Falling for a Duke (Timeless Regency Collection Book 8)

by Rebecca Connolly

  “I shall take it into consideration when you deign to answer mine.” Eliza was proud that her voice didn’t tremble. “Why are you here?”

  Another twirl. And then he passed her off to another gentleman. Two. Three. And back to Liam.

  He took her hands in promenade, his shoulder brushing hers. “I should think it obvious why I am here, Eliza.” His voice softer now, words a breath in her ear.

  She turned her head, daring to meet his eyes again—blue pools under a midnight sky, gentler than they had been before. Beseeching.

  Oh. Perhaps her Liam lurked in there after all—

  No.

  She didn’t want to see her Liam in the Duke of Chawton.

  But . . .

  It was suddenly so very hard to remember why she should be angry with him. Why she should hate him so.

  It had always been like this with Liam. Being near him. Speaking with him. Teasing. Playing.

  It was home.

  But she had lost her home, figuratively and literally.

  And she could not forget—his hand had been the one to shatter it.

  Liam was quite sure he was living his own personal hell.

  He had anticipated Eliza perhaps being upset to see him, defensive of her chosen life or protective of her husband . . . anything but the obviously hurt and angry person hiding behind the frozen smile on her face.

  It didn’t add up.

  They promenaded around the room, every eye fixed upon them. She still refused to answer him.

  He bent to her ear, stating again. “You know why I am here, Eliza.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I sincerely cannot think why.”

  Now it was his turn to feel disgruntled.

  Fine.

  If she wanted to play out this little game, he would happily oblige her.

  “You married another,” he stated. “The name Robert Mail ring any bells with you?”

  “Sarcasm does not become you, Your Grace.”

  “Avoidance does not become you, my dear Mrs. Mail.”

  “I am not your dear anything, Your Grace.”

  She should have run him through with a bayonet. It would have hurt less.

  He would know.

  His chest heaved, and his eyes focused on a point on the wall opposite.

  Exist through the pain.

  A deep breath. Two.

  He led her to a stop, holding the promenade position while another group completed the dance forms.

  “I simply want to know why,” he said at last. “I must be a glutton for punishment, but there you are.”

  “Why?” Her tone asked for clarification.

  “Why marry? And then, once you were widowed, why did you not seek me out?”

  And why marry Robert Mail of all people?

  He chose not ask that question. Not yet, at any rate. He wasn’t quite sure the name meant what he thought it did. It could simply be a coincidence. It wasn’t that unusual of a name.

  “The Eliza I knew would not have behaved as you did five years ago.”

  She flinched.

  Silence.

  “That was beneath you, Your Grace,” she hissed through smiling, clenched teeth.

  Curse her for making him feel the heel. He was not the one at fault here.

  “Where did my Eliza go?” He had to ask it. “The one who was my best friend?”

  Her jaw stiffened. She appeared to be blinking back tears.

  After everything, the sight should not have tugged at his heart. He thought she had killed that tedious organ years ago. He most certainly did not need it rising from the grave now.

  “Why did you betray me, Eliza?” No. That wasn’t quite right. “Why did you betray us?”

  She let out a slow breath of air, her eyes blinking faster now.

  The music changed, and he swung her in a circle.

  “You were never this cruel.” She took the hand he offered, moving through the dance steps, plastering that polite smile on her lips.

  “You were never this fickle.”

  They danced the rest of the set in brittle, smiling silence.

  He walked her back to the edge of the floor where the vicar stood. All of Rothsbury, it seemed, waited with bated breath to see what he would do next. Gah, he hated this life. He hated feeling like a circus monkey on display.

  She curtsied, polite and proper. He bowed.

  “I will call on you tomorrow,” he murmured.

  Now that they had been introduced and he had danced with her, it shouldn’t appear too odd—simply a courtesy call from a man who found a local, respectable widow interesting.

  “I cannot think that would be a wise idea—”

  “That was not a request. We will finish this conversation, once and for all.”

  Seven Years Earlier

  Eliza stood on the ancient choir wall, desperate for any sight of him. How long would it take? Shouldn’t he have come by now?

  They both knew it was a desperate bid for hope, a final plea on his father’s deaf ears.

  They wanted to marry, to begin a life together in truth. But the old duke was adamantly against his heir marrying “that presumptuous Carter chit.”

  Liam had wanted to try one more time.

  At long last, she saw him, trudging up the path, his heart clearly leaden in his boots. The slump of his shoulders told her everything she needed to know. The look on his face. Such desolation.

  And still his eyes lit to see her. Her dearest, sweetest Liam.

  Jumping down from the wall, she ran to him. He opened his arms and swung her in a circle, his mouth finding hers with practiced ease.

  He tasted of tears and desperation and . . . goodbye.

  He set her down and clasped her face in his hands.

  “He has rejected us?” She had to ask it, though the answer appeared obvious.

  He nodded. “I do not care. We will marry. We simply must wait until I turn twenty-one in two years and reach my majority.”

  She sniffed. “All will be well, Liam. We can wait. We have time on our side. Uncle is in no hurry to marry me off, and we are both young yet. So we shall wait.”

  He swallowed.

  Oh, dear. There was more, something worse.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, pressing her face into his chest. His arms came around her. She inhaled the smell of him—soap and woodsmoke, leather and wool.

  Heavens how she loved him.

  “You can tell me,” she whispered. “I can bear it.”

  “H-he sends me away.” His words anguished.

  “Pardon?” Eliza pulled back.

  “My father has purchased a commission for me. I am to join General Fox’s forces in Gibraltar.”

  All the air whooshed from her in a rasping gust.

  “So far away?” she whispered.

  “If he could find a way to send me to Australia, he would.” He laughed. Short. Bitter. “And as I have not reached my majority, I am still legally his to command. He intends to separate us permanently, I fear.”

  She hugged him again. “No. I shall not allow it. We are meant for each other, you and I.”

  He nodded his agreement.

  “Come away with me,” he murmured against her hair.

  “What did you say?” She leaned back against his arms and fixed him with a puzzled look.

  “Marry me.” Desperation shone from his eyes. “We can leave for Gretna Green tonight. We can legally marry in Scotland without his permission—”

  “Liam, my love, we have discussed this over and over. The Church of England does not recognize such marriages—”

  “I do not care!”

  “But you will care when you are a duke and need to have a reputation and wife beyond reproach.”

  It was an odd role reversal for them. Usually he was the one discouraging her from making a rash decision.

  “But—”

  “No.” She placed a silencing finger on his lips. “We have decided to do this the right way.
An officer’s commission isn’t the worst thing. It will give us an income and a means of support when we do marry.”

  Silence.

  She snuggled back into his arms.

  “We shall simply wait, as I said.” Her voice muffled against his chest. “We will be affianced and plight our troth.”

  “Since when have you become so wise?” He sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Two years and I will be free of his control. I will send for you, and we shall never be apart again.”

  Time and patience. That was they needed to have.

  She relaxed against him, firmly telling her desperate heart that all would be well.

  Eliza woke in the morning, convinced that he would not come. Surely the Duke of Chawton had nothing more to say to her.

  She steadfastly refused to think of him as her Liam anymore. That man was long dead. Their dance the previous evening had shown her that. She mourned her Liam, just as she mourned her Robert. She probably always would.

  But she still dressed with care and breakfasted and then sat in her small parlor, mending a strip of torn lace. Her maid, Sally, was humming in the kitchen, braiding garlic for winter.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Eliza set down her mending and stood, a trembling hand at her waist. Sally’s footsteps tripped down the central hall.

  He had come! Now was the moment of truth.

  Mrs. Finchley’s loud voice rang down the entrance hallway.

  Oh! Or . . . not.

  How could Eliza have forgotten? Of course, every person within walking distance would want to hear all the details of her dance with His Grace. She was the only eligible woman he had danced with all evening. He had led the vicar’s wife, as well as Lady Foxly, to the dance floor. Would that he had danced with all five of the Miss Evanses and then swooned into Mrs. Young’s arms.

  Anything to take the notoriety from herself.

  Mrs. Finchley bustled into Eliza’s small parlor.

  “Mrs. Mail, you have represented us all so well.” The lady waggled a gloved finger at Eliza. “His Grace was decidedly smitten, I say.”

  Mrs. Young swept in behind her friend. “Nonsense, Mariah. You will fill Mrs. Mail’s head with expectations. His Grace was merely being polite to one of our own.”

  “Be that as it may, Beatrice Young, His Grace did not need to condescend to such a degree, and yet he chose to do so with our Mrs. Mail. And then to gaze at her with such intensity while they danced . . .”

  Eliza invited the ladies to sit, motioning for Sally to bring them some tea.

  Five minutes later, another knock sounded. Her heart sped up. But no, it was just Mrs. Evans and three of her Miss Evanses.

  Several hours later, Eliza’s door knocker had been thoroughly tested, and each teacup in her house had been used, washed, and reused. She was quite sure every person who lived in a three-mile radius had stopped by to analyze and gossip over the events of the previous evening.

  She shut the door behind her last guest and rested her head against the cool wood.

  The Duke of Chawton had not called.

  She refused to feel disappointment.

  Her Liam would have kept his word to come.

  Duke Liam? Well, he was a stranger to her. Who knew if he kept his promises?

  She needed a walk. Fresh air. Who was she to wait upon a lofty duke who may or may not call? And even if he did call, it would be only to heap ignominy upon her head—something she could very well do without, thank you very much.

  She fetched her pelisse and bonnet and grumbled to herself about the perfidy of men—with special consideration given to men of rank—as she laced her half-boots. Which meant she missed the sound of the door knocker.

  She descended the narrow staircase while tugging gloves onto her hands, not quite minding the way before her.

  She ran into something solid and large with an oof.

  Two strong hands grasped her uppers arms, steadying her.

  Bewildered, Eliza stepped back, only to look up into Liam’s shuttered blue eyes. His gaze darted to her pelisse and then back to the bonnet on her head, clearly understanding her intention.

  “Trying to escape me, then?” A mocking smile touched his lips. “Was it not enough that you kept your house full of neighbors until a mere hour ago?”

  Who was this hard, aloof man? She instantly retreated into formalities.

  “Your Grace.” She curtsied and fixed her eyes on his glossy Hessian boots.

  He sighed.

  “Is this your parlor?” He turned and peered through the doorway on the right.

  She nodded.

  “Let us air what is between us, and I shall never bother you again.” He motioned for her to pass into the room before him.

  Eliza swallowed back the raw, wet lump in her throat. She finally noticed her maid standing in the background, holding his hat, gloves, and walking stick. The poor girl looked on the verge of fainting.

  “Please bring us some tea, Sally,” she said.

  Eliza walked back into the small parlor, carefully removing the bonnet from her head and pulling the gloves off her hands.

  He stood before the fireplace, hands behind his back, slowly pivoting as he studied her space. It was not much of a room—a small settee and two chairs, a sideboard and tiny writing table. Humble, surely, when compared to the loftiness of his estates.

  She sat at the edge of the settee, folding her hands primly in her lap. She would not break the silence first.

  They stared at each other for a long moment.

  Part of her hated that he looked like her Liam, that she could still see shades of the nineteen-year-old boy in the haughty aristocrat before her. The same hair that had a tendency to poke out at inopportune moments, the same slightly crooked eyebrows. Unbidden, she noted that his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept well.

  “We used to talk for hours about nothing at all,” he murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “We were the best of friends.”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed again.

  “Are we to talk in monosyllables, then?” he asked.

  Eliza didn’t trust herself to speak. She shrugged instead.

  “I scarcely know you anymore,” he continued. “I was sincere when I asked yesterday evening—where did my Eliza go?”

  She looked down at her hands and took in a deep breath. “That girl is long gone. The events of five years ago made sure of that, Your Grace—”

  “Liam, Eliza. For heaven’s sake, call me Liam.”

  She made no reply.

  More silence.

  He looked out the back window with its view to St. Anne’s Church.

  “You said you would wait.” His voice low. “And then you didn’t.”

  Emotion flooded her, scouring in its force.

  “How dare you accuse me?” She nearly hissed the words. “I had no choice at that point.”

  “You had to marry?”

  “Yes! In some form or another.”

  “And so you chose this Robert Mail fellow?”

  “It seemed the only rational decision at the time.”

  It had. When faced with several choices, each worse than the last, moving to Rothsbury and becoming Robert Mail’s wife was the best solution.

  A knock at the door interrupted them. Sally entered carrying a tray with a freshly washed teapot, cups, and a plate of biscuits. The tray rattled in her hands as she set it on the sideboard before bobbing a curtsy and backing out the door, eyes darting rapidly between them, obviously memorizing every detail to recount later.

  Lovely. Everyone in Rothsbury would know about this visit before it was even concluded.

  Neither she nor Liam made a move to pour tea.

  Eliza swung her gaze back to him. He looked . . . weary. And sad—so very sad.

  And that, more than anything, was most heartrending of all.

  Liam turned away from Eliza, studying the uninspired landscape painting above
the fireplace mantel.

  It hurt too badly to stare into her chocolate-brown eyes.

  Even after everything that had transpired, he still loved her. He was honest with himself enough to admit that.

  He loved her and probably always would. But after today, he intended to be free of her.

  “Tell me about Robert Mail,” he finally said, rotating to face her. “The man sounds a tad familiar. He was killed at Talavera?”

  She said nothing. She neither denied nor confirmed it. Merely dropped her gaze to her hands.

  Ah, Eliza.

  That was the final evidence he needed. He wasn’t sure if this made everything better or infinitely worse.

  “So you decided that I was not good enough for you. You would not wait for me. But in practically the next breath, you married Robert Mail?”

  “Liam—”

  “Why prefer Robert Mail over Liam Trebor?” He was tapping his foot now. “Did you simply consider me too backward to be your husband?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. She clearly understood his meaning.

  “Robert Mail was not a stranger to me,” she said. “The man Liam Trebor became was.”

  He ignored the pang her words caused. “And yet I was still known enough to you that you have stolen all my exploits and claimed them for Robert’s own. Isn’t that what I understood from the vicar and Mrs. Finchley last evening?”

  She turned her head away from him.

  “Robert Mail was a foolish boy.” His words lashed out.

  She flinched.

  “Shall I tell you all about Robert Mail?” He was pacing now.

  She said nothing.

  Very well then. He would play this out.

  “Robert Mail was madly in love with his childhood friend—a beautiful, vibrant girl who lit his life with sunshine and happiness. He would have done anything for her. But Robert’s father vehemently opposed the match. The girl was too common for his son and heir. And so the old man forced poor Robert to join the military, shipping him off to a small corner of the world, far away from his sweetheart.”

  Liam paused. Eliza refused to meet his gaze. She wiped a tear from her cheek with shaking fingers.

  “Robert had plighted his troth to his love,” he continued. “They were prom—” He broke off, his throat closing tight. Deep breath. “They were promised to each other. It was a promise he intended to keep.”