“On the contrary,” he replied, “I am only grateful to be interesting, if only for a single morning.”
Eliza considered. “You are not boring. Merely… obvious.”
That startled a laugh from him. “Obvious? My tailor would be devastated.”
“You are a man who has spent a lifetime being watched,” she said. “You know how to be seen but not how to be looked at.”
He leaned forward, elbows braced on knees, suddenly and acutely present. “And how does one learn such a skill, Miss Hartwell?”
“By being invisible,” she answered.
The smile faded, replaced by shrewd curiosity. “I will have to try it someday.”
The silence stretched, not awkward but almost companionable.
Eliza folded her hands in her lap, careful not to crush the gloves. “I will not pretend to be overcome with gratitude or joy,” she said. “If we are to be married, let it be with clarity if nothing else.”
He nodded. “No charades, then.”
“Not between us.”
August’s eyes held hers for a moment, neither warm nor cold. “That suits me very well,” he agreed.
The carriage jostled over a rut. She nearly lost her composure, but August’s hand shot out to steady her—instinctive and uncalculated.
“Careful,” he said, not letting go until she was entirely upright.
She withdrew her arm. “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “It would not do for the new marchioness to enter her home with a fractured skull.”
Eliza looked out the window. The city was already behind them; trees and pastures blurred by, interrupted only by the slow march of boundary stones.
“Why do you stay at Wildmoore Hall?” she asked.
He inclined his head. “I prefer the country, while Father prefers to stay in Town where he can summon his daughters whenever he wishes. Besides, Wildmoore Hall is only an hour away from Town.”
“And your mother?” Eliza pressed.
“She loves London, and that is another reason my father favors Wildmoore House to the manor in the country.”
After another mile of silence, August cleared his throat. “We are nearly there.”
He pointed out the window as they crested a low hill. Wildmoore Hall sprawled in the shallow valley beyond, its red brick and gray stone wings balanced like arms folded in confidence. The house was more fortress than manor, its gardens manicured but not showy. A pair of peacocks strutted along the drive, as if to remind visitors of their own inadequacy.
Eliza allowed herself a moment to assess: the house was beautiful, imposing, but not cold. It reminded her of the Hartwell estate before it had been sold, before her life had become a succession of borrowed roofs.
August studied her profile as the carriage descended the drive. “Well?”
“I suppose it will do,” she said, careful to keep her voice level.
He smirked. “I will have the servants try harder.”
The carriage stopped. Outside, the household was arrayed in a perfect line: butler, housekeeper, senior maids, and footmen, every one of them starched and upright.
August descended first then turned to offer his hand. Eliza accepted, letting him guide her down the steps. The gravel crunched beneath her shoes.
He did not drop her hand until the butler stepped forward. “Denton,” he said, “welcome the Marchioness of Barrington.”