And he would not have changed it, not for anything.
By the time the sun threatened the horizon, the drawing room at Wildmoore Hall had swelled past its limits. The air was thickwith perfume, cologne, and the metallic residue of too many black armbands. Condolences came in endless waves, not unlike the battering of a shoreline.
August manned the receiving line with the same face he wore at Parliament: neutral, attentive, giving nothing away. He bowed, accepted the handshake, nodded at the muttered platitudes. When appropriate, he conjured a brief, lifeless smile. This was the part he was bred for.
His mother had retreated upstairs. The sisters, flanked by their husbands and offspring, formed small eddies in the flow, directing the truly inconsolable to side rooms. Eliza handled the old dowagers with ruthless efficiency, guiding them into corners and pouring them sherry until their voices lowered from shrill to manageable.
He had just survived a particularly wrenching embrace from the Countess of Annesley when a hush descended, brief but absolute, like the eye of a hurricane.
Lady Wilhampton entered. She wore black so rich, it looked like an oil slick, with a veil sweeping behind her in a drama entirely unsuited for daylight. Her gloves were pearl-buttoned, and her handkerchief was embroidered with something funereal.
She did not wait to be announced.
“My dear Duke,” she said, and in three steps, she took his hand between hers. Her grip was not warm but calculated—justfirm enough to suggest intimacy, just soft enough to imply the possibility of more.
August registered the color of her hair (red, mercilessly bright), the glimmer of her green eyes, and the way her bodice seemed to have been engineered for maximum sensation.
She is not here to mourn.
“Lady Wilhampton,” he said, giving her the courtesy of formality though she would have none of it.
“I could not rest until I saw you,” she purred, voice pitched for his ear alone. “You must allow me to—Oh, you poor man.” She squeezed his hand then let hers drift up to his arm, where it stayed.
He did not recoil. He did not reciprocate. He simply endured.
She stepped closer, obliterating the boundary of polite distance. “I know what you need in this dark time,” she said, and her lashes swept down in a performance worthy of Covent Garden.
He glanced past her—automatic—searching for an exit, a rescue, a bolt of lightning. Instead, he found Eliza. She was twenty feet away, in perfect profile, head bent as she made some conversation with Lady Hartwell.
She was not watching, but he felt her awareness anyway. A direct, burning line from her to him, as if she could see through the crowd.
Lady Wilhampton moved in, lowering her voice. “They say you have been so strong. But even the strongest man needs… understanding.”
What I need is a rope ladder and a week in France.
But he was tired. The day had stretched him to transparency. Wilhampton’s hand remained on his arm, and he lacked even the will to remove it.
She smiled at him, a sharp, perfect curve, then raised her voice by a half-measure, so it would carry to the nearby knot of gossips. “We all have losses, but not all of us are brave enough to face them alone.” She paused, giving the moment air. “Come, let’s find a place away from these people. I know you must crave peace.”
She pulled gently at his arm, steering him toward the door. But then Eliza appeared at that moment.
“Lady Wilhampton,” she said, her voice as cool and clear as a winter stream, “how good of you to come.”
Wilhampton turned, not relinquishing August’s arm. “Duchess.” She smiled, all teeth. “You are well?”
Eliza nodded, her eyes flat and unreadable. “I am very well. And I thank you for your concern for my husband, but I am afraid the Duke’s presence is required here.”
Wilhampton blinked, once. “He is needed elsewhere, Duchess. Surely you understand?—”
Eliza closed the gap. “What I understand is that the Duke has been receiving mourners for hours and needs rest, not company.”
Wilhampton’s grip tightened. “Of course. I merely wished to offer my condolences privately. These matters are so… personal.”
Eliza’s lips barely curved. “My husband’s personal matters are my concern.”
He reached, without forethought, and took her hand. Not as a gesture but as an anchor. The crowd watched, but he did not care. He let the contact steady him.
Nineteen