Chapter 34 #2
Eliza’s fingers found the edge of her napkin again, worrying at the embroidered flowers. “Nothing has happened. I simply needed some time away.”
“Time away from what? From Wildmoore Hall? From London society?” Lady Hartwell’s gaze sharpened. “From your husband?”
The words hung in the air between them. Eliza wanted to deny it, to construct some perfectly reasonable explanation that would satisfy Lady Hartwell’s curiosity without revealing the truth, but the truth pressed against her throat, demanding release.
“Your husband needs you,” Lady Hartwell said.
The statement was so matter of fact, so utterly confident, that Eliza almost laughed. “August does not need me.”
“Does he not?”
“I heard as much from him myself.” The words emerged harder than she intended. She set down her teacup before her shaking hands betrayed her. “Three nights ago, he was meeting with his advisor in the library. I was walking past and heard them discussing our marriage.”
Lady Hartwell said nothing. Simply waited, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts.
“The advisor congratulated August on his timely marriage. Said it was a practical solution, sensibly executed. That the duchy required stability after his father’s death, and August had provided it.” Eliza’s throat felt tight. “August agreed. He said the marriage had served its purpose well.”
“I see.”
“Do you? Because I am not certain I do.” She stood and moved to the window, needing distance from Lady Hartwell’s penetrating gaze.
“I knew what our marriage was. I understood from the beginning that it was born of scandal and necessity. But I thought—” She broke off, pressing her palm against the cool glass.
“I allowed myself to hope that perhaps it might become something more.”
“And now, you believe it will not.”
“Now, I know it will not. How can it when he views me as a solution to a problem? A duchess-shaped piece that fit neatly into the space his father’s death left empty?”
“Did you confront him about what you overheard?”
Eliza turned from the window. Lady Hartwell watched her with that same unreadable expression.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because confronting him would have required admitting that his words had hurt her.
That somewhere in the past months, she had stopped being the practical companion who understood the terms of their arrangement and had become a wife who wanted to be chosen.
Not for her usefulness or her convenience or her ability to provide stability during a difficult time.
For herself.
“Because there was nothing to confront him about,” Eliza said. “He spoke the truth. Our marriage is practical. It did serve a purpose. Those are simply facts.”
“Facts.” Lady Hartwell’s mouth curved slightly. “You have always hidden behind facts when your feelings become inconvenient.”
“My feelings are irrelevant.”
“Are they? Because it seems to me that your feelings are the entire problem.” Lady Hartwell rose and crossed to where Eliza stood. “You are afraid.”
“I am not—”
“You are terrified that you have fallen in love with a man who might not love you in return. So instead of asking him directly, instead of giving him the opportunity to prove your fears unfounded, you ran away.”
The words struck with the rigor of a blade between ribs. Eliza wanted to argue, to deny, to construct some perfectly logical reason for her departure that had nothing to do with love or fear or the crushing weight of hoping for something that might never come.
“I did not run away,” she said. “I am visiting my aunt.”
“At dawn. Without telling your husband. With one valise.” Lady Hartwell placed her hand over Eliza’s where it rested on the windowsill. “My dear child, I know what running looks like. I did it myself once, many years ago.”
“You never told me that.”
“There are many things I have not told you. But I will tell you this: Lord Hartwell and I nearly did not marry because I was too proud and too frightened to admit that I wanted him. I convinced myself that he could not possibly want me as I was—sharp-tongued and opinionated and entirely too independent for a proper wife—so I pushed him away. Nearly lost him entirely.”
“What changed?”
“He cornered me at Lady Pemberton’s ball—ironically enough—and demanded to know why I was avoiding him. When I tried to deflect, he kissed me in front of half the ton and told me quite plainly that he did not give a damn about propriety or proper wives. He wanted me, exactly as I was.”
“August is not Lord Hartwell.”
“No. But you are not me, either. You are braver than I was, Eliza. You survived things I cannot imagine. You built a life from nothing. You do not need to hide your heart away for fear it might be wounded.”
Eliza looked down at their joined hands. Lady Hartwell’s fingers were warm, anchoring her when everything else felt unmoored.
“What if I tell him the truth, and he does not feel the same?” The question came out small, barely more than a whisper. “What if the marriage remains exactly what it has always been—an arrangement? A convenience?”
“Then at least you will know. And knowing, however painful, is better than this endless wondering.” Lady Hartwell squeezed her hand. “But I do not think that is what you will discover.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I know your husband came to see me before your wedding. Did I ever tell you that?”
Eliza’s head came up. “No.”
“He wanted my blessing. Said he knew the circumstances were unusual but that he would do everything in his power to ensure you were well cared for.” Lady Hartwell smiled.
“And then he asked me about you. What you liked to read. What made you laugh. Whether you preferred morning walks or evening ones. He took notes, Eliza. In a little leather book he carried in his pocket.”
The image formed unbidden—August sitting in this very drawing room, his head bent over a notebook, carefully recording details about a woman he barely knew. A woman who was about to become his wife.
“That does not mean—”
“It means he cares. Whether he has admitted it to himself or not, he cares what you think of him. He cares about your comfort and your happiness. Men do not take notes about women they view as mere conveniences.”
Eliza wanted to believe it. Wanted to take Lady Hartwell’s words and hold them close, let them warm the cold place that had opened in her chest when she overheard August describing their marriage as practical and timely.
But wanting something did not make it true.
“I do not know what to do,” she said.
“Yes, you do. You simply do not wish to do it because it requires vulnerability. It requires trusting that your husband might surprise you.” Lady Hartwell released her hand and moved back to her chair.
“Stay here as long as you need. But Eliza—do not stay forever. Do not let fear rob you of something that might be real.”
Eliza returned to her own chair and picked up her teacup. The tea had gone cold. She drank it anyway, needing something to do with her hands.
She wondered what August was doing at this hour. Perhaps he was in his study. Working through ledgers and correspondence, managing the thousand demands that came with being a duke. Attending to his responsibilities with that methodical efficiency that had always defined him.
Did he think of her at all? Did he notice the empty chair across from him at breakfast or the vacant seat in the library? Or was her absence simply another adjustment he was managing with his usual competence—unfortunate but ultimately manageable, like a minor change in household staff?
She set down her teacup and stared at the cold tea remaining in the bottom.
She did not know. And that not knowing felt like standing at the edge of a precipice, unable to see the bottom, uncertain whether stepping forward would mean falling or flying.