Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
“His Grace wishes to speak with you.”
Eliza looked up from the letter she had been writing to the orphanage. Mrs. Finch stood in the doorway of her bedchamber, waiting
“Now?” The word came out higher than Eliza intended.
“If it is convenient, Your Grace. He is waiting in the library.”
Convenient. Nothing about this was convenient.
Eliza had managed to avoid August for three days through a combination of strategic timing and outright cowardice.
She had taken her meals in her room, pleaded headaches when he knocked at her door, and once, memorably, hidden in the linen closet when she heard his footsteps in the hallway.
She could not hide forever. She knew that. But she also could not face him. Not yet. Not when her lips still remembered the pressure of his mouth and her heart did complicated things every time she thought of the way he had said her name.
“Tell him I am indisposed,” Eliza said, setting down her quill.
Mrs. Finch’s eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “Indisposed, Your Grace?”
“Yes. I have a… a headache. A terrible one. Quite debilitating.”
“Shall I send for the physician?”
“No! No, that will not be necessary. I simply require rest. And quiet. A great deal of quiet.”
“I see.” Mrs. Finch’s expression suggested she saw rather more than Eliza would have liked. “I shall inform His Grace.”
She withdrew, and Eliza slumped back in her chair, pressing her hands to her face.
This was absurd. She was a grown woman for heaven’s sake.
She had faced down Lady Wilhampton’s insinuations, navigated the complexities of becoming a duchess, and survived the scrutiny of an entire ballroom after being caught in a compromising position.
Surely, she could manage a simple conversation with her own husband.
But it was not simple. Nothing about August was simple anymore.
She remained in her room for another hour, pacing the length of the carpet until she was certain she had worn a path into the weave. Finally, she rang for her maid.
Miss Ross appeared within moments, her round face creased with concern. “You rang, Your Grace?”
“Is His Grace still in the library?”
“I believe he has gone out, Your Grace. I saw him ride past the kitchen gardens not twenty minutes ago.”
Relief flooded through Eliza so fast it left her dizzy. “Thank you, Ross. That will be all.”
She waited until the maid had gone before gathering her bonnet and shawl. She needed to leave the house. Needed air and space and someone who would not look at her with that particular expression August had worn when he kissed her.
She needed Lady Hartwell.
The ride to her aunt’s townhouse took less than half an hour, but it felt like an eternity.
Eliza’s mind raced through every possible conversation, every explanation she might offer for her behavior.
By the time she arrived, she had worked herself into such a state that she nearly asked the driver to turn around and take her home.
But the door was already opening, and the butler was ushering her inside, and before she could think better of it, she was being shown into Lady Hartwell’s sitting room.
“Good heavens, child, you look as though you have been chased by wolves.” Lady Hartwell set aside her correspondence and rose from her chair. “What has happened? Is someone dead? Please tell me no one is dead.”
“No one is dead,” Eliza managed.
“Then why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you are considering throwing yourself into the Thames.” Lady Hartwell gestured to the sofa. “Sit. Before you fall over.”
Eliza sat, her hands twisting in her lap.
Now that she was here, she did not know how to begin.
How did one explain to one’s practical, unsentimental aunt that one had developed feelings for one’s husband of convenience?
That one had kissed said husband in a garden and then fled like a complete coward?
“I kissed August,” she blurted out.
Lady Hartwell blinked. “I should hope so. You are married to him.”
“No, I mean I kissed him. Or he kissed me. I am not entirely certain who initiated it, but the point is it happened, and it should not have happened, and now, I do not know what to do.”
“Why should it not have happened? You are married. Kissing is rather expected, I believe.”
“Because our marriage is an arrangement!” Eliza’s voice rose despite her best efforts to control it.
“A transaction. We agreed to maintain separate lives, to be civil and polite and nothing more. And now—” She broke off, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks.
“Now, I cannot stop thinking about him. I lie awake wondering where he goes when he leaves the house. I worry about whether he is eating enough, sleeping enough. I want to know his thoughts, his fears, his—” She made a frustrated sound. “This was not supposed to happen.”
Lady Hartwell was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentler than Eliza had ever heard it. “My dear girl, do you know what your greatest flaw is?”
“I have many. You will need to be more specific.”
“You think too much.” Lady Hartwell moved to sit beside her, taking both of Eliza’s hands in her own. “You analyze and rationalize and dissect every feeling until it is nothing but pieces. But some things cannot be thought through. Some things must simply be felt.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“It is. Love usually is.”
Eliza’s head snapped up. “I did not say anything about love.”
“You did not have to.” Lady Hartwell smiled, and there was something almost wistful in the expression.
“I know the signs. The sleeplessness, the worry, the complete inability to think of anything but him. You are falling in love with your husband, Eliza. And that, my dear, is not a tragedy. It is a gift.”
“But what if he does not feel the same? What if he kissed me out of… of pity or obligation or—”
“Did he kiss you as though he pitied you?”
Eliza thought of his hands in her hair, the fierce pressure of his mouth on hers, the way he had said her name like a prayer and a curse all at once. “No.”
“Then I suggest you stop hiding in your bedchamber like a frightened rabbit and go speak to the man.” Lady Hartwell gave her hands a squeeze.
“The worst that can happen is that you discover he does not return your feelings. The best that can happen is that you discover he does. Either way, you will know. And knowing is always better than this endless circling.”
“When did you become such a romantic?”
“I have always been a romantic. I simply hide it better than most.” Lady Hartwell released her hands and stood, smoothing her skirts. “Did I ever tell you about the time I punched Lord Hartwell in the nose?”
Eliza blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “You what?”
“Punched him. Right in the nose. Made it bleed all over his very expensive waistcoat.” She smiled at the memory. “He had been courting another woman while professing his devotion to me. So I confronted him at a ball, and when he tried to lie to my face, I drew back my fist and let him have it.”
“Aunt Martha!”
“He married me three weeks later. Said he had never met a woman with such conviction.” She laughed. “My point, dear child, is that love makes us all a bit mad. Embrace the madness. Run toward it. And if your husband proves himself unworthy, you have my permission to punch him in the nose.”
Despite everything, Eliza found herself laughing. “I shall keep that in mind.”
“See that you do.” Lady Hartwell walked her to the door, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Now go home. Face your fears. And for heaven’s sake, stop avoiding the poor man. He probably thinks you have taken ill with something contagious.”
Eliza left the townhouse feeling marginally better than when she had arrived. Lady Hartwell was right. She could not hide forever. Eventually, she would have to face August. Would have to acknowledge what had happened between them and decide what it meant.
But not today. Today, she would return home and perhaps write another letter she had no intention of sending. She would eat dinner in her room and pretend her heart was not racing at the thought of seeing him.
Tomorrow. She would be brave tomorrow.
Or perhaps the day after.
August stared at the ledger until the numbers began to blur together. He had been over these accounts three times now, and the conclusion remained the same.
The money had been returned.
The mysterious expenditure that had troubled him weeks ago had been quietly repaid to the household accounts. The notation in the margin was in Eliza’s hand: repaid in full.
Personal loan. To a seamstress. For what purpose?
He set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his temples where a headache had taken up permanent residence. The past three days had been maddening. Every time he tried to speak with Eliza, she vanished like smoke.
He had knocked on her bedchamber door and been told she was indisposed. He had waited in the breakfast room, and she had failed to appear. He had even tried cornering her in the library, only to arrive and find the room empty though her book lay open on the side table as if she had just been there.
She was avoiding him. That much was clear. What he did not understand was why.
They had kissed. It had been reckless and ill-advised and absolutely spectacular. And then she had run away as though he had committed some unforgivable offense.
Had he misread the moment so completely? She had kissed him back. He was certain of it. Her hands had fisted in his coat, her mouth had opened under his, and she had made a sound that still echoed in his memory at the most inconvenient times.
But perhaps he had been too forward. Perhaps he had frightened her. Perhaps she regretted the entire thing and now could not bear to look at him.
The thought made his chest tight.
He forced his attention back to the ledger. The money. The seamstress. The early morning walks where she disappeared through the gate and did not return for hours. The letter from W tucked into her book.
He had dismissed it as old history. A relic from before their marriage. But what if it was not? What if W was still in the picture? What if she was using household funds to pay for… what? Gifts? Accommodations? Secret meetings?
The thought made his stomach churn. He did not want to believe it. Eliza was not that sort of woman. She was honest and direct and had never shown any inclination toward deception.
But then, he had never shown any inclination toward obsessive jealousy, and here he was, staring at ledger entries and concocting wild theories about secret lovers.
He slammed the ledger shut and stood. This had to stop. The uncertainty, the avoidance, the endless speculation. He would go mad if it continued.
And most importantly, he needed to know why she had run. Why she had kissed him as though the world were ending and then fled as though she could not bear to stay in his presence.
With the ledger in hand, August strode out of his study, intending to confront his wife and end this nonsense!