Eliza’s hand froze midway to her mouth when she heard strong footfalls in the hallway that could only belong to August. This was unusual because she was eating dinner, and he never ventured toward the dining room at dinnertime.
She turned her head in time to find him in the doorway, dressed for dinner. Her eyes widened, and she resisted the urge to gape.
August looked at the table, then at her, then back at the table as if solving an equation he had not prepared for.
“I did not mean to intrude,” he said.
She set down her spoon. “You are not intruding. This is your house.”
“Our house,” he corrected then seemed to regret the word. He shifted his weight, one hand gripping the doorframe. “I thought—that is, I assumed you would be dining with my mother.”
“She wished to rest. Your sisters are with her.”
He nodded, the gesture slow and heavy. For a moment, she thought he would retreat. Instead, he moved into the room, and a footman materialized from the corner, already pulling out the chair at the head of the table.
Another servant appeared with a second place setting, laying it out. Wine was poured, silver arranged, a napkin folded into a triangle and placed just so.
August sat.
The distance between them was absurd—fifteen feet of polished wood, two candelabras, and a silver epergne filled with hothouse roses. He looked small at the far end, diminished by the room’s proportions.
Eliza picked up her spoon again then set it down. She had no appetite, and the pretense of eating felt ridiculous with him watching.
He cleared his throat. “I apologize for the disruption.”
“There is no disruption.”
“I should have sent word.”
“You are the Duke,” she said. “You need not send word to dine in your own home.”
He reached for his wine glass, lifted it halfway to his lips, then set it down without drinking. His fingers drummed once against the stem before he caught himself and stilled them.
The silence expanded, filling the room like gas.
Eliza watched him fidget with his napkin, refolding it across his lap with unnecessary care. She had never seen him uncertain before. Even in grief, he had maintained his composure at the funeral, a pillar for his mother and sisters to lean against. Now, with only her for an audience, the mask had slipped.
“The weather has turned,” she offered.
He blinked. “Has it?”
“Colder. I expect frost by morning.”
“Ah.” He looked at his soup as if it had insulted him. “Yes. The autumn is always unpredictable.”
She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it—two people who had faced down Lady Wilhampton together, now reduced to discussing the weather like strangers at a coaching inn.
A servant brought the fish course. They ate in silence, the scrape of cutlery against china loud enough to make her wince.
August cleared his throat again. “My father hated fish,” he said, the words tumbling out as if they had escaped without permission. “Said it was food for Catholics and Frenchmen, and he was neither.”
Eliza looked up. “Did he?”
“He once tried to convince the cook to serve beef at every meal, breakfast included.” August’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “My mother threatened to take the girls to Bath for the season and leave him to fend for himself.”
“That would have been quite the scandal.”
“He backed down immediately. Claimed he had been joking, but we all knew better.” He paused then added, “He was terrified of my mother. Never admitted it, of course, but we all saw.”