The sharpness softened, almost imperceptibly. “That’s a very expensive way to purchase a reprieve.”
August summoned another smile. “I never bargain for anything less.”
Lady Hartwell had rejoined them at the top of the steps, the crowd now buzzing behind her like a beehive poked with a stick. She regarded August with a stare sharp enough to etch glass.
“If you are to do this, you will do it properly. Inside. Before witnesses.”
August inclined his head. “Lead the way, Aunt Martha.”
She swept past him into the house, her stride as imperious as a general’s. August followed, Eliza on his arm, the crowd reforming around them, equal parts pity and vulture.
He could not bring himself to look at Eliza. Not yet. She had not forgiven him, nor did he expect it. But she walked beside him, upright and proud, and it struck him that she was the only person in the room not pretending.
It was always going to end like this,August thought.All the laughter, the pageantry—just so much window dressing for the inevitable.
He straightened, lifted his chin, and walked into the fire.
“How dare you!”
The words hit the closed study door before August had finished turning the key. Eliza’s back was rigid, her hands knotted tight at her sides, but her voice was perfectly level—surgical, almost. It was the kind of anger that did not waste itself on theatrics.
He let the silence stretch then answered, “Which part? The engagement or the announcement?”
“All of it,” she said and wheeled around to face him. “You had no right.”
August shrugged off his formal jacket and draped it over the arm of a brocade chair. The movement was oddly careful, as if he could undo a mess by keeping his own edges neat. “I had every right. You were found alone with me in a moonlit garden. If I had done nothing, you would have been ruined.”
“Not every scandal is fatal,” she replied. “And not every lady requires rescue.”
August braced his hands on the mantle, gaze fixed on the cold, blackened coals. “Some do. I refuse to add your name to the list of casualties.”
Eliza inhaled, slow and deep, as if collecting herself from the base up. “You did not ask me.”
He turned. “I could not.”
She crossed to the hearth, chin high. “Because you thought I would say no.”
He considered this. “You might have.”
“Or yes.” She folded her arms, studying him as if he were a set of puzzles to be sorted by category and degree of hazard. “But it would have been my decision.”
August felt his usual arsenal—humor, charm, easy confidence—shut out of the room, left knocking at the door. “There was no time. Every window in that ballroom was an ear. By now, your reputation has traveled up the stairs, down the hall, and out into the street. I have seen it happen. I have watched a girl cry herself to pieces over less.”
“You speak as if you care what happens to me,” Eliza said.
August’s head snapped up. “I do.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to leave a mark.
Eliza looked away first. She found a fire iron and twisted it between her fingers. “I am not a victim, My Lord. I am not a damsel in distress, waiting for a hero.”
He snorted. “Heroes are rare. I have never wanted to be one.”
“Then why?” she pressed.
He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Habit. Training. Duty.” The words came out too quick. He forced himself to slow. “I could not bear the thought of it. You, paraded in every drawing room as the latest cautionary tale. My father, shamed into a relapse by the notion that his son couldn’t manage even this simple thing.”
Eliza’s tone was steel, but her eyes betrayed something softer. “So, it is about your father.”