“I suppose I must reclaim it,” she replied. She rose to meet him, catching her balance on the table edge.
He stepped forward, holding the shawl between them, but he did not immediately hand it over. Instead, he looked at her—really looked—and she felt the shock of it, as if no one had ever seen her so clearly before.
She reached for the shawl, but he did not let go, and their hands closed over it at the same time. The contact was so brief it was almost nothing, yet it thundered in her chest.
He said, “You made quite an impression today.”
She smiled, fighting to keep her voice even. “That is what jam contests are for, I believe.”
He let go, but his hand hovered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “The entire village is convinced you could run Wildmoore singlehanded.”
“Perhaps I shall if you tire of it,” she replied, pulling the shawl around her shoulders. “It seems manageable.”
“You are dangerous,” he said.
“I am a model of moderation,” she replied.
He shook his head, moving past her to stand nearer the hearth. “You are not what I expected, Eliza.”
“Nor are you,” she said, quietly.
The words hung between them, weighted and real.
He turned, and in the play of candlelight, she saw something unguarded in his face—something she might have called longing if she dared.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he beat her to it.
“I do not mean to intrude,” he said, a shade too quickly. “I only wished to return this and thank you for… today.”
She shook her head. “You are not intruding.”
He nodded, uncertain. “I should?—”
She did not know if he meant to leave or to close the gap between them. She hoped for both and neither.
August cleared his throat. “I have the accounts to finish before supper. If you need anything?—”
She felt her lips curve in spite of herself. “I have my shawl now. All is well.”
“Very well,” he said, but he lingered, hand on the door. He looked at her once more, and this time, there was no mask at all.
Then he was gone, the latch clicking shut behind him.
Eliza stared at the door, then down at the shawl in her hands. Her pulse hammered. She had never felt so much from so little, and it frightened her. As she sat, she raised her fingers to brush her lips, realizing she had wanted desperately for him to kiss her.
She wondered how long it would be before she saw him again and why it mattered so much.
Fifteen
“It is not a proper tea unless someone threatens blackmail,” said April Roth to her sisters.
From the threshold, Eliza had a fleeting urge to flee back to her carriage. Instead, she entered, letting the click of her shoes warn the Duchess of Stone’s drawing room of her advance. They all turned at the same time, and their faces broke out into wide grins.
“You are three minutes late,” June said, “so you must forfeit any right to a neutral greeting. It’s rules.”
“I stand corrected,” Eliza replied. “Please, continue with the blackmail. I am only the guest.”
May, who had evidently appointed herself queen of the teapot, offered Eliza a cup before she even finished sitting. “We are so pleased you could come, Marchioness,” May said, and meant it. “Would you prefer the cream or the lemon?”