Chapter 5
Five
“Denton, I require a miracle or a brandy, whichever comes to hand first,” August said as he handed his coat to the waiting butler. His feet could barely carry him from exhaustion.
“Welcome home, My Lord.” Denton gestured at a footman who stepped forward with a decanter and a tumbler upon a tray, ready for service.
“And—my wife? She dined?” He accepted a glass and started toward his study.
“She did, My Lord.” Denton’s gaze moved not so much to the side as into another dimension. “Her Ladyshiphad a solitary dinner in the blue dining room. She was attended by myself and Mrs. Finch and requested nothing further.”
August digested this or tried to. He felt a small, mean squirm in the hollow of his stomach—a thing remarkably like remorse. “Of course.”
“Is there anything you require tonight?” Denton offered. “If His Lordship wishes supper, Cook has set aside—”
“Not necessary.” August shook his head. “I am fit for nothing but the sweet embrace of my own bed.”
Denton bowed. “Shall I send for anything to your chambers?”
August willed the smile to reach his mouth. “Perhaps a new life, but failing that, no.”
“As you wish, My Lord.” Denton retreated as August walked past him, glancing up at the stairs and wondering if his bride was already asleep.
Married one day, and I have already abandoned her to cold roast and solitude. Brilliant.
He should have felt triumphant. He had done his duty, saved a reputation, kept his father’s heart, for the moment, inside the old man’s chest. Instead, he felt only the burden of the entire day squeeze his bones.
But she did not want me there any more than I wanted to be there. This is the arrangement we both agreed to—so why the guilt?
August rolled the thought between his hands, as if it might become smoother with wear. It did not. He finished the brandy in one sharp swallow, then mounted the stairs, two at a time, as if a brisk ascent could leave regret behind.
At the landing, he paused, letting his hand rest on the cool wood of the banister. For a moment, he considered seeking out her room. Saying something—anything—that would make him feel more human.
He stood there for a count of ten. Then he turned and made for his own chamber, refusing to look at the closed doors as he passed them.
Morning was not a time that encouraged self-deception, and August was in no mood to attempt it.
He descended the staircase and headed toward his favorite room. The breakfast room. He opened the door, bracing for solitude, and nearly tripped over his own feet.
Eliza was already installed at the table, wearing a deep blue dress, the sort of thing a merchant’s daughter might have chosen though it did nothing to disguise the sharp lines of her collarbone or the unexpected softness at her throat.
She was reading. The sheet of newsprint shielded her face, but he caught her profile—remarkable, now that he could observe it without the armor of social expectation.
She did not acknowledge his arrival, but he knew she had marked it. The arch of her brow over the top of the paper said as much.
August hovered in the threshold, unsure whether to apologize or simply retreat and try again tomorrow.
Eliza turned a page—delicately but with just enough force to make a point.
He advanced to the sideboard and busied himself with the tea things, trying not to notice the way her finger traced the edge of the newsprint as she read.
The toast basket was already half-empty.
He reached for it only to discover that the best slices were gone, their golden crusts replaced by a lonely, slightly burnt end.
He glanced up. Eliza lowered the paper by an inch, her eyes unblinking over the rim.
“Good morning, My Lord,” she said, her voice even.
He weighed his options. “Is it? I suppose that will depend on whether there is more bread.”
She considered. “There is a fresh loaf beneath the napkin. If you are not averse to effort.”
He lifted the cloth, found the bread, and applied the knife, uncertain whether he was meant to offer her a piece. “I see you have already conquered the breakfast room.”
“It was not difficult. The enemy failed to secure the perimeter.” She resumed reading then, with a nod, allowed him to sit.
August dropped into the chair opposite. For a moment, he simply watched her, trying to decipher whether she was performing for his benefit or simply being herself.
He reached for the preserves, only to have Eliza’s hand arrive at the same moment. Their fingers brushed; both recoiled as if the jam jar were hot coals.
“After you,” he said.
“I insist,” she replied.
He hesitated then surrendered the jar. “You are not what I expected,” he said, loading his voice with mock injury.
“That is a common refrain,” Eliza replied. She spread the jam with meticulous care, as if the act required all her focus.
He loaded his own toast with butter, refusing to be outdone in culinary excess. “I confess, I did not expect to see you before noon.”
Eliza sipped her tea, eyes never leaving the page. “I am accustomed to early mornings.”
“And to breakfasting alone?”
She finally looked at him, properly. “It is the simplest way to avoid unnecessary conversation.”
August nearly choked on his toast. “Are you suggesting I am unnecessary?”
She did not smile, but her silence was the sort that invited laughter.
He tried again, fishing for a different response. “My sisters are famous for their capacity to make breakfast feel like the social event of the season. You may consider this a reprieve.”
“I prefer it,” Eliza said.
There was no edge in it; it was simply true.
He watched her pour another cup of tea. She had a way of making stillness seem like a challenge.
He added sugar to his own cup, three spoons’ worth, and watched her eyes follow the motion.
She set her own cup down, perfectly level. “Lady Hartwell says sugar is the downfall of the English aristocracy.”
He raised his cup in a salute. “Then I am destined for ruin.”
She regarded him then quietly slid the sugar bowl to the far end of the table, just out of his reach. She did not look up from her reading as she did so.
The duel was on.
August buttered a second piece of toast, noting that the only jam remaining was a sullen orange marmalade. He hated orange marmalade. He spread it anyway.
He leaned back in his chair, watching her turn pages—methodical, never hurried, but each turn punctuated with a crisp little snap. He wondered if she meant it as commentary on his presence.
He could have let the silence persist, but it was against his nature.
“Do you always rise with the sun, or is this some sort of marital test?” he asked.
Eliza’s eyes did not leave the paper. “Only on Mondays, wedding days, and days ending in ‘y.’”
He laughed, unable to contain it. “Every day, then.”
“Precisely,” she replied.
He watched her for a moment, genuinely unsure how to proceed. “What are you reading?”
She looked up. “The Chronicle. I am verifying whether we are scandalized in print yet.”
He was taken aback. “I assumed that would take at least a fortnight.”
“Society moves quickly when there is nothing better to discuss.”
He considered her profile, the set of her jaw. She was not beautiful in the usual way, but she had a sort of grace that made the whole room seem to adjust itself around her.
He said, “I imagine you will find that you are more than capable of surviving a little notoriety.”
She shrugged, barely a motion at all. “I have survived worse.”
He wanted to ask what but knew better. Instead, he finished his tea, the bitter edge of it oddly comforting.
The room was silent again but not empty. There was a sense of negotiation happening, sentence by sentence, across the table.
He reached for the jam again, only to find her hand had beat him to it—again.
They both froze.
This time, neither drew back.
“You may have it,” she said, her hand lingering a moment longer on the jar than necessary.
“Not if you wanted it,” he replied.
“It is orange marmalade,” she said, as if that explained everything.
He smiled then allowed the silence to reclaim the table.
After several minutes, Eliza folded her paper, set it aside, and regarded him directly. “Do you intend to be in town for the rest of the season?”
He blinked. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you wish to be.” He meant it as a joke, but it landed flat.
She considered. “I have no opinion, so long as it is not in this house.”
He stared. “You dislike Wildmoore already?”
“I dislike the sense of being observed,” she said. “Here, I am a specimen. In town, I am merely another marchioness.”
He wondered whether that was humility, or strategy. “You would make a poor specimen,” he said. “Far too unpredictable.”
Eliza inclined her head. “Thank you.”
There was another pause, then the door opened and a footman entered with a fresh basket of toast.
He set it on the table, retreated, and August was sure he caught a flash of amusement on the servant’s face.
He reached for a slice and found the best was already gone.
Eliza caught his eye, and this time, she did smile.
He could not help himself. “Try not to let the sugar win,” she said, gathering her paper.
He watched her leave, her steps unhurried, the blue dress cutting a clean line through the morning.
August sat back in his chair, chewing the end piece of toast.
He realized he was already plotting his next attack. More than that, he was, for the first time in months, actually anticipating tomorrow.
August stiffened as he set down his cup. What is the meaning of this?
He should never ever look forward to having breakfast with Eliza.