“And now, you believe it will not.”
“Now, I know it will not. How can it when he views me as a solution to a problem? A duchess-shaped piece that fit neatly into the space his father’s death left empty?”
“Did you confront him about what you overheard?”
Eliza turned from the window. Lady Hartwell watched her with that same unreadable expression.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because confronting him would have required admitting that his words had hurt her. That somewhere in the past months, she had stopped being the practical companion who understood the terms of their arrangement and had become a wife who wanted to be chosen. Not for her usefulness or her convenience or her ability to provide stability during a difficult time.
For herself.
“Because there was nothing to confront him about,” Eliza said. “He spoke the truth. Our marriage is practical. It did serve a purpose. Those are simply facts.”
“Facts.” Lady Hartwell’s mouth curved slightly. “You have always hidden behind facts when your feelings become inconvenient.”
“My feelings are irrelevant.”
“Are they? Because it seems to me that your feelings are the entire problem.” Lady Hartwell rose and crossed to where Eliza stood. “You are afraid.”
“I am not?—”
“You are terrified that you have fallen in love with a man who might not love you in return. So instead of asking him directly, instead of giving him the opportunity to prove your fears unfounded, you ran away.”
The words struck with the rigor of a blade between ribs. Eliza wanted to argue, to deny, to construct some perfectly logical reason for her departure that had nothing to do with love or fear or the crushing weight of hoping for something that might never come.
“I did not run away,” she said. “I am visiting my aunt.”
“At dawn. Without telling your husband. With one valise.” Lady Hartwell placed her hand over Eliza’s where it rested on the windowsill. “My dear child, I know what running looks like. I did it myself once, many years ago.”
“You never told me that.”
“There are many things I have not told you. But I will tell you this: Lord Hartwell and I nearly did not marry because I was too proud and too frightened to admit that I wanted him. I convinced myself that he could not possibly want me as I was—sharp-tongued and opinionated and entirely too independent for a proper wife—so I pushed him away. Nearly lost him entirely.”
“What changed?”
“He cornered me at Lady Pemberton’s ball—ironically enough—and demanded to know why I was avoiding him. When I tried to deflect, he kissed me in front of half the ton and told me quite plainly that he did not give a damn about propriety or proper wives. He wanted me, exactly as I was.”
“August is not Lord Hartwell.”
“No. But you are not me, either. You are braver than I was, Eliza. You survived things I cannot imagine. You built a life from nothing. You do not need to hide your heart away for fear it might be wounded.”
Eliza looked down at their joined hands. Lady Hartwell’s fingers were warm, anchoring her when everything else felt unmoored.
“What if I tell him the truth, and he does not feel the same?” The question came out small, barely more than a whisper. “What if the marriage remains exactly what it has always been—an arrangement? A convenience?”
“Then at least you will know. And knowing, however painful, is better than this endless wondering.” Lady Hartwell squeezed her hand. “But I do not think that is what you will discover.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I know your husband came to see me before your wedding. Did I ever tell you that?”
Eliza’s head came up. “No.”
“He wanted my blessing. Said he knew the circumstances were unusual but that he would do everything in his power to ensure you were well cared for.” Lady Hartwell smiled. “And then he asked me about you. What you liked to read. What made youlaugh. Whether you preferred morning walks or evening ones. He took notes, Eliza. In a little leather book he carried in his pocket.”