asked with pretended ignorance, returning the nudge with more force than he had used.
He grunted at the jab and put his free hand to his side. “For rescuing you.”
“I hardly required rescuing. I am very capable of looking after myself.” She dipped her head to indicate the spot he was
rubbing on his torso.
“I disagree.” He looked down at her with the most maddening of smiles. It was full of victory and teasing—and perhaps the smallest bit of sympathy. “You looked a veritable damsel in distress.”
She chuckled. “I am even less a damsel in distress than you are a knight in shining armor.”
They took their place amongst the set, and Edith felt her anger and tension seeping away as it was replaced by the allure of crossing swords with Elias. She would never admit that he had rescued her—her father wasn’t a villain, after all—but she was certainly grateful for any distraction from listening to her father.
Now she had only to remind Elias that whatever love he felt for her was entirely misguided. It was something she felt quite confident of achieving.
Chapter Eight
Elias hadn’t been able to resist stepping in when he saw Edith looking for all the world as though she wished to strangle someone—her father, most likely.
Elias had been coming off the worse in their recent encounters—that tongue of hers was fast as lightning, and just as dangerous—and he wanted to remind her that he was a worthy opponent. And nothing would irritate her more—or make her eyes come more alive with challenge—than feeling obliged to him.
He met her gaze across the set, narrowing his eyes. “Something has just occurred to me. Have we ever danced together before?”
The corner of her mouth tugged up at the side, and Elias wondered what error he had made in asking his question. “No. I make it a point never to dance with someone I dislike.”
He grinned, and his heart skipped a beat at the implication of her words. She seemed to realize her slip of the tongue, though.
“Only the greatest desperation persuaded me to violate my strict policy this evening,” she said.
“Ah, I see,” he said. It seemed strange that, in all the years they’d known each other, they would never have been partnered for a dance. But Edith didn’t tend to do much dancing—she had no compunction in refusing, and it had garnered her somewhat of a reputation amongst the gentlemen.
The music began, and they came together in the space between the couples. It was obvious that Edith’s history of declining to dance was not a function of her lack of grace or capability. “You claim to dislike dancing,” he said. “I find that to be an excuse made almost exclusively by those who have no talent for it. Shall I prepare my toes for annihilation?”
The merest dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth for a moment. If Elias hadn’t had so much experience watching Edith’s expressions, he wouldn’t have noticed it. She was skilled at maintaining an impassive expression. “Allow me to reassure you. If I step on your toes, it shan’t be for any inadequacy in my dancing skill.”
“Out of an unadulterated desire to do me harm, then?”
She merely raised a brow and smiled. Her eyes moved to a point somewhere behind him, and her smile flickered.
“What is it?”
She took in a breath and shook her head. “Nothing.”
They rotated around in a circle, and Elias searched out what might have bothered her. His gaze scanned the groups of attendees, finally landing upon Miss Pawnce, who was speaking with Mr. Marke.
“So the rake has found the romantic, has he?” Elias said.
“It was only a matter of time.” Her eyes sought the two out again.
“You think her vulnerable to his charms?”
“Charms? It is a wonder he has ever convinced a woman to look at him twice, much less entertain any of his insipid conversation or look upon him with any interest.”
“Not everyone has a heart encased in steel, Edith.”
Her gaze flew to his, and he could have sworn he saw a flash of hurt in them. But she blinked, and it was gone. “No, few are so fortunate,” she said. “But it only requires the merest vestige of common sense to recognize Mr. Marke for what he is.”
“And Miss Pawnce is lacking just such a vestige of common sense?”
She gave a light shrug. “Do you deny it?”
His eyes found Miss Pawnce again, watching how she looked up at the tall, dark figure of Mr. Marke without the least bit of guile. “No, I don’t deny it. She is easy prey for someone with as much world experience as Marke. But what can one do?”
Edith looked at him in amusement. “I imagine Viola would expect you to challenge him to a duel or some such thing if you were fearful for her.”
Elias chuckled. “No doubt. But I am hardly the person to take on such an unenviable task.” The dance brought them together, giving him the closest view of her eyes he’d ever had—and a resulting flapping of the heart.
“Are you incompetent with all types of weapons, then? Or is it merely pistols and your wit that are lacking?”
She really did find joy in trying to provoke him. Her cheeks had an attractive flush to them, and her eyes shone with energy in the candlelit ballroom.
“I do very well with pistols, I thank you,” he said on a laugh. “And as for my wit, well, I believe it speaks for itself. But no, I imagine Miss Pawnce’s father or brother would be a better candidate to challenge Marke.”
“That she has neither brother nor father to do so is part of her allure to him, I’m sure.” She lifted her head to look over Elias shoulder, leaning nearer to him as she squinted. A rush of vanilla wafted under his nose. So that was why the scent had been familiar in the library. He found himself wanting more.
He blinked, giving himself a shake. He was acting like a fool since overhearing that conversation between Solomon and Matthew. Women like Edith Donne took pleasure in giving set downs to gentlemen. And even if she did fancy herself in love with him, she was still a woman. Their affections were fleeting and changeable. Whatever she was feeling toward him, she would think better of it soon.
She seemed preoccupied with monitoring the movements of Viola, though she managed to keep up a formidable repartee despite it. He found himself surprised—and even touched—by her concern for Viola. Every interaction he had seen between the two cousins was marked by the obvious awe in which Viola stood of Edith, while the latter took delight in teasing the romantic.
When Edith trod on his foot a second time in an effort to watch where Mr. Marke was leading her cousin, Elias winced. “Do you intend to call Marke out yourself? If you do as much damage with a pistol as you do with your feet, I wager you shall win.”
The faintest bit of pink tinged her cheeks. “I assure you, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to meet all the Mr. Markes in England, one by one, at dawn.”
“I don’t doubt it! Though I imagine you might tire after a hundred such mornings.”
“A hundred?” She raised her brows. “Have you such a high opinion of your sex? Or are you merely blind?”
“How many mornings do you think should suffice?”
She smiled, but the intensity in her eyes told him that she was very much in earnest. “Unless I engaged to meet more than one man each morning, I imagine death or disease should take me before my work was finished.”
He blinked. So this was her opinion of men? “Surely there are not so many scoundrels as that.”
She said nothing.
They pulled apart, coming to stand across the set from one another. Elias glanced down the line of dancers, noting the fops and men far past their heyday. Not a scoundrel amongst them, he was certain. “I must count myself grateful not to be numbered amongst the rascals you refer to, I suppose.”
A smile played on her lips. “What makes you think that you are not?”
He took her hand in his, and as they moved past one another, the same rush of vanilla surrounded him. “Do you frequently dance with men you wish to shoot?”
“Is there another type?” She was grinning—taking great pleasure in shocking him.
“And am I to understand that you hold your own sex to be innocent of offenses that merit a meeting at dawn?”
“Certainly not. But you cannot deny that the lion’s share of the tru
ly awful ones falls to men.”
“I surely do deny it,” he said.
Her brows shot up again.
They came together in the center of the set, Edith training her gaze on him, awaiting an explanation.
He frowned as he contemplated how to word his defense. “Men have the strength and the means to cause much physical harm, to be sure, and I shan’t argue that they abuse it far too often. But I cannot allow your sex to be acquitted of their fair share of the suffering in this world. It is the harms that go unnoticed—the subtle, slow ones—which cause the most lasting damage. And it is my experience that women, much more so than men, excel at such harm.”
“I think we shan’t agree on this,” she said.
“What a novel occurrence.” He smiled, bowing to her as the last notes of the dance rang out.
She curtsied. He liked her hair back in its regular style—pieces coming loose here and there, escaped from the blue riband that made only the feeblest of attempts to contain the waves. It suited her. Neither she nor her hair could be contained.
Her eyes roved to the edge of the ballroom. “And now if you will excuse me, I have a man to speak with about a duel.”
It was very much like her not to take his arm and allow him to escort her back to her father. He couldn’t blame her for not wishing to return to him.
Elias followed just behind her, stopping at the refreshment table and taking a glass in hand as he watched her. She really was going to speak to Mr. Marke. It was none of Elias’s business, of course, but he couldn’t resist the role of spectator for such entertainment.
He edged closer to Marke, whose hand was clasping Viola’s. Situated as they were between a plant and a curtain, they were hidden from view from the majority of the people in the room. The hue of Viola’s cheeks betrayed precisely the nature of Mr. Marke’s words, and the roundness of her eyes indicated quite clearly that she didn’t know what to think of such conversation.
Edith strode up with a martial light in her eye that boded ill for either Mr. Marke or Viola—or perhaps both. Elias didn’t envy them at all. And yet he was awed by Edith’s confidence. He couldn’t look away. Besides, he had been the object of her ire frequently enough that it was nice to observe it from a place of safety for a change.
