Chapter 8
Eight
Eliza entered the breakfast room with a step so careful, it might have left footprints on the air. She’d spent the hour prior rehearsing nothing so much as indifference, having concluded there was little use in being the first to yield. The sight that greeted her did not please.
August, tyrant of the breakfast table, was already installed behind the news sheets, elbows bracketed on either side of his plate. His coffee, she noted, had been poured not by a servant but by himself. There was already a slice of marmalade toast, mercilessly cornered, awaiting its end.
She considered retreat. Her new rooms were comfortable. They contained a small desk, a view of the side gardens, and none of her husband. She could invent an errand or a headache and not be called to account.
But no. If she wished to share a roof with a Vestiere, she would not begin her tenure as a fugitive.
She sat.
August did not look up. He turned a page then adjusted his cup by an exact quarter inch.
Eliza took up the butter and began to prepare a slice of toast.
A minute passed. Then another. The only sound was the slow, implacable tick of the clock and the swish of paper. Eliza waited then matched him bite for bite, refusing to yield the first word.
Finally, August said, “I hope you found the west garden satisfactory.”
She regarded him without expression. “I did. You maintain the most remarkable hedges. They nearly prevented me from returning at all.”
He turned a page, eyes scanning but not reading. “You are always at liberty to stay as long as you like.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I was not aware my liberties required your approbation.”
He raised a brow though he still did not meet her eyes. “They do not. But if you vanish again, I should be obliged to alert the constable, and they are not cheap.”
She drank her tea. “I will be sure to leave my itinerary pinned to the front door, should I feel the urge to abscond.”
He gave a half-smile. “As you wish.”
The silence fell again. Eliza watched the clock, the way the second hand bullied the minute. When she reached for another slice, she found the basket was already at his side of the table.
“May I trouble you for the bread?” she asked.
August folded his news sheet with perfect geometry. “I thought you preferred rye.”
“There is none,” she replied.
He seemed genuinely surprised then shrugged. “I suppose I have devoured it all. My apologies.”
She accepted the basket then said, “Do not trouble yourself. I am accustomed to managing with what remains.”
He looked at her then. His eyes were an undecipherable color, something between brown and gold, but they did not waver. “I am not the villain you wish me to be.”
“Of course not,” she replied. “I have no such wishes at all.”
They regarded one another, both at a loss for what to do next.
The stalemate was broken by the arrival of Denton, who entered with the solemnity of a man bearing the king’s head on a platter. He stopped at Eliza’s shoulder, set down a silver tray, and bowed.
“A note, My Lady,” Denton intoned. “From the Duchess of Irondale.”
Eliza accepted the letter, her fingers brushing the creamy parchment. The script was fine and eager, the wax unbroken. She could almost feel Denton’s curiosity, radiating like heat from a brick.
She turned the letter over. “Thank you, Denton. That will be all.”
He bowed again and withdrew with a glance at August that bordered on mutinous sympathy.
Eliza slid the knife under the edge of the seal. She had not yet made proper calls on her sisters-in-law though she supposed it was only a matter of time before they descended on her in force. That May should write first was no surprise—her hand was always the quickest.
She read in silence, the parchment crinkling softly as she opened it.
When she finished, she folded the letter and set it to one side.
August waited, but she did not volunteer its contents.
He finally said, “Are you planning to keep me in suspense?”
Eliza took another sip of tea. “I was not aware you cared for family correspondence.”
“I have a weakness for gossip,” he replied.
“Then you will be delighted to hear that we are invited to a ball at Irondale House next Friday evening. May and Logan are hosting. The event is to be the first of the season, and May assures me there will be a surfeit of food and very little conversation.”
August nodded. “She always did know how to attract a crowd.”
Eliza continued, “There is a postscript. She says she is eager to see how I ‘manage’ you, and that she will stand ready with smelling salts should I require reinforcement.”
He barked a laugh. “She underestimates you.”
Eliza set her cup down. “Do you wish to attend?”
He shrugged. “If you prefer not, I am happy to write our regrets.”
She said, “I do not mind if you are content to be managed.”
He leveled a look at her. “I doubt you would find me so easily managed.”
She gave him the smallest of smiles. “You are correct. I have never found anything about you to be easy.”
He watched her, and there was something in the look—a kind of appreciation or perhaps challenge.
Without warning, he reached across the table and took up the letter. He read it, eyes narrowing at May’s handwriting, then set it down.
“We will attend,” he said.
Eliza arched a brow. “Do you mean to command me or merely announce your intention?”
He considered then replied, “Is there a difference?”
“In your case, yes. You always prefer the latter but practice the former.”
He gave a little nod, as if conceding the point. “What can I say? Old habits.”
She steeled herself. “Do you read all my letters?”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “Not unless they are addressed to both of us.”
She inclined her head to the side. “What if it had been personal?”
“Was it?”
“It was not,” she admitted. “But you could not have known that until you read it.”
He grinned. “A man who waits for certainty is forever at a disadvantage.”
She reached for the letter and pulled it back to her side of the table. “Then I suppose I must watch my secrets more closely.”
His eyes did not leave her face. “I hope you will, Eliza.”
His use of her name sent a thrilling shiver down her back and she took in a deep and slow breath. The next words arrived almost at the same moment, like guests pushing through a narrow doorway.
“I believe,” she said, “that you are trying to make me angry.”
“I am trying to make you honest,” he replied.
They regarded one another, both recognizing the other as a worthy opponent. The clock ticked. The sun rose a fraction higher.
It was Eliza who finally broke. “Then let us be honest: neither of us wishes to attend this ball, but both of us will because that is what is required.”
He smiled, as if she had offered a gift. “Exactly.”
She picked up her toast. “Then we are agreed.”
“We are.”
She stood, smoothed her skirt, and paused at the threshold. “I am still not accustomed to being managed.”
He smiled, genuine this time. “Good. I should be bored if you were.”
She left the room, the door clicking gently behind her.
August watched her go then reread the invitation, May’s words echoing in his head. He wondered if he had ever met a woman so determined not to be handled.
He wondered, too, if he had ever wanted to handle anything more.
“Remember our arrangement,” August said, low enough that only Eliza could hear as he steadied her with a hand at her elbow and guided her down from the carriage.
She managed a smile for the footman, but the look she threw August would have curdled milk.
Arrangements. Always his arrangements. The past several days had been a parade of them.
She was not to go walking unescorted, she was to send word if she left the house, she was to “avail herself of the best modiste in London, for the sake of appearances.” She had, by some effort, not yet resorted to violence.
“Have I failed to honor our arrangement, My Lord?” she murmured as the portico lamps bathed the gravel in yellow pools.
He gave a dry smile. “Not yet. But the evening is young.”
They mounted the steps. A liveried servant announced their arrival which was met by a chorus of startled glances. Eliza caught the calculation in more than one face: There she is. The new Marchioness. The one who netted the Golden Rake.
August inclined his head, and in the time it took to draw breath, he became the man everyone in London adored. His posture softened, his eyes glinted with warmth, and he summoned a smile so sincere, it nearly made her dizzy.
He offered his arm. Eliza took it, schooling her features into pleasant blankness.
The ballroom was awash with glitter, every surface reflecting the chandeliers a dozen times over. The effect was a kind of organized blindness. Eliza let August lead her into the crowd, careful to keep her steps even and her chin high.
They were not three paces into the throng before May materialized, flanked by two of her favorite confidantes. She was dressed in the pale green she favored, her spectacles perched on her nose, her expression positively luminous.
“You came!” May seized Eliza’s hands, squeezing with real affection. “I was afraid you would cry off or that August would make some excuse about estate business and keep you to himself.”
August snorted. “She would have dragged me here by the collar, had I tried.”
May beamed at Eliza. “He is not nearly so clever as he believes. You must come with me; the other duchesses are eager to meet you.”
Eliza’s smile felt fragile, but she let herself be swept away for a circuit of forced introductions and polite horror.
She fielded the expected questions—How does Lord Barrington suit you?
Are the rumors true? Did you know him before?
—with cool economy, deploying small lies the way one might deploy sandbags before a flood.
Through the crowd, she could see August moving from group to group, every laugh and gesture perfectly calibrated. She wondered how long it would take for him to unravel, if he ever did.