Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
“Good heavens! If I wanted to live in a flower market, I should have married a Dutchman!”
Lady Hartwell nearly lost her balance on a mound of white hyacinths outside her own drawing room and let out a sound that from anyone else would have been a shriek.
She prodded the offending bouquet with her cane, dislodging several petals. “Another delivery, my dear?” she called, already knowing the answer. The question was strictly for Eliza’s benefit.
Eliza did not look up. She was ensconced on the settee by the window, surrounded on all sides by boxes, bundles, and posies in every permutation. She read with her knees drawn up under her skirts, the edge of August’s latest missive trembling slightly in her hands.
“Do you suppose he means to buy up every flower in London or simply run the florists out of stock?” Lady Hartwell demanded, nudging a cluster of roses off the side table to create space for her tea.
“I am perfectly prepared to have you back, child, but this is ridiculous. Even your mother’s love affair with sweet peas never reached such… agricultural excess.”
“He’s just trying to be thorough,” Eliza muttered, eyes flicking across the page again, as if the words might alter under inspection.
“Thorough! It is an outright siege. My footmen have blisters.” The cane thunked decisively against a crate of lilies, sending a whiff of perfume through the air.
“And these,” she continued, plucking a card from among the stems, “are addressed to the cat. Do you think he is desperate or simply lost his mind?”
Eliza smiled despite herself and set the letter aside with uncharacteristic care. “I suspect the latter.”
Lady Hartwell eyed her, sharp as a hawk. “I presume he is not sending empty pages? Or does your His Grace now express himself exclusively in florals?”
Eliza shook her head but did not answer. She reached for the next envelope, fingers brushing the embossed seal as if it might burn. “They are… letters.” She could not bring herself to call them what they were—apologies, confessions, a slow unspooling of everything he had once refused to say aloud.
“Read it to me, then,” Lady Hartwell said, collapsing into her favorite armchair with a groan. “At least let me share in the melodrama I am forced to house.”
Eliza considered arguing. Instead, she unfolded the latest letter and began.
My darling Eliza,
I would tell you that nothing here has changed, but that would be a lie worthy of scandal. Everything feels different without you.
I took the gray mare for a ride before breakfast. She behaved admirably but seemed as out-of-sorts as her rider.
The air was bracing. The fields were empty.
I would love nothing more than to ride with my wife through the meadows at dawn as I am told that is the fashionable thing among happily married couples.
You see, I am attempting to be fashionable.
I miss you. Not in the way a man misses his favorite waistcoat or a cherished book but in the way one misses breathing after a long time underwater. I find I am terribly out of practice.
If you are inclined to come home, I will see that the cat is sent an invitation by formal post. If not, I will be forced to haunt your aunt’s doorstep in person which I assure you would be a grave embarrassment to us both.
Yours, in a manner more complete than I can express,
August
Eliza’s voice went unsteady on the last line, and she stopped. The room seemed to grow even more saturated with the scent of flowers, and for a moment, she could not breathe at all.
Lady Hartwell said nothing. She simply waited, hands folded, her gaze never wavering from Eliza’s face.
The silence stretched until Eliza set the letter aside. “He’s not very good at this,” she said, not quite managing a laugh.
“I disagree,” Lady Hartwell said crisply. “He is exceedingly good at it. Most men would simply send a bouquet and sign their name at the bottom. Your Duke appears determined to send his soul, one petal at a time.”
Eliza wanted to refute this, but the image was too apt.
She glanced around the room, at the untidy profusion of gifts and confessions, and felt her heart fray. He’s making a spectacle, and this is a ridiculous and beautiful siege.
“I should return,” she said, surprising herself. “It’s only a matter of time before he arrives in person. Or worse, sends a marching band.”
“Or a menagerie,” Lady Hartwell offered, “to go with the botanic gardens he’s already supplied.”
Eliza snorted then immediately sobered. She twisted her fingers together, uncertain. “I thought I would feel triumphant or at least satisfied. But I just…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Lady Hartwell rose and crossed to her, cane tapping across the rug. She placed a hand on Eliza’s shoulder, uncharacteristically gentle. “You love him.”
Eliza managed a watery smile. “I do not even like him half the time.”
“Love and like are rarely close relations,” Lady Hartwell replied. “You will discover that for yourself, given time.”
Eliza studied the letter again. She missed his careless handwriting, his sarcasm, the way he played melancholy music when he thought no one listened. She missed the man who made her tea exactly as she preferred it and who encouraged her to win ridiculous wooden ducks at village fairs.
She missed August. Not the Duke of Wildmoore, not the solution to her problems. Just August.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stood. “Will you send for the carriage?”
“Only if you promise to take the cat,” Lady Hartwell said. “I do not care to see it courted any further.”
Eliza laughed, and the sound came out lighter than she expected. “I promise.”
The next morning dawned bright and sharp. Eliza dressed in her most severe traveling dress, as armor against the uncertainty of what came next. She pressed the newest letter to her chest for a moment before tucking it into her reticule.
As she climbed into the carriage, Lady Hartwell handed her a parcel through the window. “From Wildmoore,” she said.
Eliza opened it to find a tiny posy of violets and a card on which was scrawled in August’s hand: Please come home.
Eliza smiled at the absurdity. At the hope. At herself for wanting both.
She leaned back against the seat and let the carriage carry her forward, not because duty required it but because her heart did.
Eliza took a deep breath and raised her hand, but the door swung inward before she could grasp the knocker. Denton bowed so low his head pointed downward.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.” The corners of his mouth struggled valiantly against a smile.
“Thank you, Denton.”
For a moment, Eliza could not move. She remembered the day she arrived as a bride. Then, she had felt like an impostor. Now, she felt only the familiar panic of uncertainty and the eagerness to behold her husband.
As she stepped into the front hall, footfalls thundered in the distance, as if someone was dashing through the halls. Then August appeared, skidding to a halt on the marble and nearly slipping.
He was panting and looking as though he was seeing her for the first time. In that single instant, Eliza witnessed the collapse of a thousand careful defenses. Relief, joy, hope, even fear… August looked like he could not quite believe his luck.
“You’re here,” he said, his voice thick.
Eliza’s own composure cracked under the impact of the words. She wanted to run to him, to demand an explanation for all the flowers. Instead, she stood there, unable to move, watching the man she loved struggle with how to approach her.
The gap between them was a chasm and yet so small. Eliza took a step forward. August matched it. And when they were an arm’s length apart, neither seemed to know what to do next.
She broke the silence. “The manor looks well.”
“It misses you. I miss you. If I am allowed to say so.”
Eliza’s heart beat so loudly, she was certain everyone could hear it. “I have never known you to wait for permission.”
“No, but I have never before been so terrified of doing something wrong, Eliza.”
She smiled, and his sincerity made her throat tighten. “You have written a great many letters.”
“Not enough. Never enough, I think, but—” He glanced away, his hands restless at his sides. “I did not wish to presume.”
“August, you never have to presume.” She touched his cheek softly.
His eyes snapped back to hers. “Tell me why you came back.”
“Because I missed you.”
He looked stunned. Eliza realized, with a curious pang, that he truly had not believed she would return. “Is it always to be like this?” she asked, stepping even closer. “You doing something dramatic and foolish and me pretending it does not affect me at all?”
August grinned, the brightest she had ever seen. “I suppose I can try for less foolishness, but I make no promises.”
She tilted her chin. “That is very nearly romantic.”
“Would you like romantic?” He looked around, as if searching for inspiration, then reached into a nearby vase. He extracted a single white lily, shook it free of droplets, and offered it to her.
“For you,” he said, “to mark the occasion. I read somewhere that white lilies signify devotion.”
Eliza took the flower. Her hands shook, just a little. “You are ridiculous.”
“And you,” he replied, “are the most extraordinary person I have ever known. I do not want a duchess to manage my household. I want you to accompany me through this life as my beloved. As my partner in all things.”
She did not speak. She was afraid if she tried, she would say something mortifying, like how she’d missed the sound of his voice reading books he claimed not to care about or how she’d slept better knowing he was somewhere in the house.
He held her gaze. “I love you,” he said, as if it was a truth too large to contain. “Not because you are convenient or practical or because you make me a better duke. I love you because you make me want to be more than just a title. You make me wish to be worthy.”
It was a good speech. Not perfect but as close as a man like him would ever come. She stepped forward, closing the remaining gap, and pressed the lily to his chest.
“I love you,” she said. “Not because you are the Duke of Wildmoore. Not because you buy out flower shops or write impassioned notes to livestock. I love the man who plays music at midnight and looks at orphans as though they are the most important people in the world.”
August pulled her into his arms with such force that she was left breathless then he further stole her breath by kissing her, sweetly and deeply. She held onto his coat lapel to keep her balance.
The sound of applause startled them apart. Denton, Mrs. Finch, and at least half the household staff had assembled behind them in the hall, clapping and cheering and, in the case of Mrs. Finch, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
August glared at the assembled crowd. “You are all dismissed,” he said but with no force at all. The servants did not budge, and Mrs. Finch actually blew her nose in open defiance.
Eliza laughed, realizing how much she missed this sense of belonging, and this absurd, unscripted joy.
August pressed his lips to her temple then looked down at her. “Welcome home,” he whispered.
She smiled and pressed the lily to her chest. “I think I shall stay.”