Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
“Denton, I require more coffee. And perhaps something stronger, though I suspect it is too early for brandy.”
Eliza froze in the hallway, her hand still reaching for the dining room door.
August’s voice carried through the half-open doorway, clear and unmistakable.
She had hoped he might have already eaten, might have retreated to his study or ridden out to inspect the fields.
She had hoped for anything, really, except this.
“I shall bring the coffee at once, Your Grace. As for the brandy, I find it is never too early when circumstances warrant.”
August laughed, and the sound sent something hot and uncomfortable through Eliza’s chest. She pressed herself against the wall, heart hammering so loudly she was certain they would hear it through the door.
“You are a wise man, Denton. I believe I shall keep you.”
“I am most gratified, Your Grace.”
Footsteps approached the door, and Eliza spun on her heel and fled back down the hallway.
She did not run, precisely, but her steps were decidedly faster than a walk.
She turned the corner and pressed herself into the alcove by the morning room, waiting until she heard Denton’s footsteps had faded before she dared breathe again.
This was absurd. She was being absurd. She could not spend the rest of her life hiding in alcoves simply because she had kissed her husband.
Except it had not been simply a kiss. Simply implied something casual, something easily dismissed. What had happened in the garden had been anything but simple. His hands in her hair, his mouth on hers, the way her entire body had come alive under his touch—
No. She would not think about it. Could not think about it without her face going hot and her stomach doing complicated things that had no business being done by a properly functioning organ.
She needed tea. Or perhaps something stronger though it was too early for brandy.
The morning room was blessedly empty, and she rang for tea before settling herself in a chair by the window. The view overlooked the gardens, and she could see the path they had walked last night, could see the bench where he had kissed her.
Does our marriage have meaning?
I believe it is starting to have a purpose.
What had possessed her to say that? She should have lied, should have maintained the fiction that their marriage was purely transactional. Instead, she had told him the truth, and he had kissed her, and now, everything was impossibly complicated.
The tea arrived, and she busied herself with pouring and adding sugar. Her hands shook slightly, and she set the cup down before she could spill it all over herself.
She could not avoid him forever. They lived in the same house for heaven’s sake. They were married. Eventually, they would have to speak, to acknowledge what had happened, to decide what it meant.
But not today. Today, she would simply drink her tea, read her book, and pretend that the world was still ordered and sensible and that she had not spent half the night reliving the feeling of his mouth on hers.
She had nearly convinced herself this plan had merit when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Male footsteps, moving with purpose.
Her cup clattered against the saucer. She looked toward the door, which she had left open, and watched in horror as the footsteps grew louder.
There was no time to think. She set down her tea, gathered her skirts, and bolted through the French doors onto the terrace. The morning air was cool against her face as she pressed herself against the wall, just out of sight of the windows.
Through the glass, she watched August enter the drawing room. He stopped just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping the space. He looked at the abandoned teacup, at the book she had left on the side table, at the chair that still bore the impression of where she had been sitting.
He was looking for her.
Her heart did something acrobatic in her chest. She held perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, as he moved further into the room. He picked up the book, examined the title, and set it down again. His jaw was tight, and there was something in his posture that looked almost like disappointment.
“Eliza?” he called, and the sound of her name in his mouth made her press harder against the wall.
Silence. He stood there for a long moment then ran a hand through his hair and turned to leave. She watched him go, waiting until his footsteps had faded entirely before she dared to move.
She slipped back inside, abandoning the tea and the book, and made her way upstairs. Her bedchamber was the only place she could be certain he would not follow. A gentleman did not enter a lady’s private rooms uninvited, not even if the lady in question was his wife.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her breath coming fast. This could not continue. She could not spend the rest of her life fleeing from room to room like a fugitive. Eventually, they would have to speak.
But not now. Not when her heart was still racing and her lips still remembered the pressure of his mouth. Not when she did not trust herself to maintain any semblance of composure.
She crossed to the window and looked out at the gardens below. The morning sun was bright, and the roses were beginning to bloom. Everything looked perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary.
But nothing was ordinary anymore. Nothing would ever be ordinary again.
Because she had kissed August Vestiere. And worse, far worse, she had wanted to.
She still wanted to.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
“Eliza, my dear, what a lovely surprise!” Dorothy Vestiere set aside her embroidery and rose to embrace her. “I was just thinking how dull the day was becoming, and here you are to rescue me from my own company.”
“I hope I am not intruding,” Eliza said, returning the embrace with genuine affection. “I should have sent word ahead.”
“Nonsense. You are family now. You may intrude whenever you please.” Dorothy gestured to the sofa. “Come, sit. I shall ring for tea, and you must tell me everything. How is August managing? He has not been to see me in three days, and I begin to worry he is working himself to exhaustion.”
Eliza settled onto the sofa, grateful for something to focus on beyond her own tumultuous thoughts. “He is managing as well as can be expected. Though you are right to worry about the exhaustion. He sleeps very little and eats less.”
“That sounds exactly like his father. Albert was the same after his own father died. Threw himself into the work as though he could outrun the grief.” Dorothy accepted the tea tray from a maid and began to pour.
“It took me months to convince him he was allowed to feel sad and that he did not have to be strong every moment of every day.”
“How did you convince him?”
Dorothy’s mouth curved into a small, private smile.
“I cried. Great, heaving sobs right in front of him. He was so alarmed he forgot to maintain his own composure, and before either of us knew what was happening, we were both weeping like children.” She handed Eliza a cup.
“Sometimes the only way to give someone permission to fall apart is to fall apart yourself.”
Eliza accepted the tea, turning the words over in her mind. She thought of August in the hallway last night, lost and uncertain. Of the dream that had made him feel seventeen again, unprepared and afraid.
“You miss him,” Eliza said quietly.
“Every moment.” Dorothy’s eyes grew bright. “But I am learning to live with the missing. To wake each morning and face the day, even when the day seems unbearably empty.” She took a sip of her tea. “June and her husband are planning an expedition to Greece. They have invited me to join them.”
“You should go.”
“Do you think so? I worry it might seem disrespectful. Albert has only just—”
“Albert would want you to live,” Eliza interrupted gently. “And a change of scenery might help. New sights, new experiences. Something to occupy your mind beyond these walls.”
Dorothy studied her for a long moment. “You are very wise for someone so young.”
“I am not wise. I simply know what it is to live in the same place while grieving and how the walls begin to close in.”
“Your parents.”
Eliza nodded. “My mother, particularly. She could not bear to leave the house after my father died. Every room held a memory, every corner a ghost. In the end, I think the house consumed her more than the grief did.”
Dorothy reached across and squeezed her hand. “I am so glad August married you.”
The words were so unexpected that Eliza nearly spilled her tea. “I beg your pardon?”
“I worried about him, you know. After he took over the duchy. He became so controlled, so careful. As though he were playing a part rather than living a life.” She smiled, warm and genuine.
“But you have changed something in him. He laughs more. Worries less about what everyone thinks. I do not know how he would have managed his father’s death without you. ”
Eliza’s throat went tight. She thought of last night, of the kiss that should not have happened. Of the way she had fled like a coward instead of facing what it meant.
“I have done very little,” she managed.
“You have done more than you know.” Dorothy released her hand and sat back. “Now, tell me truly, are you happy?”
The question struck like a blow. Happy. Was she happy? She did not know how to answer that. She was confused and frightened and far too aware of her own heart. But happy?
“I am… adjusting,” she said finally.
Dorothy laughed. “That is what we all say when we do not wish to admit how complicated marriage actually is.”
They spoke for another half hour, the conversation drifting to easier topics. The triplets and their various schemes. The state of the gardens. The scandal involving Lord Pemberton and the opera singer that had everyone in London talking.
When Eliza finally rose to leave, Dorothy walked her to the door.
“Do come again soon,” she said, embracing her. “And tell my son to visit his poor mother before she forgets what he looks like.”
“I shall.”
Eliza stepped out into the afternoon sun, feeling marginally better than she had when she arrived. The visit had been exactly what she needed. A reminder that grief was survivable, that life continued even when it seemed impossible.
She had nearly reached the street when someone called her name.
“Duchess! What excellent timing.”
Eliza turned to find Lady Wilhampton hurrying toward her, all smiles and outstretched hands. She wore a walking dress of deep purple that set off her coloring to perfection, and her bonnet was adorned with enough feathers to suggest she had murdered several exotic birds.
“Lady Wilhampton,” Eliza said, summoning a smile she did not feel. “What a surprise.”
“Is it not? I was just passing by and saw you emerging from the house.” She looped her arm through Eliza’s before she could protest. “Come, let us walk together. I find I am in desperate need of conversation, and you are always such excellent company.”
Eliza allowed herself to be steered down the street, her mind racing. She did not trust this woman. Had not trusted her since their walk in the gardens, since the subtle insinuation about theaters and mistresses. But refusing would be rude, and rudeness would only create more gossip.
“It is very good of you to visit the Dowager Duchess,” Lady Wilhampton said as they walked. “So many would neglect such duties now that the funeral is over. But you are not like other women, are you?”
“I visit because I enjoy her company, not out of duty.”
“How refreshing! Most daughters-in-law would rather have their teeth pulled than spend an afternoon with their husband’s mother.
” She gave Eliza’s arm a little squeeze.
“You know, you really ought to consider hosting a ball once the mourning period is over. It would be an excellent way to establish yourself in society as the new Duchess of Wildmoore.”
“I had not thought that far ahead.”
“Well, you should! The season will be upon us before we know it, and a grand ball would announce to everyone that the Wildmoore household is thriving despite its loss.” She tilted her head, her expression all innocent curiosity.
“Speaking of which, did you ask your husband what performance he saw at the theater?”
The question landed like a stone in still water. Eliza’s steps faltered, and she had to force herself to keep walking. “I have not had the opportunity.”
“Oh, you simply must ask him! I am certain he will have the most amusing stories. The theater is always such a delight, is it not? All those beautiful actresses—” She stopped walking abruptly. “Oh dear. I hope I have not said anything untoward.”
“Not at all,” Eliza said, her voice remarkably calm given the turmoil in her chest.
“It is only that some men have such peculiar notions of entertainment, and I would hate for you to be disappointed should his tastes prove more… varied than you anticipated.” She patted Eliza’s arm. “But I am certain your husband is nothing like that. He has always seemed most devoted.”
Before Eliza could formulate a response, a voice called out behind them.
“Eliza?”
She turned to find May standing near the steps of Wildmoore House, her expression caught between surprise and something sharper. Relief flooded through Eliza with such force she nearly sagged.
“May! How wonderful to see you.”
She extracted herself from Lady Wilhampton’s grip and moved toward her sister-in-law with more speed than any politeness allowed. Lady Wilhampton’s smile remained, but her eyes narrowed very slightly.
“I must take my leave,” Eliza said. “Thank you for the walk, Lady Wilhampton.”
“Of course. Do think about the ball, won’t you?” She gave a little wave and continued down the street, her feathers bobbing with each step.
Eliza climbed the steps to where May stood, and only when Lady Wilhampton had turned the corner did she allow herself to breathe properly.
“What was the Marchioness of Wilhampton doing here?” May asked, her brows drawn together in concern.
“I found her in the street. Or rather, she found me.”
“Eliza, you must be careful around that woman. She is not what she seems.”
“I know.”
Eliza glanced behind to find Lady Wilhampton now conversing with a gentleman. There was no doubt in her mind that the Marchioness was playing a game.
The trouble, though, was how to discern what sort of game it was, and how to emerge victorious.