“As you wish, My Lord.” Denton retreated as August walked past him, glancing up at the stairs and wondering if his bride was already asleep.
Married one day, and I have already abandoned her to cold roast and solitude. Brilliant.
He should have felt triumphant. He had done his duty, saved a reputation, kept his father’s heart, for the moment, inside the old man’s chest. Instead, he felt only the burden of the entire day squeeze his bones.
But she did not want me there any more than I wanted to be there. This is the arrangement we both agreed to—so why the guilt?
August rolled the thought between his hands, as if it might become smoother with wear. It did not. He finished the brandy in one sharp swallow, then mounted the stairs, two at a time, as if a brisk ascent could leave regret behind.
At the landing, he paused, letting his hand rest on the cool wood of the banister. For a moment, he considered seeking out her room. Saying something—anything—that would make him feel more human.
He stood there for a count of ten. Then he turned and made for his own chamber, refusing to look at the closed doors as he passed them.
Morning was not a time that encouraged self-deception, and August was in no mood to attempt it.
He descended the staircase and headed toward his favorite room. The breakfast room. He opened the door, bracing for solitude, and nearly tripped over his own feet.
Eliza was already installed at the table, wearing a deep blue dress, the sort of thing a merchant’s daughter might have chosen though it did nothing to disguise the sharp lines of her collarbone or the unexpected softness at her throat.
She was reading. The sheet of newsprint shielded her face, but he caught her profile—remarkable, now that he could observe it without the armor of social expectation.
She did not acknowledge his arrival, but he knew she had marked it. The arch of her brow over the top of the paper said as much.
August hovered in the threshold, unsure whether to apologize or simply retreat and try again tomorrow.
Eliza turned a page—delicately but with just enough force to make a point.
He advanced to the sideboard and busied himself with the tea things, trying not to notice the way her finger traced the edge of the newsprint as she read. The toast basket was already half-empty. He reached for it only to discover that the best slices were gone, their golden crusts replaced by a lonely, slightly burnt end.
He glanced up. Eliza lowered the paper by an inch, her eyes unblinking over the rim.
“Good morning, My Lord,” she said, her voice even.
He weighed his options. “Is it? I suppose that will depend on whether there is more bread.”
She considered. “There is a fresh loaf beneath the napkin. If you are not averse to effort.”
He lifted the cloth, found the bread, and applied the knife, uncertain whether he was meant to offer her a piece. “I see you have already conquered the breakfast room.”
“It was not difficult. The enemy failed to secure the perimeter.” She resumed reading then, with a nod, allowed him to sit.
August dropped into the chair opposite. For a moment, he simply watched her, trying to decipher whether she was performing for his benefit or simply being herself.
He reached for the preserves, only to have Eliza’s hand arrive at the same moment. Their fingers brushed; both recoiled as if the jam jar were hot coals.
“After you,” he said.
“I insist,” she replied.
He hesitated then surrendered the jar. “You are not what I expected,” he said, loading his voice with mock injury.
“That is a common refrain,” Eliza replied. She spread the jam with meticulous care, as if the act required all her focus.
He loaded his own toast with butter, refusing to be outdone in culinary excess. “I confess, I did not expect to see you before noon.”
Eliza sipped her tea, eyes never leaving the page. “I am accustomed to early mornings.”
“And to breakfasting alone?”