Elisabeth’s nose crinkled involuntarily. Or Franz had fallen for her cleverness. Her wit. The way she spoke her mind. The spark in her soul. The idea that his love was a purely physical thing sat uneasy on her heart. The dukes with their undone trousers may have been purely physical beings. But it was an insult to include Franz anywhere near their category.

“I wish I had hair as long as hers,” another added, wistful.

Discomfort tightened further around Elisabeth’s throat and across her skin. Why were they talking about her like she wasn’t in the room? Or worse, like she was a thing instead of a person. A painting they were all admiring and critiquing and judging.

Esterházy raised a cruel eyebrow. “Perhaps the whole mane will have to go, and we’ll put her in a wig.”

She was saying it to scare Elisabeth. At least, Elisabeth was pretty sure they wouldn’t really cut her hair. But still, the horror of the suggestion was the last one she was willing to endure.

She took a deep breath and slid slowly below the water, letting it distort and erase the conversation. There, the words were only sounds, songs almost. Hums and murmurs, bass and treble, lifts and drops. She didn’t have to parse out their meaning.

Elisabeth held her breath for as long as she could and coughed when she finally emerged, the women around her exchanging concerned looks. She wished them all away, wished she could be alone with the soothing heat of the water, the light echo of the room, the spots of sunlight coming in through the window.

Well, not completely alone. With Franz. She’d been longing for him so long, and the few minutes they’d had so far weren’t enough. She was a drought-stricken land craving rain, a flower needing sunshine. It was frustrating, the aliveness of her skin screaming for his touch and finding it nowhere. She’d expected something else. Not a dozen women watching her bathe, speculating about her lips and hair.

As the ladies dried and dressed her—skirt twice as wide as she was used to and slightly too long for walking without tripping—Elisabeth tapped impatient fingers against impatient hip. She needed to get away. If she couldn’t see Franz—and her multiple inquiries had resulted in insistences from Esterházy that it was impossible—she needed to be alone. In forest or garden or muddy hill. She needed to move, to let the pent-up electricity spark off her.