Chapter 11 #2
He hesitated. “Full of people who miss nothing about me except my absence.” It was a poor attempt at banter, and he saw her eyes dip for just a second, the closest she ever came to rolling them.
“I imagine they will survive the deprivation,” she said.
He smiled. “Their resilience is legendary.”
A beat of silence. He wanted to fill it, but she did not offer an opening. He found himself searching for an excuse to keep her in the room.
“I am told the south gardens are looking their best,” he said. “Would you care to see them?”
She blinked, clearly surprised. “Now?”
“Unless you are otherwise engaged.”
She shook her head. “I am at your disposal, My Lord.” She said it with a sweetness that suggested nothing was further from the truth.
He offered his arm, and after a fractional hesitation, she took it.
A moment later, they emerged into the brightness of the garden, the sun hovering just above the tree line, the air sweet with new blooms. A long border of peonies lined the gravel path, their heads bowed with the weight of their own perfection.
For several paces, neither spoke.
It was August who broke the silence. “I hope the staff has made you comfortable. I know the house can be… imposing.”
Eliza watched a bee nosing into a blossom. “They have been exemplary. I find Mrs. Finch especially agreeable.”
“She has kept this house in order since I was a boy,” August said. “She once threatened to beat me with a feather duster if I tracked mud through her parlor.”
“She does not seem the violent sort.”
He grinned. “Only if you stay on her good side.”
She nearly smiled at that, the edges of her mouth relaxing before she caught herself.
They walked a little further, the crunch of gravel underfoot an anchor against the awkwardness.
August studied her profile. “Do you like it here?” He heard the nakedness in his own voice and quickly corrected, “London’t countryside, I mean.”
She was silent for a long moment. “I do,” she said. “I like the sense of being necessary. In town, no one needs a marchioness for more than spectacle.”
He felt a stab of understanding. “Spectacle is overrated.”
She regarded him, the gray of her eyes cool. “You are very good at it.”
He inclined his head. “We all have our gifts.”
This time she smiled, a real one if only for a second.
At a curve in the path, the garden opened into a round of clipped hedges and statuary. Eliza paused, admiring the orderliness.
She said, “I was reading in the journal that these types of plantings are going out of fashion. The French favor wildness now.”
“The French favor excess in all things,” August observed.
She gave him a sideways look. “You don’t approve?”
“I find it exhausting, frankly.” He looked at the profusion of roses. “I prefer things that are predictable. Things that stay put.”
“Then you must find me intolerable.”
He started, not expecting the admission. “Quite the opposite.”
Her hands were folded at her waist, but he saw the way her thumb worried at her knuckle. He wondered if she was nervous or simply wishing she were elsewhere.
They resumed walking, a little slower.
“May I ask you something?” she asked, her tone deceptively casual.
“Always.”
She hesitated. “Did you know Lady Wilhampton would be at the Irondale ball?”
He felt the ground shift beneath him. “No, I did not.”
She seemed to accept this. “She was very… attentive.”
“She is always attentive, especially when there is a scandal to be had.”
Eliza stopped beside a marble sundial, her fingers trailing along the edge. “She seemed to think she knew you very well.”
He did not reply at first. The sun glinted off the brass gnomon, casting a sharp line across the dial.
“She knew the version of me that exists for the benefit of others,” he said. “The real me is… less interesting.”
“I doubt that,” Eliza said and turned away before he could respond.
A breeze stirred the roses, petals drifting across the path.
He caught up to her. “I am sorry if she made you uncomfortable.”
“She did not,” Eliza replied. “I have endured worse than a sharp tongue.”
He looked at her. “Still, I am sorry.”
She met his eyes, and for a second, he thought she might believe him.
They walked on, the sun now warm on their backs.
At the far end of the garden, they reached a small copse of beech trees. The path narrowed, forcing them to walk close.
Eliza said, “You once wrote that you preferred letters to conversation.”
He remembered. “It is easier to edit one’s words on paper.”
“And yet you speak very well.”
He laughed. “That is only because I rehearse in advance.”
“Do you rehearse these walks, too?”
He glanced down at her hand on his sleeve. “Only the ending.”
“And what is the ending?”
He considered. “That you are not sorry to have come.”
She gave him a look, unreadable. “I am not.”
He stopped, and so did she. There was no one around, not even a gardener in the hedges. The quiet pressed in.
He said, “I know I have given you little reason to trust me. Or to like me.”
She considered. “You are not what I expected. That is all.”
He felt the ache of her words but forced a smile. “Then I shall endeavor to become exactly what you expect, just to spite you.”
She shook her head. “You would not be able to sustain it.”
He wanted to say something clever but found nothing suitable.
A shadow moved at the periphery—a figure in black livery, standing just within sight. His steward, ever vigilant. August’s eyes went to the man then back to Eliza. The spell was broken.
She saw it at once. “You are needed.”
He hesitated, torn. “It can wait.”
She shook her head. “Can it?”
He swallowed. “No.”
They stood a moment longer then he took her hand, impulsive, and pressed it—gentle but certain. Her skin was cool, her fingers delicate in his.
“It cannot,” he said, voice low. “But it must. Forgive me.”
She looked at him, and for the first time, he saw no wariness, only a strange calm.
He released her hand and walked back toward the house, every step heavier than the last.
He wondered why the interruption stung so much, why it should matter that he left her alone among the roses and the bees. There was no room for this, he told himself.
But it didn’t stop him from wishing there was.