Eliza tilted her head, inviting more.
Lady Wilhampton’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. “You are a clever woman. You must know that men of a certain stripe prefer their amusements unencumbered by responsibility.”
“Do they?”
“Oh, yes. And the women who become their wives are expected to look the other way. I tell you this not as a threat but as a kindness.” Her voice was suddenly very gentle, and almost intimate. “If you wish to survive, my dear Lady Barrington, you must not become too attached to your husband’s affections. They are not, as a rule, a renewable resource.”
Eliza met her gaze, letting the moment stretch. “Thank you for the counsel. I will be sure to keep my expectations appropriate.”
Lady Wilhampton smiled, slow and cold. “There is nothing so tiresome as a woman who expects to be loved.”
“I suppose I shall have to be content with admiration then,” Eliza replied.
There was a beat of absolute stillness then the Marchioness continued, “You know, Lady Barrington, I had always thought we might be friends.” The word was a razor wrapped in velvet. “You are not like the others. You have no illusions.”
“Friends are a wonderful thing,” Eliza said. “But one must always keep them within the right boundaries.”
Lady Wilhampton’s smile turned sharkish. “Of course, Lady Barrington.”
They sat in silence, a single candle guttering between them, the tea cooling on the tray.
When Eliza rose to take her leave, Lady Wilhampton followed her to the door.
“If you ever wish to talk, truly talk, you know where to find me,” she said, and the implication was as clear as sunlight.
“I do,” Eliza replied, and she allowed herself to be shown out.
The Marchioness wants a war, and she thinks I will not fight her. She is wrong.
It was not the thunder that woke August but the pressure of the storm, a weight against the windowpanes that made the whole house seem to contract and breathe in time with the sky. He gave up on sleep just before two in the morning and left his room for the library, a habit born in boyhood, as if the right book could explain the violence of weather.
He padded the hallway in stocking feet, one hand on the banister, and paused outside the library door. The storm raged overhead, and now and again, lightning flashed through the glass dome of the observatory, illuminating the shelves below in blue-white shocks. The house was silent except for the rain.
He opened the door and stepped inside, expecting solitude.
Instead, there was Eliza, a shadow at the far end of the table, her profile outlined in the strobing night. She wore only a wrapper over her nightdress, hair pulled into a knot at her nape, and the lamp beside her had burned down to its last, guttering effort.
She did not see him enter.
He watched her for a full minute, the way her hand moved along the page, the stillness of her head. It was a strange pleasure to find her here in the dark, unguarded and alone, as if the library belonged to her and not to any Vestiere, living or dead.
He cleared his throat. “Do you often hide in libraries during storms?”
She startled, just slightly, and snapped the book shut. Then, collecting herself, she replied, “Only when the alternative is to be alone with my thoughts.”
August moved closer, the storm giving him cover. “You surprise me, Eliza. I had thought your thoughts the safest company you might find.”
She met his gaze, and her eyes were sharper in the dim light. “You would be amazed what company my thoughts keep.”
He grinned. “Am I among them?”
“Rarely,” she said. “You are not so mysterious as you hope to be.”
He pulled out the chair opposite and sat, stretching his legs beneath the table. “If I am not mysterious, why do you always look at me as if I am about to misbehave?”
She leaned forward, the lamp glow catching in her eyes. “Because you always do.”
For a moment, the only sound was the hammer of rain on the glass dome above them.