Unlocked (Turner, #1.5)

“Then why?” she asked.

“Because one day, I want to see you walk into a room not in any of these watered-down colors.” He reached out and flicked the pale rose of her gown. “I want to see you in vibrant red or dark blue. I want to watch you walk into the middle of the room.” He dropped his voice. “And I want to see you take ownership of it.”

“I—oh—I couldn’t.” But what an enticing vision. Still, she would have to be as unaware as her mother to do that. Everyone would look at her. Everyone would talk, and laugh. “I’m not a middle-of-the-room sort of person,” she said apologetically.

“Yes, you are. You’ve hidden it deep inside you, but you are.” He was watching her, and she felt something all too familiar stir inside of her.

At times like this, she wished he had never kissed her. She could almost call to mind the feel of his lips against hers. It was a disconcerting thought to have about a friend, and he was a friend.

Just a friend, and friends didn’t think about kissing friends. He certainly had put all thoughts of kissing her out of his mind. He was affable. He was amusing. He was even reliable, something she never would have predicted. It was just that he wasn’t going to kiss her, and she wasn’t going to kiss him back.

“I prefer to enter the room like a mouse,” Elaine said, joking to dispel her uncertainty. “I creep very quietly along the wainscoting. Have you ever tried to creep wearing bright red? It can’t be done.” She glanced across the room and caught sight of her mother.

“If something is worth doing,” he said, “it’s worth doing bravely.”

“I’m brave,” she protested. “As brave as a mouse. It takes quite a bit of courage to enter a room populated by people a hundred times your size.”

He gave her a look. He didn’t quite roll his eyes, but he glanced heavenward, as if in silent supplication.

“Very well, then,” she said. “If that won’t wash, I’ll be brave as an ostrich. The instant I see something frightening, I’ll stick my head in the sand.”

This brought her only a sorry shake of his head. “My dear,” he said, “ostriches don’t put their heads in the sand. That’s a myth.”

“Oh?” On the other side of the room, her mother was talking to a group of ladies. Lady Stockhurst seemed to be quite excited, Elaine guessed by her exaggerated gesticulations.

Westfeld lectured on. “An ostrich weighs upward of fifteen stone. It can outrun a horse. What need has it for cowardice?”

The ladies who spoke with her mother waved fans. She could not make out their faces, but Elaine could imagine them biting back cruel smiles.

“Very well,” Elaine said. “I promise you, when I weigh fifteen stone I shall relinquish all fear.”

The crowd shifted, and in that moment Elaine saw that the woman standing closest to her mother was Lady Cosgrove. Over all these months, Elaine had begun to relax. But her mother was still her vulnerable heart. She had no protection of her own, and Westfeld couldn’t save her. Without waiting for another word, she started across the room.

“Elaine,” Westfeld hissed, following along beside her. But he’d seen it, too.

They’d talked of a great many things since they had become friends—Parliament and fashion, agriculture and the latest serial from Dickens.

They had not mentioned Westfeld’s friendship with Lady Cosgrove. The woman had kept her distance since the Season started, but Elaine had seen her all too often. It was impossible to escape her; she lived just across the street, after all. Elaine had often wished that it was Lady Cosgrove who was absent, instead of her never-seen husband.

“You know what she’ll do,” Elaine said.

“I know what I won’t let her do.” They were his last words before they joined the group.

“Why, Lady Elaine.” Lady Cosgrove smiled at Elaine while somehow avoiding her cousin’s gaze altogether. “Your mother has just agreed to speak for us a few weeks from now.”

“A lecture?” Elaine tapped her fingers against her skirts. A lecture wouldn’t be so awful. Not many would come, and her mother would enjoy it.

“Better!” her mother exclaimed. “In three weeks’ time, Lady Cosgrove is holding a gala at Hanover Square. There will be music, and hundreds of people, all interested in—”

“Mama,” Elaine interrupted blandly, “they’ve thrown tomatoes at some of the larger entertainments.” Remember. Remember. Lady Cosgrove doesn’t wish us well.

Behind Lady Stockhurst, Lady Cosgrove bit back a smile.

And, it seemed, this wouldn’t be one of the days when her mother recalled such things. “Why would they do that?” her mother mused. “I can’t account for it. Even the lower orders have better things to do with a perfectly good tomato. And genteel society…”

“They throw rotten vegetables to express displeasure.”