Unlocked (Turner #1.5)(19)
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 usual 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.”