She had challenged him. That was the thing of it. Every other person in his life—his sisters, his mother, theton, his servants—let him charm his way through. Let him smile and deflect and perform the version of himself that kept everyone comfortable.Eliza had never allowed it. She saw through the performance with those penetrating gray eyes and refused to pretend she did not.
You use humor the way other men use armor, August. It is effective, I grant you. But it must be exhausting.
She had said that to him one evening in the library, apropos of nothing, as though she had been thinking it for weeks and simply decided it was time he heard it. He had laughed—what else could he do?—and changed the subject.
But she had been right. She was always right about the things he least wanted to hear.
August sat at the head of the long table, staring at the empty chair on his right.
He had asked Denton, weeks ago, to set Eliza’s place beside him rather than at the far end of the table. A small gesture. The sort of thing a husband might do when he wanted his wife close enough for conversation. Close enough to pass the salt.
His hand moved toward the salt cellar before he registered what he was doing. His fingers had nearly closed around it when he stopped.
It was already beside his plate.
Eliza would have done the same thing. Not because it was her duty or because she was managing the household with professional competence but because she paid attention. Because she noticed the small things—the way he took his tea, the book he had been meaning to read, the tension in his shoulders after a long day—and responded without fanfare or expectation of gratitude.
She noticed him. Not the Duke. Not the title or the estate or the obligations that came with both.Him.
His hand hovered over the salt cellar for another breath. Then he withdrew it and placed it in his lap.
The roasted pheasant sat untouched on his plate. The potatoes cooled. The wine in his glass caught the candlelight, deep red and still.
He pushed back his chair and stood. The footman moved forward, but August waved him off.
“I find I am not hungry this evening.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
As August left the dining room, the sound of carriage wheels reached his ears. Eliza? He was sprinting into the front hall and opening the door himself before he could think better of it.
Instead of Eliza, his sister stood on the other side with her head cocked and an eyebrow raised.
April. Of course, it was she.
“What ever possessed you to open the door yourself?”
August straightened his waistcoat, ran a hand through his hair—which needed attention, he realized though he could not bring himself to care—and decided that he would be charming.
“I was simply eager to see you!”
“Oh, you must be very lonely, then.” She brushed past him into the hall then proceeded to the drawing room, leaving him no choice but to follow.
He would be easy and warm and perfectly himself, the way he always was with his sisters, and April would leave satisfied that all was well.
“April, you’re here in time for dinner. I was just?—”
“Where is Eliza?”
The question landed like a slap.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Where is Eliza?” April did not move, nor did she smile. Neither did she soften the demand with any pleasantries. “I called at Aunt Martha’s yesterday, and she said Eliza had been with her for three days.”
The air left his lungs.
“Did you see Eliza?” The words came out before he could stop them, raw and unguarded, stripped of every layer of charm he had intended to deploy.