Under the weight of so many gazes, they uttered several commonplaces and then strolled the length of the ballroom together, her gloved hand barely resting on his arm, before parting ways with more warm, insincere smiles.
Eloïse hadn’t needed to do that—walk with him, talk with him—but Dex knew why she’d done it: it was public confirmation that their parting of ways was amicable, proof that she’d not kicked him from her bed. It was an act of charity on her part, done so that he could hold his head up amid the ton, a kindness that stung as if it were a wagoner’s lash, another mortification to add to all the other mortifications.
ton, * * *
A similar piece of playacting occurred three days later, at the Winstanleys’ rout, and five days after that, at the Endicotts’ soirée: a smiling conver
