Eliza considered arguing. Instead, she unfolded the latest letter and began.
My darling Eliza,
I would tell you that nothing here has changed, but that would be a lie worthy of scandal. Everything feels different without you.
I took the gray mare for a ride before breakfast. She behaved admirably but seemed as out-of-sorts as her rider. The air was bracing. The fields were empty. I would love nothing more than to ride with my wife through the meadows at dawn as I am told that is the fashionable thing among happily married couples. You see, I am attempting to be fashionable.
I miss you. Not in the way a man misses his favorite waistcoat or a cherished book but in the way one misses breathing after a long time underwater. I find I am terribly out of practice.
If you are inclined to come home, I will see that the cat is sent an invitation by formal post. If not, I will be forced to haunt your aunt’s doorstep in person which I assure you would be a grave embarrassment to us both.
Yours, in a manner more complete than I can express,
August
Eliza’s voice went unsteady on the last line, and she stopped. The room seemed to grow even more saturated with the scent of flowers, and for a moment, she could not breathe at all.
Lady Hartwell said nothing. She simply waited, hands folded, her gaze never wavering from Eliza’s face.
The silence stretched until Eliza set the letter aside. “He’s not very good at this,” she said, not quite managing a laugh.
“I disagree,” Lady Hartwell said crisply. “He is exceedingly good at it. Most men would simply send a bouquet and sign their name at the bottom. Your Duke appears determined to send his soul, one petal at a time.”
Eliza wanted to refute this, but the image was too apt.
She glanced around the room, at the untidy profusion of gifts and confessions, and felt her heart fray.He’s making a spectacle,and this is a ridiculous and beautiful siege.
“I should return,” she said, surprising herself. “It’s only a matter of time before he arrives in person. Or worse, sends a marching band.”
“Or a menagerie,” Lady Hartwell offered, “to go with the botanic gardens he’s already supplied.”
Eliza snorted then immediately sobered. She twisted her fingers together, uncertain. “I thought I would feel triumphant or atleast satisfied. But I just…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Lady Hartwell rose and crossed to her, cane tapping across the rug. She placed a hand on Eliza’s shoulder, uncharacteristically gentle. “You love him.”
Eliza managed a watery smile. “I do not even like him half the time.”
“Love and like are rarely close relations,” Lady Hartwell replied. “You will discover that for yourself, given time.”
Eliza studied the letter again. She missed his careless handwriting, his sarcasm, the way he played melancholy music when he thought no one listened. She missed the man who made her tea exactly as she preferred it and who encouraged her to win ridiculous wooden ducks at village fairs.
She missed August. Not the Duke of Wildmoore, not the solution to her problems. Just August.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stood. “Will you send for the carriage?”
“Only if you promise to take the cat,” Lady Hartwell said. “I do not care to see it courted any further.”
Eliza laughed, and the sound came out lighter than she expected. “I promise.”
The next morning dawned bright and sharp. Eliza dressed in her most severe traveling dress, as armor against the uncertainty of what came next. She pressed the newest letter to her chest for a moment before tucking it into her reticule.
As she climbed into the carriage, Lady Hartwell handed her a parcel through the window. “From Wildmoore,” she said.
Eliza opened it to find a tiny posy of violets and a card on which was scrawled in August’s hand:Please come home.
Eliza smiled at the absurdity. At the hope. At herself for wanting both.
She leaned back against the seat and let the carriage carry her forward, not because duty required it but because her heart did.