Chapter Three
“We need to discuss the Duke of Hollowshade.”
Eliza’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Across the breakfast table, Aunt Philippa sat with the particular expression of a woman who had unpleasant truths to dispense and intended to dispense them thoroughly.
It was half past nine in the morning. Eliza had slept poorly, dreams she could not quite remember but that left her feeling flushed and unsettled, and had come down to breakfast hoping for nothing more demanding than toast and silence.
She should have known better.
“Must we?” she asked, setting down her cup with careful precision.
“We must.” Aunt Philippa was fifty-three, silver-haired, and possessed of the sort of aristocratic bone structure that made her handsome rather than pretty.
She had been widowed at thirty, had never remarried, and had spent the subsequent decades accumulating knowledge about London society the way other women accumulated jewellery.
There was very little that escaped her notice, and absolutely nothing that escaped her commentary.
“I observed you speaking with him last night. At some length.”
“It was only a few minutes.”
“A few minutes is an eternity when one is speaking with Hollowshade.” Aunt Philippa’s tone was clipped.
“More than enough time for him to determine whether he finds you interesting enough to pursue. And from the way he watched you for the remainder of the evening, I would say he has reached a conclusion.”
Eliza’s heart performed an inconvenient flutter. “He watched me?”
“Do not look pleased about it.”
“I am not pleased. I am merely… concerned.”
“You should be alarmed.” Aunt Philippa set down her own teacup with a decisive click.
“Eliza, I have known you since you were in leading strings. You are intelligent, sensible, and possessed of a moral compass that does you credit. But you are also innocent in ways that leave you vulnerable to men like Hollowshade.”
“Aunt.”
“Let me finish.” Philippa raised a hand.
“I am not speaking of innocence in the… physical sense, though that is certainly relevant. I am speaking of innocence in matters of the heart. You have been raised by parents who love each other. You have seen only the best of what marriage can be. You believe, I know you believe, that love is a transformative force. That the right woman can change a man. That wickedness is merely a mask concealing wounded goodness beneath.”
Eliza opened her mouth to protest and found, uncomfortably, that she could not. Her aunt had described her beliefs with mortifying accuracy.
“It is a beautiful philosophy,” Philippa continued, her voice softening slightly.
“And in many cases, it is even true. There are men who appear dissolute and are merely lonely. Men whose wildness conceals genuine hearts. Men who would, in fact, reform for the love of a good woman.” She paused. “Hollowshade is not one of them.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I can.” Philippa’s eyes held hers with uncomfortable intensity. “I knew his mother.”
The words landed in the quiet morning room with unexpected weight. Eliza found herself leaning forward slightly, drawn despite herself.
“His mother?”
“The late Duchess of Hollowshade. Eleanor Vane, before her marriage.” Philippa’s expression grew distant, touched with something that might have been pity.
“She was the diamond of her Season. Beautiful, charming, utterly captivating. The old duke was besotted with her, married her within three months of their first meeting, gave her everything she desired, worshipped the ground upon which she walked.”
“That sounds… romantic.”
“It was tragic.” Philippa’s voice was flat. “Because Eleanor Vane was a consummate performer. She played the role of devoted wife for seven years, bore a son and heir, maintained every appearance of domestic felicity. And then she simply… left.”
Eliza blinked. “Left?”
“She had been conducting an affair with the old duke’s closest friend.
A man named Thornwood, Baron Thornwood. When the duke discovered them together, Eleanor made no attempt at denial or repentance.
She simply announced that she had never loved her husband, had found marriage tedious, and intended to live abroad with her lover.
” Philippa’s mouth thinned. “She departed for Italy within the fortnight. The divorce was quiet, money can accomplish a great deal, but the scandal was… considerable.”
“And the duke?”
“Was destroyed. Utterly destroyed. I watched it happen, Eliza. Watched a strong, vital man collapse inward like a building with its foundations removed. He lived another fifteen years, but he was never the same. He barely spoke to his son, could not look at the boy without seeing Eleanor’s face.
He retreated from society, from friendship, from everything that might have helped him heal.
When he finally died, it was almost a mercy. ”
Eliza thought of grey eyes watching her across a ballroom. Of a voice touched with private amusement. Of a man who moved through the world as though nothing could reach him.
“William Bradworth saw all of this,” she said quietly.
“William was eight years old when his mother left.” Philippa’s voice held no satisfaction, only a grim sort of certainty.
“Eight years old when he learned that women perform love convincingly and leave anyway. Eight years old when his father stopped being able to look at him. He was raised by servants, educated by tutors, and shaped by the certain knowledge that emotional attachment destroys men.” She leaned forward.
“Do you understand now? He is not a rake who might reform. He is a man who has decided, with full consciousness and deliberate intent, never to allow himself to love. Because loving made his father weak. Because trusting made his father foolish. Because he watched his mother’s betrayal hollow out his family and resolved never to permit anyone that power over him. ”
The morning room felt suddenly cold. Eliza wrapped her hands around her teacup, seeking warmth that was not there.
“He seemed…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Not unkind.”
“He is not unkind. That is precisely the problem.” Philippa’s expression shifted to something approaching sympathy.
“Hollowshade is charming, intelligent, and genuinely engaging. He can make you feel as though you are the most fascinating woman in any room. He will listen to your opinions. He will value your mind. He will treat you with a consideration that many husbands do not show their wives.” She paused.
“And none of it will mean what you think it means.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He will make you feel special, Eliza. That is his gift, his curse, perhaps. He makes every woman feel special. But it is not because he cares for you. It is because he is skilled at reading what women want and providing it. He gives attention because attention keeps women willing. He gives consideration because consideration keeps women hoping. And when he grows bored, when the novelty fades, and you are no longer a puzzle he wishes to solve, he will withdraw that attention as easily as he bestowed it. And you will be left wondering what you did wrong, when the truth is you did nothing. You were simply… entertainment. A diversion. A pleasant way to pass the time until the next diversion appeared.”
Eliza’s throat felt tight. She thought of the way he had looked at her, that intensity, that focus, and wondered if she had imagined significance where there was only technique.
“He has left a trail of broken hearts,” Philippa continued.
“Not ruined women, he is too clever for that, too careful of his own reputation if not of theirs. But women who believed they were different. Women who thought they saw something genuine beneath the charm. Women who woke one morning to discover that the man who had seemed so captivated by them had simply… moved on. Without explanation. Without apology. Without any acknowledgement that what they had shared had meant anything at all.”
“Perhaps they expected too much.”
“Perhaps they did.” Philippa’s voice was gentle now.
“But that is the cruellest part, Eliza. He gives them reason to expect. He gives them hope. He makes them believe, and then he proves their belief foolish. And the shame of having been so wrong, of having seen love where there was only sport, that shame stays with a woman far longer than any scandal.”
Eliza stared at the tablecloth, its cream linen suddenly fascinating.
She did not want to hear this. She did not want to believe it.
The man she had spoken to last night, who had seemed genuinely startled by her frankness, who had held her hand for a breath longer than necessary and looked at her as though she mattered, that man had not seemed like a predator.
But then, predators rarely did.
“What would you have me do?” she asked finally.
“Avoid him.” Philippa’s answer was immediate.
“If he approaches you again, be polite but distant. Do not engage in extended conversation. Do not dance with him. Do not allow yourself to be alone with him under any circumstances. And most importantly…” She reached across the table and took Eliza’s hand.
“Do not allow yourself to believe you are different. Every woman he has pursued believed she was different. They were all wrong.”
Eliza looked at her aunt’s hand on hers, the elegant fingers, the rings that sparkled in the morning light, the grip that was firm without being unkind.
“And if I do not wish to avoid him?”
The question emerged before she could stop it, and she felt her cheeks flame with the admission it contained.