Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
“Your Grace, I saw Her Grace entering the library moments ago.”
August did not wait for Denton to finish. He was already moving down the hallway, his footsteps quick and purposeful. Three days. Three days of avoidance and excuses and closed doors. It ended now.
He reached the library and paused just outside the doorway, taking a moment to compose himself. He was a duke for heaven’s sake. He could manage a simple conversation with his own wife without losing his head.
He stepped inside and stopped.
Eliza sat in the window seat, a book open in her lap, afternoon sunlight streaming through the glass behind her.
She wore full mourning black, as they all did still, but somehow, it did not make her look severe.
The dress had softened her somehow, or perhaps she had softened on her own.
Her hair was arranged in a loose knot at her nape, tendrils escaping to frame her face in a way that made his fingers itch to tuck them back.
She bit her lower lip as she read, completely absorbed in whatever story held her attention. The gesture was unconscious, innocent, and it sent heat straight through his chest.
He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to cross the room and pull her into his arms and finish what they had started in the garden three nights ago. Wanted to erase the memory of her running away and replace it with something better.
He cleared his throat.
Eliza’s head snapped up, her eyes going wide. She leapt to her feet so fast the book tumbled from her lap, hit the edge of the window seat, bounced once, and landed with a spectacular thud on the floor. Pages scattered everywhere.
“August! I did not—that is, I was not expecting—” She stared at the book as though it had betrayed her. “I appear to have committed murder.”
“Only if books can die of shock.” He moved forward and bent to retrieve the volume, gathering the loose pages as he went. “The Mysteries of Udolpho. I did not take you for one who enjoyed Gothic novels.”
“I do not particularly. But it was either that or A Practical Guide to Sheep Husbandry, and I find myself with very little interest in sheep at present.” She reached for the pages he held, but he kept them just out of reach.
“Running low on reading material, are we?”
“One might say that. Or one might say I have been indisposed and unable to visit the lending library.”
“Ah yes. Your indisposition.” He set the book and pages on a nearby table then turned to face her fully. “The one that has lasted precisely three days and seems to vanish whenever I am not in the immediate vicinity.”
Her cheeks went pink. “I do not know what you mean.”
“No? So you have not been avoiding me?”
“I have been resting. On the advice of my physician.”
“You have not seen a physician.”
“Well, I would have if I had needed one. But fortunately, rest was sufficient.”
“Eliza.”
“Yes?”
“You are a terrible liar.”
She lifted her chin. “I take exception to that. I am an excellent liar when properly motivated.”
“Then I suppose I should be flattered that you cannot manage it with me.” He took a step closer, watching the way her breath hitched. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
“I have not been—Very well, I have been avoiding you. But only because I thought it best, given the circumstances.”
“What circumstances would those be?”
She gestured vaguely between them. “These circumstances. The ones where we—where I—where things became complicated.”
“You mean the kiss.”
Her blush deepened. “Must you say it aloud?”
“Would you prefer I mime it?”
“I would prefer we both pretend it never happened and return to our previous arrangement of polite civility.”
“That seems monumentally dull.” He took another step forward. “And rather difficult, considering I have not been able to stop thinking about it for three days.”
“August—”
“But we shall return to that in a moment. First, I have a question for you.”
She looked wary. “What sort of question?”
“The sort that requires an honest answer.” He pulled the folded ledger page from his pocket. “I found a discrepancy in the household accounts. A substantial sum paid to a seamstress on Chancery Lane. Mrs. Fulham. Do you remember?”
Her expression shuttered. “I remember.”
“When I asked Mrs. Finch about it, she said you had personally arranged the payment and insisted it be handled with the utmost discretion.” He unfolded the page. “And now, I find that the money has been returned with a notation in your hand stating it was a personal loan.”
“That is correct.”
“Eliza, what did you need the money for?”
“That is my concern.”
“It is household funds. That makes it rather my concern as well.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I borrowed it. I returned it. There is nothing more to discuss.”
“Is there not?” He took another step forward, and she took a corresponding step back. “Because I find myself wondering what sort of personal matter requires the services of a discreet seamstress and a loan of that size.”
“It is not what you think.”
“I have not told you what I think.”
“You do not need to. I can see it in your face.” She backed up another step and found herself against the arm of the chair behind her. “Whatever suspicions you have concocted, they are wrong.”
“Then enlighten me.” He closed the remaining distance between them, not quite touching but near enough that he could see the pulse jumping at the base of her throat. “Tell me what I am thinking, and I shall tell you if you are correct.”
“You think I have been secretive. That I have been using household funds for some nefarious purpose.”
“Nefarious is a rather strong word.”
“But accurate, judging by your tone.”
“My tone is simply curious.” He leaned in slightly. “Though I confess, your refusal to answer a simple question does strain one’s imagination.”
She pressed back against the chair, her hands gripping the armrest. “There is nothing to tell. I needed the money, I borrowed it, I returned it. The matter is settled.”
“Is it?” He placed one hand on the armrest beside her then the other on the other, effectively caging her in. “Because I also noticed you have been leaving the house at dawn. Walking to the village. Mrs. Finch says you go out alone, without the carriage, and return hours later.”
Her eyes went wide. “You have been having me watched?”
“I have been noticing your absence at breakfast. There is a difference.”
“That is semantics.”
“That is fact.” He lowered his head until they were nearly nose to nose. “Where have you been going, Eliza?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Everything about you is my concern. You are my wife.”
“In name only.”
The words hit harder than he expected. He drew back just enough to see her face properly. “Is that what you think? After what happened in the garden?”
“I do not know what to think.” Her voice had gone quiet, almost fragile. “You kissed me, and then I ran, and now ,you are interrogating me about ledgers and seamstresses and—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I do not understand what you want from me.”
“The truth.” He shifted closer again, drawn by something he could not name. “That is all I have ever wanted from you.”
“The truth about what? The money? The walks? The kiss?”
“All of it.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there. “Every secret you have been keeping from me since the day we married.”
Her breath came faster now, her chest rising and falling in a way that made it very difficult to remember what they had been discussing. “August, I—”
He leaned in, watching the way her eyes went dark, the way her lips parted. He could smell the lavender soap she used, could feel the warmth of her body through the layers of fabric between them. It would be so easy to close the remaining distance. To kiss her again and damn the consequences.
“Tell me,” he murmured, his mouth hovering just above hers. “Or I shall be forced to extract the information by other means.”
“What other means?”
“I am certain I can think of something.”
He hovered there for another heartbeat, close enough that their breath mingled, close enough that all she had to do was lean forward.
Eliza’s heart threatened to beat straight through her ribs. August was going to kiss her again. She was certain of it. Could see the intent in his eyes, in the way his gaze kept dropping to her mouth, in the way his body angled toward hers.
She wanted him to. Wanted it with a ferocity that terrified her.
But then he pulled back, just a fraction, and the moment shattered.
“I need the truth, Eliza.” His voice had lost its teasing edge. “Please.”
The please undid her completely.
She closed her eyes and took a breath, trying to order her thoughts. He deserved the truth. Had deserved it from the beginning, perhaps. But she had been so afraid he would think her foolish, or worse, that he would try to stop her.
“The orphanage,” she said finally, opening her eyes to find him watching her with an intensity that made her shiver. “I have been visiting the orphanage in the village. For years, even before we married.”
His brows drew together. “The orphanage.”
“I donate what I can from my pin money. Help with the children when they need extra hands. Read to them, teach the older ones their letters.” She twisted her hands in her lap.
“When I became duchess, I wanted to do more. The building needed repairs, the roof was leaking, and the children had no proper blankets for winter. So I borrowed from the household accounts. Just until my allowance came through.”
August straightened, his expression unreadable. “You used the money for blankets.”
“And repairs. And food. They were running desperately low, and I could not bear to—” She stopped, her throat going tight. “The children have nothing, August. No parents, no prospects, no hope of anything better. The least I could do was ensure they did not freeze to death in their beds.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and she could not tell what he was thinking. Was he angry? Disappointed? Did he think her foolish for caring about children who had no connection to the Wildmoore family?
“Why did you not tell me?” he asked finally.
“Because it was mine. My project, my responsibility. I did not want you to feel obligated to help or to think I was asking for your charity.”
“You borrowed household funds without permission. That rather suggests you expected I would say no.”
“I thought you would think it an unnecessary expense. Or that you would want to manage it yourself, take credit for it, turn it into some grand ducal gesture.” She lifted her chin. “I wanted to help because I cared, not because it would look well in the society pages.”
His jaw worked. “Is that truly what you think of me? That I would care more about appearances than about children in need?”
“I do not know what to think of you.” The words came out sharper than she intended.
“You are charming and clever and infuriating. You kiss me in gardens and then interrogate me about ledgers. You claim to want the truth but guard your own feelings as though they were state secrets.” She pushed past him, needing space to think.
“Forgive me if I find you rather difficult to read.”
She had made it three steps before he caught her wrist, turning her back to face him.
“I want to help,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“The orphanage. I want to help.” He released her wrist but did not step back. “You should have told me. I would have given you whatever you needed without question.”
“You would?”
“Of course, I would. Do you truly think so little of me?”
“I think you are under tremendous pressure. Your father just died, you have an entire duchy to manage, tenants and staff and Parliament all demanding your attention.” She shook her head. “I did not want to add to your burdens.”
“Eliza.” He reached up and tucked one of those loose tendrils behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek. “Helping you could never be a burden.”
Something in her chest loosened, unraveling like thread from a spool. She had expected dismissal or at best polite tolerance. She had not expected this. Had not expected him to look at her as though she had done something brave rather than foolish.
“The children need shoes,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “And the kitchen requires a new stove. And the schoolroom has only four slates for twenty children.”
“Then we shall get them shoes and a stove and proper writing supplies.” He smiled, and it was real this time, reaching his eyes. “How often do you visit?”
“Two or three times a week. In the mornings, usually.”
“Then I shall accompany you. Tomorrow, if you like.”
“You want to come with me?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Because you are the Duke of Wildmoore. You have meetings and obligations and a thousand better things to do than visit an orphanage.”
“I cannot think of a single thing I would rather do.” He caught her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Let me help, Eliza. Let me be part of this.”
She looked down at their joined hands, at the way his fingers curled around hers with such certainty. Her heart, which had been guarding itself so carefully for so long, cracked open a little wider.