August’s silence was a smothering thing.
“Is she a friend?” Eliza pressed, not bothering to keep the edge from her voice.
His gaze cut to hers, gold eyes narrowed. “An acquaintance.”
“She certainly seemed comfortable using your Christian name,” Eliza said.
He smiled, a grim flex. “The ton is full of liberties taken where they oughtn’t be.”
Eliza considered. “Was she your mistress?”
August’s head snapped around, sharp as a blade. “I had thought you above such petty curiosity.”
“It is not curiosity,” Eliza replied. “It is... classification.”
He barked a short laugh. “Are you cataloging my sins already? We have been married less than a fortnight.”
She held her ground. “If it is to be a business arrangement, I would prefer to have an inventory.”
August’s expression flattened. “Then yes. She was once.”
“Recently?”
“Does it matter?”
She looked at him, really looked, and tried to match the callousness he wore so well. “I am deciding.”
He turned his head away, staring out at the shifting black of the city. “The past is not relevant to our arrangement,” he said.
“Do you still see her?” Eliza asked, surprised by how much the answer mattered.
He did not move, but she saw the knuckles of his hand whiten on the edge of the seat. “No,” he said, clipped and final.
Eliza nodded, but the knot inside her did not untangle.
“Our marriage may be one of convenience,” she said, “but I believe fidelity was implied.”
August looked at her now, not with anger but something she could not name. “I honor my commitments, Eliza. Whatever their nature.”
There was nothing left to say. The rest of the journey passed in a kind of suspended animation, each lost in a private theater of regret.
When the carriage drew up to Wildmoore Hall, the footman opened the door. August stepped out first then turned to offer her his hand. She accepted, her palm cold in his. His grip was impersonal, a stranger’s aid.
They crossed the threshold together, but their unity had evaporated. The house, always too large, now seemed built to echo their silences.
They walked the length of the entrance hall, neither speaking. At the bottom of the staircase, they stopped.
Eliza reached for the banister, prepared to climb without a word. But August’s voice caught her.
“Eliza—”
She paused, turning.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, shadows pooling at his boots. For a moment, the mask slipped. There was a crack, a thin fissure of uncertainty running through him.
He seemed about to say something—then thought better of it.
“Goodnight, Lady Barrington,” he said, the old confidence rebuilt in an instant.