Red…
Even as she said it, her voice just a breath of air, she realized her misstep — worse, she had extended a hand, as if in supplication.
Really, she had thought to touch him, and see if he was real.
"Lord Blackwood," Aunt June finished loudly, with stern emphasis and a sharp glare for Elizabeth.
She knew she was blushing horribly, her cheeks burning hot with embarrassment, but Raymond stepped in smoothly, taking her outstretched hand and bowing neatly over it.
"Not to worry, Lady Chester," he said, polished and polite. "Miss Scott and I are old friends."
She thrilled foolishly — he remembers me — but managed to curtsey prettily and withdraw her hand.
"It's a great pleasure to see you again, my lord," she murmured, recovering at least some social graces.
"The pleasure is all mine," he answered, and though he was just as remotely proper as she, there was a warmth to his tone that made him sound truly genuine.
Another buzz waved through the room; the music had changed, and dancers were pairing off.
"A waltz," Raymond said, with a glint in his eye. "How lovely. I'm sure you have permission, Miss Scott?"
"Of course, my lord," she said demurely. It had been one of the first things her aunt had done upon Elizabeth's decision to enter into Society, not wanting any "opportunities" to be lost.
"Is your next set spoken for?"
"No, my lord," she replied, without artifice now, taking his proffered arm eagerly.
"Delightful." He nodded amiably to the gaping group around them, and swept her away into the crowd of dancers.
When he put his hand on her waist, holding her close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body, she became dizzy with sensation. His scent was warm and spicy, completely unlike the perfume fashionable young men seemed to prefer. She forgot, for a moment, why she was there, forgot her sadness and anger, forgot everything but the new, intoxicating feelings.
When Raymond had recognized her from across the room, he'd thought her grown into a charmingly lovely young woman.
But then, when she'd seen him, somehow known him, her cool elegance had transformed into a radiant beauty that took his breath away. Her old nickname for him had come so readily to her lips, her eyes shining; it had felt for an instant as if they were the only two people in the room.
He felt an irrational longing to take her out of this crowded room, to whisk her away from the greedy eyes of the ton and really talk to her. It was a surprising effort to go through the proper societal motions, instead.
But then Fate offered him a favour — a waltz.
He all but dragged her away from what now seemed like dozens of covetous, admiring eyes. She fit into his arms as if she had been made for them; she smelt enticingly of springtime.
He forgot, for a few shining moments, what had brought him there. She smiled at him, a real smile now, one that made her eyes sparkle and her entire face light up.
"You must be the very last person I'd ever thought to see tonight, Lord Blackwood," she said lightly. "I hadn't even heard you were in London."
"I only got into town yesterday evening," he answered honestly. "I was…most anxious to renew our acquaintance."
She pinked prettily, clearly pleased, and he was struck by a sudden, mad urge to kiss her. "You can go on calling me Red, if you like," he dazedly heard himself say. "At least when it's just the two of us."
Her smile somehow became even brighter. "We wouldn't want to shock Aunt June out of all countenance," she said. "But it really is terribly good to see you again…Red."
"Miss Scott, I–"
"You should at least call me Elizabeth, in return," she said, laughing.
He hesitated, reluctant to end her laughter, to eliminate that smile…but it had to be said. "Please accept my condolences, then, Elizabeth, on the loss of your father."
Her face fell at that, her clear blue eyes clouding over, brightness gone. "Thank you," she replied softly. "For all that it has been six months since we lost him, it still doesn't feel quite real."
"I truly am very sorry," he said gently. "Sam was a good friend to me."
"He loved you," she said simply, looking directly at him with a clear, steady gaze. "He was very proud of all your accomplishments."
This was saddening and heartening all at once, and it must have been clear in his expression, because, with great daring, she lifted her hand from his shoulder to touch his cheek, a fleeting brush of comfort too quick to see, almost too quick to feel. Almost.
"Elizabeth," he said, oddly shaken. "I–"
"I wish we could sit together again," she said wistfully, interrupting him softly. "Like we used to, so long ago. I think it would be…a great comfort."
He thought that nothing could ease his cold and lonely soul like being able to hold her for real, and not just within the structured confines of a dance.
"Have you no one to console you, then, Lizzy?" The nickname came easily with the memories of that long-ago closeness, and he used it without thinking.
To his surprise and regret, her eyes filled and she faltered in her steps. She drew herself up in the next instant, though, blinking away her tears with a practiced effort and offering him a half-smile.
"I'm sorry, my lord," she said, taking refuge in formalities. "It's just…Papa was the only one who called me that for a long time."
"I'm the one who should be sorry," he said, cursing his thoughtlessness, arm around her waist tightening slightly. "I didn't think."
"It's all right, really," she said, with another deep breath. "It was only the surprise of it. I think…I think I might like hearing it again."
Their strangely intimate time was coming to an end already, he realized, the waltz in its final sweeping measures. He didn't fancy a country dance that would separate them and prevent real conversation.
"Would you care for a stroll on the terrace?" he heard himself say, with some astonishment.
"Aunt June would be terribly scandalized," she said solemnly, folding her hands primly in front of her, the picture of a proper young lady.
Oh god. He was about to apologize again, or laugh it off, or something to regain his footing, but then she smiled again, real and full, this time with some mischief in it.
"I'd love to," she said.
Mrs. Harrington had arranged for lanterns to be placed along the balustrade, giving the stone terrace a warm glow. They weren't alone here, either, but the other couples taking a breath of air desired privacy as much as they did. Strolling along the length of the house with her small gloved hand tucked in his arm gave him an unexpected sense of peace and wellbeing.
"I need to make another apology, Elizabeth," he said quietly.
She looked at him, surprised, questioning.
"For not being here sooner." He answered her look heavily, his voice laden with regret. "For not being here when Sam died, or before. I didn't receive my letters until far too late."
"But that isn't your fault," she said earnestly. "You clearly came as quickly as you could."
Her simple faith, the faith of the child she had been, astonished him, and he put a hand over hers in silent acknowledgement.
"Sam wrote to me not long before he died. He was quite concerned."
"Was it about business?" she inquired. "I know it bothered him that he couldn't manage his affairs the way he was used to."
"His concerns were for you, Lizzy," Red said gently. "He was worried over your future."
She made a slightly derisive pfft of noise, surprising him again. "If he wanted me to be a proper miss and make an advantageous marriage like a good girl," she answered heatedly, her anger quick and bright as a flame, "then he should have left me in London with Aunt June instead of dragging me all over the globe with him!"
"And would that have made you happy, Lizzy?" he asked, amused by her petulance, by what sounded like an oft-repeated argument.
"Of course not," she snapped. "I adored traveling with Papa and helping him in his work. Seeing all those marvelous places and discovering relics and antiquities." Her voice changed as she spoke, from frustration and pique to glowing enthusiasm. "Have you ever been to Egypt, my lord?"
"I haven't had the pleasure," he answered, intrigued by her sudden passion. "Worth the trip, is it?"
They had reached the far end of the terrace, and she stopped instead of turning, her face lit and animated.
"Oh, Red, you can't imagine," she answered, grasping his hand. "The desert is so vast and ancient, with such a…a mysterious solemnity. It's brutally hot during the day, and seems rich and full, everything golden and shimmery. Then at night, so cold and stark and forbidding. It's no wonder at all there are so many stories of curses and mummies coming back from the dead," she added mischievously. "It's the perfect atmosphere for a dreadful tale of horror."
She wiggled her free fingers about to intimate spookiness, and he laughed aloud. "It sounds perfectly delightful," he said, smiling widely. "I'll have to try to get there and see for myself." She was absolutely entrancing.
She couldn't help but notice how the broad smile transformed his face, making it brighter and more open — almost like that of the boy she had once known.
"You really should," she said, withdrawing her hand, suddenly shy. "I do think you'd like it."
"And now here you are in London," he said, taking her arm again and starting back. "Having the enjoyment of the Season and meeting all the eligible young men after all."
His smile was appropriately gone when she glanced up at him, but his eyes twinkled with merriment.
"That's Aunt June's doing," she said, with a disdainful sniff. "I only agreed because I–" She hesitated, halting her steps so he turned to face her again. "My lord — Red, can I trust you? Really trust you?"
The look of appeal in her lovely blue eyes tugged at him. "Your father asked me to look out for you," he said quietly. Among other things, he thought wryly. "If you need anything, Lizzy, I'll do my utmost to help you."
She simply glowed, catching his breath and leaving him yearning to touch her, just for a moment.
"Oh, Red, thank you! It will be so much easier having you to poke around where I can't."
Gods, she was beautiful, almost ethereal against the night sky in her pearly gown, her creamy skin rich and inviting…and then his brain caught up with her.
"What on earth do you mean," he said ominously, "by 'poke around'?"
"Papa didn't die from his illness," she said earnestly. "He was murdered, I'm certain of it. I intend to find his murderer and bring them to justice."
Good lord, he thought faintly. Of all the things she could have said, he certainly hadn't expected that.
"Elizabeth," he said gently, stopping again and putting his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Your father was ill for a very long time–"
"But he just wasn't as ill as all that," she said insistently. "I'm absolutely sure that there was something wrong about what happened."
"I know that it's difficult to accept this kind of loss." He tried again, squeezing her shoulders gently in sympathy.
"Ooh!" She wrenched away from him, her face creased in disappointment and disgust. "You sound just like Aunt June. I thought…I thought you would be different, I thought…"
Her eyes shimmered and he felt momentarily dreadful, a stabbing ache in his heart; he could have listened to her, at least, before talking some sense into her.
"Elizabeth, I am sorry," he tried. "I know how you must feel, but–"
"You don't know anything about how I feel," she cried, anger and misery threatening to overwhelm her. "I don't even know you, after all. I should never have confided in you — or in anyone. I don't need your help, my lord, I can do this on my own."
She pulled herself upright, her face once again wearing that cool society mask. "I am terribly sorry, Lord Blackwood, for overstepping. You can be certain that it won't happen again."
She turned on her heel and stalked off, heading for the comparative safety of the ballroom. He stood frozen and mute, watching her slim form disappear into the night. He felt, oddly, much lonelier than he generally did.
And his spirit quailed at the thought of this high-spirited, beautiful creature, romping recklessly through the ton, looking for a killer.
Something would have to be done.