Chapter 3
Three
“You look like you have not slept a wink.”
Eliza did not jump though she ought to have. The breakfast room was empty, save for herself and the aspidistra drooping in the far window. Still, Lady Hartwell’s voice could pierce four feet of oak and three of composure, and Eliza’s composure was not in peak condition.
She looked up from her untouched toast. Lady Hartwell—hair still in last night’s plaits, wrapper over her dress, slippers at war with the rug—regarded Eliza with the sort of pointed concern one reserved for a poorly-wrapped wound.
“Eliza,” she said, folding herself into a chair, “if you persist in this charade of strength, I shall be forced to fetch the laudanum. And you know how I feel about laudanum.”
Eliza summoned a smile though it felt unfamiliar at the edges. “Good morning, Lady Hartwell.”
“If it were a good morning, you would be pouring my tea and not giving it the look of a hangman’s noose.
” Lady Hartwell reached for the pot and did it herself, sloshing two sugars in as she spoke.
“I did not think we would have to entertain such melodrama in my lifetime. I expected that privilege to be reserved for my grandchildren.”
“We may avoid melodrama altogether if we act quickly,” Eliza suggested.
“Ha!” Lady Hartwell’s laugh was sharp as a cough. “Only if every newsmonger in London dies of spontaneous penmanship. It will be in print before the ink dries.”
Eliza gripped her cup so hard the handle left a mark. “I would rather not discuss it over breakfast.”
“Then when?” Lady Hartwell slathered jam onto her toast. “By luncheon, your engagement will be the only topic worth whispering about from Mayfair to Cheapside.”
Eliza’s fingers twitched around the rim. “If you require a statement, I will compose it myself. I do not wish to inconvenience you.”
“Do not be absurd.” Lady Hartwell cut her toast as if it had personally offended her. “You are family. And if you were not, I would still want to know how my nephew managed to trap a woman with a functioning mind.” She chewed once, twice. “I hope he did not coerce you.”
Eliza straightened. “Not precisely.”
A raised eyebrow. “Not precisely. So, he did coerce you but in a fashionable way?”
Eliza did not answer. Instead, she watched the sunlight try and fail to illuminate the gray sky outside. Lady Hartwell watched her watch it.
“You are not ruined, Eliza,” Lady Hartwell said, lowering her voice. “You are, at worst, inconvenienced.”
“I do not feel inconvenienced,” Eliza replied.
Lady Hartwell snorted. “I suppose you would prefer honesty. Very well. If my nephew compromised your reputation, he will restore it, even if I must drag him to the altar myself.” She softened though only a little. “But I did not raise you to believe that marriage is the only solution to scandal.”
Eliza wanted to say something—wanted, in fact, to say everything—but the words stuck. “He is doing the right thing,” she managed.
Lady Hartwell gave her a look as sharp as vinegar. “You did not answer the question I did not ask.”
Eliza pressed her palms flat to the table. “I do not want pity.”
“Nor do I offer it,” Lady Hartwell said. “But I do wish to know if I must disembowel a Vestiere before luncheon.”
A laugh wanted to surface, but Eliza forced it down. “You need not.”
Lady Hartwell set her toast aside. “I do not care for the look in your eyes, Eliza. I have seen men stare into the abyss with more conviction.”
“It is not the abyss,” Eliza said. “Only the rest of my life.”
For a moment, Lady Hartwell was quiet. She reached across the table and set her hand, gnarled with years but strong as iron, over Eliza’s. “You are not alone, you impossible girl.”
Eliza looked at her, saw the lines that hardship had etched, and felt a kind of gratitude that was equal parts ache and balm. “I know.”
“Good.” Lady Hartwell drew back. “Now, we must draft a plan. If you wish to go through with it, we will do so with dignity. If not, I know a barrister who is both discreet and vindictive.”
Eliza allowed herself a genuine smile, small though it was. “I suppose we wait for the world to react.”
“Oh, it already has.” Lady Hartwell seized the latest gossip sheet, opened it with a flourish, and stabbed at a paragraph. “Ha! Listen to this: The Golden Rake Snared at Last! But Who is the Enchantress Who Felled the Marquess?”
Eliza’s mouth went dry.
Lady Hartwell read on, “Miss Eliza Hartwell, companion to the redoubtable Lady Hartwell, is a woman of little fortune and less family but sufficient beauty to have landed London’s most eligible—and uncatchable—marquess.” She slammed the paper down. “Well, they have that part correct at least.”
Eliza stared at her cup, the tea inside cooling rapidly. “I did not expect them to be so…” she trailed off.
“Creative?” Lady Hartwell suggested.
“Cruel.”
Lady Hartwell snorted. “It is the only trade in which mediocrity is rewarded and cleverness a liability.” She set the paper aside, met Eliza’s eyes. “Do not let them have it, child.”
Eliza nodded, jaw set.
A servant entered and cleared his throat with exquisite delicacy. “Your Ladyship, you have callers. The Duchess of Stone, the Duchess of Irondale, and… the Duchess of Icemere.”
Lady Hartwell’s eyebrows made a valiant climb toward her hairline. “The entire Vestiere sorority? Well, well. Tell them we are indisposed for fifteen minutes then admit them.”
The footman bowed and withdrew.
“So it begins.” Lady Hartwell regarded Eliza as if weighing her in the balance. “I am sure my nieces have a thousand questions for you.”
Eliza, who had never lost a staring contest in her life, met her gaze. “I am ready.”
The moment Eliza crossed the threshold of the drawing room, she knew she was outnumbered.
The triplets—April, May, and June—were the sort of women who could intimidate a cavalry regiment at fifty paces, and they did not believe in subtlety.
April, the Duchess of Stone, was already in motion, crossing the rug with a squeal and a flurry of silk.
May, Duchess of Irondale, hovered behind, arms open, eyes bright behind her spectacles.
June, Duchess of Icemere, hung back, observing with the wary detachment of a scientist about to test a new reagent.
“Eliza!” April seized her hands, squeezing until Eliza’s rings bit into her knuckles. “Is it true? Did August truly propose? Or is it all a wild mistake? We’ve been hearing the most astonishing things and—”
“I said she might prefer to breathe first, April,” May murmured, steering her sister toward the divan.
“I do not require air; I require information,” April replied, bouncing onto the settee and tugging Eliza down beside her. “Tell us everything! Was there a declaration? Was it romantic? Did you faint?”
Eliza managed, “Not quite,” before June’s low voice cut in.
“If our brother proposed, it was not by accident.” June set herself on the far end of the chaise, arms folded, posture unconsciously martial. “He is many things, but impulsive in the matter of marriage is not one of them.”
Lady Hartwell entered, moving like a duchess even in a housecoat, and took the chair nearest the fireplace. “If you mean to interrogate my niece, you will do so with decorum.”
April rolled her eyes. “She is family, Aunt Martha. One cannot be decorous with family or it defeats the purpose.”
May slipped in next to Eliza, her expression sympathetic and her voice pitched low. “If you wish, I can distract them for you. I have a wonderful new treatise on Roman architecture.”
Eliza almost smiled at that. “You are kind, but it’s quite all right.”
“I think it rather obvious what happened,” June said, gaze narrowed. “Someone saw the two of you together, and August’s sense of honor forced his hand.”
April gasped. “Were you caught in a compromising position? How scandalous!”
Eliza’s jaw tensed, but she did not deny it.
June nodded once, as if this confirmed a hypothesis. “He could have simply denied it, but that is not his way.”
“Nor is it yours,” Eliza said, meeting her eyes directly.
For the first time, June smiled—a thin, sardonic line. “Touché.”
May patted Eliza’s knee. “You must not let them overwhelm you. They are—” she considered, “—like hounds with a scent.”
April laughed. “We are the hounds, and you are the fox! Oh, how delightful.”
At this, the sisters launched into a chorus of questions.
Would the wedding be soon? Would Eliza wear white?
Did she prefer lilies or roses? Had she chosen her attendants?
Eliza tried to answer—she truly did—but the conversation spun so fast she could only offer the occasional “Yes,” “No,” or “I haven’t thought—” before being swept to the next topic.
Lady Hartwell observed it all with the serenity of a woman watching a play she’d seen a hundred times, offering a tart comment here and there but never intervening for long.
Eliza was aware of her own posture, the way her shoulders tensed with every volley. She sat straight and replied as best she could, but it was not long before she felt as though she was being dissected by everyone’s attention.
She was not sure how long it had gone on—a minute or perhaps the length of a siege—before a footman entered and announced, “His Grace, the Marquess of Barrington.”
A hush fell as August strode into the room, a bouquet of hothouse flowers in his arms, the very model of a man in love. His smile was effortless. When he turned to Eliza, the world seemed to orient around the warmth of his gaze.
“For you,” he said, presenting the bouquet.
It was an absurd arrangement: peonies, orchids, something blue and trembling on its stalk. Eliza reached for it. Their hands touched, and the room fell away for half a heartbeat.
She thought, He means none of this, for he is very good at pretending.
But his hand lingered a fraction too long. If it was a performance, it was one with no audience.
The triplets swarmed at once.
“August!” April cried, “You never told us you were courting! I feel betrayed.”
He offered her a dazzling smile. “It was all very sudden. A coup de foudre as the French say.”
June snorted. “I doubt you have ever suffered a lightning strike that wasn’t carefully anticipated.”
May said, “You did not mention it in your letters.”
He inclined his head to her. “Some news is best delivered in person.”
Lady Hartwell regarded him over her spectacles. “You have caused a considerable stir, Barrington. I hope you are prepared to mend the damage.”
August met her look without flinching. “I am prepared to do whatever is necessary.”
“Good.” Lady Hartwell gestured to a tea service. “Begin by pouring for your fiancée.”
He obeyed, seating himself beside Eliza, moving with the relaxed assurance of a man who had never doubted his welcome in any room.
April leaned in. “So how did it happen?” she demanded. “The proposal! Was it grand? Did Eliza swoon?”
“I do not swoon,” Eliza said, unable to keep the dryness from her tone.
August’s eyes warmed, almost—almost—a real smile. “She does not. I believe I was the one at risk of collapse.”
That set the room to laughter, even from June, who appeared determined to find fault and instead found herself grinning.
Eliza watched August as he poured her tea.
He was perfect—too perfect. The casual grace, the careful deflections, the way he modulated his every response for maximum effect.
He spoke to his sisters with affectionate mischief and bantered with Lady Hartwell in the old way, but at every turn, he was performing, even for her.
When the tea was poured and the sisters had resumed their delighted speculation, August turned to her, voice pitched low.
“I am sorry for the morning,” he said, meaning the day after the scandal, the day after everything.
She looked at him, searching for a sign—regret, worry, anything—but saw only calm.
“You do not have to be sorry,” she replied.
“I do,” he said, “but not in the way you think.”
He was so close, she could feel the warmth of his shoulder through the fabric of his coat. The flowers between them, ridiculous and gorgeous, seemed almost a joke.
She found herself wanting to ask if he could ever stop performing. If, when the world was silent and there was nothing left to prove, he could simply be.
Instead, she said, “We will be the talk of the season.”
August tilted his head. “Is that so terrible?”
Eliza looked to the triplets, now engaged in a friendly argument over which of them would be maid of honor, and thought, Perhaps not. She looked back at August, searching, as always, for a glimpse behind the mask.
“Not if you can bear it,” she said.
He smiled, softer now. “With you, I can bear anything.”
It was a beautiful line. It was also a lie.
But it warmed her, nonetheless.
As the sisters pulled her into their plans—trims, venues, who would wear what—August watched her with that same impossible warmth, the light of the performance never leaving his eyes.
Eliza wondered whether he had a heart at all. And what manner of man was he once the mask was off?