Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
August’s steps were lighter than they had been in weeks.
Perhaps months. He found himself whistling as he walked through the hallway, something he had not done since before his father’s illness.
The morning at the orphanage had changed something, shifted the ground beneath his feet in a way he could not quite articulate.
And then there had been the kiss. The second kiss if one were counting. And August was most definitely counting.
He needed to find Eliza. Needed to see her, to confirm that yesterday had actually happened and was not some fever dream conjured by his exhausted mind.
He had spent half the night replaying every moment.
The way she had looked at the children. The raw honesty of her story.
The feel of her mouth on his as the carriage rocked beneath them.
He checked the drawing room first. Empty, though a book lay open on the side table as if someone had just been reading it. The library yielded similar results—her presence evident but the woman herself nowhere to be found.
The conservatory was his last hope. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, breathing in the humid air and the scent of growing things.
A book rested on the stone bench near the fountain, and her shawl was draped across the armrest. The tea service on the nearby table still steamed faintly, the cup half full.
She had been here. Recently.
August moved to the bench and sat, picking up the book. Sense and Sensibility. He smiled. Of course, she would prefer Austen to Gothic melodrama. He opened the cover, intending to mark her place, and a folded piece of paper slipped free and landed on his knee.
He picked it up, unfolding it without thinking.
My darling E.,
I cannot stop thinking about yesterday. The way you looked when you came to me, breathless and wanting. The sound you made when I touched you. I lie awake at night remembering every moment we spent together in our sanctuary.
Meet me again tomorrow at the cabin. Same time. I need to feel your hands on me, need to hear you say my name the way you did when we—
But I should not write such things. Someone might discover this letter, and then where would we be? You, compromised beyond repair. Me, called out by that husband of yours though I think we both know he cares more for appearances than for you.
Come to me. Promise me you will come.
Yours, completely and always, W.
The paper crumpled in August’s fist. He could not breathe. Could not think beyond the roaring in his ears and the ice spreading through his chest.
The way you looked when you came to me, breathless and wanting.
Our sanctuary.
That husband of yours.
He shot to his feet, the book falling forgotten to the ground.
“Denton!” The word came out as a roar. “Denton!”
The butler appeared within seconds, his face carefully blank despite the fact that August was shouting loud enough to wake half of London.
“Find the Duchess. Now.”
“Your Grace, I believe—”
“Is something wrong?”
August spun toward the doorway. Eliza stood at the top of the conservatory steps, wearing a pelisse and bonnet, her lady’s maid hovering behind her. She looked perfectly composed, perfectly innocent, and the sight of her made his blood boil.
She was dressed for an outing. Dressed to leave the house. Dressed to meet him.
“My study.” The words came out clipped and cold. “Now.”
“August, what—”
“NOW.”
He did not wait for her response. He strode past her, the crumpled letter burning in his fist, and made for his study. He heard her footsteps behind him, heard her dismiss her maid, heard the rustle of her skirts as she followed.
Good. Let her follow. Let her try to explain this.
He reached his study and flung the door open, standing aside just long enough for her to enter before slamming it shut behind them. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot.
“What on earth has gotten into you?” She yanked off her bonnet and tossed it onto a chair. “You cannot simply order me about like some servant and expect—”
He threw the letter at her. It hit her chest and fell to the floor.
“Explain that.”
She stared at him for a moment then bent to retrieve the paper. He watched her face as she read, watched for the telltale signs of guilt. A flush, a flinch, anything to confirm what the letter had already made abundantly clear.
But when she looked up, she was not guilty. She was confused.
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“I should ask you that!”
“I have never seen this before in my life.” She read it again, her brows drawing together. “Where did you find it?”
“In your book. The one you left in the conservatory while you prepared to sneak away to meet your lover.”
Her head snapped up. “My what?”
“Do not play innocent with me, Eliza. It is written plainly enough. ‘Meet me at the cabin. Same time.’ You were leaving the house. Dressed for travel. Where were you going?”
“To the milliner’s! I promised Mrs. Everett I would inquire about bulk orders for the children’s winter hats.” She waved the letter at him. “And this—this is not real. Someone is trying to cause trouble.”
“The letter was in your book.”
“So, someone put it there!”
“Who? Who would even know where to find your book? Who has access to this house, to your private things?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Unless, of course, you invited them.”
Her face went white, then red. “You think I am having an affair.”
“The evidence is rather compelling.”
“The evidence is a letter that could have been written by anyone and placed by anyone in a book that I left unattended for all of ten minutes while I went to fetch my pelisse.” She crumpled the letter and threw it back at him.
“If I were conducting an affair, do you truly think I would be so careless as to leave incriminating correspondence lying about?”
“Perhaps you thought yourself safe. Thought I was too preoccupied with estate business to notice your comings and goings.”
“My comings and goings to the orphanage! Where you accompanied me yesterday, or have you forgotten already?”
“I have forgotten nothing. Including the fact that you have been leaving the house at dawn for months without explanation. Including the substantial sums you borrowed from household accounts. Including the other letter I found weeks ago, tucked into your A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, signed by this mysterious W who seems to occupy so much of your thoughts. ”
She stared at him. “You read my private correspondence?”
“It fell out of the book when I was searching for something to read. I did not go rifling through your things.”
“But you kept that information to yourself. Nursed your suspicions in silence instead of simply asking me about it like a rational human being.”
“Would you have told me the truth?”
“There is no truth to tell! I do not know who W is. I have no lover, no secret assignations, no cabin in the forest where I run off to betray my vows.” She was shaking now, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “How dare you. How dare you think so little of me.”
“How little? You have been secretive since the day we married. Disappearing at odd hours, avoiding my questions, hiding expenditures in the household accounts—”
“I explained all of that! The orphanage, the children—”
“So you say. But how am I to know that is the truth when you have proven yourself quite capable of deception?”
The words hung in the air between them, ugly and irreversible.
Eliza’s expression shuttered. “I see. And what of your trips to the theater? The ones you failed to mention to me?”
August went still. “What?”
“You heard me. You have been going to the theater. Twice, at least, since your father died. During mourning, when you should have been at home. Where were you really, August? And with whom?”
“Who told you that?”
“It does not matter who told me. What matters is that you were there. Were you seeking comfort?”
“Do not turn this around. We are discussing your infidelity, not my—”
“My infidelity!” She laughed, sharp and bitter.
“I have been faithful to you in every possible way. In deed, in thought, in the foolish, foolish hope that perhaps this marriage might become something more than a transaction. But you have already made up your mind, have you not? You want to believe I am betraying you because it is easier than trusting me. Than trusting anyone.”
“Eliza—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “I will not stand here and defend myself against accusations based on a letter I have never seen from a person I do not know. If you wish to believe I am an adulteress, that is your prerogative. But do not expect me to beg for your good opinion when you have clearly decided it is not worth giving.”
She turned toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To the milliner’s. As I intended from the start. Unless you plan to lock me in my chambers like some medieval tyrant.”
“Eliza, wait—”
But she was already gone, the door slamming behind her with enough force to rattle the windows.
August stood in the center of his study, the crumpled letter at his feet, his chest heaving with breaths that would not quite fill his lungs.
What had he done?
The rage was still there, hot and insistent, fed by the words on that page. The way you looked when you came to me, breathless and wanting. But beneath it, colder and sharper, was doubt.
Eliza had looked genuinely shocked. Genuinely hurt. And her accusation about the theater—
He had gone to the theater. Twice. But not for the reasons she had appeared to believe. Not even close.