Rehearsing his arguments, reaffirming his facts, his conclusions. That nothing had occurred to jolt the others — Martin, Celia, Tristan, Leonora, Royce, and Minerva — from the apparently universal view of his and Eliza’s pending relationship had been amply demonstrated over dinner and the two hours following; he’d spent most of the latter in the billiard room, trying to keep the conversation away from that subject so he wouldn’t react, wouldn’t lose his temper and make rash statements — statements he had yet to verify with Eliza. But they were going to get to the bedrock of it, him and her, together, tonight, just as soon as she arrived in his room. He’d seen enough, sensed enough of her reaction to the others’ blindness, to feel reasonably confident that her view of him and her closely aligned with his own. He hadn’t missed her reaction on the ridge when he’d been shot, either, nor had he forgotten her refusal to let him push her behind him when Scrope had leveled the second pistol on them.
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