“Aunt Mabel,” Eliza said again, louder. Her aunt stirred and blinked rheumy gray eyes. Eliza smiled kindly. “Shall we retire for the evening? You seem tired, and the day has been a long one.”
“Oh, no, my dear, I wouldn’t hear of it!” Aunt Mabel protested sweetly. “You needn’t ruin a lovely evening seeing to the needs of a crotchety old lady. Stay. Enjoy the music with Riya. I am perfectly capable of seeing myself upstairs, where my maid will attend me.”
Eliza leaned in to kiss her aunt’s cheek. It was as velvety soft and frail as old parchment paper. “I do not mind, dearest aunt. You know I adore your crotchetiness.”
“Humph,” Aunt Mabel replied, and Riya laughed. There was no one less crotchety than Aunt Mabel.
She was, however, a truly terrible chaperone, as evidenced by her willingness to leave her charges to their own devices at a house party.
Fortunately, Eliza was entirely up to the task of self-governance. She was not a naive young miss, eager to experience her first stolen kiss with a lord of ill-repute. If part of her acknowledged wistfully that there might be some fun to be had in throwing caution to the wind and send her good sense tumbling after, well, what of it? She would never allow herself to be so reckless. She would be a perfect lady, her behavior above reproach, whether Aunt Mabel was there to witness it or not.
She had far, far too much to lose.
But at that exact moment, Lady Jane looked at Wessex with limpid eyes that suggested she, at least, felt quite the opposite.
Eliza went still as stone.
It did not feel like jealousy. It was not painful. She did not hate Lady Jane, nor did she desire to fly at her with nails bared, the better to scratch those pretty blue eyes out of her head. It was only…a queer sort of sadness, that settled with weary heaviness on her limbs.
“Excuse me,” she whispered.
And made her escape.
Chapter Thirteen
“You were magnificent.” Sebastian caught Lady Jane’s hand in his and bowed his head, brushing her gloved knuckles lightly with his lips.
Lady Jane’s smile was serene. “Thank you, Your Grace. I was very grateful to have such an appreciative audience. It is balm to my soul, to sing to a lover of music such as yourself.”
He paused. Certainly he appreciated music. A beautiful voice, the harmonious glide of a bow, a reel that made one’s feet itch to dance. But did he love it? It often seemed to him that musicales should be limited to a quarter hour and no more. After that, it became tedious to sit so still without conversation. For that was what he truly loved—to banter, to laugh, to enjoy and be enjoyed in return.
It occurred to him that as the husband of Lady Jane, he might find himself constantly an audience and rarely a participant. That sounded…dull.
Perhaps he would be forgiven if he did not attend all her musical endeavors. And perhaps there would be moments where she preferred to engage her husband in conversation or a waltz, rather than rivet an audience.
Perhaps.
A flash of white and blue caught the periphery of his vision and, like a hound scenting prey, he swiveled his head to follow the movement. She was moving slowly but with determination, smiling at this lady or that lord, but not allowing any to halt her progress.
“You must speak to Lady Abigail and convince her to play for us, otherwise she might be reluctant to follow your incredible performance. What luck—here she is now.” He lifted his hand. “Lady Abigail, we were just speaking of you.”
“Oh?” Lady Abigail beamed at one, then the other. “But the whole room is talking of nothing but you, Lady Jane. Such a lovely voice you have!”
“You are just as lovely at the pianoforte. You simply must play for us, Lady Abigail.”
A swirl of blue beckoned from across the room before it disappeared around a corner.
“Excuse me,” he murmured. He did not wait for their reply before he gave chase.
There was no trace of her in the hallway. He hesitated. Had Miss Benton returned to her room? But no, she hadn’t taken her maid with her. Wherever she had gotten to, she intended to return shortly. This was not unusual for her. Miss Benton often sought a moment of solitude at parties. How many times had he watched her slip from a room, stealthy as a cat, to steal a quiet breath on the terrace or the library?
It was November. And she hadn’t her cloak.
He turned in the direction of the library.
He found her there, her hands clasped behind her back, contemplating the shelf in front of her. She did not turn at the sound of his footfall, but there was a straightness to her spine, an alertness in the tilt of her chin, that gave the game away. She was not unaware of his presence; she was simply ignoring it.
“Are you angry with me, Sigrid?”
She did not move. “Why would I be angry with you, Your Grace?”
This gave him pause. They had not spoken since they’d parted in the orchard. Their last words had not been angry, and yet he felt uneasy, as though they had quarreled. He had certainly given her reason to esteem him less, although that mattered little, as she had never held him in high regard to begin with. She had always believed him to be a vain, frivolous man, and since he was in fact exactly so, he had done his utmost to assure her of her correctness in this.
Still. This felt different, somehow.
She had lost both her mother and stepmother in a terrible way, and feared that she would join them. Such a hard burden for anyone to bear. He wanted to comfort her, though her loss was no longer fresh.
“I cannot think of anything I have done to anger you.” He considered his words. It was possible they were not strictly true. “Of late.”
“No? Well, there you have it, then. I must not be angry.”
“Then why do I feel the need to apologize?” he complained. “That is very unjust. The words hover here at the tip of my tongue, ready to launch themselves to your ears. My knees want nothing more than to buckle so that I may kneel humbly at your feet.” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t deserve this.”
“I shall leave that question to your conscience.”
Hmm. It was a ridiculous speech, just the sort of thing that could reliably earn him a small smile from her, but she seemed unmoved by his efforts. He eyed her speculatively. There was no telltale twitch of her lips, no sudden pinkness in her cheeks. Had he failed to amuse her?
Disquieting thought.
He watched her for a moment, unsettled. She was clearly not amused, but neither did she appear angry. She gazed up at the shelves of books from beneath the dark sweep of her lashes, seemingly unconcerned. And yet there was a droop to both her shoulders and her heart-shaped mouth that made something ache deep beneath his ribs. He pressed a hand to his waistcoat pocket, until the button there bit into his gloved palm, but the ache did not ease.
“I have something for you,” he said abruptly. “Wait a moment.”
He strode to the Chesterfield, where he on occasion enjoyed an evening of brandy and reading by the fire, and plucked a book from the rosewood side table. A lovely thing, the book, with an image of a mischievous lady and the title in gilded letters. “For you.”
She stared silently at the book in her hands, her brows knit together. A gentle flush stained her cheeks.
He waited until he could bear it no longer. When it became clear that she had no intention of speaking herself, he said, “Have you read it already? Everyone has, it seems. Lady Anonymous is all the crack.” He moved to take it back but she twisted away and held it out of his reach.
“Why did you give me this?” she asked.
Her voice was strange; he could not make her out at all. The question itself was likewise baffling. “You like books. I thought you might like to avail yourself of my library.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “But why this book in particular?”
“I thought you wo
uld like it.” He touched his pocket again, an itch he couldn’t help but scratch. “I read it and I thought of you. Quite continuously, in fact. Oh, Miss Benton would laugh at that, I would think, or that sounds like something Miss Benton would say. More than any line or phrase I could single out, there was an overarching feeling to the whole thing that kept you constantly in my thoughts.”
Slowly, so slowly, she raised her eyes to his. Blue, blue, endlessly blue, like a twilight sky that swallowed the earth at dusk. How many men had claimed to lose their souls in those blue eyes? Not Sebastian. He knew one didn’t lose one’s soul in eyes like that; one found it.
He looked away.
“Did you like it? The book?” she asked.
Her question filled him with a sudden, inexplicable rage. Of all the useless, absurd questions! He would not legitimize such nonsense with a reply.
“Did I not just tell you it reminded me of you?” He resisted the urge to stamp his foot like a brat in the throes of a tantrum. “Of course I liked it.”
His mouth no longer took orders from his brain, it seemed.
“What was your favorite part?” She leaned toward him eagerly. “I fear the author has a tendency to wax eloquent when a subtle turn of phrase might be more impactful. Do you think that she—”
He gave her a cross look. “You know I find any discussion of the finer points of literature tedious. I won’t allow you to drag me into this.”
“But—”
“No, Miss Benton, I must stand firm on my principles. If I give you your way now, what will tomorrow bring? A judgment of Lady Caroline Lamb’s grasp of syntax? A Shakespeare play without the bawdy jokes? Not even for you, Miss Benton. Now, if you wish to theorize about which of our friends have found their likenesses within these pages, then I am at your service.”
“Hmm.” Her tone was reproving, but her smile reflected genuine pleasure. She traced the gilded lettering with a single finger, as though it were something precious. “Thank you for the book.”
His preposterous anger drained away as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving him suffused with a pleasant warmth. Whether the source of heat was his earlier wrath or the glow of Miss Benton’s smile was not a question he would tax himself with.
“You are welcome to it, and anything else that strikes your fancy. Consider my library yours for the duration of your stay.”
“Thank you,” she said again, sounding almost shy.
They were alone, he suddenly realized. As alone as a man and woman could be in a house with a dozen guests, any one of whom could walk through the open library door at any moment. Which was to say they were not merely alone, but dangerously alone.
He ought to leave her at once. Better still, she ought to leave and return to the parlor with the other guests, rather than risk another man—one less likely to care about her reputation than himself—happening upon her alone. He ought to say so, right now.
Yet his lips remained stubbornly closed.
To be fair—for Sebastian saw little worth in self-flagellation, and if he could not call himself blameless then he preferred at least to share the guilt—Miss Benton was every bit as aware of the situation as he, and though she was undoubtedly innocent, she was hardly naive. She could ask him to leave or excuse herself just as easily.
Yet, she likewise remained silent.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. This was how it happened, he thought almost wildly. Could a man really find himself a wife not by a decision to act, but because acting required a seemingly impossible decision?
“Oh, Miss Benton. Thank goodness. I seem to have gotten turned around. Will you accompany me back to the parlor? I fear I will become only more helplessly lost left on my own.”
It was only Miss Mukherjee—who had never once been lost in her life, he was certain. There would be no wagging tongues, no forced engagement, no speedy marriage.
A profound relief, and not at all disappointing.
Chapter Fourteen
Eliza had long considered that one of the more baffling consequences of having an extraordinarily pretty face was a perplexing sort of invisibility. Not her bodily facade, no, never that. But beneath her appearance, the soul of her, was naught but a blank canvas to be painted in whatever colors the viewer happened to choose. Men were inevitably charmed to discover she was the embodiment of all their desires, perfectly suited to their specific tastes in every way. Lord Falkland, a suitor during her first Season, declared she was as sweetly demure as a white rose. Captain Sanderson found her vivaciousness invigorating. Eliza thought the truth was somewhere in between, but no one gave her opinion much thought.
But with Wessex, she had always been nakedly, unbearably seen. He had stood before her, offering up a book—her book—calmly discussing how it captured her essence. And oh, how her soul had thrilled at the recognition even while she trembled in fear.
Damn the man and his ability to see right through her.
No, not through her. Into her. Which was somehow infinitely worse, and yet at the same time utterly wonderful. The feeling wrapped around her like a fur cloak, and for just a moment she allowed herself to curl into its warmth.
What would Wessex say if he knew that the reason the book seemed so very like her was, in fact, because it was her? Oh, he would love that. She ached to tell him, to unburden her secret to a sympathetic ear, to witness his shocked glee at the discovery. The duke was a very different sort of man from her own dear brother, and where Sir John despised scandal and unwomanly behavior, Wessex found only delight—particularly when the scandal was made by a woman, rather than thrust upon her.
Unless, of course, that scandalous woman was his wife. She had not forgotten his mandate that the future Duchess of Wessex be above reproach. But Eliza had no intention of being anyone’s wife, much less his, and it would be such a relief to tell a friend. The rapture of creation, the miserable self-doubt—she had kept both locked tightly in her breast, and now she felt they might burst from her like Pandora’s open box.
She had not even told Alice, for she was certain Alice kept nothing from her husband. She suspected Riya knew, but Eliza would not confirm her suspicions, for that would put Riya in the untenable position of lying to Sir John, upon whose hospitality she depended. She couldn’t do that to her friend. But Wessex held his own counsel exceedingly well and was beholden to no one but himself.
It would feel good to unburden herself to a friend. Was Wessex that friend? Could he be trusted to keep her confidence, even after his marriage?
She took the book with her when she retired for the night, laying it carefully on the small table next to the bed. She sat for a moment, pondering, before she blew out the candle and fell into a troubled sleep.
When she awoke—much later than her usual pre-dawn hour—the sunlight was streaming through the draperies with a vengeance, dispersing her uncertainties with the shadows of the night. Had she had too much wine with dinner? She would not be so rash as to share her secrets with Wessex merely because he made her feel understood. The matter warranted deeper consideration, but she would not forget that the wisest course of action was undoubtedly to say nothing until Hyacinth Cottage was safely hers.
Thus newly resolved, she went down to breakfast cheerfully. It was nearly ten o’clock when she entered the breakfast room, and most of the guests were present, although a few still remained upstairs. Wessex was seated next to Lady Jane. Eliza smiled at them both and wished them good morning. Lady Jane nodded serenely in return. She rarely smiled, Eliza realized, except after a performance, and then her smile was so bright as to replace the sun.
Still, Eliza did not think the lady was entirely without humor. At least, she hoped not, for the duke’s sake. It had been but a day, yet he already showed a preference for the lovely songbird. If things kept on as they had begun, they would be betrothed by Sunday. Really, Eliza was very pleased about it, and that odd tumb
ly feeling in her stomach was merely hunger.
Her own smile firmly intact, she turned to the long buffet table, heavily laden with good things to eat. She helped herself to coddled eggs, ham, and toast with marmalade before taking a seat next to Lady Freesia.
“Where is Lady Abingdon?” she asked. “It is not like her to miss the morning.” Riya and Adelaide had likely only just awoken and would take another half an hour before they came downstairs, as both preferred long nights to early mornings. But Alice awoke with the sun, and Eliza had been looking forward to spending the morning with her friend.
“Oh, she breakfasted an hour ago with my brother. They went off for a morning ride just before you came down. I expect they will be back in an hour,” Lady Freesia told her.
Eliza swallowed her disappointment along with a spoonful of coddled egg, which wasn’t hard to do when the eggs were so wonderfully creamy. They were her favorite, and it was one of Wessex’s more endearing traits that he always insisted on the very best food being served. It was very hard to feel sorry for oneself when the marmalade was divine, the tea was hot, and the sun was shining.
“The day promises to be a fine one,” Lady Freesia remarked as she cut her ham into neat bites. “You have such a lovely park, Duke. A round or two of archery would be an entirely pleasant way to spend the morning, don’t you think?”
“Just as you wish. I should never refuse you an opportunity to demonstrate your skill, though my pride will suffer as a result.”
“I have no doubt that your prowess with a bow is unmatched, Your Grace,” Lord Devand protested. “Although you will have your work cut out for you, for I am called accomplished myself.”
Wessex gave him a bored look. “Archery holds little interest for me. Chess is my game, though I find it difficult to meet a worthy opponent. It is very well and good that my heart does not lie with the bow and arrow, for Lady Freesia would surely break it.”
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