Page 50 of A Single Obsession

Eliza joined in the applause and dared to hope the company had heard enough music. Lady Harting instructed a servant to set up the card tables and suggested a game of whist. Although the prospect of more cards filled her with dread, Eliza thought it would be a relief to escape the torture of playing the pianoforte.

Harriet had other ideas.

“But Miss Merry has not played for us yet. She must have the chance to exhibit as well.”

Eliza tried to refuse, but when everyone turned to stare at her, the words stuck in her throat, and all she managed was a little shake of her head as she stared down at her lap, hoping to be excused.

“I believe Miss Merry is shy,” said Harriet. “Beaumont, encourage her to perform for us.”

Eliza gazed up at him in despair. His eyes met hers and he saw her reluctance, but there was nothing he could do to help. Harriet had forced him into an impossible position. He must beg her to play or appear rude, though he knew she did not want to, and he did not care for her performance, good or bad.

“Do play for us, Miss Merry,” he said, rising from his seat and offering her his hand.

Eliza rose and let him lead her over to the instrument. She chose the same piece of music she had performed the previous evening, hoping the familiarity would quell her nerves. But she had reckoned without the enlarged audience, and conscious of Lady Whitlow’s sneering expression at the end of the first movement, she played the rest even worse than the day before.

Eliza retired to the sofa, her cheeks glowing red with embarrassment. She clenched her hands together in her lap, willing the colour in her face to fade. The only person who seemed pleased with her poor performance was Harriet, who applauded herself for showing her rival in such a poor light.

A glance toward her aunt showed Eliza that Lady Harting looked far from delighted. But whether her look of contempt was directed at Harriet or herself, Eliza could not tell.

Mr Whitlow got up and moved to the card tables, eager for a game of whist, leaving Eliza alone with Beau on the sofa.

“She rides like you play,” Beau whispered without looking up.

Eliza didn’t know how to take his words. The reference to her poor playing did nothing to boost her confidence, but it was a minor triumph that he thought so little of Harriet’s skill on horseback.

“But you ride like she plays,” he said, glancing sideways at her so their eyes met. “We can’t be good at everything—and I don’t give a fig how well you play.”

Eliza felt the heat of embarrassment melt away under his approving gaze, and her mouth spread into a wide smile. She could cope with any amount of criticism of her playing if Beau praised her riding.

If she hadn’t been in her aunt’s drawing room surrounded by people, she would have been tempted to reach out and squeeze his hand, because the compliment delighted her so much.

An unwelcome voice intruded upon Eliza’s pleasant thoughts.

“Join us, Beaumont.” Harriet sat at one of the card tables with her brother opposite. “Frances is tired and retiring for the night, so you and Miss Merry must play together.”

Eliza was not fooled by her friendly tone. The horrid woman was trying to embarrass her again, by forcing Beau to partner her when she was bound to lose.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he glanced sideways at Eliza, raising his eyebrows slightly as if asking her opinion.

She gave a tiny shake of her head. “I play cards worse than I play the pianoforte,” she muttered under her breath.

“Please excuse us, Miss Whitlow,” Beau said, not rising from his seat. “We are indifferent whist players and have no desire to display our incompetence in the face of your undoubted talent.”

Eliza felt a bubble of joy welling up inside her. We are indifferent. He spoke as if they were a team. A couple. She liked the way it sounded. And he was standing up for her against Harriet’s scheming.

Her rival abandoned the card table with apparent grace, but her eyes sparkled with annoyance. She walked over to the sofa where they sat and loomed over Beau, gazing down at him with a possessive gleam in her eyes. “Perhaps you would prefer a game of piquet or backgammon?”

He leapt to his feet as if he’d been scalded, but said nothing.

Eliza twisted her hands in her lap, waiting for his response. He wouldn’t succumb to such underhand tactics, would he? If they embarked on a two-player game, Harriet would have gained the advantage and have Beau all to herself.

She couldn’t believe it was what he wanted, but his hesitation suggested he was struggling to find a way to decline the wretched woman’s pointed invitation without being rude.

Eliza’s spirits sank. If Miss Whitlow was determined to monopolise Beau, perhaps she should retire early and leave them to it. She had endured enough already without having to observe Horrible Harriet fawning over him for the rest of the evening.

She rose to her feet beside Beau, sending him a forlorn glance before making her retreat. Their eyes met, and she could see the haunted look in them—a look she blamed on Harriet.

As he held her gaze, his expression changed. His eyes sparkled, as though coming to a sudden decision. “Do you play spillikins?”