Theirexteriors were polite. They did not tear into each other with claws—butthey wanted to, with the looks they gave one another, raking each otherup and down with sharp gazes. Their lips parted hungrily, their teethwere white and sharp.
Elizabethstood. She did not have to feign an anxious tremor in her voice. “Ithink . . . I think I should like to take a walk. A turn about theroom. To get some air.”
Thebrothers turned to her, still annoyed but they no longer seemed as ifthey wished to devour one another, and that made a great improvement onElizabeth’s nerves.
“MissWeston, are you well?” Vincent Wilde asked.
“Intruth, the room seemssomewhat . . . crowded.”
“Thereare less than a dozen of us here!” one of the other young ladies, oneoften frustrated with Elizabeth’s fragility, exclaimed.
“Andyet I think the room is quite full.”
“MissWeston displays a great deal of insight, I think,” Edward said. “If Imay, I will escort you to the window for some air.”
“Thankyou, sir.”
Theywent off a little ways, and Edward pushed open the window. The airthat came in was cold and damp. Her mother would be horrified of achill overtaking her, but Elizabeth breathed it in gratefully.
Theyhad some privacy. They could speak alone in quiet voices. It seemedwonderfully illicit. Some of the others might think this had allbeen a ploy on her part to get Edward alone. Amy might have encouragedher to try such a trick, but she would know this was honest.Elizabeth wasn’t very good at ploys.
Edward’sconcern was genuine. He did not think this was a ploy.
“Thankyou,” shesaid softly. “I was quite overwhelmed.”
“Youare not wrong about the room,” Edward said. “It is more full than itappears.”
“Ithink that is because the personalities of you and your brothers are sovery large. When you were boys your mother and father must havedespaired of ever having peace again. Except—you are not trulybrothers, are you?”
“Howdo you guess that? I know we do not favor one another, but it is veryforward of you to say so.”
“Ihave never done a forward thing in all my life but talk to you.”
“You—yourinsight . . . it astonishes me.” His whole manner had stiffened.
Shehad never wanted to understand someone as much as she wanted tounderstand him. At the moment, he was building walls in his mind tokeep her out.
“Iam not trying to astonish, truly.”
“Itmakes you all the more intriguing.”
Shehad never before wanted to kiss someone, but she could finally seewhy one might want to. If she leaned in, if she put her hand on hischest—it was scandalous. She also felt that if she tried to kiss him,he would let her.
Heshook his head and took a step back, and she felt as if a chasm openedbetween them.
“Ifear, Miss Weston, that I have misled you. I admire you, but I cannotdo more than that. This is for your own safety, please believe me.”
Hewas not lying. But he was disguising the full truth.
“Mr.Wilde—” Buthe had already walked away.
Amyinterrogated her thoroughly.
“Butwhat did he say?”
Headsbent together, no one could hear them. The evening was over. Elizabethwas in her coat, waiting in the foyer for the carriages to be drawn up.The brothers Wilde were nowhere to be seen.
“Thatthis was for my own safety, and then he left. He was unhappy, I couldsee that he was.”
“Ofcourse he was, to give you up. My dear, he has used you very ill, todraw you in and then drop you like . . . like a handkerchief.” Shefrowned at her own metaphor.
“Ido not know what I did wrong. Perhaps I spoke too freely—”
“Oh,do notblame yourself. Who can understand men?”
Theykissed cheeks in farewell and the Westons left in their carriage.When her father asked her how she liked the evening, she only said thatshe liked it well enough, but that she was tired now and didn’t want tospeak.
Thatnight, a wolf howled across the valley. She had never before heard sucha sound, a plaintive cry, a heart breaking as the piercing note drewlong and faded. The tenor of longing, and of uncertainty, was familiarto her. It should not have been. The sound was the frustration ofsomeone who had been unhappily standing in close company all evening,but who no longer felt at home in the woods, either. The cry of someonewho would be pleased to dance, if only he could find the right partner.
Becauseshe had danced so much more than she was used to, because she hadspoken so freely to Edward Wilde, she was feeling brave, and so shedonned her coat and took a lantern and went out to the grounds of themanor.
Shedid not think to search so much as she meant to let herself be found.But the wolf did not cry again. “Edward!” she called out once, but hervoice echoed strangely and she cringed. Perhaps she should go to theedge of the wooded park and wait for him.
Herslippers grew wet with dew, as did the hem of her nightdress. She oughtto have put on better clothes; she thought her heavy coat would beenough. This was all madness—but she did not mind so much. It felthonest, in a world of pretense.
Thenshe saw him, a huge creature loping across the grass of the park. Hewas gray, the color of slate and steel, with a touch of mist on hismuzzle and belly. His fur stood thickly from his body. His long, rangylegs carried him toward her. His eyes were icy. She should have beenterrified, but she was not. She should have imagined the creatureleaping and biting into her throat. Instead, the wolf slowed, stopped,and watched her.
Hewas lost, angry, and terribly sad. She wanted very badly to touch him,to say that all would be well.
Atthe edge of the wooded park, she sat, hugging her coat around heragainst the dewy grass. The wolf sat, too. They regarded each other asa couple in a dance might, looking across a space just barely too farapart to reach out and touch, not knowing what to say to one another.The wolf—she felt him being oh so careful; he did not trust himself tomove any closer.
Momentspassed,
