Page 87 of The Earl’s Marriage of Convenience

“I shall have to thank her all the more,” he said lightly. “Though it does rather confirm her suspicions.”

“Yes,” Eliza said, a soft laugh escaping her. “She will not require our assistance in that regard.”

“No,” he agreed. “I imagine she will arrive at her conclusions entirely on her own.” He exhaled slowly, some of the earlier lightness shifting. “I do not wish to leave this moment,” he said quietly. “But we must think of what comes next.”

She nodded. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

And the world—inevitably—began to return.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Edwin sipped his champagne as he scanned the crowd gathering in the Brookstone ballroom.

He had attended more balls in the past fortnight than in all the years of his life combined, and yet this one felt … different. Something had shifted. Eliza had set it in motion—of that he was certain—but he could not quite name it, nor explain it, nor dismiss it. It lingered, unsettled, pressing quietly at the edges of his thoughts no matter how he attempted to reason it away. It was not entirely unpleasant. But neither was it comfortable. If he were honest—it was both.

They had kissed.

Not once.

But three times now. And none of those moments had been for show. There had been no audience, no strategy, no advantage to be gained. Only the two of them. Did that make it real?

For him—it did.

But that did not necessarily mean it was real for her. Eliza was adept—remarkably so—at shaping perception, at giving others precisely what they wished to see. It was one of her greatest strengths.

And perhaps—perhaps she was doing the same with him.

The thought did not sit well. He took another sip of champagne, letting the sharpness of it steady him. In the end, it was a moot point. They were to be married. And yet one small detail remained unfinished. He had never formally asked her. They had arrived at the decision together—logically, efficiently—and proceeded without hesitation. It had seemed unnecessary to mark it with ceremony.

And yet now he found himself wondering if she might have preferred it.

Not as strategy. But as respect.

After that fateful night—when Carver had witnessed what he should not have seen, and everything had been set irreversibly in motion—Edwin had gone to Hawthorne. Gabriel had given his approval, though it had felt less like permission and more like acknowledgment of what could no longer be undone.

Everything since had followed swiftly, cleanly even. Deliberately. But this was different.

As if summoned by the thought itself, Eliza entered the ballroom just then, on Gabriel’s arm, Pere at her side.

Edwin stilled.

She moved through the room with quiet command, her posture elegant, her gaze sharp and observant as she assessed the crowd. She was already working—already calculating—already determining where to step, who to speak with, how best to guide the evening.

It was masterful.

Fascinating.

He noticed Langshire across the room. The man had seen her as well. There was interest still—but it was tempered now. Softer. Resigned. Something in Edwin tightened. Before he could examine it too closely, he was already moving. He took a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray and crossed the room, offering polite greetings to Hawthorne and Pere before turning—without hesitation—to Eliza. Her gaze met his immediately.

Warm.

Expectant.

There was even—he thought—something like relief there. He offered her the second glass. She accepted with a pleased smile. He offered his arm and she took it. The ease of it did not escape him. However, he chose not to dwell on that.

“And how are you this evening?” he asked, searching her face perhaps more closely than necessary.

“Well,” she said simply.