He looked utterly lost.
“Your Grace?” The words came out softer than she intended, and he started, his head snapping toward her.
“Eliza.” He straightened, seemed to catch himself, and ran a hand over his face. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
“You did not startle me. I only thought—” She moved closer, holding the candle higher, so she could see him properly. “Are you well?”
“I am perfectly well.”
“You are a terrible liar.”
His mouth lifted at one corner, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “So I have been told.”
She should leave him to his brooding. Should make some polite excuse and continue on to the library. But something in his posture, in the way his hands hung loose at his sides, made her feet root themselves to the carpet.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I asked first.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and she watched something shift in his expression. Like a decision being made. “I had the oddest dream,” he said at last. “I was seventeen again, standing in my father’s study while he explained all the ways I would need to manage the estate when he was gone. Every tenant’s name, every field rotation, every debt and obligation. And I kept trying to write it all down, but the ink would not take. The quill just scratched across the paper, leaving nothing behind.”
He paused, his jaw working. “When I woke, I could not remember where I was. For a full minute, I thought I was fifteen or sixteen and that my father was yet to fall ill. That I still had time to prepare.”
Eliza’s throat tightened. She had never heard him speak like this, without the armor of wit or charm to deflect. “But you are not seventeen.”
“No. I am thirty, and my father is dead, and I have no more time at all.” He pushed away from the wall and stood there, looking as though he did not quite know what to do with his hands. “Forgive me. You should not have to bear the burden of my maudlin thoughts.”
“They are not maudlin. They are honest.”
“That may be worse.”
She set the candle on a side table and folded her arms across her chest. The hallway was cold, and the thin wrapper offered little protection, but she found she did not want to leave. “Would you like to take a walk?”
He blinked. “Now?”
“Why not? Neither of us can sleep, and the house is beginning to feel rather oppressive.”
“It is the middle of the night.”
“I am aware. But I find the middle of the night is often the best time for walks. No one about to disturb one’s thoughts.”
He looked at her as though she had suggested they strip naked and run through the village, but after a moment, something in his face softened. “Very well. A walk. But if we are accosted by footpads, I shall hold you personally responsible.”
“I shall accept that burden with appropriate gravity.”
They returned to their rooms long enough to make themselves presentable—Eliza exchanged her wrapper for a proper dress and shawl, August gathered his coat and boots—and met againat the top of the stairs. The house remained silent around them, the servants all abed, and they descended together without speaking.
The gardens were bathed in moonlight when they stepped outside, the air cool and sharp with the scent of new growth. Eliza pulled her shawl tighter and started down the main path, August falling into step beside her.
For a while, neither spoke. They simply walked, their footsteps crunching on the gravel, the night wrapping around them like a cloak. It should have been awkward, this silence, but somehow it was not. It felt almost companionable.
“Why did you never marry?” August asked suddenly.
Eliza nearly stumbled. She caught herself and kept walking, buying time to arrange her thoughts. “That is rather a personal question.”
“We are married. I should think that entitles me to some personal questions.”