There it came.
Nauseating pain constricted his lungs and burned his throat.
“Did you not know Sergeant Mail then?” Mrs. Finchley’s voice penetrated the fog surrounding his mind.
“Sergeant Mail?” he managed to ask.
“Yes. Sergeant Robert Mail—”
“Heavens, Mrs. Finchley,” Eliza laughed, strained. Did she sound panicked? “I cannot imagine that His Grace would have had any dealings with my Robert.”
My Robert?
Liam clenched and unclenched his fist, desperate energy pulsing through him, eager for an outlet. She had loved him then . . . Sergeant Robert Mail? Loved him enough to cast off Liam forever?
How could she have been so faithless? How could she have changed so rapidly from the Eliza he knew?
Fortunately, the vicar spoke before Liam said something unforgivable. “Nonsense, Mrs. Mail. You do not give your dear husband enough credit. He may not have been a national hero like His Grace, but Sergeant Mail made a difference in his own way.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Finchley jumped in. “I still get gooseflesh when I think of the stories you tell of him. How Sergeant Mail beat off a French ambush by triggering a mudslide at great danger to himself.”
Liam blinked.
Wait? What had she just said?
“Please, Mrs. Finchley.” Eliza darted a glance in his direction. “His Grace cannot be interested in my late husband’s exploits.”
“You are far too modest, Mrs. Mail.” The vicar shook his head. “My only regret is that I was never able to meet Sergeant Mail myself. The tale of the time he strapped a wounded fellow soldier to his back and carried him three miles to a doctor . . .”
“And do not forget the orphans.” Mrs. Finchley nodded toward Liam. “Sergeant Mail was sent to escort a group of nuns and orphans to safety by leading them over a mountain pass through enemy territory. ’Twas a remarkable feat of courage and endurance. They said he didn’t sleep for five days straight.”
The chill started at the base of Liam’s neck and shot down his spine with lightning speed. He resisted a shiver.
Those stories sounded familiar. Could they possibly be describing who he thought they were? He contemplated it more. Looking at the entire scene forward and back, assessing from every angle.
Hmmm. Robert Mail, indeed.
Liam snagged Eliza’s gaze, forcing her to meet his eyes. She tried to hold her expression firm, but it wavered.
Yes. Something was afoot.
Just when he thought he understood the events of five years ago, the landscape changed. How could she have done this? What was her game?
The orchestra began the first strains of the next set, calling couples to take their places on the floor for a country-dance.
Five years of muddy trails and bloody battles, oceans sailed and miles traveled—all to reach this moment.
Eliza Carter Mail had some explaining to do.
He bowed again. “Mrs. Mail, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
Nine Years Earlier
He paced before the ancient wall, back and forth.
The autumn weather had turned chilly, bringing the promise of frost overnight. Clouds raced across the sky, dappling the landscape.
Liam looked down the path. Why did she not come? He was quite desperate to see her.
He knew things had been difficult since her aunt’s death at the beginning of summer. Her uncle leaned on her more, and at just fifteen, Eliza had shouldered the burden of caring for the entire Carter household.
A rogue ray of sunlight sneaked past the clouds, illuminating the path through the ruins.
And on cue, Eliza appeared in the column of light. As was typical, her bonnet dangled in one hand, her hair escaping its pins to riot around her face. She had only started wearing her hair up recently, and Liam wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it.
He watched her clamber over a low wall, her head down, eyes fixed upon her feet. Finally, she lifted her gaze and noticed him standing there.
It was like the sun breaking through again. Delight and happiness suffused her face. She waved her bonnetted hand exuberantly in greeting.
He waved his hat back. He was smiling just as hugely as she. Studying her figure as she approached, he marveled that another human being could be such a source of happiness for him.
Was that how love worked?
Oh!
He looked at her again. Really looked for the first time in . . . ever.
He had thought her sudden maturity related to her aunt’s death, and perhaps it was. But at seventeen himself, he realized that she might just be growing up. As was he.
And suddenly everything changed.
As she drew nearer, he saw not his oldest friend, Eliza, but the beautiful, vivacious woman she was becoming. He saw the lovely girl the village boys crowded around after the vicar’s Sunday sermon, the youths awkward and stammering instead of teasing.
And . . . Liam loved her.
Well, of course he loved her. She was his best friend. No one else was dearer to him, but it was more than just the love of a friend.
He was in love with her—as a man loves a woman.
“I am so glad you came,” she laughed breathlessly, coming to a stop before him. “I feared I should never escape the cook and our footman. They have been at loggerheads for the last day over who has the task of drying the last of the herbs—”
She stopped mid-sentence and tilted her head to the side, brows drawn down.
“Are you quite all right, Liam?” she asked. “Your expression has gone all crooked.”
He had a thousand emotions coursing through him and no idea how to express them. Did she love him, too? As more than a friend?
How could he ask her?
It felt odd to experience a shattering truth and be reluctant to share it with her. They never had any barriers between them.
He held out his arms as an expression of baffled confusion.
She misunderstood.
Eliza dropped her bonnet and closed the two steps between them, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his cravat.
Well.
He had not been anticipating that. But now that it had happened . . .
He gathered her close, marveling at how small she was. Her personality was always larger than life, and so he simply assumed she was, too.
But here was proof she was not. Petite, she fit perfectly against him, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. He could feel her small hands pressed into the center of his back. Instinctively, he pressed his lips to her hair and then rested his cheek atop her head.
She hugged him on occasion. But never like this. Not a long embrace of comfort and support. Liam could see himself spending hours every day merely holding her.
It flooded him then. Wave after emotional wave.
He loved her.
He adored her.
He never wanted to be parted from her.
“Liam,” she said, her voice muffled against his neckcloth. “Are you all right? I think you are shaking.” She lifted her head, craning her neck up to meet his gaze.
He didn’t release her. And she didn’t let him go.
“Twenty-one?” she asked.
It was their code.
Vingt-et-un.
Give me a truth, and I will give you one in return.
Sometimes they played with cards, but nowadays it was simply easier to ask.
He never lied to her. But . . . if she asked for his newly understood revelation . . . he would have to lie.
He did not think she was ready for this truth yet.
Perhaps she wouldn’t ask it of him.
So he replied, “Twenty-one.”
“What has you so upset that you are shaking?” she asked.
Blast.
That had been a little too predictable, he supposed.
Well, you see, Eliza. I suddenly realized that I am madly in love with you and want nothing more
than to marry you someday and keep you with me always—
No. That would not do. And so, for the first time, he lied to her.
“My father will not relent,” he said. Which was also true and the reason he had wanted to speak with her today.
She deflated. Did she know he was not being truthful? “I am so sorry for it, Liam. I know how badly you want to attend Oxford.”
“Yes.” He managed a wan smile. “I often think he opposes me simply because he can. What does it matter to him if I attend Oxford? But he wishes to control my every move to prove that he is yet my master.”
“What else would he have you do? Nothing?” Anger filled her voice, anger for him and his thwarted dreams.
Liam snorted. “Probably. He said he didn’t want a rusticating scholar as a son. He would prefer me to be a high-flying Corinthian, a man’s man who cuts a dashing figure through London.”
“Like Nicholas?”
Yes. Exactly like Nicholas. “Such a man is the antithesis of myself.”
His father had recently censured Liam for speaking with Eliza after encountering her in the village. The duke’s gaze had turned thunderous during the carriage ride home, his voice scathing. “The lower classes are only good for providing us with money or entertainment. She does neither.”
Liam wanted to pummel something every time he relived the memory.
“Four years,” she said.
“Four years,” he agreed.
That was how long he had left.
Four years until he turned twenty-one and reached the age of majority.
Four years until his father—the powerful Duke of Chawton—could no longer legally control his decisions.
Four years until his sire’s opinions no longer mattered.
Granted, his father held his purse strings and could pauper him, but Liam was less concerned about that. As the heir to a dukedom, credit would likely always be within his reach. He would find a way. He was desperate to be his own man.
Everything revolved around twenty-one, it seemed.
“Your turn.” She squeezed her arms around his waist. “Ask me for a truth.”
Several bounced around his brain. What do you see yourself doing when you turn twenty-one? Would you be inclined to marry me?
But she licked her lips after she spoke, and that small action drew all his attention.
He stared at her mouth. Every other thought scattered.
“Have you ever been kissed?” he asked.
She blushed. Vibrant. Scarlet. She did not, however, release him.
She shook her head. “No. You know I haven’t, Liam. I would certainly have told you if I had.”
Yes. Because they were friends.
“Twenty-one?” she asked again.
He nodded.
She looked at his mouth.
“Do you want to kiss me, Liam?”
His throat was utterly dry. He didn’t trust himself to speak, and so he nodded again.
She smiled. A smile that was at once triumphant and nervous and excited and so very Eliza.
He swallowed, suddenly terrified.
What if he did this wrong? What if she didn’t like it? What if—
“I fear you are thinking too much again, Liam.” Her tone gentle.
She slipped a hand from around his waist and cupped his cheek, her small palm warm on his face. Was she trembling? Was he?
He bent down. She popped onto her tiptoes.
Their lips met in the middle.
Soft. Gentle.
Nothing more than the smallest brush of sensation.
Heaven.
It was over far too quickly.
She pulled back, that brilliant smile still in place.
“Twenty-one?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Do you want to kiss again?”
She didn’t answer.
She simply reached for him.
Eliza was quite sure she was going to wake from this nightmare.
Any moment now, she would blink and sit up in her bed, heart pounding. And she would feel relief that this was simply a dream.
Duke Liam was not here. This could not be happening.
But, no, it was her hand currently tucked into Duke Liam’s elbow, and it was her legs that walked beside him onto the dance floor.
She swallowed something painful and acrid in the back of her throat.
Had he come to disgrace her further? Was that his game?
Her Liam would never be this cruel.
But this man, the Duke of Chawton, was unknown to her. No matter that she saw flashes of her Liam in his blue eyes.
He led her to his place in line and then took his place opposite her as Lady Foxly called the dance steps.
The worst of it?
This would be their first dance together. His father had never let his heir mingle with the lower classes in something so gauche as a local assembly room ball. All those years as best friends and they had never courted, never behaved as a couple might.
Finally, the buzz and hum of the ballroom intruded, pushing through her thoughts.
Every head, every eye . . . was trained on them.
Neighbors whispered with neighbors, heads leaning in, talking behind fans. It appeared Mrs. Finchley had finally succumbed to her nervous excitement, swooning in a faint. Mrs. Young and several other ladies waved smelling salts under Mrs. Finchley’s nose while simultaneously darting glances at Eliza and the duke.
Oh, dear.
How was Eliza ever going to explain why he had singled her out to her overly curious neighbors?
She wanted to weep her frustration. Or, better yet, pound her fists on one rather ducal chest—
For his part, Liam seemed inured to the hubbub he caused. Probably used to it, curse him. He drilled her with his blue eyes.
It was too much.
Eliza swept her gaze past him, finally noting the man standing to his left.
Nicholas.
Her cousin smiled at her—a typical Nicholas smile that promised mischief and torment and a devil-may-care attitude.
Oh!
It had been annoying at age nine. At age twenty-four, it was downright diabolical.
Her brows came down. She shot him a look that spoke of retribution. Once she got him alone . . . and found a fire poker to beat him with . . . and had arranged an alibi—
Her eyes stung. She wasn’t strong enough for this. She could not bravado her way through it.
The music began. Eliza curtsied to Liam. He bowed in return. Elegant. Refined.
They met in the middle, joining hands and walking in a circle, performing their steps.
She could feel his eyes on her. And still she said nothing. How could she speak past the lump in her throat?
Besides, so many little things intruded.
For example, had Liam always been this large? In her memory, he was tall but not so . . . big. She could see the flex and retreat of the muscles in his upper arm as they danced. And he smelled divine. Expensive sandalwood, she supposed. Very ducal. She forced herself not to gulp in greedy breaths of him.
Instead, she focused on his pristine neckcloth with its absurdly large diamond stickpin. Robert would never have worn such a thing, even if he had owned one.
More to the point, her Liam would scorn to wear such a thing. But apparently Duke Liam liked diamonds—
“Smile for heaven’s sake, Eliza,” he murmured. “I would hate for people to think I am being disagreeable to you.”
Without thinking, she lifted her eyes to his.
Gracious.
That was a mistake.
He gazed down on her with a pleasant smile and eyes completely devoid of emotion. Dead eyes. Shuttered and closed. Revealing nothing.
She smiled a wooden, pathetic thing, matching his aloofness.
“Is dancing with me such a chore?” he asked.
Was that amusement in his tone? Bitterness? Or was she simply projecting onto him her own emotions?
No matter. She was not interested in being a mouse to his cat.
“Why are you here, Your Grace? I take it Nicholas led you to me, for some reason?”
Was it her imagination, or did his jaw tighten at her polite form of address?
“I might ask the same thing of you, Mrs. Mail?” he replied with equal formality. “Why Rothsbury, I wonder?”
Because it was about as far away from Yorkshire as I could go and still remain on the Isle of Great Britain.
That was her truth, but she did not offer it to him. He was not the man she gave truths to anymore.
She was spared having to answer him, as the dance separated them. Eliza turned and found herself facing Nicholas. She kept the same brittle smile on her face.
“Enjoying yourself this evening, Mr. Carter?” she asked. Her words aimed for politeness but landed closer to sarcasm.
Nicholas took her hand, leading her through another series of steps
“I am, actually,” he replied, his expression as pleasant and untroubled as ever.
That was the problem with Nicholas. He was always up for a lark, regardless of the consequences—horse racing, gambling, fisticuffs. Quite simply, Nicholas had a strong aversion to any and all responsibility. He wasn’t heartless, per se. He could be genuinely affectionate and warm. He was merely indiscriminate with those emotions and therefore carelessly hurt others without thought or remorse.
She expected this behavior from Nicholas, but not from Liam. Not her Liam, in any case.
Who knew what Duke Liam thought?
“I am glad to see that my suffering this evening is serving some purpose, then.” Harsh words spoken through stiff, smiling lips.
“Pardon.” Nicholas leaned toward her, all solicitous concern, as if she had asked him about the weather and he wished to give her a courteous reply.
“Did you and His Grace tire of the pleasures of London and decide to hie yourselves into the country to sport with me?”
To his credit, Nicholas did flinch at that.
Good. Maybe something would get through to him.
The dance separated them, passing her back to Liam. He held her hands, spinning her slowly around, gaze unnervingly focused. She wanted to remain chilly and aloof, unbending to his will.
But she had missed him so much.
And he danced so well. Curse him.
“You will not answer my question, then?” he continued, picking up the thread of their conversation. “Why Rothsbury?”
Falling for a Duke (Timeless Regency Collection Book 8) Page 12
