But then she thought of breakfast. Of the way he had asked if she would be home when he returned from his meetings. Of the small, tired smile he had given her when she said yes.
She thought of last night’s dinner. Of his admission that he did not know how to be the Duke. Of the raw honesty in his voice when he asked what if I fail.
She thought of all the small moments between them, the shift she had felt, the dangerous warmth that had begun to grow in her chest whenever he looked at her a certain way.
And she thought of Lady Wilhampton’s words.Always claimed it was for the culture, the refinement. Of course, I learnedeventually that the theater offered other attractions beyond the stage.
Eliza turned and walked back toward the house, telling herself that she would not run. She would not panic, and she would not let herself feel anything at all until she knew the truth.
But as she climbed the steps to the entrance, one question circled in her mind, relentless and unyielding.
What had August been doing at the theater while he was grieving? What manner of amusement could he be seeking there?
Twenty-Two
August had been searching for a book for the better part of twenty minutes when his hand brushed against a slim volume wedged between Gibbon and a collection of sermons. He pulled it free and found himself holding Shakespeare’sA Midsummer’s Night’s Dream.
The book fell open in his hands, and a folded piece of paper slipped free and drifted to the floor.
He bent to retrieve it, his mind still half on the Roman Empire and half on the meeting with his solicitor that afternoon. The paper unfolded as he picked it up, and his eyes caught on the first line before he could stop himself.
My dearest E.,
I find myself thinking of you at the most inopportune moments. This morning, I was reviewing the accounts and found my thoughts wandering to the way your eyes light when you speakof the children. Yesterday, I passed the milliner’s shop and imagined how the green ribbons in the window would suit you. I am become a fool, I think, but I find I do not mind it as much as I ought.
The hours we spend together are too few, and yet each one leaves me wanting more. I know this is dangerous territory. I know the risks we both take. But when I am with you, all sensible thought abandons me, and I can think only of how your hand feels in mine, how your laugh sounds when you think no one is listening.
Tell me you feel it too. Tell me I am not alone in this madness.
Yours, in hope and trepidation,
W.
August read the letter twice. Then a third time because surely, he had misunderstood something. But no, the words remained the same.My dearest E.The children. The green ribbons. The wanting more.
He sank into the nearest chair, the letter still in his hand, the book forgotten on the floor beside him.
Eliza had an admirer. Or had one. The letter was not dated, and there was no way to know when it had been written. Before their marriage, certainly. It had to be before their marriage. Eliza wasnot the sort of woman to entertain correspondence from another man after she had taken her vows.
Was she?
He looked at the letter again. W.Who the devil was W.?
And why did it matter?
Their marriage was an arrangement. A transaction to save her reputation and provide him with a duchess. They had both been perfectly clear about that from the start. No expectations beyond the public performance. No entanglements of the heart.
He had no right to care who had written her letters before they wed. No right to feel this uncomfortable tightness in his chest at the thought of someone else making her laugh, imagining ribbons for her hair, thinking of her at inopportune moments.
He folded the letter carefully and tucked it back into the book then returned the book to its place on the shelf. His hands, he noticed, were not entirely steady.
This was absurd. He was being absurd. The letter was old history, nothing more. Some suitor from her past who had clearly not succeeded in winning her hand, or she would not have been free to marry him.
And yet.
Tell me you feel it too.
Had she felt it? Had she returned this W.’s affections? Had she wanted more hours together, more stolen moments, more of whatever it was they had shared?