“My Lord,” she said, with a curtsy so quick it was almost unkind. “You have returned.”
Mrs. Finch echoed the greeting, bobbed, and made a rapid exit with the pretense of urgent curtain inspection in the next room.
August stepped inside, affecting the confidence he no longer felt. “I see you are reorganizing the household already.”
“Not reorganizing,” Eliza said. “Merely attempting to prevent mildew. I assure you, any changes are entirely superficial.”
He set his hat on the table and regarded her. The silence felt like the first seconds of a duel—neither participant eager to fire but neither willing to look away. He realized, belatedly, that he still wore his gloves and stripped them off.
“How was London?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Full of people who miss nothing about me except my absence.” It was a poor attempt at banter, and he saw her eyes dip for just a second, the closest she ever came to rolling them.
“I imagine they will survive the deprivation,” she said.
He smiled. “Their resilience is legendary.”
A beat of silence. He wanted to fill it, but she did not offer an opening. He found himself searching for an excuse to keep her in the room.
“I am told the south gardens are looking their best,” he said. “Would you care to see them?”
She blinked, clearly surprised. “Now?”
“Unless you are otherwise engaged.”
She shook her head. “I am at your disposal, My Lord.” She said it with a sweetness that suggested nothing was further from the truth.
He offered his arm, and after a fractional hesitation, she took it. A moment later, they emerged into the brightness of the garden, the sun hovering just above the tree line, the air sweet with new blooms. A long border of peonies lined the gravel path, their heads bowed with the weight of their own perfection.
For several paces, neither spoke.
It was August who broke the silence. “I hope the staff has made you comfortable. I know the house can be… imposing.”
Eliza watched a bee nosing into a blossom. “They have been exemplary. I find Mrs. Finch especially agreeable.”
“She has kept this house in order since I was a boy,” August said. “She once threatened to beat me with a feather duster if I tracked mud through her parlor.”
“She does not seem the violent sort.”
He grinned. “Only if you stay on her good side.”
She nearly smiled at that, the edges of her mouth relaxing before she caught herself.
They walked a little further, the crunch of gravel underfoot an anchor against the awkwardness.
August studied her profile. “Do you like it here?” He heard the nakedness in his own voice and quickly corrected, “London’t countryside, I mean.”
She was silent for a long moment. “I do,” she said. “I like the sense of being necessary. In town, no one needs a marchioness for more than spectacle.”
He felt a stab of understanding. “Spectacle is overrated.”
She regarded him, the gray of her eyes cool. “You are very good at it.”
He inclined his head. “We all have our gifts.”
This time she smiled, a real one if only for a second.
At a curve in the path, the garden opened into a round of clipped hedges and statuary. Eliza paused, admiring the orderliness.