Standing near the edge of a crowded assembly room, Eliza watched the swirling movement of dancers on the floor. The air was warm, thick with the scent of beeswax candles and perfume. For the past three days, she had told herself that the easy companionship she had found in the Braemar gardens had simply been a product of the landscape. It was the isolation of the country, she reasoned, that had made their conversations feel so significant. Now that they were back in the proper world, surrounded by obligations and acquaintances, the quiet illusion would naturally fade.
She turned her head to answer a polite inquiry from an older gentleman beside her. As she did, her gaze drifted across the brightly lit room.
Lord Andrew was standing near a set of double doors. He was speaking to another gentleman, but his eyes were scanning the crowd. The moment his gaze found hers, the search stopped. His reaction was small—a subtle stilling of his posture—but it was immediate.
Without a word of excuse to his companion, Andrew navigated the crowded floor, moving with deliberate purpose through the sea of silk and tailored coats, his attention fixed entirely on her.
As he stopped before her, offering a polite bow, Eliza felt a sudden, precarious fluttering in her chest.
"No willow today," she observed softly.
A slow, knowing smile touched his eyes. "Apparently, I managed without it."
He requested her hand for the next dance, and she accepted. As they took their places in the set, the music swelled, carrying them forward into the measured steps of the country dance. They were surrounded by dozens of people, required to move through the formal patterns of the choreography, yet the exact same ease they had shared in Scotland instantly settled over them. When the steps brought them close, they spoke with the same quiet familiarity. When the dance pulled them apart, his eyes remained entirely on hers.
It was no longer possible for Eliza to lie to herself. It had never been the atmosphere of the Scottish estate. It had always been him.
Two days later, the bright, cold sunlight of an Edinburgh afternoon found them walking together as part of a large party consisting of members from both their families. They strolled along a wide promenade, the imposing silhouette of the castle rising against the sky above them. As the group naturally stretched out along the path, Andrew and Eliza found themselves walking side by side, perfectly insulated by the polite chatter of their relatives ahead and behind them.
Their conversation began with mild observations about the city architecture, but gradually drifted toward the looming reality of the coming week. Eliza confirmed that she and her aunt would soon take the road south toward Bath. Andrew mentioned his own impending journey to London, detailing the arrangements he needed to make before securing passage back to the continent. He spoke of the logistical details—the carriages, the ports, the timing of the channel crossing—with the practiced, untroubled rhythm of a man who had executed the exact same maneuvers a dozen times before.
Eliza listened to the steady cadence of his voice. "You speak of leaving places as though departures were appointments," she remarked.
Andrew looked down at her, clearly amused by the observation.