This time, neither drew back.
“You may have it,” she said, her hand lingering a moment longer on the jar than necessary.
“Not if you wanted it,” he replied.
“It is orange marmalade,” she said, as if that explained everything.
He smiled then allowed the silence to reclaim the table.
After several minutes, Eliza folded her paper, set it aside, and regarded him directly. “Do you intend to be in town for the rest of the season?”
He blinked. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you wish to be.” He meant it as a joke, but it landed flat.
She considered. “I have no opinion, so long as it is not in this house.”
He stared. “You dislike Wildmoore already?”
“I dislike the sense of being observed,” she said. “Here, I am a specimen. In town, I am merely another marchioness.”
He wondered whether that was humility, or strategy. “You would make a poor specimen,” he said. “Far too unpredictable.”
Eliza inclined her head. “Thank you.”
There was another pause, then the door opened and a footman entered with a fresh basket of toast.
He set it on the table, retreated, and August was sure he caught a flash of amusement on the servant’s face.
He reached for a slice and found the best was already gone.
Eliza caught his eye, and this time, she did smile.
He could not help himself. “Try not to let the sugar win,” she said, gathering her paper.
He watched her leave, her steps unhurried, the blue dress cutting a clean line through the morning.
August sat back in his chair, chewing the end piece of toast.
He realized he was already plotting his next attack. More than that, he was, for the first time in months, actually anticipating tomorrow.
August stiffened as he set down his cup.What is the meaning of this?
He should nevereverlook forward to having breakfast with Eliza.
Six
“You are not meant to be here.”
Lady Hartwell had a way of making a declaration sound like a sentence, and Eliza had to smile as she stepped into the chilly morning room.
“Is there a law against it?” she asked. “Or have you simply decided to institute one for the occasion?”
“You are the Marchioness of Barrington. Surely, by now, the duties of the position have begun to crush the air from your lungs?” The Baroness set down her quill.
Eliza considered this, and the night she had spent sleeping like a fugitive in the unfamiliar hush of the ducal apartments. “Not yet,” she said, “but I am told the suffocation begins at luncheon.”