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  The crowd shifted, and in that moment Elaine saw that the woman standing closest to her mother was Lady Cosgrove. Over all these months, Elaine had begun to relax. But her mother was still her vulnerable heart. She had no protection of her own, and Westfeld couldn’t save her. Without waiting for another word, she started across the room.

  “Elaine,” Westfeld hissed, following along beside her. But he’d seen it, too.

  They’d talked of a great many things since they had become friends—Parliament and fashion, agriculture and the latest serial from Dickens.

  They had not mentioned Westfeld’s friendship with Lady Cosgrove. The woman had kept her distance since the Season started, but Elaine had seen her all too often. It was impossible to escape her; she lived just across the street, after all. Elaine had often wished that it was Lady Cosgrove who was absent, instead of her never-seen husband.

  “You know what she’ll do,” Elaine said.

  “I know what I won’t let her do.” They were his last words before they joined the group.

  “Why, Lady Elaine.” Lady Cosgrove smiled at Elaine while somehow avoiding her cousin’s gaze altogether. “Your mother has just agreed to speak for us a few weeks from now.”

  “A lecture?” Elaine tapped her fingers against her skirts. A lecture wouldn’t be so awful. Not many would come, and her mother would enjoy it.

  “Better!” her mother exclaimed. “In three weeks’ time, Lady Cosgrove is holding a gala at Hanover Square. There will be music, and hundreds of people, all interested in—”

  “Mama,” Elaine interrupted blandly, “they’ve thrown tomatoes at some of the larger entertainments.” Remember. Remember. Lady Cosgrove doesn’t wish us well.

  Behind Lady Stockhurst, Lady Cosgrove bit back a smile.

  And, it seemed, this wouldn’t be one of the days when her mother recalled such things. “Why would they do that?” her mother mused. “I can’t account for it. Even the lower orders have better things to do with a perfectly good tomato. And genteel society…”

  “They throw rotten vegetables to express displeasure.”

  “Or boredom,” Lady Cosgrove put in. “But, then, Lady Elaine, you don’t believe your own mother is boring, do you?”

  “This is all nonsense,” Lady Stockhurst proclaimed. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of, Elaine. The tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable.”

  By Elaine’s side, Westfeld took her arm. “It will be well,” he said quietly. “It will be well.”

  Lady Cosgrove’s lips pinched together.

  “How can it be?” Elaine whispered. “I’ve seen how these things go. To expose her to more people, more indignity… How can it be well? I know you will be kind, but you cannot control how two dozen people will respond—and there could be as many as a thousand present.”

  Westfeld simply shrugged. “What did Archimedes say? If you want to move the world, all you need is a long enough lever. It will be well.”

  She huffed. “You also need a fulcrum on which to rest your lever, I believe.”

  He smiled at that—an expression as arrogant and certain as any she could remember seeing on him.

  “Well.” His deep drawl seemed to resonate with some deep part of her. “If ever you need to…rest your lever, here I am.”

  She glanced up at him. He was watching her, and she felt as if she might burst into flame. She snatched her arm from his before he could notice. “Do be serious, Westfeld.”

  He gave a resigned shake of his head. “And here I thought I was.”

  OVER THE NEXT WEEKS, EVAN TRIED TO MAKE JOKES to lift Elaine’s distress. None of them worked, and finally he stopped jesting altogether. But despite every attempt he made to make her smile, he still held back the truth of what he was doing.

  The truth was deadly earnest. By the time he’d found a seat in the hall at Hanover Square before Lady Stockhurst’s lecture, he was feeling the cost of the last two weeks of frantic work. He’d written letters, found couriers, and gone in person to speak to more than half a dozen men.

  He’d had to. He understood too well how Diana operated. His cousin had planned for her evening of entertainment to be a stunning success. It started with a scene from the Pickwick Papers, performed by the Adelphi Theater. The acting was crisp and believable, the characters expertly portrayed. There followed a concerto by Mendelssohn for piano and violin, and a short intermission for light refreshment. It would end with a performance by the famed soprano, Giulia Grisi.

  Lady Stockhurst, sandwiched between these shining lights, seemed to serve all too clear a purpose: she was to be the comic interlude. As she started, she did seem to fit that role. She’d had great star-charts made, showing the course of the planets and the placement of her comet in the night sky. She spoke with great animation; her exuberance overcame all ladylike boundaries. She ended her talk with an impassioned speech on the course of the stars, predicting a return of the heavenly visitation in twelve years’ time.

  One either had to laugh or applaud…and when she finished, no applause was forthcoming. Instead, when she asked for questions, the audience sat in near-silence as if not sure how to react. The next few seconds would be crucial.

  “Lady Stockhurst,” a woman said in the front. “I could not help but notice that your presentation included calculations that are traditionally left to gentlemen. As a lady, have you ever considered that perhaps you are unsuited to such work?”

  It could have been worse. Still, across the hall from him, Evan could see Elaine tense. Her chin lifted, as if she were daring the world to speak ill of her mother. He felt his own heart contract, as if he were flinching from the pain she might receive.

  Lady Stockhurst, however, simply frowned at the woman in confusion. “No,” she said tersely. “Next?”

  A low titter swept the room. Evan had himself prepared a few queries. But he’d hoped that he wouldn’t have to intervene. After all, if the rest of his plans did not come to fruition, his solitary efforts could hardly sway a crowd this large.

  He couldn’t pinpoint when he had started feeling this way, but now that it had been going on for these many months, he would personally take on every man and woman in the room just to win a smile from Elaine. It was stupid and pointless…and utterly inevitable. It had nothing to do with making amends any longer. He didn’t want her hurt; it was that simple. At his side, his hand curled into an involuntary fist.

  “Lady Stockhurst?” A man stood in the back of the room. Evan had never seen him before—at least, not in person. But he’d seen a portrait of the fellow. Slowly, his hand unclenched.

  The man was older, perhaps of an age with Lady Stockhurst herself. His face was thin and framed by short, unkempt hair that was beginning to go gray.

  Lady Stockhurst beamed.

  He fumbled with some papers in his hand, unfolding them, and then looked about the room. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure of reading your work myself, Lady Stockhurst, but my aunt saw an early copy of your monograph, and asked me to convey to you her appreciation for your meticulous work.”

  “Oh.” Lady Stockhurst rubbed her nose in puzzlement. “But I’ve not given copies of my work to anyone, not except…” Her eyes darted to the left and fell on Evan. Evan tried not to smile.

  He failed.

  Two rows away, Diana stirred. Over the last months, they’d continued to talk—but their relationship had become strained. She wouldn’t talk with Lady Elaine, she wouldn’t apologize—and he half suspected that she’d designed Lady Stockhurst’s part in this evening’s entertainment as a way to prove to Evan that she wouldn’t change her mind.

  “Nonetheless,” the older gentleman was saying. “I have some correspondence from her.”

  Diana folded her arms in disapproval. “Well, there’s no need to listen to the old crones exchange their regards,” she said. Not too loud; but then, not too quietly either.

  It was her typical style—a cutting insult delivered with a smooth smile. But it was not met with the u
sual response. A murmur swept through the room. Those nearest her repeated her words, until the hall practically rumbled with displeasure.

  “Crones?” The gentleman turned to Diana, his expression perplexed. “Ma’am, my aunt’s recommendation brought fifteen members of the Royal Astronomical Society to this event. The instant Lord Westfeld sent word of Lady Stockhurst’s presentation, I knew I would have to attend.”

  Across the room, Elaine shot Evan a glance. He smiled at her. There. I said it would all be well.

  “The…the Astronomical Society?” Diana blinked at the fellow, no doubt trying to place him. “Who are you? Who is your aunt?”

  “I am Sir John Herschel,” the man replied. “And my aunt is Caroline Herschel—the only woman to have been presented with the Gold Medal of the Royal Astronomical Society. She was unable to come from Hanover, where she currently resides, but she asked me to read a statement on her behalf.”

  Across the room, Elaine was looking at him. Her eyes had gone wide and luminous. And in that instant, Evan knew precisely why he’d gone to so much trouble. Not only to make her smile. Not merely out of friendship. Not just because of his poorly-contained, ill-conceived lust. He’d done it because he was in love with her.

  “When Lord Westfeld forwarded me Lady Stockhurst’s manuscript,” Sir John began, “I feared the worst. But it became clear to me after moments that I was reading the work of one of the finest minds in all of Europe.”

  Elaine shook her head at him—not in reproof, but in uncontainable delight. The letter was half over Evan’s head—replete with mathematical references. In a way, it felt as if he’d come home—as if he’d righted a wrong that had long troubled him. It was worth all the trouble he’d endured to see Elaine smile without fear.

  “I can safely say,” Sir John was concluding, “that Lady Stockhurst’s name should be linked with that of mine and Mrs. Mary Somerville for her keenness of understanding.”

  Evan would have ridden through hell and back for the look on Elaine’s face—that brilliant, incandescent happiness, one that could not be smothered.

  He felt the joy so keenly it almost hurt.

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER THE CROWD BEGAN TO DISPERSE, Elaine sought him out. How could she not? He was on the far side of the room, and yet as soon as her eyes landed on him, he turned to her. She could feel herself light up as their gazes met, like an oil lamp screwed to full brightness. So why, as she drifted across the room to meet him, did her innards seem to tangle in knots? What was this excitement that collected on her skin?

  He was just a friend. Just a friend. A good friend, yes, and one who had done her an extraordinary favor. He stood on the edge of the hall as the crowd flowed past him, standing with a group of her friends. There were the Duke and Duchess of Parford, a smattering of ladies…and the duke’s younger brother, Sir Mark Turner, which rather explained the ladies.

  “Duchess,” Elaine said, and her friend turned, smiling, and extended her hand. The Duchess of Parford was one of Elaine’s dearest friends. She had known of Elaine’s worry, and had come to lend her support. “Your Grace. Sir Mark.” Elaine nodded to the other members of the party, and then swallowed before addressing the last man. “Westfeld. How very, very good to see you all.”

  Westfeld met her eyes. “We were speaking on the nature of friendship, Lady Elaine.”

  “I was saying,” the duchess interjected, “that Westfeld has been a very good friend to you.”

  “Yes.” Elaine found herself unable to break away from his gaze. “I’m very grateful to him.”

  But grateful was altogether the wrong word. She knew it looking into the dark brown of his eyes. She might have looked into them all evening and not noticed the passing of time. No; it wasn’t gratitude she felt. It was something rather more electric.

  “Grateful,” he said, the syllables of the word clipped. And then he shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Of course you are. But there’s no need to be.”

  “There is. Every need.”

  “That is what friendship means.” His voice dropped and so did her stomach.

  She felt almost weightless, ready to blow away.

  “In fact, tonight happened because of another one of my friends—Fritz Meissner, an old partner from Chamonix who hails from Hanover. I sent him a courier, and he badgered his uncle to show the work to Miss Herschel. From there, I had only to make certain that Miss Herschel’s response was widely known. It was nothing.”

  “I assure you,” Sir Mark put in, “few friends would think the same.”

  “Oh?”

  “Most friendships,” Sir Mark continued, “are nothing more than a similarity of temperament, or a smattering of common interests. Friendship is about jokes told and laughter shared.”

  While Sir Mark spoke, Westfeld shook his head. “I used to think the same—that so long as we were laughing together, it was enough. That was before I took an interest in mountaineering.” Westfeld was talking to the entire group, but his gaze kept returning to Elaine. “My entire notion of friendship altered when I depended on someone for more than just the pleasant passing of time. Once you’ve trusted a person with your life, it changes everything. It’s no longer enough to call someone ‘friend’ simply because you visit the same haberdashery. Once someone has risked his life for yours, and you’ve risked yours for his—once you’ve yoked yourselves together, knowing that one misstep could kill the both of you—well.” He shook his head. “Everything after that seems very pallid in comparison.”

  “Ah.” Sir Mark smiled. “We’re boring.”

  “Not at all. Maybe that’s what I have been looking for. When storms and rockslides threaten, I am looking for someone who will hold on to me and not let go.”

  He was talking about friendship, but the way he looked at her… She would crackle like fire if he touched her.

  “Is that what you were doing?” she asked softly. “Not letting go?”

  “We’re friends.” His smile twisted ruefully. “And what that means is this: I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not if I can stop it.”

  She couldn’t stop the stupid grin, too large and too painful, from creeping out on her face. She could feel herself lighting up under his perusal. And his smile—that awkward quirking smile, just a twitch too bitter. He had said they were friends. But…

  She’d managed to put all thought of his long-ago proposal out of her mind. He joked with her so often that she’d assumed that it had been offered out of a sense of duty and obligation—and perhaps a hint of the desire he’d felt a decade before. He’d wanted to make up for past wrongs. And he knew—he knew she couldn’t marry him. She’d thought he had accepted it, because until this moment, until tonight, she’d believed he felt nothing for her but friendship.

  But no. There was a savagery to his smile, and a darkness in his eyes when he watched her.

  He was in love with her. And it hurt him.

  EVAN HAD TO GET AWAY.

  The air in the hall had become overheated. As he’d spoken, Elaine had begun to look at him with something like dawning horror. Her conversation had dried up. And once again, she’d wrapped her arms around her waist, drawing in on herself until she was as closed to him as a locked room.

  So. She’d figured it out. He strode down the steps of the hall and signaled to his footman waiting in the drizzle. But there was no way to escape easily; the line of carriages stretched into the distance, and the waiting throng had begun to spill out onto the steps of the hall. He wouldn’t be rescued from that crush for at least half an hour.

  Instead, he darted across the street to wait. The weather was more fog than rain, but the mist clung to his coat wetly. In the relative haven of the small square, he could pretend to be alone. The crowds across the way were blocked by dense shrubbery; the first tentative spring leaves on trees overhead dampened the carrying conversation. If he could stop up his ears and shut out the persistent clop of horses’ hooves, he might imagine himself very private indeed.


  He’d made himself give up all hope of Elaine. Most people would have taken such a surrender as an admission of failure—capitulation, by definition, was the very opposite of success. Then again, most people imagined that the successful mountaineer climbed Mont Blanc by persisting in the face of unimaginable peril and privation.

  Not so. A mountaineer who kept going when a snowstorm arose was not successful. He was dead. Only an idiot wagered his life against the flip of Mother Nature’s coin.

  That was the first part of climbing a mountain: deciding not to die. He’d had to learn that one.

  A formal walkway crossed the square; beyond it, a less formal path skirted the bushes. He walked alone in darkness, breathing in air that choked him, and trying to exhale every last frustration.

  There was a second part to mountaineering: determining when to make another go at it. Sometimes, the best time to launch an assault was right after a storm, before the snow turned to ice. Sometimes you had to wait until all danger had passed. Evan had always sensed that if he pushed Elaine too hard—if he insisted that she rethink how she truly felt about him—he would lose her.

  He stopped walking when the small crushed rocks of the path gave way to springy turf. A fountain, dry and empty of everything but the last remnants of moldering leaves, stood before him. To his right, a statue of William Pitt stood on a stone base. Pitt’s cast-metal head brushed the limbs of the trees that ringed the park.

  Alone with a politician on such a night. Diana would laugh, if he told her.

  And then a stick cracked behind him, and before he could turn to see who had invaded his privacy, he heard a voice. Her voice.

  “Westfeld?”

  He could see her only from the periphery of his vision, but still all his thoughts, so sound and rational, were swallowed up by her presence. He was nothing but a deep abyss of want, and only she could fill him.

  He didn’t want to turn at the sound of her voice. If he simply stared into the hydrangea for long enough…then he would be a coward. He turned to face the woman who could bring him to his knees.