Chapter 6 #2
Eliza’s throat tightened. “He bears it as if he was born for it.”
“He does.” Albert’s voice grew quiet. “But the strongest walls bear the most weight without showing it. Don’t let him persuade you he’s made of stone, my dear. Even the best stones can crack.”
Eliza folded her hands in her lap. “I will remember.”
Albert regarded her a moment then smiled, distant. “Once, when he was a boy, August found a wounded fox kit in the wood. The gamekeeper was ready to do away with it, but August put his own body between them. Wouldn’t budge, even when the man threatened to fetch his father.”
Eliza tried to picture it: a small boy, already stubborn, already insistent on saving what others found expendable.
“He carried that creature everywhere for three days,” Albert said. “Wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat until the little beast opened its eyes. When it did, it bit him—took a piece right out of his thumb. He didn’t even bleed, so proud was he that it lived.”
Eliza’s voice, when it came, was very soft. “What happened to the fox?”
Albert chuckled. “It grew up mean as a cat then ran off. Never let anyone close again. But August watched the wood for weeks, hoping to see it just once more.”
They sat together in the hush of the garden, the story settling between them. Albert seemed to grow smaller in the quiet, his hands clasped atop his cane.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the spell. Dorothy, arms full of daffodils, returned. “I see you’ve appropriated my bench.”
“It is yours again, my dear,” Albert said, struggling to rise. Eliza caught his elbow, and together, they brought him to his feet.
Dorothy grinned, arms full of flowers, and led the way back toward the house. Eliza and Albert followed, the duke slowing with every step.
Just as they reached the terrace, another set of footsteps sounded behind them. Eliza turned and saw August, hat in hand, hair askew from the wind, riding coat open at the neck. He looked oddly at ease, as though the outdoors had sanded down all the angles that the drawing room set sharpened.
“There you are!” he said, sounding genuinely pleased. “Father, Dorothy. I see you’ve abducted my wife for a garden tour. Shall I send for the magistrate?”
Albert rolled his eyes. “Not unless you wish to prosecute us for larceny. Dorothy has been stealing flowers from your borders.”
Dorothy gave a regal sniff. “A duchess may appropriate whatever she wishes. That is the order of things.”
August’s attention found Eliza, and the effect was immediate,a shifting of the air between them as palpable as a gust through an open window. He crossed the terrace in three long strides.
“You look well,” he said and meant it for her alone.
She met his gaze, careful to mask any treacherous warmth. “So do you. Or have you just come from a duel?”
He regarded the muddy boots and shrugged. “Business with the tenant farms. Nothing as interesting as a duel, unless you count Mrs. Nash’s pie as a weapon.”
Dorothy, arms still full of flowers, broke in. “You’ll both come to dinner tonight, yes? Thursday is the tradition, after all.”
August bowed. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Albert huffed. “We can’t keep a marchioness from her schedule, Dorothy. The young have so many invitations these days.” He turned to Eliza. “If you wish to escape, you need only claim a prior engagement.”
Eliza shook her head. “Nothing would please me more than to join you.”
August grinned and—without invitation—reached for her hand. He brought it to his lips, and for a split second, his eyes caught hers. There was heat there, expertly modulated, and yet it threatened to set every inch of her ablaze.
He released her but not quickly enough to erase the memory of his thumb against her knuckle.
Eliza pulled her hand back, just a fraction too fast.
Albert saw it and smiled but said nothing.
Dorothy resumed her campaign of flower arrangement, steering Albert inside with a rush of activity. August lingered, letting the door shut behind the elders.
Alone on the terrace, he regarded her with that same impossible warmth.
“You survived them,” he said.
“It was not difficult. They are kind,” Eliza replied, willing her pulse to even out.
“I’m glad,” he said, quieter now.
They stood in silence. The weight of the garden, the house, the entire future pressed around them.
“You know,” August said, very softly, “I never thought I would miss this place. But somehow, with you in it—”
She stopped him, not with a word but a look: a challenge, a warning, and underneath it, the wish that he would finish the thought anyway.
He stepped closer, but she did not yield. The space between them was small, and yet, it was an ocean.
“Are you always this stubborn?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
He leaned in, as if to kiss her cheek, and she held utterly still. Instead, he whispered, “Good.”
He walked away, his footfalls receding across the terrace.
Eliza stood alone, staring after him.
He is pretending, she told herself. It is all a performance.
But the warmth at her wrist said otherwise. And that, above all, was what frightened her most.